Chapter XXII: The Golden Wedding. 173 (2)

Among my earliest recollections is that of sitting on a low stool beside Mrs. Snelling and my mother while they read and studied French under the instruction of a soldier named Simon, and the memory of those days was revived a few months ago by the receipt of a card from "Zeller C. Simon," now Mrs. F. L. Grisard, Vevay, Indiana, daughter of the old man, as a reminder of 1822 and 1823 when she and I quietly amused ourselves while these ladies received instructions in that language. In Mrs. Ellet's "_Pioneer Women of the West_," Mrs. Snelling alludes to this old French teacher and regrets his loss by discharge, adding that, when on the arrival of the first steamboat bringing among other passengers, the Chevalier Count Beltrami, an Italian adventurer, she expressed this regret, he kindly offered to continue the lessons during his visit. He could speak French fluently, but did not understand English, and was therefore much gratified to find anyone who could converse with him.

In the month of May, 1823, the steamboat Virginia, 118 feet in length and 22 in width, arrived at the fort. "It was built by Knox and McKee at Wheeling, Virginia, and loaded with Government stores for Fort Snelling," so writes one of the firm, Mr. Redick McKee to the secretary of "Historical Society of Minnesota." Its arrival was a great event indelibly impressed upon the memory of all who were there to witness it.

_CHAPTER VI._

A COINCIDENCE.

"Backward! turn backward, O Time, in thy flight;
Make me a child again, just for to-night."

Take me to my early home at Fort Snelling, and help me to live over again that happy time, when I knew nothing of care and sorrow, and when the sight of the dear old flag, run up, each morning, to the roll of the drum, and the sentinel's call, each night, "All's well around," made me feel secure and at home, even in what was then a wilderness. Many pleasant scenes, and many startling ones, come at my call. Some are more vivid than others, and perhaps the most distinct of my early remembrances is the arrival of the first steamboat. It had been talked of and expected for a long time; it is hard to realize in this age of rapid traveling how deeply interested and excited every one felt in anticipation of what was then a great event. It was to bring us into more direct and easy communication with the world; and small wonder that the prospect of being at the head of steamboat navigation should have caused excitement and rejoicing to those who had been receiving their mails at intervals of _months_ instead of _hours_. To me, of course, child that I was, it only meant a sight never before witnessed, a something heard of, and seen in pictures, but never realized. But even we children felt in listening to our elders, that something great was about to happen.

At last, one bright summer morning, while amusing myself on the piazza in the rear of the officers' quarters, there came a sound new and very strange! All listened a moment in awe and gratitude, and then, broke out, from many voices, "The steamboat is coming! the steamboat is coming!" And look! there is the smoke curling gracefully through the trees; hark! to the puffing of the steam, startling the echoes from a sleep co-eval with the creation; now she rounds the point, and comes into full view. I stand on tiptoe, but cannot see all I long to, till Lieutenant David Hunter, my special favorite, catches me up and holds me on the balustrade; and now I clap my hands, and almost cry with delight, for there she is, just landing, in all her pride and beauty, as if she _felt_ herself the Pioneer Steamboat, and knew she would become historic.

Officers and soldiers, women and children, are hurrying down the hill; terrified Indians rush from their wigwams and look on in amazement, utterly confounded, refusing to go near what they call the "_Bad Spirit_."

Greetings and congratulations warm and heartfelt are exchanged; and speedily the mail is opened, papers and letters are distributed; all search eagerly for news from home, and my joy is turned into grief for my friend Lieutenant Hunter, who learned, by the very boat whose coming he hailed with so much pleasure, that he is fatherless. All sympathize deeply with him; few know how closely drawn together are the occupants of a frontier post; but the common joy, although dampened, was not destroyed, and civilities were tendered to the captain and officers of the boat, who were real gentlemen, and became great favorites at the fort. They came again the next year, perhaps more than once, and pleasant excursion parties on the boat relieved the monotony of fort life.

The steamboat was the topic of conversation for a long time. The day of its arrival became an era from which we reckoned, and those of the first occupants of Fort Snelling who still survive, can scarcely recall a more delightful reminiscence than the arrival of the first steamboat, in the summer of 1823. Years passed away, childhood with its lightheartedness gave way to youth, and that again to womanhood, and then came middle life with its many cares, its griefs, its joys too, and its unnumbered mercies, with bright anticipations of a blessed rest from toil and pain,--when on one pleasant summer day in 1864, I find myself, with a party of friends who have come to visit Fort Snelling and its many interesting surroundings, standing, side by side with my mother, on the bastion of the fort, recalling days and scenes gone by. Leaning against the railing, and contemplating the river, so beautiful from that height, she remarked to me: "Can you remember, my child, when the first steamboat came up this river?" I answered, "Yes, oh yes! most distinctly do I remember it." And then we talk of the event, and recall the many pleasant things connected with it, when, lo! a whistle, and the loud puffing and snorting of the iron horse! Captain Newson, standing near and listening to our conversation, exclaimed, pointing over to Mendota, "And there goes the first train of cars that ever started out from Fort Snelling!"

Hushed and breathless, we gaze at the fast vanishing train, feeling, as we stand there, we two, alone, of all who saw that other great event, _over forty years ago_, like links connecting the buried past with the living present. And we would fain weep as we think of those who stood beside us then, now long since passed away--but living, loving friends are about us, and we will not let our sadness mar their pleasure; so down in the depth of our hearts we hide these tender recollections, to indulge in when we are alone. I look long at the beautiful river, and think, as it ripples and laughs in the sunlight, that, could our ears catch the language of its murmurings, we should hear:

"Men may come, and men may go,
But I go on forever."

_CHAPTER VII._

ANDREW TULLY.

"Oh! Malcolm, look at that little boy on the steps of our quarters; who can he be? Where did he come from?" "Oh, sister, do you think he can be the little brother we have been praying God to send us? Let's run home and ask mother about it."

The scene of this dialogue was the parade ground of Old Fort Snelling, in the spring of the year 1823; the two little children had just been dismissed from the fort school house, and were going home to dinner. The sun shone very brightly that day. The dinner drum was beating, the soldiers, by companies, were in line before their quarters for roll-call, and the dear old flag floated gracefully in front of headquarters. I can see it all now, through my tear-dimmed eyes, and recall the mingled feelings of joyful surprise and expectation with which we, the little son and daughter of Captain Clark, hastened to our home, our eyes all the while fixed on the little fair-haired stranger, who stood on the porch of our father's quarters, the first in the row of officers' quarters as you enter the Fort by the front gate, and just beyond the steps leading down to the old Commissary's store.

When we reached our goal, there stood the pretty blue-eyed boy, looking about with wonder at all he saw, and smiling at us as we came up to him, and laid our hands on him gently, to assure ourselves that he was real. Just inside the door stood dear mother, with a bright happy look, enjoying our surprise, and we, with one voice, exclaimed: "Mother, who is this little boy? where did he come from? is he going to stay with us always?" As soon as we gave her a chance to reply, she said: "Don't you know that every night when you say your prayers, you always say, 'please, God, give us a little brother!' How do you know but God has heard your prayer, and sent you this little brother?" We were very quiet now, and tried to take it all in, but before we had succeeded to our satisfaction in fully comprehending it, our father came from roll-call, and taking us by the hand, said: "Come to dinner now, mother will lead little Andrew to his place and we will tell you all about it." And this is the story we heard on that ever to be remembered day, as we sat by our father and mother, and our hearts went out with love to the little boy beside us:

"A few weeks ago, Col. Snelling heard from some hunters, who had been far out west, that there were two little white boys held captive by a band of Sioux; he sent out some troops, who rescued the children, and they reached the Fort this morning with the boys; the oldest one, John, is at the Colonel's, and this is the other, 'Andrew Tully;' shall we keep him with us?" "Oh, yes! father, we want him for our little brother;" and he became one of us. In time we learned from John, who was a bright boy, and from the rescuing party, who had heard some particulars, that Mr. David Tully, a Scotchman, had been living three years at the Selkirk settlement, where the crops had been so poor, from various causes, notably from the grasshoppers and the ravages of innumerable black birds, that a famine was threatened, and he, becoming discouraged, had started, with his wife and children, two boys and an infant daughter, to come to the Fort, hoping in some way to continue his journey from there to the white settlements, and find work to enable him to live and support his family comfortably.

After traveling for many days, they were overtaken by a party of Sioux, who, returning from an unsuccessful hunt, were in a very bad humor, and attacking Mr. Tully, demanded such provisions as he had. He refused, of course, to give up that, without which his family must perish, and they fell upon him, soon disabled him, and seizing the little baby, dashed its brains out on the ice, then mortally wounded his wife, and with a blow of his hatchet, one of the party finished them both. John says he remembers seeing his father, who had broken through the ice, struggling to save his mother and the baby, but that when they knew there was no hope left, his parents told him to take his little brother and hide in the bushes, and to try in every way to get to the settlements. Then, with their dying breath, they besought God to take care of their little boys, and their freed spirits went beyond the reach of pain and suffering. The little fellows obeyed them, and ran for safety to some hazel brush near by, where, of course, the Indians soon found them, but their thirst for blood being somewhat allayed, and their object attained, they contented themselves with cutting off a piece of John's scalp, tearing it most brutally from the quivering flesh, when the squaws from some tepees near by, hearing his heartrending screams, came to the rescue, and begged that they might keep the children. And there they had remained, receiving such care as the Indian women give their own pappooses, and making friends of all in the wigwam. When the troops came to the rescue, the Indian women were unwilling to give them up; they had taken an especial fancy to Andrew, who was very fair, and of a sweet, gentle disposition. He was not quite three years old, and, of course, could not so well understand the dreadful loss they had sustained as John, who was two years older, and who never recovered from the shock of the fearful tragedy, and from the injury done his nervous system by the cruel scalping-knife.

He remained at Col. Snelling's during his life, two or three years, and then, from an injury received from an axe, was taken with lock-jaw and died. During his illness he raved of the barbarous Indians, who killed his dear ones, begged them to spare the baby, and not hurt his mother; then he would seem to be hurrying Andrew out of the way of the murderers, and hiding him as well as he could. He suffered terrible mental agony, but he had been carefully taught by Mrs. Snelling, whom he learned to love very dearly, and, reason returning before he died, he gave clear evidence that he loved the Savior, and felt sure that he would take him to heaven, where his father and mother, and precious little sister were awaiting him.

Little Andrew grew finely and proved a perfectly healthy child. His preservation and rescue were so remarkable that my father gave him the name of "Marvel," and almost always addressed him as "Andrew Marvel." He had been our little playmate and brother for two years when our father obtained a furlough and took us all to New England to visit our relatives there, and we went by the way of New Orleans, that being the only comfortable and continuous route to New York at that time. It was our first journey since we children could remember, and we were all delighted beyond measure at the thought of it. A keel-boat was fitted up nicely for the occasion, and in addition to our immediate family, including Andrew of course, we had as fellow travelers Captain Leonard, his wife and two children, making quite a large party. I remember distinctly our starting, the good-byes from those who stood on shore, the slow progress of the boat as it was poled along by the crew, and it was not without a quiver of sadness that we turned the point where we lost sight of the flag. We felt then that we were away from home and all seemed very strange, but there was much to interest us, and we soon became accustomed to our new experiences. The ceaseless walking to and fro of the men who propelled us along was an accompaniment to all our daily amusements and we went to sleep lulled by their regular footfalls.

And so we journeyed on, day after day, until we made the whole three hundred miles and landed at Ft. Crawford--Prairie du Chien. I do not remember how many weeks we traveled thus, but I know that all the children on board the boat had chicken pox and recovered during the trip. Arriving at the "Prairie," as it was frequently called in those days, we were to take a steamer for St. Louis and New Orleans; but before our departure I remember we were all vaccinated by the surgeon at that post, whose name was Dr. James, and I know that in every case he was very successful. Our arrival at St. Louis, the first city the children had ever seen, was an epoch in our lives, and I can clearly recall my feeling of loneliness at the utter absence of everything military. It was indeed a new world to me. I could not understand it, and felt not a little indignant that so many men passed and repassed my father as we walked along the streets without saluting him, for which remissness in duty I suggested the guard-house. Arriving at New Orleans, where we were much overpowered by the heat, we remained only long enough to secure passage to New York on the sailing vessel "Crawford," and departed on our first sea voyage. We were twenty-seven days out of sight of land, encountering a fearful storm off Cape Hatteras, and the crimson light from the light-house there, like the red eye of some great monster gazing at us through the gloom, when we were every moment expecting to be engulfed, made an ineffaceable impression upon me. But He who is "mightier than the noise of many waters, or the mighty waves of the sea," delivered us from our peril and brought us safely to our desired haven, where we were warmly welcomed by dear friends and where we found ourselves famous as having come from the "Far West," a part of the world of which their ideas were most vague and imperfect. The story of our little Andrew created intense excitement, and crowds of people came to see a child who had so thrilling a history. Among these visitors came Mrs. Divie Bethune and the widow of Alexander Hamilton, who were lady patronesses of an orphan asylum in the city. They urged strongly that he should be placed under their care, planning to educate him for the ministry, and send him out to preach the gospel of peace to the tribe of Indians who had murdered his parents. We all objected strongly to giving him up, but the ladies at length persuaded father that they could do better by him than one whose life was one of constant change and uncertainty, and, with a view to the boy's best interests, he yielded to their entreaties, and our little brother passed into the hands of the orphan asylum. We remained at the East a year visiting dear friends in New England and spending some time in New Haven, where a precious little sister, born at Fort Snelling, died and was laid to rest in the burial lot of Joseph Brewster, whose wife was our father's much-loved cousin. When years afterward I went from a frontier post and became a pupil in Mrs. Apthorp's seminary, in the lovely City of Elms, that little grave in the beautiful cemetery comforted me in my homesickness.

In 1833 my father made a second visit to the East, and while in New York hunted up Andrew, whom he found apprenticed to a wagon maker, and could not learn why the original purpose of fitting him for the ministry had been abandoned. But the boy seemed doing well and was happy and content. Three years later, when our father lay on his death-bed at Fort Winnebago, a letter came to him from relatives of the Tullys inquiring about these boys, stating that some money from their mother's family was awaiting them. Father dictated a reply telling the writer all he knew of them and gave him the address of Andrew in New York; and for years afterwards we heard nothing of him. My mother made inquiries by letter of parties whom she thought might tell her something concerning him and used all available means to find him, in vain, much to the regret of all our family, and we came to the conclusion that he was dead. A few years ago, after our mother had gone to her rest, we saw in an eastern paper the obituary of Rev. Abraham Tully, of New Jersey, in which reference was made to these "Tully boys," stating that the only survivor of that branch of the family was Andrew, a carriage maker in New York city. Immediately we procured from the New Jersey family his address and communicated with him. A cousin of his, the Rev. David Tully, well known and beloved as the pastor of the Presbyterian church in Jacksonville, Florida, spent a summer in Minnesota, and calling on me told me he thought Andrew might visit this part of the country during the season. And one day, just at sun-setting, our door bell rang, and answering it in person, I saw a gentleman whom I did not know, who looked at me without speaking, for a moment, and then said: "Is this my sister Charlotte?" Like a flash it came to me, and I replied: "Is this my brother Andrew?" And we kissed each other, we two old people who had parted when we were little children and had not met for more than sixty years. He spent some days with us and we learned that he was an active, earnest Christian, an honored member of the Reformed Dutch Church in Harlem, New York, Rev. Mr. Smythe, pastor; that he had married and had one son who grew to manhood, but had been bereft of all and was alone in the world. He knew so little of his early life, that the story I could tell him was a revelation to him. He had preserved, through all his reverses and trials, his sweet, sunny temper, and soon made friends of the whole household. We rode together to the old fort and I pointed out to him the very spot on which he stood on that spring morning long ago when we first saw our "Brother Andrew."

We visited the graveyard and I showed him the grave of his brother John, which having no headboard or name, could only be identified by its being next to the little stone inscribed "E. S.," which I knew marked the grave of Mrs. Snelling's little daughter. We searched the records at the quartermaster's office in vain for a description of his brother's grave, that we might make sure of the spot, as the Tully family wish to erect a monument to his memory.

We walked about the fort, went to the brow of the bluff where the old bastion formerly stood, and while strolling around the home of our childhood were met by General Gibbon, then in command, who, learning who we were and what was our errand, took us to his quarters and showed us much kindness. I told him many things of the old fort which were never recorded, pointed out to him where the stones in the front wall of headquarters had been riven by lightning when I was a little girl, and our pleasant visit rounded up with a ride in his carriage to call on General Terry and other officers, who all seemed interested to see us; relics, as it were, of the times before their day.

Our courteous escort drove with us to the site of the old Camp Coldwater, and we drank from a tin cup of the clear spring which now supplies the garrison with water, as we had done more than half a century before. Driving back to the fort just as the bugle sounded for "orderly call," the General, in tender consideration of my deafness, called the bugler, and bade him sound it again by the side of the carriage. To hear is to obey, and the musician, ignorant of the reason for the command, repeated the clear, ringing call, where my dull ears could take it all in. No words can describe my sensations, as, with Andrew Tully beside me, I listened with bated breath to the familiar notes unheard for years, and, with eyes brimming with tears, I could only say, "Oh, General, I thank you; this makes me feel that I must hear my mother's voice calling me home to the dear old quarters over there, 'to get ready for dinner.'" And then, as our carriage drove up, and we thanked our noble host for his kind and considerate attentions to us, he said, "I have to thank you for more information about Fort Snelling than ever I had before." And so, past the old sutler's store, the guard house and the vine-clad tower, we drove away very silently from our early home, and after an hour's resting at Minnehaha, returned to Minneapolis, talking by the way of the strange experiences of our lives, and the wonderful way in which God had brought us together again in our old age.

Andrew made a visit to Winnipeg in search of some one who had known his parents, and there he found an old man named Macbeth, who had blown the bellows in his father's shop, which stood just in one corner of what is now the city of Winnipeg. He told him how the friends there opposed his father's leaving the settlement when he did, as he had remained there three years, and they felt the times would be better soon; but he had made up his mind that he could improve his condition by seeking a more congenial home, and they could not dissuade him. He also told him that, from the accounts of the Indians and others, it was generally believed that the scene of his parents' murder must have been where Grand Forks now stands. He made some inquiries as to the possibility of recovering anything on his father's claim, but could learn nothing encouraging. He hopes to visit Minnesota again; meantime we correspond regularly, and he takes a deep interest in the growth and development of the great Northwest, with which his early life was so singularly identified. He is still in the business for which he was trained, and, by patient industry and skilled workmanship, has reached the summit, and receives satisfactory returns for his labor; and so, although his life has not been without its trials, yet an overruling Providence has dealt graciously with the little fair haired orphan boy who hid from the savages in the hazel copse so many years ago.

We returned home from our eastern trip by the way of the great lakes, as the route was called in those days; and although we left dear friends and many pleasant things behind us, we were rejoiced to be once more in the fort, in the midst of military surroundings.

Soon after our return, my father and Major Garland obtained permission to build more commodious quarters outside the walls, and the result was the erection of the two stone cottages nearly opposite the old Indian Agency, a few rods from the fort. The grounds about them were improved and beautified with flowers and shrubs, and the change was very beneficial and agreeable to us all. Here, I remember, we had regular instruction in the fundamental English branches from our father, whose great anxiety was that we might suffer for want of good schools; and so great was his zeal and thoroughness in this direction, that in after years, when we had greater advantages, it was found that we were fully up to the grade of children of our age who had been to school all their lives.

The two families became much attached to each other, and when Major Garland was ordered elsewhere, we felt the separation keenly. We have never met since that time. One of the Major's daughters, my early friend and playmate, married General Longstreet, and the time came when our husband's stood on opposite sides in the lamentable civil war. Thank God, that is all over now, and should we ever meet again, we could talk lovingly of the old times when, as children, we played together under one flag, in happy unconsciousness of the trials and sorrows that lay before us.

_CHAPTER VIII._

A WOLF STORY.

Among the recreations which relieved the tedium of garrison life, was an occasional wolf chase. I am too tender hearted to call it an amusement, but it was exceedingly exciting. The animal having been caught in a box-trap, and not maimed or crippled in any way, was first muzzled, and then let loose for a race for its life over the prairies, with hounds and hunters in full pursuit. All the blue coats and brass buttons of the hunters did not make that a brave thing to do, but the wolves were great nuisances, and it was long before the days of Bergh. On one of these occasions, the wolf was led to the starting point by some soldiers to be prepared for the chase, but none of them really liked the idea of taking hold of his fierce looking jaws while the muzzling process was going on. My brother, Malcolm, a boy of seven or eight, and already an apt pupil of Martin Scott, stepped up and grasping the animal's snout with his little hands, called out: "Muzzle him now, I'll hold him," and they did it. Those who know how the land lies, and how well adapted it was for such a chase, can readily imagine that for those who like such sport, it must have been very enjoyable, and a great relief from the monotony of life in a frontier fort.

During the winter of '25 and '26, the wolves were unusually troublesome, and came every night to the barns and out-houses, carrying off any small stock they could find. We were occupying the stone cottage at that time, and my brother and I were much interested in the case of some chickens and other pets which we were allowed to call ours.

Of course we grieved over the result of these nightly raids, and, finally, thought we would try and catch some of the marauders; so procuring a steel-trap, we had a dead carcass of some animal hauled to the foot of our garden, and began our work in real earnest. Our success was far beyond our hopes, and it was our custom to rise every morning at reveille, dress ourselves hastily and run down to look at the trap, which was rarely without an occupant. One morning, to our astonishment, the trap was gone, but the blood on the snow, and the peculiar track leading toward the woods, satisfied us that a wolf was in that trap somewhere between the fort and the "Little Falls." Hoping to find him near home, we started in pursuit, without any protection from the cold, which was intense, but the sun shone so brightly that we did not think of the cold; our one idea was--the wolf, and how to catch him. I was bare-headed and bare-handed; my brother, boy-like, had seized his cap and mittens as he left the house, and was better off than I. After traveling on, and on, not in the beaten path, but wherever that track led us, we, of course, became cold and very tired, but still could not think of giving up our search, and my dear, brave brother insisted on my wearing his cap and mittens, saying, "boys can stand the cold better than girls." We must have gone more than a mile when our consciences, aided by the cold, began to warn us that we were doing wrong, that our parents would be anxious about us, and we ought to go back, but how could we give up the pleasure of taking that wolf back in triumph, for the track assured us we should find him crippled and fast to the trap, and we thought how pleased Captain Scott would be to see us there with our prisoner as he came out to breakfast. Looking back over the long years, I can clearly remember that that thought gave me courage, and enabled me to hold out so long. But, as we talked the matter over, setting duty against inclination, and unable to decide, there appeared to us what may have been an angel in disguise; to us it was an Indian boy in a blanket, with his bow and quiver, emerging from the bushes very near "Minnehaha," and thus my brother accosted him: "How! Nitchie." After a friendly reply to this invariable salutation, Malcolm told him in the Indian language, which was then as familiar to us as our mother tongue, why we were there and what we wanted, offering him a loaf of bread and piece of pork if he would find our wolf and bring him to our door immediately. The lad gladly closed with the offer, took the trail and started after him, while we turned our faces homeward. And now, the excitement of expectancy being over, we began to have serious misgivings as to the propriety of having gone so far from home without the knowledge of our parents, and the wind, which blew keenly in our faces, sided with our consciences, and convinced us we had much better have either staid at home or prepared ourselves with a permit and good warm wrappings. It all comes back to me so plainly that I can almost feel the pinchings of the cold and the torment of a guilty conscience as I write, and I feel a real pity for these two little children as they trudge along over the prairie, so troubled and so cold. My dear brother being older than I, and the chief party interested, generously took most of the blame to himself, and comforted me as well as he could, running backwards in front of me to shelter me from the wind, and assuring me he would tell father all about it, and he would forgive us. I have carried in my heart of hearts for sixty years the image of that beautiful, bright-eyed, unselfish brother; and when, not many years ago, the terrible news came to me that treacherous hands had taken his precious life, like one of old I cried in my anguish, "Oh, Malcolm! my brother, would to God that I had died for thee, my brother, oh, my brother!" Just as we reached our garden fence we heard the familiar breakfast drum, and saw our father and Captain Scott walking in a somewhat excited manner, back and forth, and discussing something, we could not hear what. We afterwards learned it was our conduct, and that while father felt that we should at least be severely reprimanded, our friend, the Captain, made him promise he would say nothing in the way of reproof, until he had drunk his coffee. In consequence of this we were simply saluted kindly, but not warmly, and we followed the gentlemen to the breakfast-room, where a rousing fire in the great fireplace, and a most appetizing breakfast awaited us, which our long tramp in the bitter morning air had prepared us to enjoy most thoroughly, notwithstanding the mental disturbance which could not be allayed, until confession had been made and forgiveness granted. Just as our meal was ending, a soldier entered the room, and said: "Malcolm, there is an Indian boy here with a wolf, who wants to see you." This announcement brought all to their feet, and every one rushed out so see the sight, and there, with his foot fast in our trap, lay a large timber-wolf, exhausted with pain and fatigue. Captain Scott examining him carefully, pronounced him the very one they had tried in vain to capture, and he congratulated the little boy and girl who had succeeded so fully where older ones had failed. That was a proud moment in our lives, but until we had told our parents how sorry we were to have grieved and distressed them, and had obtained full pardon, sealed with a loving kiss from each, we could not wholly enjoy it. Then we gave our Indian a royal breakfast, and his promised reward beside, and the wolf was taken away and put out of his misery, while beside the comfortable fireside we told all about our morning walk, from reveille to breakfast-drum.

After this Captain Scott took me to the Sutler's store, and made me select for myself a handsome dress, as a present from him, to a brave little girl, as he was pleased to call me, and he took me in his sleigh, drawn by one of his beautiful horses (I think his name was "Telegraph"), back to my mother, telling her, not many little girls of seven years old could go out before breakfast on a cold morning, and chase a wolf so successfully. To my brother he gave a pretty pony, which was a never-ending source of joy to him, and which, under the skillful training of the mighty hunter, he learned to ride fearlessly and most gracefully.

The story of this, my first and last wolf hunt, has entertained children and grandchildren, not only mine, but many others, and has been repeated so often that it has been learned by heart, so that if, in telling it, I have sometimes varied the phraseology, I have been promptly corrected and set right. If any of those, once my little hearers, should read this written history, it may carry them back to the days when life was new and fresh, and when adventures of any kind seemed greater and more important than they do now. "God bless them, every one."

_CHAPTER IX._

RED RIVER OR SELKIRK SETTLEMENT.

The story of the early days of Minnesota would be incomplete without a more detailed account of the Red River or Selkirk settlement than the allusions made to it in the history of the Tully boys, and turning to "Harpers Monthly" of December 1878, I find a most satisfactory and interesting history of the enterprise, by General Chetlain of Chicago, who is a descendant of one of the settlers and is so well and favorably known in the Northwest as to need no introduction from me.

After speaking of the disastrous effect of the Napoleonic wars on the social relations of Europe he alludes to the extreme suffering in Central Europe, and in Switzerland particularly, owing to a failure of crops from excessive rains in 1816, and says: "the people wearied of struggles which resulted in their impoverishment, listened eagerly to the story of a peaceful and more prosperous country beyond the sea." A few years earlier Thomas Dundas, Earl of Selkirk, a distinguished nobleman of great wealth had purchased from the Hudson Bay Company a large tract of land in British America, extending from the Lake of the Woods and the Winnipeg River eastward for nearly two hundred miles, and from Lakes Winnipeg and Manitoba to the United States boundary, part of which is now embraced in the province of Manitoba and in which are the fertile lands bordering on the Red and Assinniboine Rivers. It formed a part of "Rupert Land," named in honor of Prince Rupert or Robert of Bavaria, a cousin of King Charles II of England and one of the founders and chief managers of the "Hudson Bay Company." In the year 1811 he had succeeded in planting a large colony of Presbyterians from the North of Scotland on the Red River, near its junction with the Assinniboine; this was followed four years later by another but smaller colony from the same section of Scotland. In consequence of the stubborn competition and the bitter dissensions between the Hudson Bay Company and the Northwest Company of Montreal, these were compelled to abandon their new homes, nearly all of them removing to Lower Canada. This Scotch settlement having proved almost a total failure Lord Selkirk turned his attention to the Swiss, for whom he entertained a great regard. By glowing accounts of the country, and by the offer of great inducements, which were endorsed by the British government whose policy it was to favor these emigration schemes, he succeeded in persuading many young and middle aged men to emigrate to this new world. The colony numbered two hundred persons, nearly three-fourths of whom were French or of French origin, they were Protestants and belonged to the Lutheran church. Some of the families were descendants of the Hugenots of Eastern France, all were healthy and robust, well fitted for labor in a new country; most of them were liberally educated and possessed of considerable means. Among the more prominent were Monier and Rindesbacher, Dr. Ostertag, Chetlain and Descombes, Schirmer, afterwards a leading jeweller at Galena, Illinois, Quinche and Langet. In May 1821, they assembled at a small village on the Rhine near Basle and in two large flat-boats or barges, floated down the Rhine, reaching a point near Rotterdam where a staunch ship, the "Lord Wellington" was in readiness to take them to their new home towards the setting sun. Their course lay North of Great Britain and just South of Greenland to Hudson Strait. After a tedious and most uncomfortable journey they arrived at Hudson Strait, and after a hard journey of four months they landed at Fort York. Embarking in batteaux they ascended the Nelson River, and at the end of twenty days reached Lake Winnipeg, and after encountering all manner of discouragements arrived at the mouth of the Red River, only to learn that the locusts or grasshoppers had been before them, and had literally destroyed all the crops. With heavy hearts they proceeded up the river thirty-five miles to Fort Douglas, near the site of the present Fort Garey, then the principal trading post of the Hudson Bay Company. Governor Alexander McDowell and the other officers of the company welcomed them cordially and did what was in their power, to supply their wants and make them comfortable, but they were by no means able to furnish them with supplies for the coming winter, and as it was terribly severe there was untold suffering among them. But by scattering to different points and struggling bravely against great difficulties, they managed to exist and some of them in time made permanent homes for themselves, while others feeling they could not content themselves in what had impressed them as an inhospitable country, left the settlement as opportunity offered and came nearer civilization. As early as 1821, some who had put themselves under the protection of a party of armed drovers, on their return to the States, having taken some cattle to the settlers, arrived at Fort Snelling and were kindly cared for by Colonel Josiah Snelling who consented to let them remain at the fort during the winter. The next spring they settled on the military reservation near the fort and made homes for themselves. I well remember my mother's descriptions of these emigrants as they arrived, so nearly famished, that the surgeon was obliged to restrict the amount of provisions furnished them lest they might eat themselves to death.

In the spring of 1823, thirteen more of the colonists started to go to Missouri, of which country they had heard glowing accounts. They made the journey as far as Lake Traverse, the headwaters of the St. Peter's river, four hundred miles, in Red River carts, which need no description here; where they remained long enough to make canoes, or dugouts, of the cottonwood trees abundant there, when they began the descent of the river, and after perils by land and by water, and perils by savages, who were very hostile to them, they reached "St. Anthony" in September, and were warmly welcomed by the friends who had preceded them two years before. After a few weeks rest, our Colonel furnished them with two small keel-boats and supplies for their journey, and they went on their way comforted and encouraged. But probably from the effects of the fatigue and hardships of their long and wearisome journey, and from the malarial influences, at that time prevalent on the river, several sickened, and Mr. Monier, the senior of the party, and his daughter, died and were buried near Prairie du Chien. Mr. Chetlain also became so ill that he and his family remained at Rock Island until his recovery, when he joined his friends at St. Louis, but finally settled at La Pointe, on Fever River, where now stands the city of Galena, Illinois.

In the spring of 1826, owing to the great rise of water in the Mississippi and its tributaries, and in the Red and Assinniboine rivers, caused by the unusual deep snow of the preceding winter, which had melted with warm and heavy rains, the losses sustained by the settlers at La Fourche were so heavy that no attempt was made to repair them, and nearly all the French settlers there became thoroughly discouraged and left their home. Over the same route their friends had traveled three years before they came to Fort Snelling, and nearly all took passage in a small steamboat for the lead mines at and near La Pointe, Illinois.

I remember well when this party arrived. One of them, a very pretty girl named Elise, was employed in our family as a nurse for our baby sister, and remained with us some time.

General Chetlaine closes his very interesting article thus: "The descendants of these colonists are numerous, and are found scattered throughout the Northwest, the greater part being in the region of the lead mines. Most of them are thrifty farmers and stock breeders. A few have entered the professions and trade. All, as far as is known, are temperate, industrious, and law-abiding citizens."

_CHAPTER X._

RUNNING THE GAUNTLET.

Like the old man in Dickens' "Child's Story," "I am always remembering; come and remember with me." I close my eyes and recall an evening some sixty years ago, when in one of the stone cottages near Fort Snelling, which was our home at that time, a pleasant company of officers and their families were spending a social evening with my parents.

The doors were thrown open, for the weather was warm, and one of the officers, Captain Cruger, was walking on the piazza, when we were all startled by the sound of rapid firing near us. The Captain rushed into the house, much agitated, exclaiming: "That bullet almost grazed my ear!" What could it mean? Were the Indians surrounding us? Soon the loud yells and shrieks from the Indian camp near our house made it evident that the treaty of peace made that afternoon between the Sioux and Chippewas had ended, as all those treaties did, in treachery and bloodshed. The principal men of the two nations had met at the Indian Agency, and in the presence of Major Taliaferro, their "White Father," had made a solemn treaty of peace. In the evening, at the wigwam of the Chippewa chief, they had ratified this treaty by smoking the pipe of peace together, and then, before the smoke of the emblematic pipe had cleared away, the treacherous Sioux had gone out and deliberately fired into the wigwam, killing and wounding several of the unsuspecting inmates. The Chippewas, of course, returned the fire, and this was what had startled us all and broken up the pleasant little gathering at my father's house. The Chippewas, with their wounded, sought refuge and protection within the walls of the fort, commanded at that time by Colonel Snelling. They were kindly cared for, and the wounded were tenderly nursed in our hospital. One, a little girl, daughter of the chief, excited much sympathy, and I cannot forget the interest I felt in her, for she was but a year or two older than myself, and it seemed to me so cruel to ruthlessly put out her young life. I remember the ladies of the fort were very kind and tender to her, and, since I have had little girls of my own, I know why. She lingered but a few days, in great agony, and then God took her out of her pain to that land where the poor little wandering, wounded child should know sin or suffering no more.

Meanwhile our prompt and efficient Colonel demanded of the Sioux the murderers, and in a very few days a body of Sioux were seen, as we supposed to deliver up the criminals. Two companies of soldiers were sent to meet them and receive the murderers at their hands. Strange to say, although they had the men, they refused to give them up, when our interpreter (I cannot recall his name) stepped out from among our soldiers, and said: "If you do not yield up these men peaceably, then, as many leaves as there are on these trees, as many blades of grass as you see beneath your feet, so many white men will come upon you, burn your villages and destroy your nation."

A few moments' consideration, a few hurried words of consultation, and the guilty men were handed over to our troops. The tribe followed as they were taken into the fort, and, making a small fire within the walls, the condemned men marched round and round it, singing their death songs, and then were given up to be put in irons and held in custody until time should determine how many lives should pay the forfeit, for it is well known that Indian revenge is literally a life for a life, and the Colonel had decided to give them into the hands of the injured tribe, to be punished according to their own customs.

Some weeks passed, and it was found that five lives were to be paid for in kind. A council of Chippewas decided that the five selected from the prisoners should run the gauntlet, and it was approved. And now, back over the lapse of many years I pass, and seem to be a child again, standing beside my only brother, at the back door of my father's house. The day is beautiful; the sun is so bright; the grass so green, all nature so smiling, it is hard to realize what is going on over yonder, by the graveyard, in that crowd of men and women; for there are gathered together the Chippewas, old and young men, women and children, who have come out to witness or take part in this act of retributive justice. There are blue coats, too, and various badges of our U. S. uniform; for it is necessary to hold some restraint over these red men, or there may be wholesale murder; and borne on the shoulders of his young men, we see the form of the wounded, dying chief, regarding all with calm satisfaction, and no doubt happy in the thought that his death, now so near, will not go unavenged. And there stand the young braves who have been selected as the executioners; their rifles are loaded, the locks carefully examined, and all is ready when the word shall be given. There, too, under guard, are the five doomed men, who are to pay the forfeit for the five lives so wantonly and treacherously taken.

Away off, I can not tell how many rods, but it seemed to us children a long _run_, are stationed the Sioux tribe; and that is the goal for which the wretched men must run for their lives.

And now, all seems ready; the bolts and chains are knocked off, and the captives are set free. At a word, one of them starts; the rifles, with unerring aim, are fired, and under cover of the smoke a man falls dead. They reload; the word is given, and another starts, with a bound, for _home_; but, ah! the aim of those clear-sighted, blood-thirsty men is too deadly; and so, one after another, till four are down.

And then the last, "Little Six", whom, at a distance, we children readily recognize from his commanding height and graceful form; he is our friend, and we hope he will get _home_. He starts; they fire; the smoke clears away, and still he is running. We clap our hands and say, "He will get home!" but, another volley, and our favorite, almost at the goal, springs into the air and comes down--dead! I cover my face, and shed tears of real sorrow for our friend.

And now follows a scene that beggars description. The bodies, all warm and limp, are dragged to the brow of the hill. Men, who at the sight of blood become fiends, tear off the scalps, and hand them to the chief, who hangs them around his neck. Women and children with tomahawks and knives, cut deep gashes in the poor dead bodies, and scooping up the hot blood with their hands, eagerly drink it. Then, grown frantic, they dance and yell, and sing their horrid scalp-songs, recounting deeds of valor on the part of their brave men, and telling of the Sioux scalps taken in former battles, until, at last, tired and satiated with their ghoul-like feast, they leave the mutilated bodies festering in the sun. At nightfall they are thrown over the bluff into the river, and my brother and myself, awe-struck and quiet, trace their hideous voyage down the Mississippi to the Gulf of Mexico. We lie awake at night talking of the dreadful thing we have seen; and we try to imagine what the people of New Orleans will think when they see those ghastly up-turned faces; and we talk with quivering lips and tearful eyes of "Little Six," and the many kind things he has done for us--the bows and arrows, the mocauks of sugar, the pretty beaded moccasins he has given us; and we wish, oh! we wish he could have run faster, or that the Chippewa rifles had missed fire. And we sleep and dream of scalps, and rifles, and war-whoops, and frightful yells, and wake wishing it had all been a dream.