Chapter II: Part 2

Morning dawn found me still wandering over the prairie, in search of my children, for I was confident that they still lived, unless they had perished from cold or hunger. I looked around, and strained my eyes in the vain hope of seeing some known object by which to learn where I was: but no, I was lost upon the trackless prairie. My fear of savages was too great to allow me to travel by day-light, so I hid myself all day in a bunch of tall weeds. The rain continued to fall till about 9 a. m., when it ceased, and, soon after, the sun cheered me with his warm rays. About ten o’clock, I heard the report of guns, not far distant, and heard the cries of children again. This proved to me that I was not far from the place where my husband and friends and children were murdered. I heard the agonizing cries of the children, during most of the day. They cried constantly, and sometimes would scream and shriek, as if in great pain. This led me to the conviction that the fiends were torturing them. I believed my own surviving boys to be among them, with poor Lily and Charles, and I expected they would all at last be killed, when the Indians were tired with their hellish sports: for I believe that it was rare sport to them, to torture such little innocents. But about four o’clock, I heard the report of three guns in succession: the wail of the infants instantly ceased. “Alas!” I cried out in despair, “what have I to live for now? My husband and five darling children are all murdered: my home is plundered and desolate; and I myself am left upon the prairie, alone among enemies, with many a wound, and scarcely able to walk!” This was, indeed, a sad picture; but how true it is that while there is a spark of life, there still is hope, in the heart. Poor human nature soon found for me another excuse for not giving up, and for trying to prolong my miserable existence. I wished to live long enough to tell to some white persons, and, through them to the world, the story of our sad fate. I then began to look around, to ascertain in what direction to go, to reach the house of “Dutch Charley,” a German living sixteen miles from Lake Shetak. I could just barely see, in the horizon, some timber, which I thought must be close to Buffalo Lake, and on the road to “Dutch Charley’s,” and I determined, that, as soon as it was dark, I would try to reach it. I had now passed two days without anything to eat or drink: I felt no hunger, but was almost ready to perish with thirst, as it seemed.

As soon as it was dark, I started on my weary journey toward the timber. I walked some hours, and then laid me down to rest, on the damp ground. The dew on the grass was very heavy; I thought I could scoop up some of it with my hand, and obtain relief, but it was in vain that I tried it. I then took up the bottom of my skirt, and sucked the moisture from it, until I had partially quenched my thirst. I thought it the sweetest water I ever drank. I now curled myself up on the ground for a nap, trying to get myself warm, by drawing the apron over my head and face, and breathing on my benumbed hands. I shook from head to foot. I was chilled through, and my teeth chattered. I heard something approach me, which I supposed, from the step, &c., was a wolf. I heard him snuffling around my head awhile, and then running away. I did not even look up, for I felt not the least fear of anything but Indians. Soon sleep and weariness overcame me, and I slept for some time. When I awoke, I felt quite refreshed, and started once more on my toilsome journey. But, by this time, my feet had become very sore; the flesh was worn almost to the bone, on the top of my toes, by the coarse prairie grass. Indeed, it was quite a hardship for me to walk, at all, but the sweet hope that I should soon reach “Dutch Charley’s,” buoyed up my sinking spirit. If I could only reach that place, I should be well cared for, and assisted to some friendly settlement, whence I could inform distant friends of my misfortunes. I traveled on in the darkness, through sloughs, and high tangled grass, and soon found a slough that was filled with water. Here I satisfied my burning thirst, but it was very difficult getting through it: the grass was as tall as my shoulders, and twisted and matted so that I had to part it before me, to get along. Most of the way, the water was as much as two and a half feet deep. I got so fatigued in wading this wide slough that I was almost obliged to sit down in it, and rest myself. As soon as I set my foot on dry land again, I lay down and rested a long time, before starting again.

It was now early twilight, and I could see timber at a short distance. I was so weak that I reeled badly, as I walked, but the sight of the woods revived my strength somewhat, and I dragged myself along, thinking that about five of the sixteen miles of the route to “Dutch Charley’s,” were accomplished, and vainly hoping that before night I might travel the remaining eleven miles. As I neared the timber, I heard the crowing of fowls in several directions. It was now broad day, and I discovered that this was not Buffalo Lake, but Lake Shetak! I cannot describe my grief and despair, at finding myself back there, after wandering two long nights, with feet bleeding and torn by briers and rough weeds, and with nothing to eat for three nights and two days. My fear of Indians caused me to creep into the first bunch of weeds, for shelter, and I covered my head and face with the apron, to keep off the musquitoes, which stung me beyond all endurance. I began to feel sick, and a weak, faint feeling would come over me at times, which I attributed to extreme hunger. I thought that if I got away from that place, I must get something to eat, or die soon of weakness and starvation. There was a house not far off, which I knew to have belonged to my old friend and neighbor, Thomas Ireland, and if I could get to it, I might, perhaps, find something eatable. After wavering for a long time, in a state of uncertainty, between the fear of starvation and the fear of the Indians, I chose to risk the danger of being discovered by them, knowing that to remain without food longer, was death. At about ten o’clock I started for the house. I had to cross a small slough, the opposite side of which was a high bank, covered thick with brush. With great pain attending every step, I crossed the slough, gained the other side, and essayed to climb the bank; I parted the brush, in order to get through with the least possible pain, but the brush would catch between my toes at every step, causing me to groan aloud. God only knows what I suffered. Entirely discouraged, I lay down in the midst of the brush to _die_! I reflected that all that had kept me alive, hitherto, was my great desire and determination to live; hence, that all I now needed to do, was to lie down, determined to die, and death would soon relieve my sufferings. But I was mistaken: I found that I could not die, unless it was God’s will, and in His time. I lay here until noon; then arose and started once more for the house. By pulling myself up by the bushes, I at last reached the top, and found myself within a short distance of a corn field. Though in such an exhausted state that I could scarcely walk, I dragged myself to the field. I plucked the first ear I could reach, sat down, and, after many efforts, pulled off the green husks. I then ate two rows of the milky kernels of green corn, but they made me very sick at the stomach. But, after lying down for some time, I arose, feeling a great deal better, and stronger, and soon reached the house.

Here I found the head and bones of a young bullock the Indians had butchered: several dead pigs, old clothes, dishes, Indian blankets, &c., scattered all about the yard. The ground was covered with feathers which they had emptied from the beds. I entered the house and found in one corner, a dead dog; I found a crock containing some buttermilk, so sour and covered with mould that I found it impossible to use it for food. But I took a cup to the spring, drank some water, and crawled into some plum-bushes, where I remained until night. When it got sufficiently dark, I went back to the house, where I caught and killed a chicken, tore off the skin, and with my teeth tore the flesh off the bones. This I rendered eatable by dipping it in some brine that was left in a pork barrel; wrapped it in paper, and put it in a tin pail that I found. This must be my provision for next day, for well I knew that I must have food of some kind, even if raw. I also pulled three ears of corn, and deposited them with the meat. This little store of provision, I thought, would be enough to keep up my strength until I could reach “Dutch Charley’s.” This I imagined would be a haven of rest, where kind hands would care for me, and nurse me up. I put on an old ragged coat, to keep me warm, bound up my raw and painful feet, in old cloths, and started anew on my journey.

I knew the direction to the road to be due east from this place, and the distance about two miles. This night I kept the right course by the north star, but did not travel far, for I could go but a short distance, before I was obliged to lie down and rest. Just at day-break, I reached the road, making the distance of two miles in the whole night! This I thought was slow traveling, but I was quite encouraged, now that I had found the road, and was sure of going right. I lay down and slept until after sunrise: then, after eating some green corn, I started again. Often did fatigue force me to sit down and rest, and each time, after resting, I could scarcely put my foot to the ground. My heel, which had been shot through, was very sore, and badly swelled; but, discouraging as this was, I still pressed onward, till I reached Buffalo Lake, at about 11 o’clock, a. m. Here I found that I must cross the outlet of the lake, upon a pole that some one had laid across, long ago. But when I trusted my weight upon it over the middle of the stream, it broke, and I fell into the water. After repeated efforts I got out and passed on, but was obliged to stop and repair damages caused by the accident. I took off and wrung out some of my clothes, such as my skirt and the rags on my feet; then hung them in the sunshine to dry. I also laid the meat in the sun to dry, for it was so soft and slippery that I could not eat it. After this I lay down in the bushes that grew around the lake, and slept very soundly, for some time. I arose, at length, put on my skirt, coat, and apron, as usual, dressed my feet again, sat on a log and ate some corn and forced down some meat. Just as I finished my lonely meal, a flock of ducks flew off the lake, and soon a crane followed them. This was proof that something had disturbed them, and, fearing that Indians were close at hand, I hid behind a tree, and watched the road in the direction I had just come. Presently the head of a horse was seen to rise over the hill near by. “Indians, without doubt,” thought I, and shrank down among the bushes, and watched to see a dozen or more of the hated savages file along before me. But, oh! what a revulsion of feeling, from fear to joy! It proved to be the mail-carrier from Sioux Falls to New Ulm. I crept out of the brush, and addressed him. He stopped his horse, and, staring me in the utmost astonishment, asked, in the Indian tongue, if I were a squaw. I answered yes, not understanding him, and told him the Indians had killed all the white people at the lake. “Why,” said he, “you look too white to be a squaw.” “I am no squaw,” replied I, “I am Mrs. Eastlick; you have seen me several times at Mrs. Everett’s house; but I am very badly wounded.” While talking with him, the first tears I had yet shed, since the beginning of my troubles, began to pour like rain over my cheeks. While I was alone, without an earthly friend to listen to my grief, I bore up stoically; but now the warmth of human sympathy unlocked the frozen current of my tears, and I tried with joy, at once more beholding the face of a white man. He then inquired about the extent of my wounds, and asked to see them; so I turned up my sleeve, and showed him my wounded arm, and the place where my head was broken. He then helped me up on his sulky, and walked along, leading the horse. At about four o’clock we came in sight of “Dutch Charley’s,” when we drove the horse away from the road into a ravine, helped me to the ground, telling me to conceal myself in the grass, and he would go to the house and see if there had been any Indians about. He returned presently, saying there had been none there: that the family had deserted the premises, but that there was an old man there, who came from Lake Shetak. He helped me to mount the sulky again, and we were soon before the door. As soon as I had got to the ground, the man made his appearance at the door, and, wonderful to tell, it was poor “Uncle Tommy Ireland.” I hardly knew him, for he looked more like a corpse than a living being; his face was pale, his eyes deeply sunk, and his voice reduced to a whisper. I hurried to greet him, rejoiced to find, still living, my old friend and neighbor, who had witnessed the same heart-ending sights with myself. He clasped his arm around me, kissed me several times, and we both wept like children at the sight of each other.

While the mail-carrier cared for his horse, we entered the house, and he told me that Merton had left the scene of the massacre on the same day, carrying little Johnny, and he thought, perhaps, he had reached that house before “Dutch Charley’s” family had left, and so gone along with them. I was filled with hope and joy, to think that, perhaps, two of my children were spared. He detailed to me the circumstances how the rest of the men, who were lying there with him wounded, had made their escape from the slough about the middle of the afternoon of the same day, after the Indians had left. That Merton then told him that _he_ was going to leave, too. “Oh! no,” said Uncle Tommy, “you will starve to death on the prairie; you had better lie down with me, and both die here together, than to wander over the prairie, and finally starve.” “No,” bravely replied Merton, “Mother told me to carry Johnny as long as I live, and I’m going to do it.” Uncle Tommy then, seeing the child’s determination to go, told him he would go with him as far as the road. Poor little Frank started to go with them, but was wounded so badly, and so enfeebled by loss of blood, that he soon fell upon his knees, and besought his brother, Merton, to wait for him, saying he was _sick_ and could not keep up, Oh! how the poor boy must have felt, to see his brother leave him alone in such agony. He had been shot through the thigh, through the abdomen and through the mouth. I afterwards learned that he remained two days on the prairie, and was then found by a band of Indians, who carried him to Mrs. Smith’s house. Here they remained and doctored him two days; there were worms in his wounds at the time; and, finding he could neither eat nor drink, but would probably die, they left him in this situation. But he lived, and after staying there alone for three weeks, and living on cheese, &c., he was taken prisoner by a half-breed, named Joe Leaboshie. God only knows what the poor child suffered, and what he still suffers, for if still living, he is yet a prisoner.

Uncle Tommy only went about half a mile with Merton; being very faint from the loss of blood, he lay down in the grass, and was unable to turn himself over for thirty-six hours. Then, finding himself able to walk, he arose, and went as far as “Dutch Charley’s” that day, at which place we found him on Saturday, the next day. As he was unable to get himself a drink, he was suffering greatly, but the sight of the mail-carrier and myself raised his spirits to such an extent, that he thought he could travel a little. The mail-carrier came in after feeding his horse, brought in some hay, which he put in a corner, and advised me to lie down upon it and rest. He found a cheese in the chamber, which he cut and fed us upon. After resting some time, I went to the garden, and pulled a few turnips; taking them and a part of the cheese for food, we started once more. At first, Uncle Tommy could not walk very well, but, after going a mile or two, he could walk as fast as the horse. After going about eight miles, we went about half a mile away from the road, to camp for the night; ate a part of our turnips and cheese, and lay down on the ground to sleep. The mail-carrier gave me a quilt, that he had with him, and this I shared with Mr. Ireland, who had nothing but his shirt and pants. During the night, a severe storm arose, and it rained for some time; the kind mail-carrier put his oil-cloth blanket over us, reserving but a small portion for himself.

As soon as day-light on Sunday morning, we started again. It was very cold, and I should have suffered much, if the mail-carrier had not given me his blanket to ride in, which kept me very comfortable. At about eleven o’clock, we espied some persons ahead of us, and the mail-carrier, thinking they might be Indians, turned from the road, followed along a ravine, for some distance, till he thought he could come up with them. He then cautiously crept to the top of the hill, and looked over, upon the road. But he could see nothing of them; they were out of sight. He returned and said he would go back to Sioux Falls, if I would. I told him, if he thought he would be any safer to return, to do so, by all means: but that I would rather he would leave me to go onward, to New Ulm, which I supposed must be a place of safety. He said he would go there with me. I urged him not to run any risks for my sake, for we might all get killed if we went on, but he would not leave me behind, alone. We then all started on again, with the mail-carrier some distance in advance. As we neared the place where we had seen the supposed Indians, he took a circuitous route, telling me to wait until he could go to the top of a hill, and look out for them. After looking in every direction, he motioned to me to go on, and soon rejoined me. But when we had traveled about a mile further, on ascending an eminence, I saw at a long distance the objects that had alarmed us, which appeared to be a woman and two children. When we arrived near to them, the woman looked to me like Mrs. Duly: I beckoned to her to stop, and, on coming up, it proved to be Mrs. Hurd, with her two children. She was unable to speak, for some time, but shook hand with us all, and finally told me that my Merton was a short distance ahead, just out of sight, and was carrying Johnny. I could stay to hear no more, and, urging the horse along, I soon came up with them. Merton stopped, gazed upon me, but spoke not a word. The mail-carrier took Johnny, who was sleeping, in his arms, and gave him to me; I clasped him to my breast, and, with tears of joy, I thanked God--Oh! how fervently--for sparing my children thus far. How I longed to press to my bosom my poor Merton, but could not, for I was unable to get off the sulky; all I could do was to press his wasted hand, and call him my dear brave boy. He, though only eleven years old, had carried the child, who was fifteen months old, fifty miles, but now he could hardly stand alone; for he felt no fear now, and had nothing to excite him or keep up his strength. He was the poorest person I ever saw, able to stand alone. Two weeks of hard sickness could not have altered his looks more. And little Johnny, too, was sadly changed; his face was entirely covered with a scab, where the musquitoes had bitten him and he had scratched off the skin: he lay stupid in my arms, and seemed not to notice anything; and he had pulled the hair all out of the back of his head. They had both been two days without food. After Merton had left Mr. Ireland, exhausted upon the prairie, he soon found the road to “Dutch Charley’s,” and reached Buffalo Lake before dark, on the day of the massacre, and stopped there all night. He laid his little brother on the ground, and bent over him to protect him from the cold rain. The wolves came around in the night, and he was obliged to halloo at them with all his power of voice, to scare them away. Think of it, mothers, and fancy your own cherished darlings sleeping thus!

Thus he spent the long, cold, weary night, and at day-light, started on his way. All day long he carried little John, resting at intervals, until about five p. m. he overtook Mrs. Hurd, near the house of the German. Together they proceeded to the house, where they found and ate some cheese full of skippers, which was the first morsel they had tasted for two days. The people of the house had left, taking with them all their provisions, that were fit to eat. At about dark they went and concealed themselves in the corn-field for the night.

Mrs. Hurd, also, had had a very hard time since the beginning of her troubles. After the Indians had driven her from her home, she wandered on till she became bewildered, and lost her way, while the rain poured in torrents. At night she laid her children on the ground, tried to shield them from the storm with her body, and spent the night in watching over them. Next day, after wandering round for a long time, and crossing numerous sloughs, she found the road, but her eldest child became very sick, and vomited often. Soon he became unable to walk, and then she was obliged to carry him. But having two to carry, and being quite weak, she was under the necessity of carrying one of them a quarter or half mile, laying him down and returning for the other one, so that, for every mile that her children got along, she was obliged to walk three miles. Her oldest child cried bitterly for bread, but she cheered him by promising that he should have some when they reached “Dutch Charley’s.” She traveled thus till she reached the house, when she was almost discouraged by finding them all gone. Her boy reminded her of her promise, but she could find no bread for him. Next morning, after returning from the corn-field, they resumed their search for food, and at last found in an old building some spoiled ham, which they fed to the little ones. Merton pulled some carrots in the garden, and, after making their breakfast of carrot, ham and cheese, they started again, taking what provision they had left. Thus they traveled, with but little to eat and nearly destitute of clothing, and sleeping on the ground at night. Johnny’s sole clothing was a dress, with a very low neck: Merton had, at first, a shirt, pants, and hat, but the hat was shot to pieces in the slough, and he had torn his pants nearly off, in walking, so that he replaced them with an old pair which were picked up at the German’s.

At about noon we reached Brown’s place, which was two miles from where I met with my children, but found the house deserted, and the family gone. From the appearance of things, they were judged to have left the house of their own accord, and had taken most of their goods with them. The mail-carrier, being unable to enter the door, which was fastened, climbed in at the window, which had been broken in, and found some bread on the table, which he distributed among us, reserving but a small piece for himself. After feeding his horse, he started alone for New Ulm, leaving us around the house, and promising to send some one after us. He said that about seven miles from there, lived a man who owned a pair of horses, and he would send him after us. After he was gone, being afraid to stay around the house, we went about eighty rods from the house, into the brush that grew along the bank of the Cottonwood river. Here we staid until near sunset, when we returned to the house, crawled in through the broken window, and examined the premises. The house looked as though it had just been left; it was quite clean, and everything was placed in good order. There were one feather bed and three straw beds in the house, some forty pounds of pork and a crock of lard in the cellar; in short, we found enough to make us comfortable, and, though there was nothing that would make bread, we were still very thankful. In the garden, Mrs. Hurd and Merton dug some potatoes, and found plenty of such vegetables as onions, turnips, cabbage, beets, tomatoes and melons. Mrs. Hurd then cooked some potatoes, fried some pork and onions, and we all made a hearty meal, which was the first one I had had since Tuesday night. As soon as dark, we all gladly went to bed, and found clothes enough to keep us quite comfortable. I slept but little, however, for I felt not so safe here as on the prairie, and fear of the red-skins kept sleep from my eyes.

Here we remained at Mr. Brown’s house, from Sunday p. m. till Wednesday night, when the mail-carrier returned. He reported that all the settlers on the Cottonwood river were driven away by the Indians, or killed; that he had gone in sight of New Ulm, on foot, leaving his horse some miles behind; that he could see the ruins of a great many burnt houses there, and people, of some kind, walking about the street, but could not determine whether they were Indians or whites; that as he was traveling along, on foot, he suddenly came upon six Indians, two of whom shot at him and pursued him; that he ran and concealed himself in a slough, till his pursuers were weary of hunting for him, and gave up the search. He came back and reached Brown’s on Tuesday night, but, on listening for us, he heard nothing, so he concluded that we were either killed by the Indians, or had gone away, and, perhaps, the house contained Indians, so he went to the corn-field and staid there for the rest of the night, and part of the next day, till he ventured to come to the house. After hearing this tale, we all knew we were not safe a moment in the house. But now I was no longer able to walk; my wounded foot had become much inflamed and swollen. So our kind protector put me upon his horse and took Johnny and myself to a thicket, about a fourth of a mile from the house. He also brought the feather bed and placed it for me to lie upon, among some wild plum bushes. Having done all he could to render us comfortable, he shook hands and bade me farewell, saying that he never expected to see me again. He started to return to Sioux Falls, to send some soldiers to rescue us, and, if he had good luck in getting through, he thought the soldiers could reach us in one week from that day. When he left me I wept like a child, for he had been so very kind to me, he seemed like a brother, and, now that he was gone, I felt that the last of my hopes was gone with him. I knew I could not get away without help, and I feared lest the Indians should come along and find us: if they did our lives would not be worth a farthing. After cooking a pail of potatoes, some meat and parched corn, Mrs. Hurd came to me; Uncle Tommy and Merton also came, bringing some bed clothes to cover us with. But the night proved so sultry, that we could not bear to cover our faces, and the mosquitoes seemed to draw the last drop of blood from our veins. I slept but very little, during this long and tedious night. The prospect was discouraging beyond measure, and I feared that the mail-carrier would never reach his destination. But I afterwards learned that when he reached Sioux Falls, the settlers there had all been murdered by the savages, as also all of the soldiers but two, who escaped: finally, however, he reached Fort Clark in safety.

Next morning, Thursday, we arose and made our breakfast of cold potatoes, and meat. We dared not speak aloud from fear that Indians might be near. It was some trouble to keep the little ones quiet, sometimes, but usually they were very still. Johnny now got so that he began to walk a little again, but when I first overtook him, he was unable to stand alone. About ten o’clock, Mr. Ireland said he could not stand it any longer, and would go to the house. He was much better now than he had been, before: but, one night, while we were staying at the house, Mrs. Hurd and myself thought he was dying, from the wounds through his lungs. He set out for the house, but had gone but a little way, when we heard the barking of dogs. This seemed to us proof that Indians, with their dogs, were upon us, and we expected to hear the report of a gun that should be the first fired at poor Uncle Tommy. No one can imagine what we then suffered with fear. Presently the dogs came crackling through the bushes, and stopped, when in sight of us, looking intently at us. I feared they would bark, and bring Indians about us, but they did not. They turned back and were gone some time. Next time, they came close to us, lay down about a rod from us, and finally went away again. They were large, coal-black dogs, and did not look cross, but quite the reverse. I told Mrs. Hurd that if they came to us again, I would try to make friends with them, and, perhaps, they would not betray us. Sometime after noon, they came the third time; the largest one came close to me and looked very wistful. Not daring to speak, I merely snapped my fingers at him, on which he came up, showing all a dog’s signs of joy, and licking my face and hands. Glad to see a friendly disposition shown us, by even a dog, I caressed him and gave him some meat. Presently the crackling of the brush was again heard. Looking up, in dismay, we caught sight of an object, that looked like an Indian, a blanket over his head. A terrible fright seized us all: my heart beat so loud that I thought he must hear it; but he soon appeared from behind some bushes, and proved to be no one but Mr. Ireland. His coming cheered us now, as much as it had, just before, frightened us. He said the dogs probably had belonged to Mr. Brown, for they seemed at home at the house. He tried his best to persuade us to go there, but we steadily refused. He had eaten some potatoes, corn, &c., and brought us some of the parched corn: he soon returned to the house, to stay there alone.

I spent this night, like the preceding one, without sleep; and Mrs. Hurd, also, spent a most miserable night, for she was sick, and vomited a great many times. In the morning she was much better. Uncle Tommy came out early from the house, and begged us again to go there with him. I had about concluded to go, and run the risk of being killed by the Indians, for, if we staid there, we should, of a certainty, be tortured by the mosquitoes, and, perhaps, die after all. Mrs. Hurd, also, concluded to accompany him. I managed to get out of the brush alone, but could go no farther without help. The others all having a load to carry, left me behind, on the ground. Merton came back, after he had borne Johnny to the house, and helped me a little. I placed my hand upon his shoulder, and, using him thus, as a staff, I got on a short distance; but was, at last, obliged to get down on my hands and knees, and thus crawl to the house, where I at once threw myself upon a bed. After resting awhile, I thought, perhaps, I might be able to sit up, to dress my wounded foot, but I was too faint and weak to succeed, until afternoon, when I dressed my wounds. The one upon my arm was beginning to heal fast, but my heel was badly swollen, and in a very bad condition. I did not walk again for several weeks. During the rest of the time that we staid here, the days wore slowly away: we remained in silence, most of the time, and, even the little ones, were seldom allowed to laugh or play. I began to think I should never live to get away, though the others were now able to walk some miles. Mrs. Hurd was very anxious to start for New Ulm, and thought every day, that my foot would next morning be well enough to start: but each successive morning brought the same disappointment. Finally I advised Mrs. Hurd and Mr. Ireland to go, and wait no longer for me: that if they remained we might all be murdered, and, if they left, it might be the means of saving _their own_ lives, at least. But they refused to leave me, helpless, which was very generous in them. Still I thought it not right, to risk their lives, for the sake of keeping me company. So Mr. Ireland finally proposed that, if we would all stay at the house, he would go to New Ulm, and, if he could find men enough there, he would have them come after us. We promised him to stay at the house, and await the coming of help, if he felt able to walk to New Ulm. “Then,” he exclaimed, “I _will_ go, and have you all rescued, or die in the attempt!” He began at once to prepare for the journey.

On Monday morning of the ninth day, that we had staid at Mr. Brown’s, very early, Mrs. Hurd cooked two young chickens, and Uncle Tommy, taking them for his provisions, started for New Ulm, telling us to be of good cheer, for, if he had no bad luck, he would reach the town sometime that night, and by Tuesday night, we might look for some one after us. I could not keep from shedding tears, as he left us, for now I seemed more lonely than ever, and I hardly dared to hope that he would succeed in bringing us succor. I still thought that it would ultimately be my lot to be murdered by the savages, and my constant prayer was, that God would give me strength to die like a Christian. I determined that if they came and murdered me, they should not have their ears delighted by a single groan, or cry. Having found some newspapers in an old trunk, I tried to read, thinking it would relieve the tedium of the hours, and divert my sad heart. But the first story I found, was something horrible about Indians! I threw the paper from me, for my mind was already filled with such dreadful scenes, as none of the writers of fiction have described. All the afternoon of Tuesday we looked long and eagerly for some one to come to our relief, until after dark, when I retired and slept for some hours. At about midnight we were awakened by the barking of the dogs and I asked Mrs. Hurd what they could be barking at. “It may be the cattle,” replied she, “but they act as if afraid of something.” She arose and went to the window, but could see nothing. The dogs now barked more savagely than ever, running out a short distance, then back against the door. This frightened us very much, as we thought it must be Indians, or the dogs would not act so. But, thought I, whether it be enemies or friends I must arise and dress, if I have strength, though it may be the last time. So I began putting on my clothes, still asking Mrs. Hurd if she saw anything, when, just as I was about dressed, she exclaimed, “My God! Cook, is that you?” Then I knew that it was some one whom she knew. I knew their voices when I heard them speak. It proved to be a young man named Cook, who lived at Lake Shetak, and some time before the outbreak had gone to Crystal Lake, to work in harvest: and my neighbor, Mr. Wright, who was also gone at the time. They came into the house, pressed our hands warmly, with tears running down their faces, while Mrs. Hurd and I wept aloud for joy! Immediately after them, a number of soldiers entered, and when Mr. Wright took out some matches, and lit a lamp, the sight that met their eyes caused the eyes of all the brave boys to grow dim with tears. Some of them, tired and worn out, had lain down on the floor to rest, but their leader, Lieut. Roberts, told them that was no place to rest; that they must get up and stand guard. They remained but a few minutes in the house, when he went out and stood guard with the rest of them.

We now learned that Uncle Tommy had succeeded in getting to New Ulm, about noon, on Tuesday, and at once made known our condition to Capt. Dane. Thereupon the Captain ordered fourteen men under Lieut. Roberts, as commander, to prepare to start as soon as possible to our relief. It was almost sunset before they were ready to start, when, lo! Mr. Wright and Mr. Cook came into town, and, learning the facts, volunteered to attend them as guides. They reached our place at midnight, and, fearful that the sight of them all would frighten us, the guides came on alone to rouse us. They had brought some crackers and tea for us; they went out and caught, killed and cooked some chickens for the soldiers, refusing all assistance from Mrs. Hurd; and, having prepared a good meal, of chickens, potatoes and tea, a part of the soldiers came in and ate, while the rest stood guard. After the first half of the soldiers were fed, the other portion were also relieved and furnished a good warm supper. I drank a cup of tea, but could eat scarcely any.

At length morning began to dawn, and we were soon ready to start. They placed the feather bed in a light two horse wagon, which they had brought, also, some quilts and a buffalo robe. I was then helped in, with Mrs. Hurd and our children. The Lieutenant ordered the men to mount their horses, and eight to ride in advance of the wagon while the rest were to act as rear guard. All being now ready, we started, and I gladly bid adieu to the lonely house in which I had suffered so much. I saw one of the soldiers dismount, and go to the corn-crib, but thought no more of it. But, after proceeding some three miles, a soldier rode ahead, and told the Lieut. there was a man left behind, upon which he ordered back three men in search of him. When about five miles from Mr. Brown’s, Lieut. Roberts rode back to our wagon, and told the driver to turn out of the road, pointing a little distance ahead of us. Thinking it a bad place in the road, I looked in the direction he pointed, and beheld the body of an old grey-haired man, lying in the road. I was forced to turn my eyes from the sickening spectacle. This was the body of Mr. Brown, whose family were all murdered here. We soon crossed a little run, where stood their wagon, the goods thrown out, books and clothing scattered on the ground, as, also, were two feather beds, which the soldiers carried away with them. Near the wagon we found the body of Mrs. Brown: her head was split open, and a few feet from her lay a tomahawk. In this place the soldiers found, in all, the bodies of four men and two women. We made all haste to pass by and leave this horrid scene of death, but its memory will never leave us. Soon after, the three soldiers overtook us, having seen nothing of their missing comrade. But it was thought that he had gone back upon the north side of the Cottonwood river: they had gone up the river by that route, but, thinking it safer to return by the south side, they had done so. But, as this intention was not announced until after leaving Brown’s, the man who was left, named Gilfillan, being entirely ignorant of the change of route, had started back by the same road he came. It was just growing light a little, in the east, when we started, and, it was too dark for him to see which way we returned. On the next day, a company of soldiers went out from New Ulm in search of him, as I afterwards learned. They found him on the south side of the Cottonwood, about six miles from town. He had been shot through the breast, and, afterwards, his head severed from his body. The savages had beaten it to pieces until there was not a piece of the skull left as large as a man’s hand. From the appearance of the grass, he had fought bravely for his life, for it was wallowed down for rods around; at least, so the soldiers reported. They buried him where they found him, and left the place with sad hearts.

When about ten miles on our way, we found two wagons standing in the road; the white covers were torn off, and dresses and other clothes hanging on the bows. Some of these the soldiers put into the wagon for our use. Not far from the wagons, in the grass, lay the body of a man with his scalp torn off. Every house that we passed showed unmistakable signs of having been plundered by the redskins. As we passed one farm, about forty head of cattle, far off in the field, were attracted by the noise: they started for us, seeming to feel the need of a master, and ran at full speed, bellowing like mad, up to the fence; then followed along in the field, until they came to a cross-fence, where they were obliged to halt. We reached New Ulm a little after noon, and drove to Capt. Dane’s head-quarters, which was a large hotel. The porch was filled with soldiers who came out to see us. A man named Robertson helped me out of the wagon, and asked me if I could walk, to which I replied, that perhaps I could, if he would give me some assistance. He then, seeing that it gave me great pain to touch my sore foot to the floor, took me up in his arms, carried me into the house and up two flights of stairs, to a room where he laid me upon a bed. Here I saw Uncle Tommy, who was delighted to see us. We were attended by a young man named Hillsgrove, and two ladies, who dressed my wounds, brought us wine to drink, and took the best possible care of us. The ladies lived some thirty miles from that place, and soon left for their home. I learned that the Indians had attacked the place some three different times, had burned some fifteen or twenty houses, and killed quite a number of men, but that, after much hard fighting, the whites had succeeded in driving them away. The women and children had left the town. The soldiers here were very kind to us: Lieut. Roberts gave Mrs. Hurd and myself each a dollar. I was as proud of this as a little child, and wondered what I should purchase with it. I could think of a great many things that I needed, but could not decide what I needed most, so I put it away, feeling very grateful to the donor. Capt. Dane gave us some clothes that he found. Mr. Wright found a piece of calico, which he brought to us, and divided between Mrs. Hurd and myself, and which was sufficient for a dress for each of us.

On the morning of the fifth of September, a party of us, consisting of Mrs. Hurd, and myself, with our children, Mr. Ireland and Mr. Wright, started for Mankato. Capt. Dane kindly sent some fifteen or twenty of his soldiers as our escort part of the way. About sunset we reached South Bend, where we thought we had better stay over night, but, on stopping to see what accommodations could be obtained, we found the hotels crowded to overflowing, and there was no chance for us. But the wagon had hardly stopped, before it was surrounded by men asking questions as to who we were, &c. On learning my name, they exclaimed, “Is this the little hero that traveled from Lake Shetak, carrying his little baby brother? We had heard about him, but supposed they had starved to death upon the prairie before this.” They became quite excited about the boy, and crowded each other hither and thither to get a sight of him. We drove on a short distance to a grocery, where the men of our party stopped to refresh themselves with a glass of beer, when a man came running after us in great haste. On coming to our wagon, he asked, “Is this the boy that ran away from the Indians, and carried his brother?” “Yes,” said I. “Give me your hand, my brave little man,” said he, shaking his hand warmly: “and is this the child he carried so far?” On being told it was, he took Johnny in his arms, and kissed him several times: then, after we had started on, he walked half a mile beside our wagon, talking to Mrs. Hurd and myself.

Late in the evening we reached Mankato; here they took Mr. Ireland, Mrs. Hurd, myself, and our children, to the hospital, where supper was soon prepared for us. I was assisted to bed, and the surgeon came and dressed my wounds. We here received excellent care and nursing. Dr. McMahan was the head surgeon, and was very kind to us; indeed, it would almost cure a sick person, to see his good-natured face. In his absence, Dr. Wickersham attended the sick and wounded, and he, too, treated us with kindness. On the next day, which was Saturday, I was told that some of my old neighbors were at the hospital, namely, Mr. Everett and Charles Hatch. They had made their escape, and reached Mankato in very sad plight. Charley had by this time nearly been healed of his wounds, but it was thought doubtful if Mr. Everett ever recovered. On the morning of this day, Mrs. Hurd left for St. Peter and La Crosse; this was the last I saw of her. The ladies of Mankato showed their generosity while I staid there, by giving me clothes for myself and children. I often overheard some one inquiring for the boy that carried his brother so far: soldiers and officers came there in large numbers, thinking it quite a sight to see my Merton, and generally gave him or myself, small sums of money, from a dime to a dollar. When several companies of the 25th Wisconsin Regiment came through the town, on their way to the scene of the Indian war, they remained in town over night. Next morning, they came to the hospital to see me and my children: they crowded my room and the halls, till at last the surgeon, seeing that there were a great many more coming than the house would hold, locked the door against them and refused to let them in. Not being able to see me, then the soldiers clamored for a sight of Johnny. Dr. Wickersham took the child down among them, where he was caressed and passed from hand to hand, causing great amazement at the strength and endurance of the boy that had lugged him fifty miles without food. When they left town, they took Merton along with them some distance, and sent him back with a present of fifteen dollars, all in silver, which was a scarce commodity at that time, and is still more rare now. I shall never cease to remember, with gratitude, the benevolent soldiers of the 25th Wisconsin. The money came very timely, for, until then, I had nothing with which to get clothing for Merton. I had remained at the hospital six or seven weeks, and he was much in need of clothes, for the weather was now growing colder. I was now very tired of staying here, and determined to leave, whether they gave me a discharge or not. My foot had healed so that I began to use it some, but was very lame: the rest of my wounds were all healed.