Chapter III (3)

A day or two afterward, two halfbreeds came into his camp under a flag of truce, bringing a note signed 'Little Crow, his mark,' excusing and justifying his attack on the whites. Colonel Sibley replied, 'Little Crow, you have murdered many of our people without cause. Return me the prisoners under a flag of truce, and I will talk with you like a man.' After the lapse of a few days, another message came from Little Crow, stating that he had one hundred and fifty-five prisoners, and asking what he could do to make peace. Colonel Sibley replied that his young men had been committing more murders, and that was not the way to make peace.

Having learned from several sources that serious dissensions had broken out in the Indian camp, and having also received the needed reenforcements, Colonel Sibley left Fort Ridgely on the 12th of September, and marched up the Minnesota river to Wood Lake, near Yellow Medicine, arriving there on the 22d following. Little Crow was encamped in the vicinity with his braves. The savages, however, had become demoralized, and he could no longer control them. Little Crow desired to make an attack that night, but his opponents told him in council that if he was a brave Indian he would fight the white man by daylight. Accordingly, next morning he attacked Colonel Sibley's forces with three hundred of his warriors, the others refusing to join in the fight. After a sharp two-hours' battle the Indians were completely routed, losing thirty killed, and a proportionate number of wounded. The whites lost four killed, and forty wounded.

This battle substantially ended the war. The Indians retreated, and the whites pursued them to Lac Qui Parle. Four days afterward, a camp of about one hundred and fifty lodges of Indians and halfbreeds separated from Little Crow's party, met Colonel Sibley in council, surrendered themselves, and formally delivered up to him ninety-one white prisoners, and over one hundred halfbreeds, whom they had obtained. Other parties came in afterward, surrendering themselves unconditionally, until between two and three thousand Indians, of all sexes and ages, were in the hands of the troops as prisoners of war. A military commission was appointed to try the ringleaders and worst offenders, and over three hundred of them were convicted and sentenced to death. Before this paper is printed, some, at least, of these, will have expiated their crimes on the gallows. Little Crow, with a small but desperate band of followers, succeeded in making his escape to Devil's Lake in Dakota Territory.

The future disposition of the Indians of the State of Minnesota is one of the most perplexing minor questions of the day. In their present location, the feud of race engendered by the insurrection will only die with the generation that witnessed its beginning. Humanitarian impulses and humanitarian duties are forgotten in the fierce thirst for private vengeance. With one voice, the people of that State demand the removal or threaten the extermination of their dangerous neighbors. But whither shall they go? The swallowing tides of civilization encompass them on the east, the north, and the south; and the only other avenue, the west, is guarded by the gaunt wolf starvation.

It is proposed by some to colonize them on the island of Isle Royale, in Lake Superior; by others, to purchase some small West India island, and transport them there, where tropical nature will feed them without expense to the Government. Perhaps the more practical measure would be to gather all that remains of the red race within the United States into one Territory, to establish a more thorough guardianship over them, and to subject them to a stricter and more absolute government, which should compel them to assume gradually the duties and customs of civilized life.

'DEAD!'

With chilling breath it comes:
Again--and yet again! on every gale,
America! from thy great battle field!
Our hearts are hushed, and desolate our homes--
Our lids are heavy, and our cheeks are pale--
While thus we yield
Our loved ones up to thee!

Dead! dying at their posts!
The young, the noble, and the loving ones!
The widow's all! the gray-haired father's hope--
All thine, my country! take the treasured hosts:
Hold in thy faithful keeping all thy sons!
We give them up--
To thee and liberty!

Oh, keep our honored dead
Within the folds of thy great-pulsing heart!
Entwine their memory with thy polished lore:
Cherish the sacred dust above _their_ bed
Who sprang to shield thee from the traitor's dart!
Bless evermore
The dead who died for thee!

Silent the teardrops fall
Down the pale mother's cheek at close of day;
For sorrow sitteth at the widow's gate:
Dark are the shadows gathered on the wall,
And where the mourner bendeth low to pray--
No more to wait
The coming of her free!

For thee--'dear native land!'
What precious hopes are severed one by one!
What hearts lie crushed and sick by 'hope deferred!'
How many dear ones, stretched along the sand,
Bleed out their lives beneath a blighting sun--
With but a word--
'Mother!' for plaint or prayer!

Shall they be vainly shed--
The blood and tears that wash our stricken soil?
Bringing no healing with their torrent streams?
Vain the long requiem for the noble dead--
Vain all the agony and all the toil--
The soldier's dreams--
The patriot's thought and care?

No! float upon the winds!
Flag of my country! let thy stars give light
To nations of the earth! proclaim afar
The end of tyrant rule that madly binds
Our millions down beneath a fearful blight!
Float--_every star_!
We have not one to spare!

A MERCHANT'S STORY.

'ALL of which I saw, and part of which I was.'