USA > Minnesota > Redwood County > The history of Redwood County, Minnesota, Volume I > Part 18
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By this time the Indians had started to become troublesome. They would come in parties of six to eight and beg for something to eat, for they were always hungry. Our family was a large one and mother could not give them very much, but I remember she always gave them bread. However, it was meat they wanted, and that we did not have very much of ourselves. There was another great pest that bothered us greatly. Our cabin was built about forty feet from the timber that I spoke of, and in this tim- ber there were thousands and thousands of wild pigeons, keeping up a constant cooing from the break of dawn until nightfall. I do not know what has become of them, for they seem to be all gone. I think they left when the country became more settled.
My parents had been on their farm about two months when that most terrible day, the eighteenth of August, came. Out of eight persons there was only one left to tell the story. At noon when the family were just about to eat the noon meal, a party of Sioux Indians came and soon all was over. August, ten years old, was struck on the head with a tomahawk and was left as dead. In the night he revived and crawled into the tall grass and reached the fort. He still has the scar on his head. He now lives in British Columbia, at Vancouver.
About three weeks before the outbreak Legrand Davis came to our house and wanted to know if I would go over the river to Joseph B. Reynolds, who kept a stopping place. He wanted a little girl to run errands, dust and so forth, and as they were going to start a school for the Indians I could go to this school at the same time. I needed more schooling and thought this a good chance to acquire it. Mother did not like me to go, but Mr. Davis promised to bring me back in two or three weeks, so she reluctantly gave her consent. Little did I think that it was the last time I would see her dear face on this earth. The Rey- nolds's treated me very kindly, more like their own child than a
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servant, and I liked to live there. After I had lost my parents they wished to adopt me, but I went to live with an uncle in Wisconsin who also took my brother August. The eighteenth of August came on a Monday. We had just had our breakfast at the Rey- nolds's and Mary Anderson was just putting on the wash boiler preparing to do the week's washing. Suddenly John Mooer, a half-breed, came running in and said we should all get away as fast as we could, for the Indians had broken out and were killing all the settlers as fast as they could. Mr. and Mrs. Reynolds got into a buggy and drove off, and Mattie Williams, Mary Anderson and myself got into a lumber wagon with three men that had stopped over night at the house. The team belonged to Francis Patoile, a Frenchman, who hauled goods for the government from one agency to another. The wagon was filled with things they wanted to save, so we started, Mr. Patoile driving the team. We drove from seven in the morning until four in the afternoon, and were about eight miles west of New Ulm when we met a party of Indians. We all jumped from the wagon and ran, but we did not run very far before they were upon us, dragging us back. By that time they had killed all the men and some were scalping them. Mary Anderson was shot through the abdomen and died on the fourth day after the shooting. My clothes were riddled by the bullets, but none harmed me. A skirt which I wore has seven holes shot through it and is now in the possession of the D. A. R. at their museum at the Sibley house, Mendota. This skirt was made of heavy muslin and was part of the cover of our wagon when we settled in Renville county.
When we came back to the wagon the Indians had already broken open all the trunks and were dividing the contents. They had with them about twelve other wagons and a great number of horses. The wagons were loaded with plunder of all kinds which they had stolen from the settlers. They ordered us into the wagons and started back to the agency. It was about ten o'clock by the time that we reached Wacouta's home. It was very dark and there was a tallow candle burning. The house was swarming with Indians. Wacouta chased them out and told us to hide up in the loft and he would bring us water and food in the morning, and we were up there three days and two nights. The wounded girl cried for water, for she had a raging fever. During the second night Mattie Williams and I crawled down and went to a corn field, getting some green corn with which we tried to quench her thirst. On the third night we were told to come down, and were taken to Little Crow's village. Mary Anderson died during the night. Mattie Williams' captor took her to his tepee, where he lived with his squaw, and as my captor had no tepee he said he would kill me to be rid of me. When Snana, one of the Indian squaws heard this, she came and looked me over
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carefully and went away, returning in a short time leading an Indian pony, which she gave my captor, and then took me by the hand and brought me to her tepee. I was adopted into the tribe and had to call her mamma, and she dressed me in Indian clothing and made pretty moccasins for me. She wrapped me in a snow-white blanket, which was, of course, stolen, but it did not stay white very long. Snana was married to Good Thunder and had two papooses. I had to take care of the baby papoose. I always tried to do all she told me and to please her in all things. There was a bond of sympathy between us because she had just lost her oldest daughter.
After seven weeks of captivity I was released at Camp Release by General Sibley and his army, with the rest of the white prisoners, and as that occasion has been written up so many times I will not mention it here. Mattie Williams was a niece of Mr. Reynolds and was visiting from Ohio. She was highly edu- cated and had a beautiful character. Mary Anderson was a pretty Swedish girl and was to have been married soon to a young man from Shakopee. I was only a plain little German girl who did not know much at all at that time. My Indian mother parted from me at Camp Release and we did not meet again for thirty-two years, but have met many times later, and I received many nice letters from her. She loved me very much, and I have always felt a gratitude towards her which I could not express in words, for she saved me from a terrible fate when she bought me from my captor with her only pony .- By Mrs. Mary Emilia Schwandt Schmidt, in the History of Renville county, 1916.
Experiences of George H. Spencer, Jr. "When I reached the foot of the stairs, I turned and beheld the store filling with In- dians. One had followed me nearly to the stairs, when he took deliberate aim at my body, but, providentially, both barrels of his gun missed fire, and I succeeded in getting above without further injury. Not expecting to live a great while, I threw myself upon a bed, and, while lying there, could hear them open- ing cases of goods, and carrying them out, and threatening to burn the building. I did not relish the idea of being burned to death very well, so I arose very quietly, and taking a bed-cord, I made fast one end to the bed-post, and carried the other to a window, which I raised. I intended, in case they fired the build- ing, to let myself down from the window, and take the chances of being shot again, rather than to remain where I was and burn. The man who went up-stairs with me, seeing a good opportunity to escape, rushed down through the crowd and ran for life; he was fired upon, and two charges of buckshot struck him, but he succeeded in making his escape. I had been up-stairs probably an hour, when I heard the voice of an Indian inquiring for me.
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I recognized his voice, and felt that I was safe. Upon being told that I was up-stairs, he rushed up, followed by ten or a dozen others, and approaching my bed, asked if I was mortally wounded. I told him that I did not know, but that I was badly hurt. Some of the others came up and took me by the hand, and appeared to be sorry that I had been hurt. They then asked me where the guns were. I pointed to them, when my comrade assisted me in getting down stairs.
"The name of this Indian is Wakinyatawa, or in English, 'His Thunder.' He was, up to the time of the outbreak, the head soldier of Little Crow, and, some four or five years ago, went to Washington with that chief to see their Great Father. He is a fine-looking Indian, and has always been noted for his bravery in fighting the Chippewas. When we reached the foot of the stairs, some of the Indians cried out, 'Kill him!' 'Spare no Americans!' 'Show mercy to none!' My friend, who was un- armed, seized a hatchet that was lying near by, and declared that he would cut down the first one that should attempt to do me any further harm. Said he, 'If you had killed him before I saw him, it would have been all right; but we have been friends and comrades for ten years, and now that I have seen him, I will protect him or die with him.' They then made way for us, and we passed out; he procured a wagon, and gave me over to a couple of squaws to take me to his lodge. On the way we were stopped two or three times by armed Indians on horseback, who inquired of the squaws 'What that meant ?' Upon being answered that 'This is Wakinyatawa's friend, and he has saved his life,' they suffered us to pass on. His lodge was about four miles above the Agency, at Little Crow's village. My friend soon came home and washed me, and dressed my wounds with roots. Some few white men succeeded in making their escape to the fort."-From Bryant's History.
Experiences of John Ames Humphrey. John Ames Humphrey, a boy of twelve years at the time of the massacre, was the son of Dr. Philander P. Humphrey, the physician at the Lower Agency. His experiences during the massacre are told in an interesting manner, as follows:
"After a bright, restful Sabbath, the fateful Monday, August 18, 1862, arrived. My mother was ill in bed, but had nearly re- covered. I slept with my dear little brother in an upper room. In the small hours of that morning I could not sleep soundly ; like a nightmare, apprehension of impending disaster settled down. Shake it off I could not, until in desperation I dressed and went down stairs. Talking about premonition, I quite under- stand what the word means. Apparently nobody else in the house was awake. I took the water pails, and, quietly leaving the house, went a short distance to a spring, with the intention
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of making journeys enough back and forth to fill the tubs for the weekly washing. The weight of my foreboding was so heavy upon me that I walked slowly and lingered when I got to the spring, expecting every instant to see or hear something horrible. Leaving the spring and reaching the top of the hill, I saw Indians in parties of three or four hurrying into our small village from the direction of the encampment of Little Crow and other chiefs. These took up convenient points for observation at first. Soon I saw a teamster approach a wagon, with his pair of horses. Then one party of Indians ran to him and demanded them. He refused the request, when one of them emptied the contents of his gun into his abdomen. His suffering was so dreadful to wit- ness that another Indian soon quieted him with the butt end of a gun. This was the beginning of the outbreak at the Lower Sioux Agency.
"I immediately ran, as fast as my bare feet would carry me, to our house. By this time father had dressed and was in the surgery, and I said to him, 'Father, something awful is going to happen.' He replied, 'Nonsense,' and kept on with his work. I then begged him to step outside the house and look for him- self. He would not move. I then told him what I had seen; not before would he move and show any interest. After a good look outside, without saying a word, he walked into the house hurried- ly and assisted mother to get up and dress. I meantime looked after the children, and then we all walked out by the back door, leaving everything behind. We started toward the ferry, with intention of crossing and making our way to Fort Ridgely. But father had been too slow. Those precious minutes through his blind sense of security cost the lives of himself, wife, and two of their three children.
"When we reached the ferry, it was to find the ferry man gone and the then typical western flat-bottomed boat, which was propelled across the stream by means of a rope and pulleys, on the opposite bank. All the small canoes and row-boats were there as well. Hopelessness was depicted in father's face, for he could not swim; and he had threatened me with punishment such as I had never experienced (which was saying a great deal), if he ever found that I had 'been in swimming.' Occasionally when my guilty eyes had noticed a searching glance of his shot at me, I had felt that I wilted; but congratulate me, my hair was dry and punishment was postponed. I had learned to swim. There had been nobody to 'give me away,' for I always sneaked off alone, and I did nearly drown once, but the fascination was upon me and I persisted. I now boldly plunged into the river, swam to the other side, secured a small boat and rowed back to them, and we all crossed in silence. Looking back, I somehow feel that, after this exhibition of my skill, all should have been
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allowed to escape. Had we been only those few minutes earlier, all our lives would have been saved, for a number of our neigh- bors who were ahead of us at the ferry escaped to Fort Ridgely by wagon conveyance.
"We were too late, and, therefore, now plodded on foot along the main road toward the fort. The sun's rays soon beat down upon us with such power that they began to affect my mother, while the small children were unable to walk rapidly. When we had covered probably two and a half miles, we stopped, while for by that time mother had become actually faint. We had no breakfast, not even a cup of tea, before starting. We then dis- covered a path and at the end of it, only a few yards distant, a cabin, which we reached to find it vacant, as its occupants had fled. Until then we had neither seen nor heard Indians, and prospects for escaping seemed to brighten. My father took down a pail and directed me to follow a foot-path till I should find the spring and to return with water. I secured water, down in a ravine which proved to be well wooded, as was also the pathway leading to the spring. Returning a little more than half the dis- tance, I heard the crack of a rifle, and listening, presently heard the sound of voices, both from the direction of the cabin. I knew we had been overtaken and debated whether or not I should com- plete the return and try to help. Quickly I decided that my presence would be useless. Then I deposited the full pail a few yards from the path, ran back to the spring and from it ran along the ravine. There I was hidden from sight, and could make plans in comparative safety. I must have been alone an hour or two, when I decided that the Indians would not have waited longer in the expectation that I would return to the family. Then I decided to carefully seek the open road toward Fort Ridgely and below the cabin. In doing so I met the owner of the cabin, Magner by name, who, accompanied by another man, was sheltering as I had been. I joined them, before long we ventured to the main road.
"Looking down the road, we discovered men coming toward us, who proved to be Captain Marsh with about fifty soldiers, hastening to the Agency to quell the disturbance there, which had been reported early in the forenoon by the first refugees who had fled to the fort. Magner and his companion imparted to Captain Marsh what information they had and we all joined the expedition.
"This to me was a return journey, but I knew it was the safest way to get a look at that cabin and learn the fate of our family. To go there was the matter of only a few minutes. The little force halted when the footpath was reached, and, with Magner and a few soldiers detailed for the purpose, I approached the spot where the building had been. The murderers had set
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fire to it, and the smouldering ruins which had fallen into the cellar, contained the mortal remains of my mother and brother and sister. That was the first suggestion, as we all stood there, and subsequent investigation (made a few days later) proved that it was correct. My father's body lay a few feet away. A bullet had pierced the center of his forehead, and the fiends had cut his throat. His axe, a poor weapon for such conditions, but the only one he possessed, lay near him, showing that he went outside the cabin and met them like a brave man. How long I stood there, I do not know; the shock was so great that I became momentarily insensible to material surroundings and saw only in spirit the scene of death-truly I was alone with my dead.
"When I came to my normal self, every living person had vanished, and I ran fast up the road to overtake the soldiers. This had been their first introduction into the land of desolation, which was extending rapidly. Soon the road descended along the valley bluff which follows the north side of the Minnesota river. The sight of dead men, women, and children, now became frequent all the way to the ferry which we had crossed a few hours before. The effect was depressing, and the few words spoken were in undertone. Those poor souls fleeing for their lives had been shot down from the cover of underbrush and tall coarse grass which grow rankly in these western river valleys.
"The ferry boat had been left temptingly on the north side of the river, and Indians were in plain sight on the opposite side, on the bluff which rises abruptly to the Agency. A parley took place, through Interpreter Quinn, between Captain Marsh and the Indian leader. . It is now apparent that the object of the Indian was to induce Captain Marsh to send his force across, and when the boat was in mid-stream, to pick his men off from both banks. Probably not a man would have escaped, and, had the Indians who were hidden in the tall grass on the side where we were, not been too impulsive I believe that their plan would have succeeded. There was not a suspicion that we were surrounded by them until they rose suddenly and poured their fire across into us. More than half of our men fell, and it seems a miracle that a single man escaped. But the grass that had hidden them hid us, and those who lived were led by Providence out of the ambuscade to a point not far down the river. Captain Marsh was unhurt and escaped with a small party of survivors. During the firing I had sat in an army wagon on top of a barrel of pro- visions. When I saw the immediate effect of the fire from the Indians and realized the position, I joined the survivors and made it a point to keep about in the middle of them so that I should not fail to keep up. Several soldiers did become separated from us in the confusion and excitement.
"Captain Marsh insisted upon crossing the river at the point
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just mentioned, in opposition to the judgment of his men. He was in command, however, and would have had his way had he not entered the water first, considerably in advance of his men, and drowned in mid-stream in sight of all. He could not swim, and help did not reach him.
"How it came about I do not know, but the party I was with had now dwindled to perhaps ten or twelve men. We kept on down the river, still on the north side, and about dark, filed up onto the bluff into the Fort Ridgely road. I think Magner was with us. The poor fellows were tired, and having, as it seemed to them, escaped from the jaws of certain death, became a bit demoralized and relaxed their vigilance. Two of them dropped their muskets and were going on without them; I picked them up, and was trudging along having a strong feeling within me that they might be wanted, when they took them from me without saying a word. We reached the fort about midnight, and then ended a long and eventful day.
"I stayed during the siege, but will not give my experience of it, as many others have written faithful and graphic accounts. Final relief came when General Sibley arrived with men and a long line of wagons loaded with provisions for the besieged."- From the Collections of the Minnesota Historical Society.
Hinman's Flight. Among the refugees who arrived in the afternoon from the Agency was Rev. J. D. Hinman, an Episcopal missionary, stationed at Redwood. Having arisen early to start on a journey to Faribault, he was out in the tranquil morning that gave no suspicion that the curtain was about to rise on one of the most appalling massacres, at his own door, ever known to American history. He was ready for his departure between six and seven o'clock, when unusual signs for the hour among the Indians attracted his attention. The Indians were almost naked, and carried their guns. Their numbers increased, and people began to wonder at their unusual appearance, which some inter- preted to mean that a raid was to be made on some Chippewa band known to have invaded the neighborhood. The Indians squatted nonchalantly on the steps of the various buildings, their demeanor betraying no sign of hostility.
Now a signal gun broke the silence in the upper part of town. Even this was doubted to be a sign of hostility, until other shooting up the street and the hasty fleeing of people towards the bluff overlooking the river, began to be alarming. White Dog ran past Mr. Hinman at this juncture, and to an inquiring word, replied that "awful work had been started." He was no doubt himself taken by surprise, though later in the day his cunning and his treachery played an important part in the betrayal of Marsh. Little Crow also passed Mr. Hinman about this time, but with a scowl, declined to answer an inquiry of the missionary,
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though they knew each other well, and the chief, now sullen, had always been polite and friendly. The firing had now become a fusillade, and people were being shot down on every hand. The traders were the first objects of hatred to fall, riddled with bullets. As the bloody work progressed, the savages grew wild and furious, their hideous yells, the crash of their guns, work of the torch, the shrieks of their helpless victims, begging vainly for mercy, creating a scene horrifying in the extreme. Rev. Hin- man fled before the spreading tide of death had reached him, and gaining the river, fortunately found a skiff with which he hastily crossed, making good his escape to the fort.
Experiences of Miss West. Miss Emily J. West, a teacher at the Episcopal Mission at the Lower Agency, gives, in a letter, these experiences of that fatal August 18, 1862: "Soon after breakfast I heard firing of guns, but thought nothing of it till Mr. Hinman came in and told me to run. The Indians were then very near our house, taking horses from the Department stable; they were all armed, and ready for battle.
"I ran with Mr. Hinman towards the ferry, but in the con- fusion was separated from him. I passed three or four Indians, who took no notice of me, but shot a man quite near who was trying to save his horse. I crossed the ferry with only one woman, a neighbor of ours, and two children, one nine and the other eleven. Then, to avoid the river, along which the road to Fort Ridgely ran, we struck off, two or three miles, in the prairie. After walking some distance we came near a log house, and were going to it for safety, when we saw four Indians approaching us from different directions. When they came to us, they recognized me, called me a missionary, said I was good. I offered them my hand; they shook hands with me, told me they were going to that house; that we must not go there, but to the fort; pointed the way, and left us. We afterward heard of their killing inmates of that house.
"These were not Christian or civilized Indians, but they knew me, and thus showed their respect for the occupation in which I was engaged.
"After leaving them, we walked steadily on without any further alarm, but, of course, looking for it all the time, with very little hope of reaching the fort, which, however, we did, about five in the afternoon, under the protection and guidance of our Heavenly Father. You can imagine with what grateful hearts we saw the fort after our weary walk of twenty miles; for we had made it such by the course we took, and our blistered feet could not have carried us much further.
"We remained at the fort ten days, exposed to the attacks of the Indians. There were two severe engagements, when all the women and children, about three hundred, were obliged to lie
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flat on the floor of a stone building to avoid the bullets of the Indians. On the 28th, a large body of troops arrived, and gave us an escort to St. Peter, where we found our bishop tending the wounded in the hospital. He gave us his horse and carriage to bring us to Faribault.
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