Fate of the Dakota: A Novel and Resource on the U.S. - Dakota War of 1862

FATE OF THE DAKOTA A NOVEL AND RESOURCE ON THE U.S. – DAKOTA WAR OF 1862

COLIN MUSTFUL

Also By Colin Mustful Grace at Spirit Lake – A novel A Welcome Tragedy: Factors That Led to the U.S. – Dakota Conflict of 1862 Unwarranted Expulsion: The Removal of the Winnebago Indians The Generation of 1837: Attitudes, Policies and Actions Toward Indian Populations of Argentina The Battle of Point Pleasant: A Critical Event at the Onset of a Revolution The Tobacco Controversy of 1857: An Early Debate and Its Delayed Results The American Tobacco Controversy: The Tobacco Controversy of 1857 Revisited Unabashed Hypocrisy: A Dichotomy of Values

Fate Dakota of the

A Novel and Resource on the U.S. – Dakota War of 1862

Colin Mustful

Copyright © 2015 Colin Mustful.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of both publisher and author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

ISBN: 978-1-4834-4419-2 (sc) ISBN: 978-1-4834-4420-8 (e)

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Lulu Publishing Services rev. date: 1/15/2016

Dedication To Emily for your support.

This novel is a republication of a novel previously titled Thy Eternal Summer: The U.S. – Dakota Conflict of 1862

v

Author’s Note On the corner of South Riverfront Drive and Main Street in Mankato, Minnesota, there stands a life-size statue of a buffalo. I lived in Mankato for somewhere between three and four years, and I passed by this statue a countless number of times. But, to be honest, I never once stopped to look at it, or determine what it commemorated. Somehow or another, it did inspire in me a sense of curiosity. And, being a so-called historian, I had a certain obligation to discover just what this motionless figure represented in the history of the town in which I lived. As it turns out, though, I never did take the time to stand face-to-face with that buffalo; I did take the time to write a book about it. How much sense does that make?

On December 26, 1862, thirty-eight Dakota men were hanged in Mankato for their participation in what is now called the U.S. – Dakota War of 1862. This is the event that the buffalo statue commemorates.

It happens to have been the largest mass execution in United States history. This is all very interesting, but what does it really tell us? Were these men rightfully accused? What crimes did they commit and more importantly, why? What was the context of this mass execution? What does it tell us about ourselves, about our future?

The questions really could go on forever. For every answer, there are a number of new questions. Furthermore, most questions are truly unanswerable and can only be theorized or speculated upon. And yet, this is the task of this novel.

The Mdewakanton Dakota are a part of a seven tribe Dakota nation who have often been called the Sioux. For centuries they lived in and vii

around the Upper Mississippi and Minnesota River Valleys. The Dakota first encountered white Europeans through the eighteenth century fur traders. By the nineteenth century, the Dakota really began to feel the white presence as settlers from the east began pouring into the region in search of land and prosperity. This migration of settlers included a number of Christian missionaries who sought to educate the Indians and reform their culture and ways of life. Through the expanding influence of traders, settlers, and missionaries, the Dakota began to develop a dependency and even reliance on their new white neighbors that could not be reversed. It was this reliance that eventually led the Dakota to sell their lands east of the Mississippi River in 1837. Over the next twenty-five years, an overwhelming pattern of white settlement set in. Meanwhile, the Dakota hunting grounds became diminished and depleted, which further resulted in an irrevocable dependence on government annuities, which were allotted for the sale of land. Also, during this time, many of the Dakota began to adapt their new white influences, some by choice, but most for lack of a better option. For instance, those who adapted to farming were often rewarded by the government with food and valuable supplies, while those who did not adopt were often faced with starvation and poverty.

In 1862, years of exploitation at the hands of traders and government agents, along with the rapid loss of land, culture, and tradition, led to violent conflict. Ultimately, the Dakota were defeated in their attempt to reclaim their land and postpone the push of western settlement.

Many Dakota Indians lost their lives while the rest either abandoned, or were forced to leave, the boundaries of the state of Minnesota forever.

The reasons for and justifications of this conflict and its results are all debatable and open for interpretation. What I present here is not an attempt to answer any questions or make any profound discoveries.

What I present is a clear, honest, and inquisitive look into our not-sodistant past. What I seek is personal enlightenment through a thorough and objective search of the events, words, actions, and context of the people and places gone before me. What I have written is, to the best of my ability, a story which conveys those events, words, actions, and context, as I have interpreted them through my exhaustive and genuine viii

efforts. I pass no judgment or make any real conclusions other than what I have developed in my own mind. What I offer to you, the reader, is an opportunity to do the same through, hopefully, a much less exhaustive and time consuming effort. It is the vision of this novel to offer an interesting, compelling, informative, and accurate look into the U.S. – Dakota War of 1862, as it might have happened.

I will note here that this is a work of fiction, but that this work holds stringently to historical fact as they were discovered by me through primary and secondary source documents. Any historical inaccuracies are duly noted in the footnotes of this document. If you are at all interested in the events of this story, I encourage you to look into them yourself so that you can make your own discoveries and draw your own conclusion. It is through thoughtful knowledge of the past that we can build a more tolerant, receptive, and productive future.

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Introduction Promises of the Great Father Our First Meeting I met Little Crow in the spring of 1858. This was his second trip to Washington D.C. Immediately I was enamored by his presence, enamored by his grace. His skill as an orator struck me. He was confident and sure, an obvious leader or spokesman as I had heard him called. Despite a delegation of twenty-four Indian leaders, Little Crow evidently stood out as the political head and decision maker for the tribe.1 I had the great fortune to act as Little Crow’s interpreter during his sojourn to Washington. At first I acted at his side merely during government councils. Little Crow was steady and unwavering during council. He had an indescribable look of determination on his face and his countenance was that of soldier prepared for battle and possibly death. At the same time he exhibited a subtle yet unmistakable mood of sorrow. With each word he spoke and with each protest he expounded it was as if a thousand tears fell from his eyes. He was an intelligent, dignified man, but he was a man, no more, no less. The loss he had experienced, the loss he would experience, is more than any one person can truly comprehend.

After several weeks had passed, Little Crow began to insist that I join him for social events. He would invite me to theatre or dinner parties. He stated that my sole purpose was as his translator, but it was xi

quickly evident that I was becoming his companion. I did not mind his friendly inclinations, in fact I welcomed them. Little Crow, although he often kept to himself, was a generous and austere man whom I greatly admired. I gladly received our time together and often suggested additional meetings outside of the necessary prior engagements. Little Crow had so much to share with me; so much that was utterly new to me. I was indelibly intrigued.

In our time together I could not help but observe Little Crow’s sheer wonderment with the modern societal monument that was Washington D.C. Little Crow could spend hours in quiet surveillance overlooking the city’s landscape. He was drawn by the massive edifices of pure white marble like artificial mountains. He was astounded by the number upon number of people like ants across a field. He would watch and listen and ponder. Sometimes we pondered together. What he pondered I cannot begin to imagine, nor would I dare attempt to express. I can only describe what I know, and what I saw, and what I learned.

At the time the Dakota delegation visited Washington D.C. I was acting as a Congressional Page. Prior to my appointment as a page I was a student at Knox College in Galesburg, Illinois.2 I had not yet completed my college degree and I was acting as an intern. I sufficiently enjoyed my work as a page and I eagerly endeavored upon every task for which I was delegated. The work was menial at times. I was asked to run of documents, take notes, and even to acquire coffee or tea for the Congressmen. But, I learned a great deal about the inner workings of the U.S. legislative system; something I consider invaluable to my education.

Just shortly before the Dakota delegation arrived I learned of their coming and I immediately volunteered myself as an interpreter for Congressional councils. I was quite enthused to learn of their visit and I seized the opportunity to take a larger role in Congress.

Although it was unknown to the delegates, I had grown up alongside the Dakota Indians in what is now the state of Minnesota thereby acquiring a thorough knowledge of the Dakota language. My parents had moved to Minnesota territory and settled along the banks of Lake Harriet in 1837.3 Their purpose was to share the saving message of xii

Christ Jesus with the Dakota Indians throughout the vast and unsettled wilderness of Minnesota. The first task my parents undertook was that of mastering the Dakota language. This was an arduous and unenviable assignment, but one which my parents embarked with great care and faith. Until my father’s arrival in the Dakota Territory, the Dakota language was hitherto unwritten and existed only in sound. Regardless, my father considered it vital to his success as a missionary to master the Dakota tongue and he thusly did so. To his credit, he completed and published a Dakota Grammar and Dictionary which contained over 10,000 Dakota words.4 At my father’s request I also endeavored to acquire use of the Dakota language. This, my father asserted, was necessary that I should understand the Indians somewhat and make myself understood by them.

I spent my entire youth then in the wilds of Indian country. Or so it was wild at first. Even in my short years there it became an area transformed. I was born in 1837 and grew up in the Dakota villages surrounding Lac-qui-Parle in what is now southwestern Minnesota.

At the time of my birth Lac-qui-Parle was much shut out from the great world. But that was changing. In 1837 the Indians sold their lands east of the Mississippi River. This forced more Indians west toward the region of Lac-qui-Parle. Over the years white settlement continued to increase at a rapid pace and the loss of hunting grounds further compounded the western push. Also, white influence became more abundant and apparent as many Indians adopted a new way of living. Those who adopted change cut their hair, put on European style clothing, built log houses and began farming. Those who did not adopt the white influence often lived in constant fear of starvation because of dwindling wild game. White settlement became so overwhelming that by the time I was just twelve years old, Minnesota became an official territory. I remember my father had a passionate discourse with my mother at the time over the notion expressed by Governor Ramsey to end Dakota ownership of lands within the bounds of the new territory.5 To my father, this was an unnecessary extreme.

Little Crow, as I later learned, was never one to give in to the straining white pressures. He was a shrewd and determined leader who xiii

sought what was best for his people. I witnessed this first hand during Congressional councils in 1858. Little Crow, before the entire United States Congress and before his entire entourage of Dakota leaders, pointed out the wrongs done to him and demanded they be rectified.

On one such occasion Little Crow acknowledged that monies promised in 1851 had not been paid and stated that, “if I were to give you an account of all the money that was spilled it would take all night.” By the end of his time in Washington, I recall Little Crow saying, “we have lost confidence in the promises of our Great Father,” referring of course to the U.S. government.6 Though Little Crow did not seek to adopt western ways of living, I believe he recognized accommodation as valuable and realistic as opposed to resistance. This is precisely why he made the trip to Washington. And, though anger and grief was obvious in Little Crow’s arguments, he was a man of poise and generosity. He was quite willing to work with whites and see that his people had every opportunity to flourish. I remember when I was still quite young; Little Crow invited Dr. Williamson, who worked as a missionary alongside us, to Fort Snelling. My father was excited because Little Crow’s intention was to open a school and mission. This of course meant my father would be away more, but I supported his enthusiasm. Though I did not realize it at the time, and though it saddened Little Crow, I think he recognized the inevitability of white settlement which is why he extended the invitation.

It is unexplainable that I had not yet met Little Crow until 1858.

In the spring of 1848, when I was just ten years of age, my father, mother, brother, sister and I took a trip to Kaposia, which was Little Crow’s village. Kaposia lay just south of St. Paul on the west bank of the Mississippi River.7 It was a less than comfortable eight day trip by ox-cart. There was still no road from Lac-qui-Parle and we had to make frequent stops to remove fallen trees from our path. Once we arrived the missionaries welcomed us and were quite hospitable. Kaposia was not a large village. There existed probably a dozen or so bark houses as well as many scattered teepees made of buffalo hide. There were also several log homes which were recently constructed by the missionaries.

Despite its quaint size Kaposia was a bustling place. There were always xiv

groups coming and going, some putting up teepees, some taking down teepees. Some arrived on foot and others by canoe. I did not mind the changing scenery, as a child I found it invigorating. I got along well with the missionary children and I even enjoyed playing with the Dakota children who were extremely willing to teach us new games. In the evenings over dinner my father and the other adults discussed the meetings of the day. This was the first I learned of Little Crow, although I did not realize it at the first. He was referred to as Taoyateduta which was his Dakota name. After three days of hearing his name my curiosity got the better of me and I had to ask my mother of whom they were constantly speaking. Later in life, after having become friends with Little Crow, I found it ironic that we shared similar Dakota names, in translation anyway. For the Dakota children at Lac-qui-Parle deemed me Zitkadan Washtaz, or Good Bird. I was proud of my Dakota name.

But I digress. It was here, when my mother told me of Little Crow, that I learned that he was the chief, leader, and spokesman of the Mdewakaton Dakota and had been since 1845.8 My mother had said that as decision maker for the tribe he was pivotal in advancing the purposes of ourselves and fellow missionaries.

We spent a just one week in Kaposia before returning home. I enjoyed my time there and carry with me only fond memories of that place between the rivers. I enjoyed most of my childhood. Though I grew up intertwined with a culture much different from my own, I have never regretted it. The Dakota were and have always been kind, compassionate, and generous people. I also had my share of hardships.

The winters were cold and food was not always abundant. There was an ever present danger from warring bands of Chippewa who quarreled with the Dakota from as far back as the beginning of time.

And there was the occasional death followed by mourning caused by fire, drowning, or disease. But the hardships were minimal, my greatest perhaps being the eldest of seven siblings. The pleasantries of rural life and the rewards of God’s plentiful work far outweighed any hardships.

I learned quickly to get along with the Dakota and rarely had a conflict with them. In boarding school I was looked upon as a mentor for my siblings as well as those Dakota who sought help with English words. I xv

also worked diligently in the field ensuring a harvest plentiful enough to last the winter. There were also construction projects that always needed completing. This was my father’s proudest work because it signified the success and growth of his missionary work. To him it represented the seed he had spread which landed on fertile soil and took root in the hearts of once savage and pagan men.

In 1854 this seed was spread to a new community just south along the river valley. Unfortunately our home at Lac qui Parle burned to the ground and we were forced to build a new home. My father took this opportunity to establish a new mission called Hazelwood. Hazelwood was welcomed by the neighboring Dakota and flourished immediately.

It was one of my father’s proudest accomplishments.

It was hard for me to finally leave Hazelwood and the Dakota community I grew up with, but my parents were adamant about providing for me an education and allowing me all the opportunities a proper young man should have. This is why they sent me to Illinois and Knox College and eventually what brought me to the nation’s capital in 1858.9 At the completion of the Congressional Councils Little Crow was somewhat sullen and morose. I believe he enjoyed his time in Washington. He spoke excitedly of meeting President Buchanan, of giving a weaponry demonstration before a large Turkish entourage, and of his astonishment at the theatre. But these things meant very little. By the end the Dakota had lost their lands northeast of the Minnesota River and were left with only a ten mile wide stretch along the river’s banks reaching from New Ulm to Lake Traverse. Worse, the government failed to rectify any wrongs from the 1837 and 1851 treaties, something Little Crow fought adamantly for. Little Crow returned to Minnesota in July and he had little to say to me. I believe he feared his return home.

He feared the news he needed to deliver to his tribesman. He feared the reactions of ambitious young warriors. He feared the loss of his political prestige followed by scorn and sorrow. Mostly, he feared he let his people down. But, Little Crow was resilient and as he prepared to return home he kept his head held high. Before he departed he presented me with some feathers off his brilliantly arranged head dress and a few xvi

ceremonial beads. He asked only that I remember the strength of the Dakota spirit and that I honor and protect it. Little did I know how hard I would have to fight to uphold that request.

Upon Little Crow’s departure I was uncertain when or if I would share his company again. Minnesota had just been granted stateship and I was offered a position on staff with Senator Howry Rice. I accepted the position with alacrity although it grieved me that I would not be returning home to see my family. I was kept busy working for the senator and time passed swiftly. I corresponded little with my family and I corresponded even less with my Dakota friends. Occasionally I would pass along a Dakota land treaty or file Indian agent pay stubs, but other than that my mind was kept free from my previous work with the Dakota people and from my encounter with Little Crow.

It was not until the summer of 1861 upon which I finally returned home. I chose to relinquish my position with the senator and join my father once more in the stewardship of a humble missionary. I packed few things and made my way home as quickly as possible. I received a warm and joyous welcome upon my arrival, but after the reception it was work as usual. Not much had changed in my absence. My brothers and sisters had all grown significantly. Isabella and Martha were gone away to school while even Robert, the youngest of my siblings, was old enough to watch after himself. My father’s work had also grown. There had been a new addition to the school house and several new church missions had been erected. I was stooped in labor immediately following my return. Though the chores were many, I was glad to be back. My father never said it, but I know he appreciated my help. He has always been a dedicated servant, beleaguered as he was.

I had always intended to contact Little Crow and make his acquaintance once more. I greatly admired him and never forgot the fondness we shared. But, just as it had in Washington, time got away from me. An entire year had passed and I still had not seen or corresponded with Little Crow. It was not until June of 1862 that we revived our friendship. It was then, that I received a startling letter from Little Crow. How he discovered my whereabouts I am not sure. I have translated the letter and share it here. xvii

Dear Zitkadan Washtaz (Good Bird), Many seasons have passed since I first and last made your acquaintance. I feel ashamed at writing to you now, but I have lost myself in agony. I have reached the end of my wick.

I was defeated in the recent election for speaker of the Mdewakatons by Travelling Hail, a farmer Indian.

The farmer Indians now outnumber the old, stubborn Indians such as myself. The whites have manipulated and divided us by giving ten times more to those who adopt their ways. As more of us accept their bribes the culture that has protected and nurtured the Dakota nation for centuries will vanish like the buffalo before us. I am nothing now. Like sugar that disappears in water, so am I among my people. My face is blackened and I am in mourning. I write out of self-pity.

Since my time in your capitol, the wrongs done unto my people have not ceased. The misgivings have multiplied until they outnumber the stars and out shine the sun. The Great Father has neglected us and his children are traitors. The Dakota now starve because our land has been stolen and the white man’s promise has less value than the leaves when they fall. Day after day and the paymaster does not come. We are forced to eat roots and shriveled ears of corn like scavenging vermin. I even traded my weapons for a few decent meals. A hunting party has been sent out, but I fear it is for naught. There is talk among us that payment will not come. We see the Great Father is fighting his children in the south and his resources are depleted.

There is unrest and commotion among us. We look over the horizon, but we cannot see like the eagle. We envision no relief ahead. xviii

Though I am ashamed at doing so, I plead for your help. We have become like beggars. We howl for food like the wolf when he howls at the moon. Our Great Father’s workman, Major Thomas Galbraith, refuses to quell our hunger pangs. He is arrogant and stubborn and treats us as if we were stray dogs, only throwing his bones under the table. We have pleaded that he open the store houses, but still he says no. He insists on waiting for the annuity payment that does not come. I fear violence is near. When men are hungry, they help themselves.

I urge, please come quickly to help us. You are not like the other white men. You know our plight and you have seen our sorrow. You show compassion and though you are still young you have great wisdom. Take heed and see that Major Galbraith opens the storehouses. My people will wait no longer. They will suffer no more at the hands of greedy men.

I remain, most humbly yours, Taoyateduta I must admit I was surprised at Little Crow’s request. I was unaware that he regarded me so highly. It did not matter though. I immediately informed my father that I must take leave. He did not argue, rather, he helped me to collect my belongings and blessed my journey to the Redwood Agency.

What follows is difficult and painstaking to recollect. I did indeed negotiate with Major Galbraith and fortunately I persuaded him to open the store houses.10 However, only just enough was doled out to prevent the Dakota from dying and a solution was far from discovered.

Though I accomplished my purpose, I could not in good conscience leave the agency. Things had become desperate and volatile. What is more, Little Crow was not himself. Or at least he was not the Little Crow xix

I remembered. He kept to himself and seemed distant. When he spoke, he spoke with less passion, less zeal, less urgency. His countenance, his vigor, even his stamina, it had all been drastically altered from before.

Something was innately wrong. Little Crow was no longer the passionate virile warrior, the comrade I held in such high esteem. So I stayed with him. Amidst the growing chaos and deprivation of the agency I stayed with him. Patiently, like an eager grandson for his grandfather’s wisdom, I waited on Little Crow. I assisted him when necessary and I stayed afar when appropriate. I helped him dig his new garden and I taught him how to use his new wood stove. In a short time we became good friends again. Like spoke to a wheel, I was indelibly affixed to him.

August came and still the payment of promised government gold never arrived. I could not imagine what would happen next. Even in my worst, most loathsome nightmare I could not foresee the horrors that would transpire or the evils that I would witness. There is no way to understand the actions of desperate men. I merely bear witness to the sad tale. It is not one I wish to relive, but one which must be told.

Otherwise, I fear its distortion among the memories of those who follow.

What I write now, I write as it happened to me. These are my observations and this is my story of a harrowing time in my life; and a harrowing time in our history.

xx

Chapter 1 Taoyateduta is not a Coward A Call to War It was a Sunday as I recall; late summer. I remember because I had attended church at the Episcopal Mission with Little Crow. The air was brisk that morning, but felt pleasant for our two mile walk through the agency and to the Mission. This was one among just a handful of times Little Crow had attended service. It had been just a couple of months since Little Crow had finally given in to my prodding and proselytizing.

Since his election defeat as spokesman in June he relinquished his firm grasp on traditional Dakota religion. It is not that he wholly embraced Christian doctrine, but he was at least modest and polite in his acceptance toward it.

“Welcome, Little Crow!” announced the preacher with a radiant smile. “What a great pleasure to have here again today.”

“Ho!” replied Little Crow in the common Indian manner.

“And I see you have brought young Mr. Riggs with you,” continued the preacher in the same pleasant tone.

“Like gold found in stream, he is hidden worth,” Little Crow returned in his care-free and humorous way despite his lack of knowledge with the English language.

“Indeed. Alfred is indeed,” said the preacher with a polite nod in my direction.

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As usual, we arrived quite early to the Mission church. This was necessary because Little Crow was affable and friendly and needed much time to converse with other church members. I assisted him in conversation and sometimes wondered if this was the only reason he invited me to attend service with him. It was a small and cramped building, so it was not difficult for Little Crow to find those who would listen to his banter. He had more than enough to talk about whether it be his trips to Washington, his brave reclamation of his chieftainship, or simply his bungling attempts to kill the vermin that recently invaded his home. He was rather lively on Sunday mornings.

We settled in the back left pew, as Little Crow preferred. The service was crowded with whites, mixed bloods, and Indians alike.

Those Indians who attended were formally dressed for a church service and were almost all recent converts. Little Crow dawned white attire including a jacket, vest, and bow tie. Throughout the service I assisted him to comprehend the English text out of the Book of Common Prayer. By now, Little Crow could mimic most words of the liturgy, but did not understand their meaning. Though he sang softly, he nearly echoed the entire hymn How Great Thou Art. I think it was becoming his favorite.

I recall little of what transpired immediately following the service.

Only that we went fishing along the river. It did not take long before we were able to make a sufficient catch to provide for the evening meal.

Upon returning home Little Crow retired to his quarters for rest. I remained in the kitchen and began preparing a loaf of sourdough bread to supplement our catch of fish.

Several hours had passed when I heard the unmistakable clamor of horses approaching at a rapid and steady pace. I stepped outside to identify the commotion, and I observed a startling image. There were approximately eighty young Indian braves in full war paint, shouting war whoops, beating their chests, and throwing their fists in the air, javelins in hand, their eyes and path fixed like demons on Little Crow’s cabin. I was a fixture on the front step like a scarecrow in the field. I was stunned to silence. As the raucous horde neared I managed to recollect 2

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myself and for some reason I threw my right hand out in front of me as if to say “halt!”

The legion of young Mdewakanton Dakota braves came to an abrupt stop directly at my feet creating a cloud of dust so large as to make a sunny day suddenly become dusk. The shouts, war whoops, the stammer of hooves, and the chaos of noise continued until the dust had settled.11 Then, Island Cloud, who appeared to be leading the uncurbed group, raised a fist and an undisturbed silence fell over the entire crowd.

For but a moment, it became almost tranquil. Island Cloud flung himself from his steed and began to shout in his native tongue.12 “Where is Little Crow?”

“He is resting, and I shall not interrupt him.” I was calm in voice, but not in body. I had to keep myself from shaking tremulously.

“Our shouts have already interrupted him,” the vibrant foreman made clear. “Now, return inside and pull him from his bed.”

“I will not!” I returned.

But just then the door creaked open and the reverent figure of Little Crow stepped out.

“Brothers,” commanded Little Crow. “Like buffalo sweeping the plain, you are boisterous and rowdy with no aim. With whom do you quarrel? For what reason have disturbed my peace, for I am no longer your leader. I am but an old Indian with nothing left to fight for.”

“Little Crow, put on your war paint!” Island Cloud was loud and confident; he was possessed by rage and fear. “We see you are complacent to serve the white man, to bow to his beck and call, to commit treason against your own people. Enough! White blood has been spilled and we will not stop until the rivers are red with the blood of our noxious intruders.”

An uproar rose from the crowd and the young Mdewakanton warriors shrieked and yelled mad with enthusiasm, making their laments heard even beyond this world and to that of their bereaved ancestors.

Little Crow stood silent, awaiting the quell of the massive crowd. He was firm and brave; he did not hang his head or slacken his posture. He 3

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anchored his stare straight ahead as if to behold each and every Indian brave in his single sight.

“Are you fools!” Little Crow finally asserted. “What vile act has led to such madness, that you would rile yourselves in such abject delirium?

Have you no sense? Are you like children who act on impulse with no forethought to consequence?”

“We are not children, but brave warriors aggrieved at the theft of our once proud nation.” Island Cloud’s voice was filled with conviction and rose with enthusiasm. Again the multitude of vibrant warriors roused into a wild frenzy.

I turned my head from the noise and closed my eyes in hopes that the commotion would cease. But my consciousness was not spared the turbulent clatter that sounded like a thousand squawking hawks bent on destruction had just landed within my realm. Even the ground shook with violence.

As the pandemonium lulled, Island Cloud raised his voice once more. “Blood has been spilled and our actions cannot be reversed. Five whites near the settlement Acton have been slain for their own foolish arrogance.”

“Brash, impertinent youths!” Little Crow’s voice began low, but rose with fortitude and strength. “Do you not know the vindictive power of the white man? He will seek you until he has collected your scalps, your women’s scalps, and your children’s scalps. He will punish your vengeful ways until your bodies are indistinguishable and your seed is no more.

He will follow you wherever you go until his mighty judgment has had dominion over you. He will wipe you clean from the earth.

“We do not fear the white man’s retribution. For generations now we have been confined like a horse in a stable. Our land has been usurped, our culture has been subdued, and our people have been deceived, starved, and forced upon the least inhabitable ground. It is our turn for retribution!”

At this, another roar spewed from the crowd of Indian braves. Little Crow stood tall, but much less composed than before. He began to quiver. His knees looked weak and his hands were softly clenched. His eyes were fixed straight ahead, not on the warriors, but on the past. In 4

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these moments he must have seen his home stolen, his people displaced, and his way of life trampled and suppressed. He whole heartedly acquiesced to the words of Island Cloud, and he grieved along with the flock of young Indian braves.

“We do not fear retribution,” Island Cloud continued. “For the white man now quarrels among himself in a great battle. He is weak and now is the time to reclaim our lost hunting grounds. We shall finally avenge the insults and thievery impressed upon us for the sole purpose of our subjugation. We vow to recover our promised annuities and to punish the white man’s greed. We will punish his lust for hovering over our women like vultures over a carcass. We will punish his debauchery for intoxicating us with his liquor. We refuse to be extinguished like a flame without a wick. Fight with us Little Crow. We know the white man is strong, but with you to shepherd us, the Dakota will prevail.”

As Little Crow listened to Island Cloud’s address he strained his eyes and furled his brow as if shielding his view from the brightness of the late afternoon sun. He began to perspire and great beads of sweat meandered down his forehead. Hesitantly he replied only with, “no, I will not fight.”

“But you must,” retorted the interim leader. “Your guidance is invaluable to our purpose.”

“I have no part in your foolish quarrel. Why do you come to me to lead you? Go to the man that you have elected speaker and let him lead you. I am no longer your guide or delegate. I have been surpassed like changing seasons and now I wish only to remain in peace.” There was grief in Little Crow’s voice. The soft despair in his way of speaking made it obvious he lamented the recent loss of his high political standing. His loss represented the loss of entire royal blood line. His position was one that was passed down like a family heirloom. In his mind, Little Crow not only lost the family heirloom, he lost his entire family.13 Before Island Cloud could utter his response a callow but courageous young Indian shouted, “Taoyateduta is a coward!”

Immediately Little Crow was revitalized by the curt allegation. He sprang forward as if he were propelled by wings. His eyes widened, his chin raised, and his head protruded forward like a tortoise from its shell.

5

Colin Mustful

“Taoyateduta is not a coward!” Little Crow violently retaliated.

“When did he run away from his enemies? When did he leave his braves behind him on the war-path and turn back to his teepees? When he ran away from your enemies, he walked behind on your trail with his face to the Ojibwas’ and covered your backs as a she-bear covers her cubs! Is Taoyateduta without scalps? Look at his war-feathers! Behold the scalp-locks of your enemies hanging there on his lodge-poles! Do they call him a coward? Taoyateduta is not a coward, and he is not a fool. Braves, you are like children. You know not what you are doing.”

Ten thousand eyes seemed fastened on Little Crow as he spoke. The crowd once characterized by anger and upheaval now became shy and reticent. Each Indian lent his ear, but slouched his shoulders in a demure fashion at the heaviness and power of Little Crow’s words.

“You are full of the white man’s devil water,” accused Little Crow.

“You are like dogs in the Hot Moon when they run mad and snap at their own shadows. We are only little herds of buffaloes left scattered; the great herds that once covered the prairies are no more. See! The white men are like the locusts when they fly so thick that the whole sky is a snow storm. You may kill one, two, ten—yes, as many as the leaves in the forest yonder, and their brothers will not miss them. Kill one, two, ten, and ten times ten will come to kill you. Count your fingers all day long, and white men with guns in their hands will come faster than you can count.”

Little Crow’s voice resonated throughout the Indian crowd finding not a single deaf ear. Like a Lord to his vessels Little Crow’s words enslaved each member of his audience showing no pity on even the least willing of participants. He spoke with inevitable assurance that was graceful in its strength.

“Yes, they fight among themselves, away off. Do you hear the thunder of their big guns? No, it would take you two moons to run down to where they are fighting, and all the way your path would be among soldiers as thick as tamaracks in the swamps of the Ojibwas’.

Yes; they fight among themselves, but if you strike at them they will all turn on you and devour you and your women and little children just 6

Fate of the Da kota

as the locusts in their time fall on the trees and devour all the leaves in one day.”

Here, Little Crow paused and lowered his head. He took a deep breath, a sigh. A lifetime of perseverance, bravery, and genuine strife for his people rested on his soul and the souls of his ancestors. Years of astute leadership now waned in his heart. No single act, no single moment might have spared Little Crow from the fate now befallen him, but he could not help but mourn his failure at the loss of his nation. He felt it now fleeting and raised his head to speak once more.

“You are fools. You cannot see the face of your chief; your eyes are full of smoke. You cannot hear his voice; your ears are full of roaring waters. Braves, you are little children; you are fools. You will die like the rabbits when the hungry wolves hunt them in the Hard Moon.

Taoyateduta is not a coward: he will die with you.”14 At this, Little Crow turned slowly and paced to the door of his home. Without deviation, he calmly opened the door and returned to his quarter as if nothing had happened.

Island Cloud leaped back upon his horse and raised a celebratory shout. His voice reverberated in a staccato fashion. He turned his horse, threw his fist in the air and vaulted his powerful steed’s forelegs upward.

The great crowd mimicked Island Cloud’s celebration as they began to stampede away. Again the dust rose and they returned on the route on which they had come. They slipped away beyond the trees. As the dust settled, their boisterous squawking gently diminished until it was as faint as a breeze among the trees.

I looked to the heavens for pity, but saw only an implacable blue sky, unaltered from time immemorial. I envied the quiescent scenery before my eyes, peaceful, even harmonious in its stagnation. It remained impervious to the events precipitated just moments prior. Little Crow’s fate, the fate of the Dakota people, and the fate of the entire region was not so fortunate. Death approached, and in my heart it reeked.

7

Chapter 2 Death was Inescapable Attack on the Redwood Agency Long, slender shadows of tree trunks darted past me as the setting sun gleamed through the forest. To my great fortune the road that led from the lower agency at Redwood to the upper agency at Yellow Medicine was clear and free of traffic that evening. I raced by horseback with great distress toward my parent’s home at Hazelwood, which lay six miles beyond Yellow Medicine. There was no time for forum in my mind, I had only to act. Shortly following the grave incident at Little Crow’s home I resolved that I must warn my family. Little Crow, though brief, urged my leave. I vowed to return, but he warned against it, for my own well-being I am certain. It pained me to consider the circumstances that had befallen Little Crow. Indeed, he was a great warrior, but not one to be persuaded into such ominous circumstances. He was torn between his nation and his pride, from his better judgment and the familial ties he had woven with his white neighbors. As I rode on, I could only imagine the fierce controversy that occurred in the Indians’ war council. Some, like Little Crow, no doubt, argued the extreme futility of war with the whites. Others must have alluded to the Indians growing dependency on the whites. Their traditional ways of life were so far gone, so far altered, that they could no longer care for themselves without white assistance. But, as proven first hand to me, there must have been a great many who argued otherwise—those who abhorred 8

Fate of the Da kota

the treachery of the whites and the deceit of the traders. Starvation, they must have argued, was a far worse fate than death by the rifle or even hanging. Their strong emotions of resentment and hate I was certain would exceed the voices of reason. For Little Crow, he ultimately chose honor over reason. Though I knew he wanted no part in the inevitable slayings. He was called to lead, by blood he was born to lead, to do otherwise would be considered treason. He would lead, as an emblem he would lead. I was not emblem, however, I was white. I rode on, with only the moonlight left to guide me, with only the crushing sound of dirt beneath the hooves of my horse to remind me that I had not taken flight.

I arrived to find my father on the front porch taking notes in his journal. He had not yet retired for the night. I was exhausted and could scarcely catch my breath. I wheezed as I climbed the porch steps while attempting to speak before I finally stumbled at my father’s feet.

“Son!” my father softly exclaimed, “what is going on? Why are you here, and why are you in such an excited rush?”

I…,” my lungs operated at a rapid pace as I inhaled heavily. Again I tried to synchronize my loud exhale with the foreboding words I came so far to speak, “I…” “Relax, Alfred. Here, have a seat. You need to calm down; I will get you some water.” I wanted to argue with my father’s blessed hospitality, but my persuasive efforts under such adverse circumstances would indeed have been useless.

“Some of the young Dakota braves wish to commence war,” I finally said after catching my breath. “The warriors, they came to Little Crow.

There must have been more than one hundred. And all of them dressed in full war-paint with streaks of black and red across their faces. In their hands they carried javelins and on their heads were their dramatic, feathery war-caps. It was the most fearful sight that even my heart stopped in their presence.”

My father sat still as an image as if he may not have heard me. He gave no response, not even a nod, to my quick and breathless explanation.

“Father,” I continued with a little more patience, “do you understand what I am telling you? The warriors spoke with Little Crow. They were 9

Colin Mustful

wild and unrestrained. They shrieked like birds and pounded their fists like gorillas. They commanded that Little Crow lead them in battle. He agreed, reluctantly, but he agreed. Father, the Dakota are on the warpath, but they seek not the Chippewa. They seek the whites.”

My father sat, still motionless. Finally he furled his brow and lowered his eyes as if contemplating what I had said. “That is absurd,” he responded. “We have lived among the Indians for decades and there has never been reason for alarm. There is intermarriage and mixed bloods—it has become a shared community. Are you sure they do not seek a quarrel with the Chippewa?”15 “No, father, you must believe me. You must heed my warning. I would not dare misinterpret what I saw. Take mother, take Robert and Mary, take them far away from here where they will be safe, before it is too late.”

“Very well,” replied my father as he moved toward the house. His posture straightened and his demeanor became much more resolute. I followed closely behind. “I have no reason to distrust you, but, before I am able to leave I have it as my duty to warn and protect the people of this agency. Unfortunately, I sincerely doubt if they will believe me. No matter how pertinent this warning may be it is too obscure to persuade these people to action. Especially here, we have had no trouble with the upper agency Indians.”

“I know, father, I understand. But it is the lower agency Indians.

Those bands of Shakopee, and Wabasha, and Red Middle Voice,” I continued to plead as I still did not think my father understood the gravity of the situation. “They are fierce and angry that the annuity has not come. Now, they will take what they want at the hands of the innocent and guilty alike.”

“But what of the soldiers at Fort Ridgley?” my father remarked.

“Surely, with their superior arms and tactics, they can put down any band of savage Indians.”

“Not this time, father!” I finally raised my voice fully aware I may disturb others in the house. “They are too many and the surprise will be too great. You must lead the family safely away from here.”

10

Fate of the Da kota

My father stood, silently again, as if he was going to sigh, but he did not. He took a deep breath and I prepared for his rebuttal, but he said only, “What of you?”

“I must return to the Redwood Agency,” I calmly replied. “I have to save as many as I can despite the risks on my life. I cannot leave only to have so many die. What is more, I truly believe Little Crow would have me help curb the bloodshed.”

“See that you do,” was all that my father said.

I bid my father farewell without pausing to wake the family.

Whether or not they knew I was there I cannot say. I leaped back on my horse and resumed my haste. This time in the direction of certain catastrophe.

As I made my return to the Redwood Agency I could see the light of the morning sun just beginning to shed light upon the tops of the trees. It was early and the light had yet to spill into the meadows of long, golden prairie grass. In the short distance I could hear the sounds of the Agency people just waking up to a new and hopeful day. Logs were being split and wagons were being pulled. It was a quaint, but welcoming sound. But as I grew closer, I realized with terror that I was too late to curb the Dakota from their devious intentions. Already they were gathered and ready for war. I diverted my route off the path and nestled between some maple trees. To lead headlong into the agency shouting words of caution would spell certain death. I was unarmed and outmatched in almost any form of combat. I was uncertain what I might accomplish, but felt compelled to be near, to assist in the saving of lives.

I could see there were many more warriors than the day prior.

Perhaps there were as many as five hundred, and all were nearly naked besides a breech cloth, war paint, and knives, tomahawks, arrows, and rifles. They filled the entire agency with their presence. Little Crow was in the center of town with his head soldier Wakinyan-tawa, or Good Thunder. Little Crow sat upon a large white horse in full chief costume.

He adorned a brilliant headdress made of eagle feathers and bullock horns. He also wore a long string of beads around his neck, a belt of 11

Colin Mustful

wampum around his waist, and wings of feathers over his shoulders and down his back. His legs were covered in fringed buckskin and he had a tomahawk sheathed around his ankle and a long rifle across his lap.16 Just then, Little Crow was approached by Philander Prescott, a farmer and trader who lived at the agency. Mr. Prescott lived among the Dakota for forty-five years and was married to a Dakota woman. Like most of the residents, he had no reason to suspect there was trouble.

Their conversation was brief, and I am sure he asked why so many Dakota braves had descended upon the agency that Monday morning.

It was a question which must have been on everyone’s mind. But, as I could see, they reacted little to the Indian presence. Most assumed that the Dakota were searching for a war party of Chippewa, for it was not uncommon that they fight with one another. It is likely that the Dakota even told the whites their purpose was to search for Chippewa.

Others may have assumed the Dakota gathered to collect provisions and their long awaited annuity payment. Either way, none suspected the Dakota gathered to wage war on the whites, to kill their neighbors.

None prepared to defend themselves.

Philander Prescott scuttled off back to his home.17 Meanwhile, the Dakota began to surround every building in the agency. The large stone warehouse was the first building to be completely surrounded followed by the barn, Dr. Humphrey’s house, the boarding school, the stables, and the agent’s house. Finally, off to the west, the four stores of Forbes, Roberts, Myrick, and LaBathe were all encircled by well armed Dakota braves.

The sun peered through the brush and tall grass in front of me as I squinted to see what might happen next. The rolling prairie with its dips and rises hid the agency from my full view, but still I strained to focus on nearly every building. “Bang!” suddenly, a single shot rang out. I turned to see James W. Lynde, the clerk at Myrick’s store, had fallen. Then, like an angry swarm of bees the Indians unloaded their wrath on each building. Shot after shot rang out as the Indians took aim upon their white overseers. At the Forbes’ store, I could see Joseph Belland and Antoine Young gunned down as they ran for their lives.

At LaBathe’s store old LaBathe and his clerk were not spared. I turned again to find Little Crow among the sudden and violent chaos. He 12

Fate of the Da kota

was calmly headed toward the stables as Reverend Hinman frantically ran toward him. Little Crow looked to Reverend Hinman, but gave no response to the Reverend’s shouting. At this Reverend Hinman retreated back to collect his family and make a run for the ferry.18 Back at Myrick’s store the Indians were all rushing out as several warriors leaned in on each side of the building with torches in hand in order to set the store ablaze. As the flames grew engulfing the first floor, Myrick appeared on the roof. He slid off the back side unnoticed. He made a run for it, but it wasn’t but a few seconds before bullets tore through his body and he collapsed, lifeless to the ground.19 I could barely believe the terror that I saw. Warriors everywhere with guns drawn and tomahawks raised bent on destruction of property and life. Men, women, and children struggling to survive. They were sent fleeing from their homes and businesses with no weapons and only the strength and speed of their legs to save them. The incessant noise was piercing my ears and plaguing my heart. Between the screams, shouts, war cries, gunshots and violent sounds of combat I had to cover my ears and finally lower my head. The rout on the agency was worse than I imagined and more than I could bear. I cupped my head in my hands and strained to wish away the massacre that lay in front of me.

Stop! Stop! I commanded to the universe. Alas, I was helpless.

When I finally had the courage to raise my head again tears were streaming down my cheeks and mucus from my nose. I wiped my face with my sleeve, opened my eyes wide, and lightly shook my head in order to regain focus. I looked once again upon the agency and saw that the plundering had begun. The Indians sacked the warehouse and looted all the flour, pork, and corn. They helped themselves to all of the horses, wagons, and cattle from the stable. They also took money, silverware, jewelry, and absolutely anything of value. Then, when the buildings had been emptied, they began to set them on fire. Every last building would be leveled to the ground by flames.

In the pandemonium I lost sight of Little Crow. The Indians were wild and intoxicated with savagery unlike I had ever seen before. They were now focused on plunder and destruction, which, thankfully, allowed for many whites to escape. Those who did escape did so in 13

Colin Mustful

a mode of frantic delirium. They hurried their way to the northeast corner of the agency, descended down the bluff line, continued through the heavily wooded floodplain until they arrived at the ferry. The ferry would then take them across the river which would provide a formidable barrier away from the gruesome conflict from which they had fled.

From there they would continue along the road approximately thirteen miles to Fort Ridgley and temporary safety. While whites made their escape, the crowd of Indians at the agency became sparse as they began to haul off their earnings. Others fanned out to lay waste to the nearby settlements. It brought me indefinable grief to think of the unsuspecting families that would fall by the tomahawk and not live to see another day.

At this moment I decided it was time I left my hidden nook and enter the besieged agency. I rose to my feet, patted my horse for luck, crossed my heart, and went running toward the chaos. I ran swiftly, but with stealth so as not to call attention to myself. I came first to Forbes’ store which was not yet put to flames and appeared unoccupied.

“Ahh… ahh!” came the agonizing howls of an injured man upstairs.

I cautiously entered and surveyed the room. Finding no one I quickly climbed the stairs to the second floor. There, I found George Spencer, a clerk at Forbes’ store and a man I knew well. He had three gunshot wounds and was left for dead.

“George!” I yelled in a panic. “Can you speak?”

He gave no reply and it was clear that he was too weak but I believed he might live if given the proper medical attention. I helped him to his feet and threw his arm over my shoulders. The weight of him nearly caused me to collapse, but I was determined to lead him to safety before the Indians returned. We hobbled down the stairs in a relatively quick fashion with my right hand along one railing and his left hand along the other. Unfortunately, that is as far as we made it before we were discovered by a small group of Dakota warriors. They stood at the entrance of the store with frightful and determined looks on their faces as they pointed their rifles toward us, their war paint glistening from perspiration.

“Stop!” one of them shouted in his native tongue, “the Great Spirit will have you now.”

14

Fate of the Da kota

“Wait,” I pleaded while thinking of every viable reason these Indians might allow us to live. “You have taken everything and destroyed the agency. Your point has been made loud and clear. You have no reason to murder an innocent clerk and missionary.”

“No! All white men must die,” he returned as he leveled the barrel of his gun to take aim at our lives.

Just then, a Dakota voice authoritatively stated, “No more! These men shall live.”

As the warriors turned to see who had commanded them, Good Thunder, Little Crow’s head soldier, pushed his way into the store.

Good Thunder continued toward us until he reached Mr. Spencer. He turned, lowered his shoulder, and put it underneath Mr. Spencer’s arm in order to assist me in carrying him from the building. Before moving forward he held out his hatchet and said, “I will kill anyone who tries to hurt these men.”20 The young warriors suddenly became very timid. They lowered their heads and allowed us to pass. Once outside we placed Mr. Spencer into a wagon and Good Thunder ordered an Indian woman to lead him to their village for care. Good Thunder pivoted himself and looked at me. I peered blankly into his fierce brown eyes. He said nothing and ran quickly in the opposite direction while giving a loud war cry. I was grateful, for among the hostility there was mercy.

Moments later, I found myself running east toward the council square. I kept myself concealed running among the trees and bluff line. In the distance I could see massive flames that began to rise high into the sky. Each flame rose higher as if it were a contest to stretch out higher than the flame before it. Smoke filled the air as large puffs floated high over my head and filtered out the still rising sun. The air was now dense with fumes and smelled almost rotten.

As I continued toward the center of the agency it was not long before I discovered the body of Andrew Myrick. Blood of bright red covered his mutilated and disfigured body and arrows riddled his corpse. The sight of him now caused me to bend over and wrench. I then noticed his mouth was filled with grass as I was quickly reminded of the vengeance sought by many of the warring Indians. Several weeks prior to the 15

Colin Mustful

outbreak, while the Dakota clamored for food, Myrick suggested to, “Let them eat grass.” Now Myrick was the one to eat grass.

After a brief pause at Myrick’s body, I continued rapidly, spry as a fox through the woods. I kept my eyes open for anyone in need of help. Finding nothing but dead bodies and outrageous Indians I made my way all the way past the council square and toward the ferry road.

Suddenly, just before reaching the ferry road, I happened upon two young girls of not more than five or six years of age. They were huddled in the brush and crying softly. They appeared unharmed. As I got closer, I recognized the frightened young girls as Elizabeth and Minnie, Joseph Coursolle’s daughters. Mr. Coursolle was a mixed-blood fur trader and teamster who lived near the agency.

“Where is your father?” I asked the girls trying to sound as calm as possible.

The girls just sat, huddled and shaking, not even acknowledging my presence.

“I need to you be brave and come with me,” I insisted as I bent down next to them. “Don’t be afraid, I will protect you.”

Recognizing who I was they finally wiped their tears and raised their hands toward me. As I took them in my grasp I was struck by the meekness of their hands. So small and so innocent.21 Just as we got up and began to scamper down the road a Dakota brave halted us.

“Stop there, Dutchmen,” he commanded in English.

“Please,” I said, “these are just little girls. They are terrified and have done you no harm. Let us pass.” The girls tightened their grasps on my hands and looked straight forward at the unclad foe.

“No,” the Indian lowered his rifle and pointed toward Minnie, “she is my girl.” He began to walk toward us and then pointed at Elizabeth, “she is my girl too. If you do not give them over, I will shoot you.”

As I was unarmed, I had no choice but to hand the girls over. The Indian quickly snatched their hands and pulled them back toward the agency without another word. The girls were crying once more.

For just a few moments I watched as the girls were wrestled away.

In those moments the world around me became obsolete. The smoke, 16

Fate of the Da kota

the discordant noise of burning buildings, the sound of heavily loaded wagons stumbling across well worn wheel ruts, all became nonexistent and all I knew were the cries of those young girls. I would remember it like a stamp on my brain. The sight of another Dakota warrior caught my attention and the moment was gone. I turned and ran down the road toward the ferry. On my way I encountered no Indians. I reached the ferry to find it on the other side. I waited, along with several fleeing settlers while the ferry operator, Hubert Millier, worked diligently to carry refugees across. Thankfully the Indians were too enamored in plunder to prevent our escape. We were the last to be ferried across and I urged Mr. Millier, also known affectionately as Old Mauley, to join us on the way to Fort Ridgley.

“Mauley,” I pleaded. “You must come with us or you will surely be killed.”

“It is my duty to operate the ferry,” he said as if this were any other day. “I will stay with the ferry.”

I could not tell if he was being stubborn or brave, but I had no choice but to leave him.

Our small group continued by foot down the road. I appeared to be with two families whom I did not know. There were two men, two women, several children, and an infant. We were all exasperated as we literally ran for our lives. It was at this point I remembered my horse back at the agency and imagined he was almost surely taken as booty by the Indians. How I wish he could have assisted me to the fort.

After a short while we encountered a group of soldiers headed the opposite direction. This was Captain John Marsh and a force of not more than fifty soldiers.

“Captain!” I managed to shout though I was completely out of breath. “The Dakota are many. They are too many. You must not go forward unless you have more men.”

“Nonsense,” he returned. “My men are well trained and well equipped.”

“Captain, you must understand,” I begged him. “The Dakota are hundreds in number and all of them bent on destruction. You will be killed.”

17

Colin Mustful

“You overestimate the savage Indian,” he said audaciously. “Now continue on to the fort and let us do our job. The fact is we have enough powder and lead to whip every Indian between there and the Pacific Ocean.” Marsh, it seemed, was braver than prudent, more courageous than cautious.22 Though I could do nothing to avert their course, I felt compelled to stay with the soldiers, and so I followed closely behind. Just shortly before reaching the ferry, we encountered the body of Old Mauley, the ferry operator. He was disemboweled with his hands, feet, and head cut off and stuffed into his mangled corpse. It was a horrible sight to see and a sure sign to Marsh and his men of the severity of the conflict to which they now joined. As we reached the ferry, the sun was high in the sky and it must have been near noon. My stomach growled with hunger and my head pounded with exhaustion but I did not much notice amidst the distress of the last eighteen hours. As Marsh and his men approached the ferry, I kept at a distance and hid among the thick hazel brush. The agency lay on the south side of the river while the ferry waited for Marsh on the north side. Standing on the opposite bank, was a lone Indian. I recognized him as White Dog, a relatively trustworthy farmer Indian.

“What are you doing here?” yelled Peter Quinn, Marsh’s interpreter.

“Everything is well,” answered White Dog in his native Dakota tongue. “Please,” he insisted, “cross the river. We do not wish to fight.

We only wish to council with you.”

It was clear to me that White Dog was a clever actor. He sought to lure the unwitting soldiers into a trap. Just then one of Marsh’s men approached him and pointed to a distant ridge on which there were many ponies.

“Why do you have so many ponies gathered?” shouted Quinn from his position across the river. But just then, White Dog lifted his rifle and fired. Before the soldiers had time to react, Indians rose from under the brush and appeared from behind trees and fired upon the small squad.

More still rose from behind the soldiers cutting off their retreat. Within seconds half of Marsh’s force fell dead. Those who remained sought cover as quickly as possible among the trees along the bank. Some were able to quickly retreat while others were left in hand to hand combat 18

Fate of the Da kota

fighting diligently to cut their way out of the terrible looking mob that surrounded them. From what I could tell, Captain Marsh and about a dozen men made it to the ambiguous safety of the trees.23 I remained concealed for what seemed like several hours. I was, by this time, incredibly distraught. Having just witnessed the slaughter of twenty-three armed soldiers I felt hopeless and weak. My courage was depleted and my resolution all but gone. On that morning death became real and it enveloped me. Like a putrid stench, death was inescapable.

By sheer chance I was never discovered by the conniving Indians.

I regained my ability to properly think and reason, although I was still utterly without hope. I was unsure what became of the remaining soldiers. I decided that by now it was too dangerous to take the road to the ferry. I further determined it was near impossible to go anywhere since the excited Dakota braves by now covered the entire area in search of whites to kill and plunder to take.

I decided to head back in the direction of the agency in search of my horse. To find him was doubtful, but I knew he would be my only means of escape. My only other hope was to locate Little Crow who would command that I be spared. I crossed the ferry and walked slowly along the road just inside the tree line. Finding no Indians I began to make my way quicker. I crossed the smoldering agency and nearly made it back to the point at which I left my horse before being forced to hide from a band of drunken Indians. They were loud and raucous and easy to hide from, since they were so centered on their drunken merriment.

To me, they appeared vile and noxious and I sneered as they passed by, but I did not dare make myself known. I continued on to find that my horse was gone with no trace of the direction in which he may have been taken. I sighed at my newest misfortune and cautiously walked to the river for a drink.

While approaching the river, I noticed a family of white settlers. As I got closer, I recognized them as Mrs. Janette DeCamp and her three young boys. Mrs. DeCamp’s husband, Joseph, was hired by Agent Galbraith to run the lumber mills and he and his family were always very pleasant.

19

Colin Mustful

“Hello, Mrs. DeCamp,” I softly stated as I raised my hand to acknowledge them. The family appeared very much frightened. Mrs. DeCamp was hunched over as if cowering and the three boys had very sullen faces.

“Hello, Alfred. We are so very glad to see you but woeful that it comes under such frightful circumstances.”

“Likewise,” was all I could reply.

“We were rescued several hours ago by Chief Wabasha who put us up in an empty cabin,” Mrs. DeCamp continued as she turned to check on her children. “But we left the cabin out of fear for being discovered by the savages. Now we are searching for Chief Wabasha but cannot find him.”

Before I could reply an Indian appeared just over the hill. At first I felt a grave panic, but Mrs. DeCamp reacted favorably toward this Indian’s presence.

“That is Joseph Godfrey,” Mrs. DeCamp said. “He is a good friend of mine and a fine man.” Godfrey was alone and riding in a horse drawn wagon.

Mrs. DeCamp spoke with Godfrey for a few minutes. I could not hear what was said, but it appeared encouraging.

Mrs. DeCamp returned and said, “Mr. Godfrey will lead us to safety. He fears if we are left out here the hostile Indians will find us and kill us. Mr. Godfrey means us no harm.”

“How can we be sure?” I asked.

Mr. Godfrey leaned forward and slightly raised his right hand to get our attention, “I no want fight,” he said in broken English. I was captured and because I have Dakota wife, I forced to put on breech cloth and war paint. I was told I must fight or they kill me.”

“Where will you take us?” I inquired. Mr. Godfrey turned to lead us on, waved his hand forward and said, “We go to Little Crow’s camp.”

20

Chapter 3 Pa Baska!

Little Crow’s Camp All that I could hear now was the rustling of the trees. Darkness was setting in and the air felt cool against my skin. Although warring bands of Indians still ravaged and terrorized the settlements they were far off now. Some may have even made their way to the Upper Agency to claim more lives and harvest more spoils, but I could not be sure.24 The short trek was a silent one. It was one filled with fear and uncertainty.

While we sought and hoped to find safety in Little Crow’s camp this was far from a promised gift. For me, the sight of a full-blooded white man was sure to send the young braves into an outrage. Immediate death at my arrival was a distinct possibility. For Mrs. DeCamp and her children, death was much less likely. Women and children were valuable to the Dakota because they acted as a negotiating tool with the whites.

However, in the Indians drunken and riled state, death could happen upon anyone.

Often worse than death, was captivity. Captivity was a life of constant fear, constant discomfort, and infinite uncertainty. It was a fear worse than death. To live in captivity was to live each moment stalked by death. When one is held captive fear becomes a permanent companion and death becomes a welcomed release.25 As the wagon rolled on and our fate approached I did not envy Mrs. DeCamp. Nor

21

Colin Mustful

did I envy myself. Our hope and our safety lay in the ambiguity of finding mercy at the hands of our now powerful captors.

My eyelids were heavy, and I struggled to stay awake despite the rickety wagon. I nearly dozed off when I was startled by the sound of gunfire. My heart jumped inside my chest and I quickly raised my head to identify the source of the commotion. I took a deep breath and realized we were not under attack. In the distance was an immense glow emanating from what could be none other than Little Crow’s camp. It seemed the Dakota had congregated around Little Crow’s house and created a sudden and large war center. It was their base for the war just commenced. As we neared the camp it was clear that the young Dakota braves felt confident in the success of the day’s efforts. The sound of celebratory gunfire filled the night air as the Dakota danced, beat their tom-toms, shouted, and drank whiskey. Everywhere were wild Indians returning victorious from battle with nothing to curb their excitement.

The women joined in the celebration as they built fires to cook on and dance around. The scene was bedlam broken loose.26 As we entered camp, no one took notice to our presence. Everything was confusion. There were tents built up in every open space and every crevice of area surrounding Little Crow’s house. There were several hundred people, so many I could not count. Most were filled with joy, but others were filled with sorrow. In the shadows of celebration were large groups of captives scattered throughout the camp. There were women mourning the dead and conjurers tending to the sick and wounded. But all captives shared a face of dread in the loss of the lives they knew.

Adding to the chaos and clutter were massive piles of goods. The loot taken from the stores and homes lay everywhere. There was sugar and flour and beef. There were also dried apples, prunes, calico, blankets, plates, silverware, and numerous other articles too many to name.

Alongside each pile were drunken and angry Indians fighting over their claim to the goods.

Amidst the confusion and mayhem, I searched for Little Crow but could not find him. Just then I realized our presence had been discovered. As we passed through camp, the eyes of a viscous Indian 22

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named Hapa rested heavily on my back. I turned to see his intense and rabid glare.27 Hapa pointed and yelled, “Pale face, pa baska!”

Then, my attention turned to the right as another young brave pointed, sullenly stared, and said in a deep, guttural tone, “Pa baska.”

Yet more Indians paused their celebration to see the wagon of new white captives. I sat still as a feeling of complete helplessness swelled inside of me. “Pa baska!” again rang in my ear. They were threatening to cut off my head.28 Several Dakota, still dirty with sweat and blood from the day’s battles, slowly began to close in on our wagon. The Indian Godfrey realized the present danger and began to speed forward. The ferociouslooking Indian braves held their glare even after we passed but made no further gesture toward us.

We made it through to the opposite side of the camp where there was a small log cabin. We were met by several Indian women who repeated the word “please, please,” as we entered the dark and dirty one-room cabin. “Safe, safe,” they said once we were inside. The Dakota women acted very kindly toward us. They spread blankets for us to sit on and offered us pillows to rest. They also gave us tea and began to prepare supper for us. It was a simple meal of boiled beef and carrots, but to me, it tasted divine. I was famished and for anyone held captive the need for food outweighed the meagerness of its preparation.

Shortly after having eaten, three female captives were led into our cabin. Although I did not know it at the time, I came to learn the names of these women were Mary Anderson, Mary Schwandt, and Mattie Williams. They were hastily pushed into the cabin.

“Stay quiet!” commanded the Indian warriors who promptly turned to leave.

“Ohhh,” groaned Mary Anderson. “Help me, help me please,” she pleaded as she held her hand against her blood stained dress.

Unfortunately, Mary Anderson had a bullet wound in her back.

“Remove this bullet,” she moaned over and over again. “I remember the blue sky, it was blue, it was blue,” said Mary as she was clearly becoming hysterical.

23

Colin Mustful

As much as we longed to help, none of us had the knowledge or the tools to do so. She would have to suffer.

Though I was more comfortable than I had been for a long while, the situation was very tense. I feared very much for my family knowing that warring bands of Indians had by that time surely reached the Upper Agency. The Indian women told me to stay inside the cabin at all times if we wished to keep our lives. The women were instructed to braid their hair and put on Indian dress. They put on moccasins and sewed their own skirts. They even covered their faces with dirt in order to appear less white. As the women dressed themselves in Indian clothes, they found reason to laugh even as they attempted to save their own lives. It was a pleasant sound to hear among the heartbreak that was ever present.29 As we all tried to rest, the camp only grew louder and more rambunctious. Indians returned from the settlements with wagons of plunder and more captives. The celebration grew as young Indians drank whiskey and regaled each other with murderous tales of how they had slain the whites. The excitement was overwhelming as the warriors believed victory over the white settlers was inevitable. In addition to those Indians returning from battle I could only imagine more bands of Indians who were neutral to start the day, decided to join the war effort by the end of the day. For the Dakota on that eve, nothing could go wrong.

There was a strong feeling of restlessness in the cabin. Fear felt like a thick humidity in the air clinging to everything it touched. Despite it all I managed to fall asleep though I doubt if anyone else did. After what seemed like only moments, but must have been several hours, I was awoken by loud shouts just outside the door. The shouts were clearly directed toward our small shelter and we all became tense and still.

Suddenly there was a violent rapping at the door. Three loud crashes one right after the other. Mrs. DeCamp gave out a sudden scream and pulled her children close. Just then three young Indians broke through the door and wildly stepped inside. Their hair was loose and their movements uncoordinated. They had obviously been drinking. “Give us the women,� the lead Indian demanded as his two followers let out a rift of diabolical laughter.

24

Fate of the Da kota

“What do you want with them?” I returned defensively as I stood up and spoke with a moderate tremble in my voice.

“A white man!” the Indian was outraged. “We do not protect the white men. All must die, and then we take what was his, even his women.”

The two other Indians who appeared younger and smaller in stature walked over to claim Mrs. Schwandt and Mrs. Williams. The women recoiled but the Indians just snickered.

“Leave these women alone,” I pleaded.

The moment the words had left my mouth one of the Indians struck the side of my knee with the blunt end of his hatchet. With a violent twitch I flopped quickly to floor while writhing in pain.

I could feel the hot rush of adrenaline course through my body and as I lay helpless on the floor I could hear one of Mrs. DeCamp’s young boys cry out, “Are we going to be killed now, mamma? Don’t let them kill us with knives!”

The three Indians merely laughed.

“Stop this!” demanded Mrs. DeCamp bravely. “We have no quarrel with you. Why are you out to kill us?” she pleaded.

“It is so much fun to kill white men,” the warrior replied facetiously.

“Cowards!” returned Mrs. DeCamp fearlessly. “You will all be hanged before the next moon. The whispering spirit30 will announce what has happened here and so many white men will come, they will cover the prairies!”

The Dakota men scoffed at this but became very angry. They began to approach us waving their hatchets and aiming their rifles.

Before the lead Indian could take another step, another Indian stood in the doorway. The Indian was Wacouta, a Dakota warrior I had come to know. Wacouta was powerful and virile with a strong physique and a commanding presence.

“Get out from here!” he scolded them in his native Dakota. “You are senseless with fire water. Now leave these people alone.”

The three young men hanged their heads and quickly scurried out of the cabin.

25

Colin Mustful

“I am sorry,” he said now speaking in English. “It troubles me how immature the young men have become. They do not know how they act.”

Wacouta then moved toward Mrs. DeCamp and assisted her to her feet. Without taking notice of me he then tended to the three other women to see that they were alright. He even tended to Mary Anderson, removed her bullet, and cleaned her wound, though by this time she was sure to pass away shortly.

Once Wacouta had finished with Mrs. Anderson I finally sought his attention and called his name.

“Ho! Good Bird,” he said. “Why are you here?” He asked in his native tongue. “How did you become caught in this ugliness?”

“It is not important,” I said as Wacouta shook my hand with his right hand and patted my shoulder with his left hand. “I need to find Little Crow. Can you take me to him?”

“Of course,” responded Wacouta without delay. “I will lead you safely there. Perhaps he can save you from this turmoil.”

Before leaving the cabin Wacouta assured the captives that he was a friend to the white man and that he would save as many as he could. He found a faithful Indian to guard the cabin from any further molestations. He then took me upon his horse to bring me to Little Crow.31 The activity in the camp had become much more tranquil. The fires were dead or dying, and the celebrations had ceased. The only real light emanated from Little Crow’s two-story wood frame house. We moved silently through the wild array of tents and tepees, people and objects.

“I leave you here,” he said in front of Little Crow’s home. “You will find Little Crow inside. I wish the Great Spirit’s fortune upon you,” he said graciously.

“Thank you,” I replied genuinely.

I opened the door slowly and peeked my head in. I found no one but heard the rustle of people upstairs. I stepped inside to see a home I knew well just days ago, but now barely recognized. The house, like most of the camp, was filled with goods looted from the agency. There 26

Fate of the Da kota

were piles of clothes strewn all over along with foodstuffs such as coffee, flour, and tea. Everything was in disarray as if they were thrown into the room and then forgotten.32 I heard soft steps coming down the stairs and I turned to see Little Crow. Like his home, Little Crow also appeared unrecognizable to me.

Though it had been little more than a day since I had last seen him, he looked several years older. He was tired and carried a great deal of distress. His eyes appeared heavy and his cheeks sagged like someone had been pulling on them.

“Zitkadan Washtaz, Good Bird, Alfred,” Little Crow spoke my names as he approached, saying each name softer than the one before.

“I am pleased to see a friend during this time of trial. Are you well?” he asked, still speaking his native Dakota.

I thought for a moment. “I am alive. I believe that to be well enough.”

“Why have you not fled? Your people are gone, why have you not gone with them?”

“My people?” I took offense to the term, although I knew Little Crow meant no offense by it. “We are all children of the same creator.

I stayed to help all I could, even if I help only one, even if it means my life.”

Little Crow’s face was enlivened ever so slightly with a look of gentleness. “You are a rash young man, but you are brave and loyal. I take joy in your good heart. Sit, there is much to discuss.”

I pulled out a wooden chair from the table trying to avoid allowing the legs to scoot across the floor. I was eager to hear what Little Crow thought of the events that had taken place.

“I regret that you must see the tragedy that is happening,” Little Crow said as he sat. Although tired, his air of eloquence returned. “My people, they are a proud people, and they only want what belongs to them. I feel for the white man, and I do not support the slaying of the innocent and unarmed. My people only want what is right.”

I gave no response and only sat silently. I understood what Little Crow had said. I understood that for decades that whites had lied to the Mdewakatons, to all Indians…that they had forced them from their 27

Colin Mustful

homes and usurped their territory again and again and again. Many whites sought to round them up and treat them as if they were cattle. I understood the pain in Little Crow’s eyes.

Little Crow lowered his head, and then raised it again as if to change character. “I have unleashed a violence I cannot stop. I have no real power here.”

“Wh-what do you mean?” I stuttered. “They, they asked you to lead them.”

“This we know is true. But the Soldiers’ Lodge controls this fight.

They take my advice only when they agree with it.”

“Why then have they come to you? Why have they built their camp around your home? They seem to depend on you.”

“I am only a symbol. I am the roots, but they are the tree. I am a figure to unify their efforts. I am respected among my people and they believe with me as the leader other Dakota will join their war effort.

But, like the clouds that cannot stop the sun from shining, I cannot stop the men fighting the whites.” The anger left his voice and began to express grief. “The young men, they are foolish. They brag how easy it is to kill the whites and they think victory will come easy. They do not know the power of the white man, they do not know how many there are. They have not travelled this great land and seen how vast and far reaching the influence of the white man has become. The Dakota’s only hope is in negotiating with the Great Father.33 If they continue to kill without heed, the Great Father will be unwilling to settle with us.”

“What of the other chiefs?” I asked curiously. “Together, don’t you have decision making power?”

“Yes,” replied Little Crow. “But there is great conflict among us.

We have met for many hours but cannot agree on a course to take. We squabble like children over a game. Wabasha, Stone Man, and Leaf Shooter believe we ought to cease at once and retreat. Others such as Big Eagle and Medicine Bottle believe we must continue and we must unify. Still others, like Shakopee, believe we should kill without mercy until we have wiped the white man’s seed from the earth.”34 “What about you?” I asked poignantly. “What do you believe?”

28

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“My father and his father and my ancestors before them lived on this land wild as the deer, and free as the wind.” Little Crow paused in thought. In that moment years of hardship must have passed over his eyes. “I was never in favor of this war, but what has started cannot be stopped. We will continue to fight, but we must gain support and we must fight with strategy. Hereafter, we must make war after the manner of the white man. I will seek the help of our brothers. The Sissetons and the Wahpetons at the Upper Agency, the Chippewas in the North and the Winnebagoes in the South. If we unify we can clear the river valley of the white man’s sour presence and live once more like our ancestors.”35 I had hoped Little Crow would tell me he would end this foolish war. But I respected his decision as a leader, as a warrior, as a wise man.

I said nothing in return, but only nodded my head out of reverence.

Our conversation continued little further than this. Little Crow informed me of the importance of capturing Fort Ridgely before the army arrived, but said he was unsure if he would be able to persuade the warriors. The warriors, he said, might prefer to attack New Ulm because it is rich in plunder and much less defensible than the fort. Little Crow also informed me that it was too dangerous for me to stay in the camp.

If the warriors found me, a full-blooded white man, in the morning, they would surely kill me and Little Crow would not have the power to save me.

In the upstairs of Little Crow’s house was the family of Joseph R. Brown, a mixed-blood frontiersman and former Indian agent. Mr. Brown’s son-in-law Charles Blair, a white man, was with the family. In order to save mine and Mr. Blair’s life, Little Crow instructed me to take Mr. Blair and get as far away as possible.36 Before leaving, and to my great surprise, Little Crow had recovered my horse. I was pleased to be reunited with my faithful steed and to be spared the tedious walking ahead. Little Crow and I said our farewells and then Mr. Blair and I stowed away into the early morning darkness.

Although Little Crow had directed me to leave the region, I failed to follow his instructions. I had only one place on my mind. I was headed to Fort Ridgely.

29

Chapter 4 Man Your Post!

Attack on Fort Ridgely Fort Snelling was built in 1819, high upon the bluffs overlooking the confluence of the great Minnesota and Mississippi Rivers. It is a massive group of stone edifices surrounded by a large stone wall. From the outside it appears impenetrable. From the inside it looks out over both the Minnesota and Mississippi River valleys and across an endless stretch of wooded plains. Fort Snelling is castle-like and a monument to western frontiersman.

Although I was fortunate enough to visit Fort Snelling with my father as a child, I never once encountered Fort Ridgely. Fort Ridgley was constructed shortly after the signing of the 1851 treaty that moved the Dakota to a reservation along the Minnesota River Valley in southwestern Minnesota. The fort was put in place to protect settlers and government officials living and working among the Indian agencies.

It was also meant to facilitate White-Indian relations in any way thought necessary. Unfortunately, the fort was placed thirteen miles southeast of the Redwood Agency and forty miles southeast of the Yellow Medicine Agency and therefore played little role in the lives of everyday settlers.

It was a simple and quiet post on the western frontier.

As Mr. Blair and I approached the garrison that morning, the sun was just beginning to rise. We rode along steadily, but I was wary of any movement and feared there may be a band of marauding Indians around 30

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the next corner. Gratefully, we never encountered such a dilemma.

Finally, the fort appeared high above the river and just in front of the rising sun. As we neared, a shot rang out and exploded on the ground on the road in front of us, sending dirt into my face and causing me to turn my head.

“Whoa!” I hollered as I pulled back on the horse’s reigns.

“Halt!” came a voice from the fort. “Who goes there?”

“We are white men,” I shouted, “I a missionary and he a trader. We seek refuge in the fort.”

There was a pause. After a few anxious moments the voice returned, “Very well, it is safe to enter.”

My heart was racing at the incident, but I quickly began to calm down. We slowly climbed the road to the garrison and entered Fort Ridgely.

The fort was unlike anything I had expected. I had imagined it would be smaller than Fort Snelling, but what I came upon hardly appeared to qualify as a fort. What struck me most was that there was no stockade, no breastwork, and no protecting walls. This so-called fort was exposed without any defenses. The location of the garrison did not prove itself to be much better. The fort sat on a plateau about one hundred fifty feet above the Minnesota River and about one half mile north of it. It was surrounded on three sides by deep wooded ravines which acted as perfect points of concealment for any enemy to cleverly exploit. To the northwest of the fort was a wide and vast prairie from which enemies could pour in. The fort did not appear, by any means, well adapted to repel attack.

“Welcome,” came the stern voice of a rather fine looking officer. “I am Lt. Thomas Gere, acting officer in charge.”

I assumed Lt. Gere had replaced the fallen Lt. Marsh. Few of his men returned alive, and I was told Captain Marsh drowned trying to ford the river.

“In that direction you will find the barracks,” Lt. Gere said with his arm held straight out. “You will find shelter there among the other refugees.”

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The barracks were a long, stone building on the north end of the parade ground. It was the largest building and one of just two made from stone. Just to the west of the barracks was the other stone building which appeared to be the commissary or storehouse. South of the storehouse were two wood frame buildings, one of which appeared to be the fort headquarters. The south end of the parade ground was left mostly open. To the east were more wood frame buildings, which I gathered to be the officers’ quarters. Beyond the main parade ground, there were many varied outbuildings. In the south were the stables for housing horses, mule, and oxen. In the far northwest was the magazine for housing additional ammunition, cartridges and field pieces. Just behind the barracks were a number of small log homes. These did not seem to serve any military purpose and must have been quarters for families of the officers and privates. Off to the west, beyond the commissary, was the sutler’s store where the privates could obtain personal supplies.

“The circumstances at the fort are somewhat dire,” explained Lt. Gere as he led us to the barracks. “Firstly, and as you may well know, the regular army had previously been ordered south in order to fight the Rebel army and preserve the Union. Therefore our humble garrison is stationed with Minnesota’s volunteer regiments.”

Lt. Gere himself was commanding Company B of 5th Minnesota Infantry.

“To make circumstances worse,” he continued, although I could not understand why he felt compelled to share such negative news, “the fort’s numbers are considerably low at the moment, thus making us vulnerable to attack. Not only did we lose many good men during the ambush on Lt. Marsh, but just two days ago Lt. Timothy Sheehan had been ordered back to Fort Ripley along with fifty men.”

“Fifty men!” I said with surprise.

“Yes,” said Lt. Gere. “But thankfully Lt. Marsh had the presence of mind to send a messenger after Lt. Sheehan the moment he learned of the outbreak. It is my hope that he will return, along with his men, shortly, but until he does the fort has only thirty-five active and healthy soldiers.”

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This news was painfully distressing, but completely outside of my control.

“You will find rest here,” Lt. Gere said as we finally reached the barracks. “However, we ask that all able-bodied men assist in defense of the fort, if necessary, by any means possible. An attack,” he said, “could happen at any moment.”

We entered the long, two story stone building to find that it was filled with people. The floor, the beds, the hallway, everywhere I looked, there was a refugee whose life just days ago seemed serene. There must have been close to three hundred people in a building meant to house only fifty men. I could not move forward without stepping over a woman with her child or a man turned over and unconscious with sleep. The whole scene was a chaotic mess of displaced people, most of whom were women and children. Despite the huge number of people, the building was surprisingly quiet. There were a few people milling around in search of water or food or somewhere to rest, and there was the sound of mothers soothing and hushing their infant children, but the majority of the building was still. But it was not a pleasant stillness.

It felt more like gloom or despair.

The refugees here had lost everything. In just a few short hours, these people lost their homes, they lost their land, they lost their businesses, and they lost their families. Most of these people were not natives of Minnesota, but had come from other parts of the country and other parts of the world. They gave up their old lives and settled in Minnesota, with grand hopes of a healthy, happy, safe, and profitable life. Never did they expect this to happen. They had, for the most part, become utterly despondent. They lost their homes and with it, many lost their hopes. And so they were still and they were hopeless. As I sought a place to rest few even bothered to turn their heads, to raise their eyes, or acknowledge my presence. Those who did gave me only a blank stare.

After much searching I finally came upon an open corner. I had nothing with me, and I had lost track of Mr. Blair. Again my stomach growled but this time it came with a deep hunger pang in my gut. I was in need of a change of clothes, a meal, a bed, and a bath. Unfortunately, so was everyone else. Those needs would not be met. I slouched against 33

Colin Mustful

the wall and let myself fall slowly to the ground. I knew I would be needed, and I knew the worst was yet to come.

“What will happen to us here?” asked Mr. Blair whom I had forgotten was still with me.

“It is difficult to know,” I responded somewhat ambiguously.

“Be truthful,” said Mr. Blair. “The Dakota will overtake us.”

“Honestly,” I replied with regret, “They likely will. For the Indians, Fort Ridgely is the key to success in this war. If they can take the fort, there will be nothing to stop them from sweeping through the entire river valley. From here they can go north to St. Peter and then all the way to Fort Snelling. On the open field, there is no one that can stop them.”

“Oh mercy,” cried Mr. Blair softly. “How much time do we have?”

“Very little I am afraid,” I said with unfortunate certainty. “Little Crow knows that forces here are weak and he will be sure to attack before relief arrives. The defense of this fort will be paramount. If we can defend the fort and repel the Indians it could mean the saving of possibly a thousand lives. If we lose the fort, it could mean almost certain death for everyone here and it would empower the Dakota cause to such a degree they would be capable of overtaking the entire portion of the state.”

“What a terrible fate,” said Mr. Blair in some form of acceptance.

“Just try to rest,” I replied tenderly.37 As I slipped in and out of sleep, I wondered why it had come to this. I supported reconciliation with the Dakota. I supported Little Crow and his people. I witnessed first-hand the great loss the Dakota experienced at the hands of the white man. I grieved that retaliation came at the loss of so many lives. My heart sank that we could not learn to live together, to share the land, and to recognize the value in each of us. How, I wondered, could we possibly choose death over life?

“Indians! Indians!”

“Man your post!”

The solace of the barracks was suddenly broken by the foreboding shouts of the soldiers outside. The refugees became frantic and terror stricken. I heard loud cries and screams as women huddled over their 34

Fate of the Da kota

children against the walls. Others began running back and forth with alert but frightened looks on their faces. It was a scene much unlike the one I had entered just hours before. The barracks were alive with fear.

I hastily rose to my feet. Looking around, I decided to run upstairs where I might get a better look at the situation. The second floor was occupied by men with muskets, each at a different window and each waiting for his chance to kill a Dakota brave.

I peered out one of the open windows and saw the few soldiers that remained to protect the fort standing at attention. I looked further into the distance and saw a large group of Dakota Indians gathered together.

They were in plain view of the fort, but they were not heading toward us. It appeared that they were holding council. The Indians were too far off for me to identify them individually, but I knew the council was led

by Little Crow. Likely, he was trying to convince his young warriors that they must attack and take the fort now while our defenses were weak.

The young and naive braves probably disagreed with Little Crow and sought instead to attack New Ulm, a German settlement just southeast of the fort.

The council continued for several hours. All the while the men and soldiers at Fort Ridgely kept a constant watch and never vacated their posts. Finally, the council broke, and a small band of Indians headed down the road to New Ulm. The remaining Indians turned and went back to camp.38 “Relax arms!� shouted Lt. Gere followed by a collective sigh of relief throughout the entire fort. Had the young Dakota braves not been so insubordinate and listened to the advice of Little Crow they would have certainly taken the fort that morning.39 Just moments after the Indian council had disbanded, Lt. Sheehan and his fifty-three men arrived from the north. Constant fear turned to momentary joy as celebratory shouts accompanied Lt. Sheehan’s arrival.

Men raised their arms and hollered as women embraced their children and held back tears. The fort was rejuvenated at the sight of new soldiers and hope was restored.40 Shortly following his arrival, Lt. Sheehan called a meeting of all the soldiers and men. I hurried down to the parade ground to hear the orders 35

Colin Mustful

of the new commanding officer. The twenty-five year old Lieutenant of Company C paced back and forth while he waited for each man to join the lines. Though young, Lt. Sheehan appeared much older than he was—red hair, a thick goatee, with a stern but determined look on his face. It’s not that he looked old, but his face lacked innocence.

“Good men,” he shouted, “we have a daunting but necessary task ahead of us. The enemy outnumbers us by as many as ten to one. They are a savage enemy that will stop at nothing to win this fort. Once they have, they will brutalize and scalp us. What is more, they will move beyond this fort and terrorize the entire countryside.” The Lt. spoke clear and loud. His voice echoed off the buildings and reverberated down the valley.

“Now,” his voice softened, “I do not need to tell you that we cannot let this happen. We must, at all costs, defend this garrison from the enemy. Assistance has been sent for from Governor Ramsey, but we do not know when our help will arrive. We do know that the enemy will attack before assistance can reach us. We must prepare ourselves.”

His voice rose again to emphasize his commands. “I need every able bodied human being to help defend this fort. We need men on each corner to keep watch for the enemy. We need people to prepare as much ammunition as possible. We need earthen barricades built especially around our fieldpieces to protect those men working the artillery. We need men to cover the roofs with dirt to prevent the buildings from catching fire. And we need women in the medical room to assist the surgeon and care for the wounded. We do not know how much time we have to act, post haste. Our future and our children’s futures depend on us this day. You have your orders.”

With that the Lieutenant turned and, along with several officers, quickly walked to the headquarters. The rest of us paused and looked around. Then, like the sounding of a bell, the men sprang into action.

First, I went left, then I went right, and then I decided to go left again. I was spinning like a top while everyone around me seemed to know where to go and what to do. Men brushed by me so focused on their task they knocked me off balance without notice. I regained my balance when I suddenly heard a voice call my name.

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“Alfred? Alfred, is that you?”

I turned my head all the way around, for some reason not moving my feet. My vision straightened, and I saw a familiar man anxiously coming toward me.

“Joseph!” I said excitedly. It was Joseph Coursolle, a mixed blood trader I had come to know in the previous months. He was also the father of Elizabeth and Minnie, the girls I had lost to the Dakota at the Redwood Agency.41 “I am pleased to see that you are safe.” Joseph smiled as he spoke.

“But I am surprised to find you here. You are comely with the Dakota, didn’t they warn you to stay away?”

I shrugged. “I think we are all victims here Joseph. We must do the best we can now.”

“It’s a terrible shame,” replied Joseph as he tipped his hat back revealing his thick brown hair.

“Is Jane okay?” I asked as I reached my hand to his shoulder.

“Oh, very well. She is here, in the barracks with Cistina Joe our newborn son.”

“Jane had the baby then. Congratulations.” I tried to sound joyful despite the fearful circumstances we were under.

“He is ill though, and I am worried like a dog he will not make it much longer. Jane, she takes good care of him, but he is so little yet.”

Joseph removed his hat and shook his head mournfully with his eyes toward the ground. “And my daughters,” Joseph said as he raised his head to look at me again, “I have lost Elizabeth and Minnie and what hope have I of finding them again.”

I sighed, thinking about how I might tell him I had seen his daughters. I was not certain how I would say it and how I could tell him that I had Elizabeth and Minnie with me but could not protect them.

“I saw your daughters, Joseph. They are well. I found them at the agency yesterday, but a warring Indian, he took them from me.”

“He took them? What do you mean?” Joseph asked urgently.

“They are not hurt. He led them away by their hands, but they are not hurt.” I tried to sound confident in my reply. “You will get them back when this is all over.”

37

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“Pray I do. I cannot lose my children to those vile attackers,” Joseph said desperately.

“Don’t worry,” I said, “we will find them and they will be safe.”

“Yes,” replied Joseph as he reached out his arm to my shoulder. “For now, there is much work to do. Our lives depend on it.”

Joseph and I went to the west end of the fort and joined a group of men building barricades. We dug mostly, creating trenches and building walls of dirt. We also made use of rocks and newly felled trees to strengthen the now interim walls. We worked all afternoon and into the night. It was hard work, but it hardly seemed so because of the necessity of the matter. We kept ourselves constantly aware and constantly alert for any movement in case the Dakota attacked. Thankfully, the Dakota made no such attack that day.

Joseph continued to worry. Not just about his daughters, but about his newborn and his wife. Joseph was a vigilant worker, but anytime he could get away, even for a minute, he ran to the barracks to see his wife and his tiny boy. This made me wonder of my own family, but I knew this was outside of my hands.

Late in the evening, before night had completely fallen, a group of about two dozen men arrived from St. Peter. These were the Renville Rangers, a volunteer militia led by Lt. James Gorman and organized

by Indian Agent Major Thomas Galbraith. Like Company C earlier that day, the Renville Rangers were greeted with wild shouts of joy and welcome.

With the addition of the Renville Rangers the fort’s numbers were increased to about one hundred eighty resolute men. The remaining were about three hundred non combatants.

That evening I rested from my work, but almost no one slept that night. No one could sleep. The general feeling was one of overwhelming fear. Some worried themselves sick, some wanted to stay awake to protect their loved ones, and others kept a constant vigil in case of attack. For each of us, the grave possibilities of the situation were so great that sleep had not suggested itself as a necessity.42 The night was long. The hours passed slowly by as if friction had gotten hold of the Earth and kept it from spinning. The night was filled 38

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with anxiety and fear. Sounds were magnified, causing even the falling of a leaf to be heard. The barracks were filled with constant wailing and moaning from those who suffered grief, exhaustion, and pain.

Throughout the night several more refugees arrived, terror stricken and disillusioned at the unimaginable horror they had just fled from. Some had been travelling all through the night and previous day and finally collapsed upon reaching their destination.43 Eventually, the morning arrived, the sun rose, and the night passed without incident. The soldiers personified composure and continued their watch. The men and women carried on their duties of preparing the fort for battle. Food was already running low, and Lt. Sheehan decided to cut everyone’s rations in half. We did not know how long we would be held up in the fort or when fresh supplies would arrive. Most considered Lt. Sheehan’s command to be wise and accepted it without complaint.

At approximately one in the afternoon, a large band of Indians appeared down the road to the west of the fort.

“Every man to his post!” hollered Lt. Sheehan.

Suddenly, each soldier became spry with an extra hitch in his step.

Each moved quickly and confidently as if automated to do so. To the southwest went the Renville Rangers led by Lt. James Gorman. With them was Ordnance Sgt. John Jones with a piece of artillery. Sgt. Jones was the only army regular at the fort and he was in charge of the six field pieces of artillery. The artillery would be essential to successful defense of the fort. To the northeast Lt. Gere assembled his men along with civilian and veteran of the Mexican War J.C. Whipple who manned the howitzer. On the northwest was most of Company C led by Sgt. James McGrew who manned the howitzer on that corner. Finally, to the southeast, were the remnants of each company along with several armed civilians. The artillery on that corner was manned by civilian Dennis O’Shea. The men assembled quickly and were ready to defend the fort with their lives.

The band of Indians were now difficult to see as they took cover and spread out in the ravines surrounding the fort. Lt. Sheehan estimated their numbers at four hundred, more than twice the armed men at the 39

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fort. Before long Little Crow made his presence known on the west side of the fort. Little Crow sat upon a black pony and was extravagantly adorned with a brilliant head dress, silver and gold jewelry, stockings, and red and white war paint. Although Little Crow was close, he kept himself out of range of the muskets. “Come, meet us for council,� hollered Sgt. Bishop in an attempt to lure Little Crow closer.

Little Crow did not reply and instead returned to the cover of the woods.

Some time passed while the Dakota positioned themselves. We merely had to wait for the dreaded inevitability of the Indian assault.

Seconds become interminably long, and my heart reached a near standstill.

Crack! Crack! Crack!

Finally, three shots rang out from the east and the Indians rushed out from the ravines and charged the fort. The pickets were surprised and immediately driven back. Before even reacting Private William Good was shot directly in the forehead. I later learned that he had miraculously survived that injury. Unfortunately, Private Mark Greer was also struck down by the first volley and killed.

The initial charge was fierce and terrifying. The Indians shrieked and hollered like demons. Their war cries were incessant and loud, almost deafening at times. The soldiers, however, answered the charge with hot rifle fire. Then, Sgt. McGrew on the west and Whipple on the east opened vigorously with rapid shots from the howitzers. Sgt. Jones on the southwest sent cannon balls skipping through the Dakota forces. The defense had answered the Indian charge fearlessly and within moments the Indians retreated to safety.

Constant fire was kept up by both sides. Several bands came near the fort and even captured several of the outbuildings, but every time the Indians launched an assault it was repelled by the fort’s heavy artillery.

The Indians then began firing at windows and shot flaming arrows. The air buzzed with the sound of bullets and arrows crisscrossing in every direction. There was a constant thud of bullets against the dirt of the barricades. Bullets and arrows ricocheted off the stone walls, creating 40

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a distinctive ping to the madness of noise. Incoherent shouts added to the melee as men grunted orders to one another and yelled out at their vile enemy.

Suddenly, I noticed the roof of an officer’s quarters had caught fire.

An unknown Private turned to me and caught my eye.

“Climb up on that roof and chop out that fire!” he commanded with conviction as he pointed to the roof. Then as if the fire had already been put out he returned to his duty and continued to fire his rifle at the oncoming enemy.

I waited, my heart stopped, I had never been so terrified in all my life. To climb to the top of that roof would make me a perfect and easy target. After what could have been hours but were only seconds, I ran to the building, picked up an axe, and began to climb the ladder to the roof. I could hear bullets all around me but I forced it out of my mind. I ascended the ladder as quickly as I could, two rungs at a time.

I reached the fire and swung the axe with a speed and determination unmatched by any man before me. Bullets continued to whiz by my head but I was relentless. With stunning speed I managed to quell the fire. I looked down and decided the ladder was too slow so I rolled off the roof. I landed with a thud on the ground, and I thought I would have more holes in me than a sieve. I didn’t have a scratch.44 The assaults ceased as the Indians retreated to the safety of the ravines and the war became general. For several hours the Indians continued to shoot from the cover of the ravines. The air was marked by the constant din and clash of bullets going in every direction but few hit their target. Throughout the general fighting the air was grainy with smoke and distinct with the smell of gunpowder. It was unlike anything I had been exposed to before.

Late in the afternoon, ammunition was becoming low. Lt. Sheehan issued myself and several other civilians to make a run for the arsenal to recover more ammunition. The building lay two hundred yards to the northwest within a vast prairie. This was a dangerous task as we would be out in the open, but because the prairie lacked cover, the Dakota dared not enter. We ran to the arsenal as quickly as we could. Several Indians took aim at us, but their efforts were disrupted by the heavy fire 41

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of Sgt. McGrew. We grabbed as much gun powder, bullets, and shells as we could and started back to the fort. Our return was much slower as we tried to lug heavy ammunition across the prairie, but once again Sgt. McGrew kept the Indians at bay with heavy fire from his howitzer.

The fighting was constant, but the Indians never mounted another assault. By seven o’clock, the firing had died down, and the Indians stubbornly returned to their camp. Their initial attack had failed to take the fort and they were left woeful and ashamed at their loss. The defense that day was bold and resolute, answering the Indian attack at every turn. In the end, the fort lost three men killed and eight wounded.

Dakota losses were unknown since they had carried off their dead and buried them in the woods.45 “You were brave today,” said Joseph who I had not seen since the fighting began. He appeared defunct from exhaustion.

“I don’t know that I had much choice,” I replied in an attempt to be lighthearted. “You should try and rest,” I instructed him.

“There is no rest for the soldier,” he said. “You know as well as I do the Indians will return and so we must keep watch.”

I lowered my head sadly, “I know.”

As night arrived the fort was once again sleepless. A light but welcoming rain began to fall around midnight and continued through the night. The rain was soothing and the sound was refreshing. The interminable patter of the rain drops was like a well orchestrated symphony compared to the din and clatter of exploding shells and speeding bullets. The water itself was life giving rather than life taking.

The rain brought solace among uncontrollable agitation. It was the most simple yet most amazing gift.

Though I did not realize it, my family came within just miles of me that night. They were on the road, headed east, along with Dr. Thomas Williamson and several others from the Yellow Medicine Agency.

They had intended to stay at the fort, but upon passing, discovered it beleaguered by the attack of the Indians. They argued among themselves whether it was safer to stay at the fort or to continue on the road east.

They determined to continue down the road to Henderson, a town much further north and east. I could only wonder, unaware that my 42

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family had passed within a few rods of the fort. It is well that they continued on.46 Late into the night, a loud and horrible wailing came from far into the woods. None could identify the demonic moan or even whether it had originated from a human. Lt. Sheehan ordered that the howitzer fire in the direction of the wailing on the chance that it was Indians approaching. The wailing continued even after the howitzer had fired and so Lt. Sheehan sent a detachment to discover what was causing the terrible bellow. What the detachment found was a frenzied woman crazed with grief and fear. It was an unfortunate condition to find someone under, but one that had become all too regular. We considered it a blessing that she was even alive.

The following day, the fort was back to work. Each man took to his task with persistence and vigor. The barricades were rebuilt and fortified with absolutely anything that could stop a bullet or arrow. The men even resorted to using bags of oats to strengthen the barricades. Everyone was exhausted and scared, but they carried on their work diligently, knowing how vital it was to protect the fort.

As for myself, I assisted the post surgeon Dr. Alfred Muller and his wife Eliza Muller. Dr. Muller promptly attended to the sick and wounded with great care. I offered my assistance throughout the day in any way I could. I quickly obtained supplies when he asked, I fetched food and water for each patient as necessary, and I even tried to soothe and comfort those who had become delirious with pain. I did not envy the task of Dr. and Mrs. Muller. But I came to respect their expertise, diligence, and commitment to such dreaded but necessary work.47 The day passed and Little Crow and the Dakota never arrived to mount a second attack. The entire garrison sighed in relief that the Indians did not come, but we still knew that help from St. Paul was far off, and that the Indians could return at any given moment. The day seemed tirelessly long and the night never ending. And all throughout, fear never ceased. Fear was always in the air and entered the heart and mind of even the bravest of men. Fear kept us awake, but vigilance kept us alive.

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By morning the rain that had been falling most of the night had let up and the clouds had started to break. The leaves were heavy with water and the bark of the surrounding trees was dark like a moist sponge. The air was cool but felt fresh and invigorating. When the sun peeked through the clouds it felt warm and inviting. It was a pleasant late summer morning by any other circumstance.

It was now Friday, although I could not be certain since I had nearly lost track of time. The work continued at the fort like it had the day before. Lt. Sheehan gave out orders to reinforce the barricades and to collect all remaining ammunition. Men and women went back and forth carrying out each order with fervor and determination. Though nearly everyone was exhausted there was still a strong sense of urgency and pride in everything that must be done to protect the fort.

The clouds had cleared, and the sun was now high in the sky when suddenly I could feel the earth begin to shake. In the distance was a low but constant murmur. With each passing second, the murmur grew louder and louder until it had become a rumble. Everyone paused and stared to the west. Collectively, we held our breath. Finally, the origin of the rumble became apparent. It was the Dakota advancing toward the fort to renew their attack; twice as many as had come before.

They came in a long, almost unending procession, led in the front by Little Crow who rode in a handsome horse drawn buggy. The massive column moved slowly but surely toward the fort and into the ravines.

The procession appeared somewhat more like a parade than a war party. The men were brilliantly painted and covered from head to toe with weapons, ammunition, and supplies. Women and children walked alongside the warriors cheering them forward. To the Dakota, who sought to reclaim the land of their ancestors, this was a grand affair.48 Once the brief shock of the Dakota arrival had passed and realization of the matter had set in, men rushed to get into position. Each post remained the same. J.C. Whipple went to the northeast, Sgt. McGrew to the northwest, Sgt. Jones to the southwest, and Dennis O’Shea to the southeast.

“Quickly men!” urged Lt. Sheehan. “We haven’t a moment to spare.”

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The men followed orders with remarkable speed as if a reward awaited the fastest soldier.

Though most at the fort in this time of trial remained steadfast and brave, there were still those who cowered at the approaching enemy.

Shouts of fear rose up out of the barracks. Children began to cry in terror, and women wailed at the thought of their loathsome fate. To say the least, it was disheartening to hear their foreboding cries.

Just then I saw Joseph run from his post and toward the barracks.

“Joseph!” I yelled. “Where are you going?”

Joseph did not pause to answer. He continued running as fast as he could in a direct line for the barracks. I turned and ran in order to follow Joseph into the barracks. I knew he must be going to check on his wife and son, but to do so at a time like this must have meant something was terribly wrong. When I found Joseph he had his son in his arms, covered completely in a blanket. His wife beside him was weeping and the look on Joseph’s face was one of utter despair. His little boy, his infant son, had closed his eyes forever.

Joseph raised his head, looked at me, and only said, “There is no time for mourning.”49 We rushed quickly from the barracks to the carpenter shop to find a box in which to bury Cistina Joe. Joe was carefully placed in the box and then we made our way to open ground. Joe was placed lovingly in the ground. It was a dreadful and most regrettable scene among the direst of circumstances and one which I will never forget. From his kneeling position Joseph looked at me sadly and I knew what he was asking.

“Father,” I prayed, “into your hands we commit the spirit of young Cistina Joe, that through faith we may one day be reunited with him in joy.”

In that moment of deep sadness a shot rang out breaking the silence created by grief, followed by an explosion of shots. Joseph rose to his feet, wiped his tears and raced back to the barricade to take his position.

The Indians surrounded the fort and attacked on every corner.

On each side, from every spot, anywhere one looked, the Dakota were strong. They rushed from the ravines and out on the prairie and at the top of their lungs let out the most horrifying war whoops. Eight 45

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hundred strong in unison yelled and screamed like men possessed. They created a sound so vile and so deafening that it cannot be described, it cannot be imagined, it cannot even be relived.

The men at the fort were unmoved by the grand and vicious assault thrown forward by the Indians. The soldiers returned the Indian fire from behind the barricades as rapidly and vehemently as they possibly could. The cannons were unleashed sending exploding balls right into the Indian forces. Shot for shot the men equaled the Dakota’s most concentrated efforts. After just a few minutes of fighting the initial Indian assault was broken and the Dakota were sent running for the woods like the devil himself had been chasing them. They settled in the woods, behind trees and under rocks, firing at the garrison as much as possible. Like the attack prior, the Indians sent fire arrows hurtling high through the air like bright comets in the middle of the day. Thankfully, the roofs were still wet with rain and were unable to catch fire. In order to add to their cover the Dakota warriors wrapped their heads in turbans of grass, leaves, and wildflowers. Their heads bobbed in and out of cover often unnoticed because of their clever camouflage.

Similar to the first battle, the Indians stayed at a safe distance, and once again, the war became general. Any assaults were quickly put down with cannon fire. Though the men were able to hold the Indians back, they could not prevent them from overtaking the stables and the trading post. The Indians made off with all of the animals in the stables, including my own, and used the building as cover.

“Destroy the stables!” commanded Lt. Sheehan. “Destroy the outbuildings!”

“Sir?” replied Sgt. Jones wanting to make sure he knew the orders.

“Use your cannons and destroy the outbuildings, now!” affirmed Lt. Sheehan.

Sgt. Jones quickly and obediently answered his commanding officer’s call and sent cannon balls hurling toward both buildings. The Indians scattered and within seconds the buildings were leveled. Again the Indians were forced to retreat.

A steady duel raged for the next few hours. White smoke rose from the field of battle. The smoke floated high into the air and collected 46

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itself directly over the fort acting as an artificial cloud of war. Bullets continued to fly through the air with a noise and consistency that was as thick as hail. They pierced each building on every side leaving them riddled with holes. The sound of war, once again, was incessant and loud. Much louder this time that it had been during the attack before. Lt. Sheehan was everywhere present and always encouraging. He shouted instructions and he pointed out open shots. He harangued each man to continue fighting without relent. In the same way, from the fort the Indian chiefs could be heard urging their own men on. Constant and loud the chiefs encouraged their young braves to keep up a heavy and determined fire. They demanded their men to be brave even if it meant giving their lives.

The battle raged on for many hours, neither enemy seeing much of each other, just exchanging shot for shot. By late in the afternoon it became apparent that we would soon run out of ammunition. Lt. Sheehan was determined not to let this happen, because if it had, it would act as a death sentence for the entire fort. The Lieutenant hastily ordered that as many civilians as were willing to search the parade ground and collect all spent bullets. Also, he asked that we cut nails into short rods to act as bullets.

I helped collect as many bullets as I could, carrying them in my shirt as I entered the barracks. For the next hour or so the women worked feverishly at making cartridges, while the men, including myself, cut nails into short rods. Every few minutes someone would run the additional ammunition out to Lt. Sheehan for immediate use.

Toward the evening, Sgt. McGrew noticed a vast number of Dakota moving southwest along the open prairie. The Indians were converging at the head of the woods on the southwest corner for one final and grand assault. “Move the twenty-four pound cannon to the southwest corner,� commanded Sgt. McGrew without hesitation.

This was the largest and most destructive cannon at the fort and had thus far remained unused. It now sat on the southwest corner and awaited the Indian charge. After just a few short minutes, the Indians 47

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came charging out from the woods and up the ravine. Once again they emitted a diabolical and deafening noise as they ran up the hill. “Fire!� commanded Sgt. McGrew with hand held high. Sgt. Jones fired the cannon directly into heart of the charge with telling effect.

The cannon exploded through the Dakota lines, sending shock waves that echoed through the entire river valley. The blast caused surprise and consternation among the Indian forces. Still hundreds more came rushing forward and could barely be held back. The onlookers held their breath and closed their eyes as if making one last plea to be saved.

The soldiers fought as fiercely and determinedly as they could, as each foot of ground between the fort and the enemy became invaluable. The Indians came within twenty feet and the soldiers prepared for bayonet fighting. The enemy came so close, the anxiety grew so much, that no mind can justly conceive of, or pen faithfully describe, the mental and physical strain endured from this moment on the garrison.50 But, just then, Sgt. Jones fired the twenty-four pounder right in the faces of the nearing enemy. A loud crash reverberated down the river valley and the Indians were catapulted down the hill. Following the blast the men continued to send relentless rifle fire toward the enemy and the Indians were sent running back to the woods for safety. A colossal cheer rose up from the defenders of the fort at the sight of their ultimate triumph.

The Indians did not return another shot after their final assault failed. They retreated to the ravines and once again went slowly back to their camp dejected and depressed and with many fewer faces than they had marched with that morning.

At the fort there was a great relief. Each man and woman had diligently done his or her duty against unthinkable odds. The defenders worked bravely and tirelessly together to fend off the enemy and avoid certain catastrophe. In those moments following the attack fear was no longer felt, hunger was no longer noticed, and exhaustion was no longer a companion. Instead, hope returned, hope overcame.

At the end of the day, the fort lost three killed and thirteen wounded.51 Indian casualties were estimated at over a hundred. I shared in the hope felt at the fort, but I also grieved at the loss of so many brave Dakota. Many of them were my close friends and it pained me to 48

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consider that some had died that day. I grieved especially for Little Crow who must now see everything slipping away. He fought so hard for so many years against the whites, and he and his nation were defeated, even humiliated, time and time again. Only now did he resort to violence, and only because he had no other choice. And, like so many battles before, whether by word or tomahawk, this one too began to look like a losing cause. Soon hundreds of soldiers would descend on the area and force the Dakota into retreat. As Little Crow returned to camp that night, he must have wondered how many days he had left. He must have wondered how long before his tradition and his nation would become lost forever, by his hands. With such little time now, with few options left, I wondered what Little Crow and his people would do next.

49

Chapter 5 A Very Fine Spectacle Attack on New Ulm “Alfred. Alfred. Alfred.” My name was whispered through the dark.

“Alfred!” the voice grew stronger and more urgent. Finally I tilted my head and peered through the grayness of the very early morning to see who called my attention.

“Alfred, it’s me, Joseph. I came to express my gratitude and wish you well.”

“Wish me well?” I said in a questioning tone as I began to sit up.

“Are you leaving?”

“Yes,” replied Joseph, still speaking in a whispered tone while leaning in toward me from a squatting position. “I am worried sick about Elizabeth and Minnie and I cannot stand the thought that they are out there, alone.”52 “But what can you do by yourself?” I was now fully awake and attentive to Joseph’s foolish aspiration. “You will get yourself killed and what good would that do.”

“But I cannot lose them,” debated Joseph. “I have already lost my home, my dog, and my son, I cannot bear to lose my daughters as well.

I must go find them.”

“Please Joseph,” I pleaded. “Be reasonable. The fort still needs every man it can for its defense. Soon Colonel Sibley will arrive with many

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more men. Then we will catch the culprits of this war and we will find your girls.”

Joseph lowered his head as if to accede. “I know, you’re right,” he said softly. “It would be a shame if I were to go out and get killed and leave Jane all alone.” Joseph sighed in disappointment. “I just feel so helpless thinking of them.”

Before I could reply, an alarm was sounded. Joseph rose to his feet and looked out from the barracks. “The Indians have come back,” Joseph stated. With that Joseph was once again resolute and he hurried out the door to his post.

The drill had now become routine. Lieutenants hollered orders, and soldiers rushed into position. It was a scene that was all too familiar.

Like clockwork each man located his rifle and found his spot along the barricades. It did not matter that each man was tired or that each man was weary. It did not matter that none really even had the strength to save ourselves anymore. The men responded to duty and acted on impulse.

Thankfully, for the fort, the Dakota did not turn into the ravines to renew an attack on the fort. Instead, they continued down the road on the way to New Ulm. This was a relief to the fort, but a discouragement to the men. For we could do nothing but watch them go by. Their forces were too many. To attack them in the open would be overwhelming for the soldiers and would certainly spell disaster. Furthermore, it would leave the fort exposed and defenseless.

I, however, could not settle for this notion. Though I had just convinced Joseph of the imprudence of leaving the fort, I could not convince myself. The feeling of helplessness and the thought of so many innocent lives that might be lost at New Ulm was too much for me to withstand. I thought maybe, just maybe, I could find Little Crow and speak to him and persuade him to halt the attack. I thought maybe I could convince him that the war should be ended and that the Dakota should surrender, or at least retreat. I wasn’t sure how I might accomplish this, but I decided that I had to try. I quietly grabbed a canteen and what few things I had. I looked around and when I found no one’s attention on me, I slipped away into the woods.

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The air was cool that morning as summer gradually turned to fall.

It was calm and comfortable, and the air felt refreshing as it entered my lungs. The sky was caught somewhere between night and day and the growing light enveloped and evaporated the night stars to make way for the morning sun. The horizon had just begun to illuminate as if to announce the coming sun. The trees around me were thick, and the brush was heavy. My path meandered left to right through the dense forest. I could see the Dakota to the south moving like a long and steady train on their way to New Ulm. I was forced to maintain a great distance from the Dakota battalion so as not to be seen or heard.

I could not see Little Crow and I was not sure how I could get him alone in order to negotiate without being discovered and hastily killed by one of his braves.

I continued along, working hard to keep up with the Dakota army while dodging trees and hopping over fallen logs. After some time I tried to hurry my pace while hoping to find Little Crow at the front of the long procession.

I was unable to make much progress as I was slowed by the dense and heavy brush. Finally we came to a clearing where a settler’s home had stood but was now abandoned.

“Set fire to this house,” I heard one of the nearby Indians say in his Dakota language. “Burn everything.”

A small group of Indians broke out from the crowd and began coming in my direction. I squatted low behind a bush and held my breath. The young Indian men entered the house, and within moments, they came running back out as the small wood frame home quickly became enveloped with flames. The small group of Indians paused and admired their work. Then, with a yelp like a pack of hungry coyotes, they turned and ran back to their large convoy of soldiers.

I was not shocked or even surprised by this maneuver by the Dakota.

It was an act of war to show dominance over their enemy and to strike fear in the minds of those they sought to defeat.53 I was saddened, however, at the destruction. I grieved the loss of yet another home that represented the industriousness of the American spirit and the hope of every frontier family.

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As I followed along, the Indians began to burn more homes. As the homes burned, they also set fire to barns, haystacks, and fields of grain.

They became crazed for fire so much that they no longer seemed to be moving forward. Instead they were intent on setting their path ablaze.

The forest was no longer quiet and serene, but roared and crackled with the sound of the rising flames. The smoke rose to the sky and was pushed over the trees and acted like a giant canopy.

Instead of getting closer, I had to expand my distance from the Dakota as they fanned out to all different areas along the road. I extended my distance so great that I could no longer see the Indians, but rather followed the great trail of smoke.

Eventually, the forest began to dissipate and the trees became sparse.

The sun had now distinctly risen in the eastern sky and the morning was bright and beautiful. In the distance the trees cleared, the prairie opened and there sat the large German settlement of New Ulm. It was about 9 a.m. when the Dakota finally reached New Ulm. Immediately they began to gather and assemble themselves for battle.

They had become very spread out by the time they reached New Ulm while some had even ventured south of the Minnesota River to act as a decoy to the on looking men at New Ulm.54 I was left with few options. I had finally located Little Crow, but there were about six hundred armed Dakota braves between him and I. I could return to the fort, but I was fully exhausted and there was no telling what dangers I might encounter on my way back. I decided it was best to stay hidden among the trees and once again I was compelled to be near the action. I leaned low among a grove of elm trees that stood about two hundred yards west of New Ulm. I felt little fear over being discovered, but I felt great anxiety over the dreadful battle that was sure to take place.

From what I could observe, New Ulm was prepared for a desperate fight. The town had built large barricades toward its center. All of the buildings from the outside of the center of town had clearly been abandoned so that everyone could take refuge inside the barricades.

New Ulm was a busy and growing town and I was certain that many settlers must have fled to the town after the attacks of August 18.

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Considering the population of New Ulm and the number of refugees, there must have been at least 1,500 lives at stake.

While the Indians assembled, the defenders of New Ulm assembled as well. Just outside of the city limits was a long line of short barricades that the defenders hunched behind in order to meet the forthcoming attack. There was also a line of skirmishers in the front. They posted themselves on the slope of the western terrace. They looked to be a ragtag group of untrained and poorly armed volunteers. I reckoned there were about two hundred ready and willing to defend the town with their lives. There appeared to be only about thirty men with modern and efficient rifles. The rest had old muzzle-loading shotguns the settlers had brought with them from Germany and some other arms of uncertain efficiency. For an army that awaited attack they seemed very poorly equipped.

On the other side, the Indians formed a long line, which stretched across the town’s entire western front. The flank on each side curved forward as if the Indians were preparing to envelop the entire settlement and all of its combatants. At about 9:30 a.m., the long and unbroken line began to move forward at a slow and steady pace. The entire scene was eerily silent. The only sound came from the low but consistent rumble of earth beneath the feet of the approaching attackers. Even the breeze could be heard as it passed over the empty prairie. The defenders could only look on to what must have seemed to them a frightful and yet very fine spectacle. To inexperienced soldiers the precise moving and massive column of Indians undoubtedly struck fear in their hearts. They could only watch and wait and hope their fate had not been sealed.55 When the Dakota had come within a quarter-mile of the line of defenders, they suddenly broke out, and with a tantrum of fiendish yells, they raced toward the town. The defenders waited until the enemy was within range and fired, but their shots were ineffective. The dreadful enemy continued forward at a reckless pace, not even pausing to place aim on their return fire. Several of the defenders fell dead in just the first few seconds of the attack. “Hold your ground! Hold your ground!� Even from my distant vantage point I could hear the volunteer officers urge their men not to 54

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retreat. But despite the desperate pleas of the officers the men were filled with fear they began to turn and run toward the center of town. One by one at first they retreated to the safety of the buildings. Then, like water through a broken dam, the entire line of defenders retreated as fast as possible to the barricaded four block town center.

As I witnessed the men run for their lives, I feared the town would be taken and all who presided within would be doomed. The poorly trained and poorly armed settlers appeared quite overwhelmed. But, surprisingly, when the Indians reached the outer buildings of the town, they halted their fast-paced and seemingly invincible charge. The only reasoning for this I could conceive was that the men of New Ulm had retreated so quickly that it was thought to be a trap, and one of which the Dakota did not wish to become victims. Instead, the Indians decided to extend their forces and surrounded the town on all sides before continuing their assault.

As I watched war unfold before me, I sat there, helpless, and I started to regret leaving the fort. More than that, I started to regret getting involved in this whole chaotic and bloody mess. I felt so strongly for peace, compromise, and respect, but there was no room for that here. The settlers believed they were destined to capture all of the land and to use it productively. The Indians believed the land could not be owned and utilized but rather it should be protected, cherished, and even worshipped. The two viewpoints clashed again and again and now, before me, I witnessed its ultimate culmination. And who, I pondered, really was the enemy? The Dakota who were merely defending their land and their right to life from an overwhelming and uncompromising force of usurpers, or the whites who only wanted to build a happy and productive life they now saw threatened by a strange and uncommon race? And, although I understood the reasoning from both sides, I did not understand how the human condition could lead itself to such a fate.

Regardless, I was there, and it was real. What part I played mattered not anymore. I continued to watch, barely even able to blink.

Once the Dakota had sufficiently surrounded the town, they slowly began to move forward again. They fired on the settlers fast and constant. The sound of it was almost like the patter of heavy raindrops.

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They took cover in and behind buildings as they made their way up the main street. Building after building they captured as if the town were deserted with no one to stand in their way. Finally, after what seemed like forever, the settlers rallied and began to answer the shots of the Indians. Men returned fire from the inside of buildings which had been loop-holed. This gave the defenders a distinct advantage as they could fire freely while being well protected inside the buildings.

On the north side of town, about three blocks outside of the barricades, stood a four-story Don Quixote style windmill with seventyfive foot sail arms. Inside were a group of men that were particularly effective at halting the Indian advance.56 Eventually the Indians were halted on all points of advance and the battle, like the fort before, became general. For several hours shots were fired constantly with only brief pauses for forces to scuttle from one position to another. Neither side gained a definite advantage over the other. At times it appeared the Indians had the advantage in the fracas. It went on like this the entire forenoon and into the afternoon.

By about 2 p.m., the Dakota recognized that they could take advantage of the strong southerly breeze by setting fire to each building as they captured it. This strategy acted to create a smoke screen that the Indians could hide behind as they moved toward the town center.

Within minutes of the first fire, a huge billow of dust and smoke engulfed the streets and sullied the sky. The roar of flames drowned out the screams of men, the shriek of Indians, and the crack of gunfire. The power of the flames was a force unlike any other and it seemed that the destruction of the town was inevitable. It was like hell on earth.

The Indians took full advantage of the noxious smoke screen as best they could. As the smoke was pushed from the lower part of town and up Main Street they followed in behind it, slowly gaining ground on the now anxious defenders. The men of New Ulm could do little but shoot into the cloud of smoke and hope only to deter the oncoming enemy. Regardless of the odds against them, however, I could see that the defenders fought with great valor and bravery. They continually stood heroically in the face of danger and repeatedly repelled the Indian assaults.

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As the fighting continued and the Indians crept closer, now within just a few blocks of the barricaded town center, I noticed what appeared to be a small group of pioneers enter town from the bluffs on the north.

The men were all mounted, wearing pants, long coats, and fedoras. The men looked to be reinforcements coming to assist the defenders, but I knew this could not be the case. Rather, it was a group of Indians using the clothing issued them by the government to act as a subterfuge to trick the New Ulm defenders. It was a trap! I wanted to shout out and expose the Indian’s deceit, but my voice would never carry that far and my presence would immediately be discovered. I could only watch and hope that the settlers were not fooled by the Dakota stratagem.

My hopes were quickly dashed as I noticed a group of men coming out from the barricades to meet and escort the apparent reinforcements.

Little did they know it was just a clever ruse initiated by the Indians.

As the men made their way out they were suddenly ambushed by the awaiting attackers. The lead defender was shot and almost certainly killed.57 I cringed as the rest desperately retreated to the safety of the barricades. Luckily, most of the men made it back with their lives. Had the Indians waited just a few seconds longer, their ambush would have been disastrous for the settlers.

Time was running out for the settlers. They had fought hard and done well, but the Indians’ advance was relentless. Within an hour or two, it was inevitable that the Dakota would overtake the settlers and finally capture New Ulm. I felt sick at the thought of the 1,500 men and women who would be seized and forced into captivity if not killed, but I knew as well as Little Crow that it was the Dakota’s only chance of winning this war and forcing negotiation.

By late afternoon the sun still shined low in the west, but the day was no longer bright. Rather, the air took on a pale gloom and the sky had a somber gray glow. The opaque view was worsened by the putrid smell. The place was becoming a wasteland of fire, smoke, and death, and one no human being should ever encounter.

It was about 5 p.m. when the battle took a surprising turn. Knowing their time was short, the defenders made a daring and desperate move.

Led by the Honorable Judge Charles E. Flandrau, the New Ulm 57

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defenders assembled a group of about fifty brave men. Judge Flandrau had decided that their last chance to fend off the Indians and save the town was to go on the attack. When the men were armed and ready they broke from the barricades in unison. They ran headstrong straight for the Dakota with courage and brash disregard for their lives. Like it had been choreographed, they all cheered and yelled in a manner that would have done credit to even the wildest Comanche. The Indians were stunned by the bold move and when the defenders came within about fifty feet the Indians turned and ran. The defenders chased the Dakota for what must have been a half mile before they halted and took cover among a large collection of saw logs. The charge was an amazing success for the defenders, who lost few if any lives during the move.58 They forced the Dakota retreat all the way out of town and they were in a fortified position to hold the enemy back.

The defenders’ next move was to intentionally burn all the buildings between themselves and the town center. I am sure this was a difficult decision to order the destruction of the homes and businesses and what little remained of the town, but it was necessary to ensure the safety of its inhabitants. I did not understand the strategy at first, but after some thought I realized that if the buildings were burned and the land was cleared, the Dakota would be unable to take cover behind the buildings and thereby would be unable to encircle the small force of defenders. It was an excellent strategy, but an unfortunate one for the town and its residents. However, it worked. From that point on the Dakota made several attacks but were unable to break through the line of defenders.

By nightfall, most of the firing had ceased and most of the Dakota had accepted their defeat once again.59 By this time my eyelids were heavy, my feet sore, and my body uncomfortable. The day was perhaps the longest and most anxious of my life, and I had had nothing to eat. The sun was setting and I might have been able to slip into New Ulm under cover of darkness or I could make my way back to Fort Ridgely although the road was sure to be filled with retreating Indians. I decided I would attempt to make it into New Ulm where, with hope, I would find food and water. I peered out from the trees and onto the prairie which rustled gently by the wind. I 58

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started out slow, but then began to run. I made it not more than fifty feet when a shot suddenly exploded at my feet and threw dirt into my eyes. I stumbled and fell to the ground. As I started to get up I was struck harshly in the back. I groaned at the pain of the blow and was sent straight back to the ground with a thump. I clenched at the pain as I lied on the ground and then heard the cock of a rifle. I froze with fear. Then, in the language of the Dakota, an Indian man sternly yelled, “Wait! That is the white man Little Crow is so fond of. That is Good Bird.”

“So?” replied the other. “He is still nothing but a white man.”

“You must not kill him. We should take him with us.”

“He should not be here.”

These were the last words I heard before I was struck violently in the skull. It hurt like nothing has hurt before, and I could feel something warm trickle down my neck. I reached for my head but I was paralyzed by pain. I began to feel very dizzy and the pain turned to comfort and then blankness. All of the sudden I was dreaming. I saw myself. I was a boy again playing games with the Dakota children along a gently flowing steam at Kaposia. I was laughing.

59

Chapter 6 Puckachee!

The Dakota Retreat My head ached in such a way I had never felt before. The pain resonated through my skull like the constant beat of a drum. It spread all the way into my nose and eyes and even down my spine. I finally sat up and felt the bump on the back of my head and only then came to realize what had happened and why I was in so much pain. Once I remembered the frightful event that caused my agony, it slowly occurred to me as an actual thought to find out where I was. I looked around my dark and confined space and recognized it as an Indian tepee. It stood about six feet tall with six long wooden poles acting to support the buffalo hide that wrapped around the outside of the structure. I still did not know quite where I was or how long I had been there, but judging by the blankets, pipes, bowls, and cloth within my small shelter, I had been cared for in that tepee for some time. As I thought through all this my pain began to slightly subside and I ascertained that I was once again a captive among the Mdewakaton Dakota Indians. “Puckachee! Puckachee! Fly! Fly!�

Suddenly, I became aware that I was not isolated in my dark, enclosed tent. Outside came the urgent shout of an Indian crier as he galloped by on his steed. The rustle and noise of the numerous people around now became clear. As the crier continued to yell, a thousand more noises joined him. I peered outside to see a massive Indian village with people 60

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and tepees extending far beyond what I could see. Within moments tepees were taken down, while wagons were hitched and loaded, and the cattle were rounded up. Everywhere there was movement of people and things at the most rapid pace.

A mounted Indian halted directly in front of me. “Hurry pale face, unless you want to be shot,” he demanded. Then, with a curt “yah!” and a kick of his horse he was gone.

In less than an hour, the entire Dakota force; women, children, warriors, horses, cattle, oxen, cats, dogs, and materials of all kinds were assembled and ready to move out. The incredible haste with which the Dakota Indians dismantled their camp made it obvious that Colonel Sibley had finally arrived in southern Minnesota and the Dakota were on the retreat.60 The defeat at New Ulm spelled the end of Little Crow’s hopes to push east and extend the war up the Mississippi River. From this point on the Indians would be on the run.61 The entirety of the warring Dakota band and their captives formed a nearly unending procession. The huge mass must have extended at least three miles long. The number of people I estimated was easily in the thousands with over two hundred captives as well as eight hundred warriors and their families.

While marching, I kept to myself and was left mostly alone.

Occasionally, a young brave would sneer at me, but I would just look away and continue to march. I considered myself lucky, first to be alive, but also to have shoes to cover my feet. Most of the other white and half-breed captives had not even moccasins to protect them from the thick and dry prairie grass.62 The huge procession of retreating Indians was a strange but captivating scene to behold. On the outside warriors galloped up and down the line, some as many as twenty times an hour and all the while trying to frighten the captives with their hideous antics. On the inside women walked, each with either a child or an oversized piece of luggage on her back. There were vehicles everywhere. There were wagons, buggies, ox carts, chaises, baker’s carts, and peddler’s wagons.

Each one was filled to the utmost capacity with no consideration for its purpose or ability to haul. The Indians themselves added to the chaotic 61

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melee of the scene. Nearly every Indian donned white man’s clothing and accessories making them appear somewhat ridiculous. The warriors presented a very gay appearance, many with either lady’s bonnets or white crepe shawls wrapped around their black heads. Still others wore furs draped down their bodies and had watches tied around their ankles that clanked as they rode vigorously back and forth up and down the line. The Indian women donned short silk gowns with earrings and brooches that they had taken from the whites. Nothing, it seemed, was too ridiculous for their attire and nothing too costly for them to destroy.

Adding to the disarray of the procession was the absolute and deafening mosaic of noise. The thousands of feet, hooves, and paws that constantly hit the earth created a thunderous and incessant rumble.

Beside the rumble were numerous and uncountable sounds such as the lashing of horses, the clatter of metal goods as wagons rolled across the prairie, and the crying of babies. There were also mules braying, cows lowing, horses neighing, dogs barking, and cats meowing. Then, to amplify all the confusion, there were instruments played by performers not quite adept to their proper notes. If I hadn’t already had a headache by the noise of the procession, I would have certainly acquired one.

For the first time I began to resent the Dakota. I had grown up with the Dakota, and I had always respected their people, their traditions, and their ways. Even at the outset of the war I understood and respected their grievances they held against the whites. I even knew and accepted the fact that the actions of a few rash youth did not represent the people as a whole. I knew these things and I was patient and understanding with them. But to see them now clinging to their spoils of war. I could not help but feel an unmistakable anger deep inside of me, just begging to come out We marched all day until we reached Rice Creek, a total of eighteen miles. We set up an interim camp with tents on the outside and horses, cattle, and wagons on the inside. Since the Dakota were still much hurried they did not bother to make accommodations for the captives and we were forced to spend the night under the wagons. Although most of the captives were anxious, scared, and hungry, I passed a relatively calm and comfortable night. I worried not what happened to myself 62

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and unlike most of the women captives, I had no children for which to worry or protect. I just listened to the crickets and watched the sky turn.

The next morning we were up with the sun to continue our march.

The camp was quickly disassembled and the long and loud procession set off toward the Yellow Medicine Agency. I began to wonder if Little Crow knew of my presence. Since my capture I had really spoken to no one and I had no reason to believe my captors informed the chief that I had been found. I longed to speak with him, but by this time his countenance toward me might have been altered. The Dakota were now on the run and everything Little Crow had warned the warriors of was coming true. I could only guess at his mood and he may have also grown weary of my persistence to disobey his advice and to continually put myself in the way of harm. Maybe this was only my insecurity.

Nonetheless, I thought it best that he should know I was here.

Later that morning, I noticed a woman and her young child sitting under a tree. The woman was white and she was clearly exhausted. Next to her was an old Indian man who was offering her his hand in order to help her up. But she refused. I immediately walked over to see if I could persuade the woman to continue the march.

“Ma’am,” I said as I nearly tripped along the roots of the tree under which she sat. “May I help you by carrying your child?”

The woman gave no response and she didn’t even look at me.

“Ma’am,” I said again. “What is your name?”

The woman leaned her head back against the large stem of the tree and took a few slow breaths. “I am—I am Mrs. Nancy White.” She spoke slowly leaving a pause between each word as if it required too much effort to talk.

Just then the procession stopped; or at least that portion of the procession.

“Mrs. White,” I said, “it is very important that you continue walking or else they will kill you and your child. You see how the procession has halted?” I pointed behind me. “They have stopped to discuss what to do about you.”

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“But I cannot continue,” Mrs. White said grievingly. “I am exhausted, my feet ache, my child is heavy and I am sun struck without anything to cover my head.”

“I understand that Mrs. White,” I replied, “but if you don’t get up and walk you will surely die. You and your child.”

The old Indian returned and pointed to Mrs. White. “Puckachee!” he exclaimed. “Puckachee!” he repeated. Then the old man bent down and scooped up Mrs. White’s child. He took the child away and placed him on a wagon. Mrs. White reached out, but still she did not get up nor even utter a word. The procession then continued forward.

“Mrs. White!” I pleaded. “Please get up and walk or your son will grow up without a mother.”

Mrs. White finally began to stand. I reached for her to help her up.

“Thank you,” was all she said. She reached for the back of the wagon where her son had been placed. She clung to it tightly and with the assistance of the sturdy and moving wagon she marched with the rest of the procession. I felt guilty for having scolded the woman, but it was my only choice.63 After another long day of marching, we finally reached our destination. Ironically, after packing my bags and leaving my home in June, I was now returning home. As we approached the Yellow Medicine Agency, it looked almost surreal. The people were gone, but the homes and stores and warehouses stood untouched just as I had remembered them. It was serene to look upon those buildings in the midst of all that had happened.

Unfortunately, the buildings would not remain untouched. Like so many things before, the buildings at Yellow Medicine would also become casualties of war. When we arrived at the agency the buildings were actually occupied by several men of the Sisseton and Wahpeton bands who had lived in and around the Upper Agency. These were men I knew and many with whom I had grown up with. One man in particular was Paul Mazekutemani.64 Paul was a Christian and farmer Indian since before I was even born. He was a friend of my father’s and a member of my father’s Hazelwood Mission. Paul was also Little Crow’s cousin.

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“Brother,” said Paul as several of his brethren stood behind him.

“We are here to protect these buildings from you. We oppose this war.

We have no quarrel with the whites. We ask you not to destroy their homes.”

“You have no choice,” answered one of Little Crow’s warriors. “We must burn these buildings to protect ourselves. If we do not the white chief will take them and use them against us.”

“Spare the buildings,” said Paul, “and give up the fight.”

“Are you not Dakota?” replied the warrior. “We have given everything, but we will give no more. Stand aside or you will suffer the same fate as these buildings.”

“You are unwise,” was Paul’s last remark.

Little Crow now encountered a new choice. And whether by force or necessity it was a rather different choice. That evening the homes and stores at the Yellow Medicine Agency were engulfed in flames. Once again I had to witness the devastation wrought by fire. The buildings I had visited so many times in my past were now collapsing under the ferocious power of the flames. I could not stop it, I could only watch as we were forced to walk a half mile further down the road. There, just beyond the agency, we set up a more permanent camp. For now, the retreat was halted. The Dakota would need to take time to decide what to do next.

It was now Thursday, August 28, and the Dakota had established their new but still temporary camp. It was quite a massive encampment with about 1,000 tents. Sometimes it seemed more like a city than it did a camp. Just a few miles north of the camp was the Hazelwood Mission.

This was the church my father built and founded. At Hazelwood now was a large group of Sisseton and Wahpeton Indians most likely led by Paul Mazekutemani. They would eventually become a strong opposition to Little Crow and his band of Dakota engaged in war with the United States.

I was in fair condition. The Dakota did not feed us much—mostly just crackers, maple sugar, and water. We were also given some corn and potatoes. It was little nourishment, but it was satisfying. I minded my 65

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business and took on a cheerful attitude while in camp. I thought it best to make myself as agreeable as possible. I was generally left alone, which was good, because had I drawn attention to myself I might have been killed. Some of the warriors and even some of the Dakota women did not look kindly upon the captives. They despised their white prisoners and wished for them to suffer terrible discomfort and agony. They wanted their captives to live in constant fear and often threatened that they would kill them or their children. It made life very uneasy and very uncertain for many of the captives.

But not all of the Dakota felt this way toward the whites. Some were quite respectful of the captives and even sought to protect them.

Some were just good men. From my observation, many captives were allowed to stay in the tent of a warrior or his wife. This was done by some Dakota to protect the captives because an Indian would not dare enter the tepee of another Indian to incite violence.

That afternoon many of the Dakota warriors returned from a visit to the Upper Indian camp at Hazelwood and they were very upset.65 The young braves were arguing amongst each other in a ferocious manner.

Then they began to take out their anger on some of the captives. They spat on the women and kicked the children. They called us “worthless dogs� and threatened we would be dead by sundown. Fortunately this did not go on for long. The warriors instead assembled in great numbers and prepared to return to the Upper Dakota camp. From what I could decipher, the warriors had demanded that the Sissetons and Wahpetons at the Upper Dakota camp join in the war against the white soldiers.

Instead of accepting their demand, the Upper Dakota denied it and, much to the dismay of the Lower Dakota, demanded that the captives be released and allowed to return to their homes and people. This is why the warriors were so upset and began to molest the captives.

The Lower Dakota braves decided to return to the Upper Dakota camp, this time in greater numbers. They hoped the threat of an attack would force the Upper Dakota to accept their demands and join in the fight against the whites. Instead, the Lower Dakota were turned away again. They returned to the camp that night displeased, angry, 66

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and ready to fight. As they rode back into camp they sang the Dakota chant of defiance: Over the earth I come, Over the earth I come, A soldier I come, Over the earth I am a ghost.

The next day, I feared, would bring war between the Dakota themselves. Factionalism had clearly been established among the tribe.

There were those engaged in war with the United States who were mostly, though not exclusively, part of the Lower Bands of Mdewakanton.

These were typically the traditional Dakota. They sought to maintain their traditional ways of living and were opposed to reservation life.

Those Dakota who were not engaged in war were mostly from the Upper Bands of Sisseton and Wahpeton. They created a peace camp of sorts. Typically, those in the peace camp were farmer Indians. They had given up their traditional ways of living and began to assimilate to the ways of the white culture. Neither the warring camp or the peace camp was right or wrong, but it is what created dissension among the Dakota.

Amidst the tension of the camp that night I began to wonder about my family. By now I hoped they were very far away and safe. But they must have worried themselves sick over me, and perhaps they presumed I was no longer living. I also thought of Mrs. DeCamp. I knew she must have still been among the captives, unless she had escaped or been killed. Then I remembered Joseph Coursolle and the plea for his daughters, Minnie and Elizabeth. Surely they were among the captives in the camp. Unfortunately, the camp was too large and sporadic to find any one person except by chance. I put aside my thoughts for the night and hoped I might find Joseph’s daughters alive and well.

The following day was bright and beautiful. The sun warmed the air quickly, and it felt perfectly comfortable. The Indians were noticeably on edge, both in fear of the pursuing soldiers and in frustration at the defiance of their Dakota brothers. But, they kept mostly to themselves, arguing amongst each other about what ought to be done next. I spent 67

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the morning playing with some of the children. We had quite a merry time running and laughing. To laugh with the children was the most invigorating and enriching feeling I had had for some time.

That afternoon the Dakota put many of us to work collecting corn near the encampment. I felt very uneasy at this point. Several of the warriors sneered at me as if their eyes themselves had the power to kill, or at least condemn. I kept up my work and tried not to bother by it.

The work did not last long before tensions were renewed and conflict seemed inevitable. The Upper Dakota came riding into camp causing us to halt our work. They charged the camp, yelling and hollering and shooting their guns in the air. There were about one hundred armed and painted Upper Dakota braves running roughshod through the camp, all wild with excitement. After getting the attention of the Lower Dakota, the Upper Dakota encircled the Soldier’s Lodge. Several men stepped forward to confront the Soldier’s Lodge of the Lower Dakota. These were men I knew from days past such as Paul Mazekutemani, Gabriel Renville, Cloud Man, and Mazomani. Paul Mazekutemani, who always dressed in white man’s clothes, wore a large and beautiful feathered headdress. His face was painted a brilliant blue and red with dark black circles around his eyes. He wore many long and lavish beads around his neck. On his legs were thick black stockings that ran up to his knees.

Though he was not a large man he was a frightful and imposing figure sitting atop his horse before us. Paul stepped forward to speak.

“I want to speak now to you of what is in my own heart.” There was a hush over the large assembly of people both Indian and captive.

“Give me all these white captives,” Paul demanded softly but surely as he moved his arm across the crowd. “I will deliver them up to their friends.

You Dakotas are numerous – you can afford to give these captives to me, and I will go with them to the white people. Then, if you want to fight, when you see the white soldiers coming to fight, fight with them, but don’t fight with the women and children. Or stop fighting. The Americans are a great people. They have much lead, powder, guns, and provisions. Stop fighting, and now gather up all the captives and give them to me. No one who fights with the white people ever becomes rich or remains two days in one place, but is always fleeing and starving.

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You have said that whoever talks in this way shall not live – that you will kill him. Stop talking in that way, and if anyone says what is good, listen to it.”66 With that I was immediately reminded of Little Crow and the speech he gave to his brazen young warriors the day they confronted him at his home and demanded he go to war.

One of Little Crow’s warriors came forward in reply of Paul’s speech, “If we are to die, these captives shall die with us.”

A resounding “Yes!” followed.

“We do not wish to fight you, brothers,” replied Paul. “We only wish for what is right.”

Another Lower Dakota warrior came forward, “The captives should not be released,” he shouted. “Trouble and deprivation have come upon the Dakota and the captives must participate in our suffering and share in our trouble and deprivation.”

Again, there was a resounding “Yes!” that rose from the crowd of Indians.

“Very well then,” returned Paul as he pulled his horse from left to right. “If we cannot have the prisoners we shall reclaim our property.

You have stolen many goods from the half-breeds of the Upper Agency, and we desire to reclaim what is ours.”

To this, there came no reply, just silence. The soldiers looked to Little Crow, who I had just now seen for the first time since being taken captive. Little Crow did not say a word and only nodded.

With that the Upper Dakota fanned out and scavenged the camp for all the property that belonged to them and to their half-breed neighbors. They reclaimed horses, cattle, wagons, silverware and dishes, clothes, flour, and various other goods. The Indian braves scowled at this but none wanted to be responsible for inciting bloodshed. At one point, there was a Lower Dakota brave who refused to release a horse from his grip. The warriors of the Upper Dakota demanded that he release the horse. Instead of giving up the horse, the Indian raised his bow and arrow and pointed it toward his assailant. Everyone stood still for a moment, and it seemed that bloodshed was imminent. Then, another Indian of the Upper Dakota band walked straight toward the Indian 69

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with the bow and arrow. He looked him right in the eye and cut the strap that the horse was held to. He led the horse away and the warrior then lowered his bow. Had he released his arrow, there is no telling what kind of deadly conflict might have ensued.

All the while the Upper Dakota reclaimed their property, Little Crow stood idly by. Many of the Upper Dakota, such as Paul Mazekutemani, were relatives to Little Crow and he knew their intentions. He understood their arguments and their pleas. He did not wish to debate them, because, in many ways he shared their views. And he certainly did not wish to fight them. Beside the fact they were his own people, he knew he could not fight a war against the Upper Dakota and the whites. It must have pained him to witness the divisiveness among his people. At the outset of the war he sought to unite the Dakota and reclaim the greatness his people once knew. Instead, his warriors were on the run, and his people fought each other. Little Crow could see the end on the horizon and he was starting to accept it.

There was grumbling and moaning throughout those moments the Upper Dakota took back all their property. There was an obvious division between the different groups of Indians that now included restrained hostility and for some, even hate. It was a heartbreaking scene to witness.

Once all stolen property had been collected, Paul Mazekutemani formed his men in a line, facing the warring bands of Dakota. Men from each side looked at each other, but they remained still other than the brief stutter of a horse on one side or the other. Once again Paul Mazekutemani stepped forward between the two lines of men to speak.

“Sissetons,” he said addressing his own men. “The Mdewakantons have made war upon the white people, and have now fled up here.”

He did not speak loud, but he spoke clear, and in his own language he spoke concisely. “I have asked them why they did this, but I do not yet understand it. I have asked them to do me a favor, but they have refused.

Now I will ask them again in your hearing.”

Paul then turned his head to the Lower Dakota and paused.

“Mdewakantons, why have you made war on the white people? The Americans have given us money, food, clothing, ploughs, powder, 70

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tobacco, guns, knives, and all things by which we might live well; and they have nourished us even like a father and his children. Why then have you made war upon them? You did not tell me you were going to fight with the white people; and how then should I approve it? No, I will go over to the white people. If they wish it, they may kill me.

If they don’t wish to kill me, I shall live. So, all of you who do not want to fight with the white people, come over to me. I have now one hundred men. We are going over to the white people. Deliver up to me the captives. And as many of you as don’t wish to fight with the whites, gather yourselves together today and come to me—all of you who are willing.”67 There was a hesitation in the crowd while everyone seemed to look at each other. Then, one man began to gather his things. Everyone watched as he took all he had and walked over to the other side. This man was Chaska, one of Little Crow’s head soldiers. Then, several more men followed to leave the band of warring Indians and join the peace camp. Not many Indians walked over to join Paul and his band, but it was enough to once again cause Little Crow sorrow at the divisiveness of his nation.68 Several hostiles began to yell random threats.

“All of the whites will die!” came one voice.

“The half-breeds are devils!” came another.

“Cowards!” came yet another.

A low murmur began to lift from the large crowd. Tensions rose and it felt as if a battle might soon take place. But then, finally, Little Crow stepped forward and raised his hand to his men. The crowd fell silent out of reverence.

“Mdewakantons,” he called loud and clear. “I did not want to fight the whites. I did not want to start a war with our neighbors. But they gave us no choice. I agreed to fight to defend our land, to defend my people, to defend our tradition, and to defend our lives. I will not now fight against those things I have sought to defend.”

Little Crow paused here. He thought for a moment, then lifted his head and spoke again.

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“It is too late to quit this war with the whites. The white man is greedy, like a pack of wolves, for what he calls justice and he will come after us until he has wiped our seed clear from the soil.” As Little Crow continued to speak, his voice changed significantly. It lacked the austere confidence he normally presented. He now sounded weary and dejected.

He spoke as if all hope was lost.

“No, we cannot surrender. Though we may die, we will die bravely, and we will make our fathers and their fathers proud. If I am taken alive, the white men will put me on display like an animal in a cage. They will laugh at my suffering and kill my people before my very eyes. I cannot now stop what has been started. I vow that as long as I live I will roam free like the buffalo once did. No white man will touch me.”69 Little Crow, resigned and defeated, turned and walked away slowly toward his tepee. With a loud whoop Paul Mazekutemani led his men away. They all turned and started the horses on a gallop. They went away quickly while chanting and singing. There was silence and awkwardness left among the camp of Lower Dakota Indians. The Dakota were now decidedly divided. And those who remained to fight were left with a leader whose only goal was not to be taken alive.

The following day, Saturday, August 30, the camp was packed up and forced to move again. This move lacked the haste and urgency of the previous ones, but still it was done with precision and quickness.

Everything was gathered and in most cases, overloaded once again. We moved just a few miles west to within one-half mile of the Hazelwood Mission. The reason for the move, I believe, was to put the Yellow Medicine River between us and the newly reinforced garrison of white soldiers. We were now just a short walk from my home and the place where I had my adolescence. How unfortunate that it comes under such nefarious circumstances.

The feeling in the camp was strange and uncomfortable. Most of the Dakota were angry and bitter. One false look could cause any one of them to lash out. The outlook on the war had become very bleak now that they had two enemies, one of which they knew was too powerful to ever defeat. The captives often absorbed the brunt of the young warriors’ frustration. We faced constant threats from our Indian captors and 72

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continued to live with the uncertainty of life or death—an uncertainty that could cause even the most strong minded of individuals to go mad with fear.

The second night after our move near Hazelwood I was alone and sleeping in a small tepee. I slept rather cautiously and heard the noise of someone approaching from just outside. The person entered my tepee and before I could turn to see the visitor, he gave me a soft kick in the back.

“Are you Alfred?” the young Dakota brave said curtly.

“Yes,” I coughed trying to catch my breath from the sudden jolt.

“Come with me. Little Crow has requested to speak with you.”

I got up and immediately followed the young Indian who could not have been more than fifteen or sixteen years old. He was rather thin and it looked like his bones had outgrown his body. He had a noticeable limp in his step, perhaps an injury from an earlier battle. As I followed him through the darkness of the quiet and resting camp, I felt rejuvenated and relieved. I finally would get to speak with Little Crow, something I set out to do many days prior when I left Fort Ridgely. I had no idea what he might have to say or what temperament he might take toward me, but at least I would have a chance to make some sense out of all this. It was my hope, though it may have been far-fetched, I might persuade him to put an end to all this. Perhaps there was still time for compromise. Perhaps all this misery could be put behind us.

I had to try.

After weaving through countless tents and tepees, we finally arrived at Little Crow’s tepee. The young warrior stepped aside and quietly told me I could enter. I pushed back the buck skin flap that acted as a door and slowly entered. The tepee was dimly lit with several candles on each side and not much else other than some books and a few blankets.

Little Crow sat cross legged with his back hunched and a long pipe burning with kinickinick hanging from his mouth. He looked much older than he had just a week before. His wrinkles were deeper, so much that they cast long shadows on his face. His hair seemed grayer and his eyes looked heavy. He looked as though he could be content to sit there forever.

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Before having said a word, he offered me his pipe. I declined with a shake of my head and a wave of my hand. He then slowly held out his palm to offer that I sit. I looked down and circled like a dog to find a comfortable position and waited to hear Little Crow speak.

“The chiefs, elders, and Soldier’s Lodge held council this night.”70 Little Crow skipped all unnecessary greetings and got straight to the point. “We took much time and allowed everyone to speak his part.

We see this war going against us, but we desire to continue to fight.

But not foolishly like children when their games get taken from them.

We will move forward strategically using caution and cunning. We will fight while we can fight and we will continue to defend our land and our people.”

Little Crow paused here and inhaled three deep breaths on his pipe.

The smoke came speedily from his nose and then slowly from out of his mouth. I took this opportunity to interject.

“What else can be gained by fighting? More whites will die, more Dakota will die, but nothing can be made right.” I tried to sound secure in my argument.

“There is no right to be had,” replied Little Crow who was clearly unmoved by my contention. “All is wrong in war.”

“Then why keep fighting?” I asked.

“I understand the power of the white man. I understand his great knowledge and his ways. I know he cannot be defeated. His numbers stretch from one ocean to the other and everything in between. We do not fight to defeat him or the Great Father. We fight for the land, for the buffalo, and for the Great Spirit who gives us the land and the buffalo.

We fight for something sacred that no pale face man can understand.”

Again Little Crow puffed his pipe. I sympathized with Little Crow’s argument, but still I sighed. I gave my reply.

“The Dakota can never be the same,” I returned disappointedly.

“But there is still time for compromise. There is still time for a future of your people. I know it is not the way of your ancestors, but is it not better than death?”

“We cannot refuse the way of our ancestors,” replied Little Crow sharply. “We cannot live and be treated like dogs who are just fed 74

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left-over scraps and bones that fall from the table. For too long we have suffered. Now we would rather die than suffer more.”

Little Crow spoke quickly and with great conviction. I realized then that I had no place in this debate. “Why have you brought me here?”

I asked politely.

“Tomorrow, the warriors will go out,” Little Crow now spoke in a normal tone. “I will take one hundred ten men and we will go to the Big Woods and then to Henderson and Forest City. We will assault the settlements and drive out the remaining whites that have not yet fled.

Gray Bird, Mankato, and Big Eagle will take two hundred men and head south along the Minnesota and through Hawks Valley. They will travel all the way to New Ulm, which has been abandoned, and collect as much plunder as they can.”

Little Crow paused again to puff his pipe. I still did not understand quite why he had sought me this night.

“In our council this night,” Little Crow continued, “the Soldier’s Lodge said they would kill you.”

My heart suddenly raced in terror.

“I spoke strongly on your behalf, but I could not change their mind.

But, after much debate, they agreed to let you live if you put on Indian dress and fight alongside the Dakota.”

“I cannot,” I retorted quickly. “How could I possibly fight against white men. I refuse to do it.”

“Good Bird,” said Little Crow affectionately. “I know your heart.

You are a good and wise man. It is important that you stay alive for when this is all done. Promise me that you will stay alive.”

I debated this in my head and I grew angry. But the more I thought about it, the more I knew Little Crow was right. I was no good to anyone if I were to be killed. If I was to live, if I was to maintain hope, I would have to become a Mdewakanton Dakota.

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Chapter 7 A Night of Black Despair Battle of Birch Coulee I could remember growing up, feeling like I was a Dakota Indian. I spoke their language, I ate their foods, I knew their customs; I spent more time with the Indians than I did with my own family. I played their games, I went to school with them, I sat around their fires, and I swam in their lakes. As a child, I could not see the difference among the Indians and any other people in my life. The only instances in which I noticed a difference was when a white person would tell them they were different, or tell them to do something different. When I asked my father why they were asked to do things differently, my father said we were there to help them. But it appeared to me like we were trying to change them. As I grew older I became able to distinguish and understand the differences between the whites and the Dakota. Still, I remained conflicted. I knew both ways of life, but I could not judge one as more proper than another. I saw the value and benefit in both cultures. Regardless of the help we tried to offer, the two cultures have always seemed to be pitted against one another; first by practice of religion and lifestyle, and now by matter of life and death. And, whether I opposed it or not, I was forced to take the side of the Dakota.

After having marched north and west toward Yellow Medicine, I was now a part of a march going south and east along the southern bank of the Minnesota River. Little Crow determined it best to assign me as a 76

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member of Wamditanka’s or Big Eagle’s band so that it did not appear as if I was being favored. So, Little Crow sent me with chiefs Big Eagle, Mankato, Gray Bird, and Red Legs, along with about two hundred warriors and their wives and wagons as we headed back toward New Ulm. Our purpose was to collect any plunder that had been overlooked or missed in our hasty retreat. We were also expected to scout any movements of Colonel Sibley and the white soldiers. Meanwhile, Little Crow and about one hundred ten warriors went north and east to terrorize and plunder the settlements of Forest City and Henderson in order to force any remaining white settlers out of the area.

I felt surprisingly comfortable on our march south. I was given the task of driving a mule drawn wagon, which I took to quite pleasurably.

It was a simple chore and it prevented any conflict that might have arisen between me and the young Dakota warriors. And, although I now took on the form of the enemy, it seemed relatively harmless. We were assigned only to collect goods that had been left behind and then return them to camp, so I did not fear that we might encounter a battle.

My greatest discomfort was that of wearing Indian cloth. I had worn Indian clothes before, but solely for the purpose of a brief imitation.

This time I wore Indian dress by force of threat and for the purpose of assimilation. It felt somewhat humiliating to me, but I knew it was the best thing to do, and I really had no other option. Like all the warriors I wore a breech cloth which barely acted to cover me. I had a belt with notches for a tomahawk and knife although I had neither.

Around my shoulder I had a beaded and colorful sash to carry water and ammunition. I was also given a rifle which I laid beside me while I drove the wagon. Around my head I had a small headdress of quail feathers and prairie grass. It was actually quite decorative and even beautiful. I was also covered with a sufficient amount of black and red war paint, I think mostly to cover up my white appearance.

We made a good distance after leaving camp in the morning.

Occasionally, throughout our trek south, we passed the bodies of settlers who had been killed at the outset of the war and whose bodies had been left in eternal slumber for two weeks. The sites of their rotting and disfigured bodies were painfully gruesome and I had to turn my head 77

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at the site of each. The Dakota passed the once lively bodies as if they were no more unusual than a fallen acorn.

By about four o’clock that afternoon, we reached the site of Little Crow’s old camp which was now just a remnant of what it had been a few days before. While the Dakota scoured the camp for any useful materials left behind, movement was noticed far across the river on the opposite bluff.

“Send these men over the bluff,” commanded Big Eagle to one of his lower officers. “They are to act as scouts I gave little thought to this new development and I did not consider that it may have been the army across the river. Surely if they were on the march, I thought, they would come in full force.

After a few hours, the scouts returned with shocking information.

“There are two separate columns of white soldiers,” reported one of the scouts sheepishly. “They have joined to make camp just beyond the river bluffs at Tanpa Yukan.”

This was the place known as Birch Coulee by the whites. Apparently, Colonel Sibley sent these men out as a burial detail and now they were returning to Fort Ridgely. This was the most terrible circumstance I could consider happening. The Dakota knew the position of the white soldiers and they could now make a surprise attack at any time they saw fit. Also, Birch Coulee was not a particularly defensible position. It was in the open prairie with a ravine on the side of the coulee71 and small knolls on all other sides which could act as a shield for any attackers. The site was probably chosen for its comfort rather than for its expediency.

The soldiers, I’m sure, had no idea the Indians were anywhere close by.72 As the Indians planned their attack, I felt increasingly nervous.

I was expected to fight for the Indians and kill the white soldiers. I barely knew how to use a firearm, and I certainly could not kill anyone.

I did not know what I could possibly do. I felt even more anxious at the thought of the helpless soldiers. They would be surrounded in the night by two hundred ruthless Dakota braves and they would all be killed. It would be a massacre. In my heart I wailed and mourned at the possibility of such an outcome and at the horrible part I would play in this noxious scheme.

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As the evening waned and the night settled, the air cooled and the moon shone full among the brilliant array of stars. It was a beautiful night to be out in the wilderness and under the night sky except by the pretense of war. The soldiers must have slept peaceably while the Dakota planned their attack. Slowly and quietly, the nearly two hundred warriors crept through the tall grass, across the river and over the bluffs until the camp was in site. I followed closely behind while feeling overwhelming fear inside, but giving no indication to cause suspicion about my loyalties. By about four in the morning we had the camp surrounded. There were ten pickets with three men at each picket, but they were not far from the camp, which enabled the Dakota to get within short range of the sleeping soldiers. The plan was to surprise and kill the men at the pickets. Then, while the soldiers scurried out of their tents we were to fall on them with such swiftness that they would have no time to defend themselves.

The Dakota crawled ever closer. They did so with amazing stealth without causing the grass to rustle or a branch to break. As we grew closer, I could see that the camp was much larger than the scouts had originally reported. There were many tents, tens of wagons which formed a half circle, and approximately ninety horses around the outside. I estimated their numbers at one hundred fifty men. Suddenly a shot rang out. A guard had seen movement and fired. Like rabbits from a hole the Indians sprang from their lowered positions and fired upon the pickets. Immediately the soldiers retreated as fast as they could. I did not know what I should do so I lifted my rifle to take aim, but before I even had it raised, the Indians were yelling and charging on the camp. The Dakota opened up a ravenous fire. Within minutes all of the horses that had surrounded the camp had fallen dead filled with numerous bullets. The soldiers tried to form a skirmish line, but as they stood they became easy targets and one by one they too fell dead to the earth. They quickly learned that they must lay low and among the ceaseless rapture of gunfire I heard one brave officer yell out, “Lay on your bellies and shoot!�73 I knew that if I did not take part, the Indians would notice and eventually hold me accountable for my actions. I raised my weapon and 79

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took aim at the camp. I was shaking with nervous tension and I could not make myself pull the trigger. Just then someone put his hand on my shoulder. I turned to see Chief Wabasha who said, “Shoot up.”

I furled my brow and stared back at him.

Again he said, “Shoot up.”

I thought for a moment and suddenly understood that Wabasha was advising me to aim high as I shot in order to make it appear that I was fighting for the Dakota. I returned to my rifle and I felt much less anxious. I fired high, and from then on, I made it appear as if I was fighting with as much fervor and determination as any other of the Indians that day.74 In the first five minutes of the fight, many soldiers were killed or wounded. But they remained stout and eventually returned fire with as much pace and vigor as had been fired upon them. Because of the soldier’s sheer determination the Dakota had to remain about two hundred yards back of the camp where they were safe because of the elevated knolls in the prairie and the birch trees on the top of the ravine.

The soldiers maintained their safety by pushing over their wagons and lying behind the dead horses. The Dakota kept up a heavy fire, but the barricades created by the soldiers made it difficult to get off a clean shot.

The battle settled in this way with the Indians raining a constant fire on the soldiers while the soldiers returned just enough fire to keep the Indians from charging. Surely had the Dakota ordered an all-out charge the soldiers would be overtaken and all would have perished. But, and I was grateful for this, that charge was never ordered.

Eventually, the sun rose and became high and bright in the sky.

For hours the fight continued until the noise of battle sounded almost normal, even tranquil. Sounds such as the constant clang of bullets as they struck the wagons, the buzz over my head as flying bullets ripped through the air, the continual cry of the wounded soldiers, the cheers of the army officers to keep their men of sound mind, all combined to make the dreadful sounds of war seem as normal and steady as the ticking of a clock.

The day continued on, and the Indians had an easy time of it. It was never necessary to have all of the warriors attacking the camp, 80

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so the Indians took turns. Some fought while others returned to the Indian camp to relax and take a nap in the grass. The Dakota women even prepared a nice meal for the warriors to feast upon whenever they pleased. Meanwhile the soldiers had a much more difficult time. They were trapped and barely able to move. They could not get up to find food or water or any other kind of provisions. They stayed low and even used their bayonets to dig themselves shallow rifle pits. It was agonizing to know what kind of fear and suffering the soldiers faced.75 Late in the afternoon, scouts sent word that an army column of about one hundred seventy five men was headed toward Birch Coulee.

Immediately, chief Mankato gathered fifty braves and went out to meet the column. I remained at Birch Coulee where the fighting continued.

After some time cannon fire could be heard in the distance. I was ecstatic to think that the army may have challenged Mankato and now been on its way to finally relieve the desperate men in the camp.

However, still more time passed and the sound of cannon fire dissipated.

Apparently, the relief column did not know how dire the situation was at Birch Coulee and they pushed back.76 Night came and the fighting slowly died down. Most of the warriors retreated for the night while some kept watch on the soldiers’ camp. I cannot imagine the tension the soldiers felt that night. The bodies of their comrades lay nearby, some of them still moaning in agony, and the stench of the dead horses began to reek. They could not close an eye and had to remain ever watchful for an enemy charge. At any moment, through the darkness of night, the Indians might have come for their lives. For the soldiers, it was a night of black despair.77 The next morning the Indians once again surrounded the soldiers’ camp. However, before the fighting continued, one Dakota warrior rode up close to the camp under the white flag of truce. The warrior had a proposition to make. He pulled his horse to a halt, about fifty yards from the barricades, and raising his voice in Dakota he yelled, “We are as many as the leaves on the trees. Soon we will come to kill every soldier. We do not want to kill our brothers. All in camp who have Dakota blood come out. We will not harm you.”

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There was no immediate reply, just silence. The soldiers were discussing what action they would take. Then, after a few short minutes a very defiant private stood and replied, “Fah! Cowards! You do not dare. Every man in camp has five guns ready to shoot. You fight like Chippewas! Go back and stay with the women!� He then completed his statement by spitting derisively toward the messenger.78 This upset the Indians very much and all of them began to grumble.

The Indian messenger turned and headed back to the line, but before he reached it, the soldiers fired rapidly upon him, killing his horse. This enraged the Dakota warriors and the fight was back on.

The battle raged as the Dakota poured heavy numbers forward.

They raised demonic yells that carried across the prairie like the howl of a hungry pack of wolves. The soldiers hunched themselves in their little pits of dirt and behind the reeking and bloated bodies of their horses.

They picked and chose their shots with skill and careful thought. Every hopeful advance was repelled with a quick and careful yet desperate fire of the encircled soldiers. For several more hours the fight went on like this. The Indians knew they had the advantage and chose not to make any unnecessary risks. The soldiers had limited resources and would eventually become exhausted from hunger, thirst, and the sheer hopelessness of their situation.

Early in the afternoon, the Dakota had become dissatisfied with the slowness of the fight and the stubbornness of the whites. The Indian chiefs gathered and decided it was time to mount a major assault and finally overtake the soldiers. I gnashed my teeth in despair for the soldiers at hearing this. I could not bear the horror that faced the white soldiers. The men that had died, and would die, and the families that would lose a father or a son or a husband! Their fate, it seemed, was sealed, and I could do nothing to change it.

The firing finally ceased. The prairie was calm and quiet. All that could be heard was the breeze as it slowly passed through the leaves of the trees and over the tall prairie grass. The Dakota lined themselves low in the grass just beyond the knoll on the western side of the field.

The soldiers peeked over their barricades and knew the silence was a precursor to the end. As they lie in wait they counted their last breaths.

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Knowing death was approaching, one soldier broke the silence with a desperate plea yelling, “You do very wrong to fire on us. We did not come out to fight; we only came to bury the bodies of the white people you killed.”79 There was no reply.

As the wind settled, I looked up to see a large group of geese flying quickly through the sky. Just then a Dakota warrior came galloping by yelling to all the men, “There are three miles of white men coming!

There are three miles of white men coming!”

Finally, I thought, Colonel Sibley!

There was a great commotion and excitement, and the Dakota rose to their feet and began to run back across the river and toward the temporary camp.

The battle at Birch Coulee was over, and though we now ran for our own lives, I felt an infinite relief for the lives of those soldiers who were now saved. For thirty-three hours the soldiers were pinned down under near hopeless circumstances. They withstood the gnawing pangs of hunger, the desperate thirst for water, and the nauseating stench of death, all with no certainty of escape. Birch Coulee was a one sided victory in favor of the Dakota, but a triumph of human spirit for those soldiers who fought bravely and outlasted the stalk of death.80 I was ashamed at the role I had played in the massacre. But I took joy in our retreat. With the Dakota on the run and with Colonel Sibley’s strong numbers, this war could not go on much longer.81 When we returned to camp, things were quiet but uncomfortable.

The captives appeared depressed and lifeless and even the children did not have the energy to play. They hunched together slowly passing the time and looking more like ghosts than anything else. The Dakota warriors carried angry scowls upon their faces and often squabbled amongst each other. They lashed out in sudden scenes of anger and bitterness. They seemed to suspect one another of being friendly toward the whites. In the meantime, the peace camp of Dakota, just one half mile off, still plotted of ways to undermine the warring bands of Dakota and eventually release the captives. Ultimately, I am sure some Dakota 83

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from the peace camp did manage to make off with captives and lead them safely to Fort Ridgely.82 On Saturday, September 6, Little Crow and his band returned to camp. They were noticeably disgruntled, and they only added to the discomfort of the camp. I quickly learned that their mission had been completely unsuccessful and that there had been many disagreements.

Apparently, Little Crow had proposed a truce with Colonel Sibley, but before it could be sent most of his warriors vehemently rejected it.

They sought, instead, to attack Forest City and Hutchinson to loot and plunder the towns. The disagreement grew to such a level that the group split up and were only reunited to fight a small group of Minnesota Army Volunteers. They did move on in an attempt to plunder the towns of Forest City and Hutchinson, but their assaults were not very successful because the townspeople were well prepared to defend themselves.83 Now, on their return to camp, they were still very bitter. Many once again drew the conclusion that Little Crow was a traitor to their cause because of his political strategy for peace. It led to much uneasiness among the Indians and made each wonder where the loyalties of his neighbor lie.

The next day there was a great stir in the camp. The Dakota began to gather and discuss some new information among them. I could not determine for myself what the information was and I feared making my curiosity known. Was Colonel Sibley making a threat, I wondered?

Were the Sissetons and Wahpetons offering to join the fight? I mulled around and tried to listen in to the discussion, but this was futile. Each time I was seen, the Indians turned away and would not allow me to hear their arguments. But, I did not have to wait long to find out the source of the commotion. As I sat off to the side, Little Crow came out from the growing crowd.

“Ho, my young friend,” Little Crow said as he sat next to me.

I only nodded in return. By this time I had become irrevocably confused by the chaos that was continually unfolding before my very eyes.

“I have a letter from Colonel Sibley.” Little Crow went straight to the matter at hand. “He left it on the battlegrounds at Birch Coulee for 84

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me to see. I want you to interpret it for me. I want to be certain what it states.” Little Crow then handed me the letter.

I was very pleased when I saw the contents of the letter. I took a moment to translate it in my head and then read it aloud to Little Crow: “If Little Crow has any proposition to make, let him send a halfbreed to me, and he shall be protected in and out of camp.”

“Now I know,” said Little Crow, “because I know I can depend on you to tell the truth.”84 Little Crow slowly stood. I handed the letter back to him and he walked away. Again he appeared much older to me as he walked away, as if he were so old that he had no one left in this world.

In my initial reaction, I was offended and hurt at Little Crow’s assertion that I might not be trusted. In a proud, self-righteous sort of way I considered myself to the most trustworthy person in both camps, Indian or white. But I quickly realized that it was not for him to realize that I was honest, but for all the young Dakota warriors who did not know or understand me well. He wanted them to see that I was trustworthy.

I took pleasure at the information in the letter as I am sure Little Crow did too. For this time it was the whites, not Little Crow who proposed to open peaceful negotiation. Surely even the most hostile of the Dakota would now be open minded to the notion of talking with Colonel Sibley so that a settlement might be reached. And, with the recent victory at Birch Coulee, the whites were much more likely to be compromising.

Later that day a council was called of both the peace camp and the warring bands to discuss what action should be taken next. The atmosphere was turbulent and confrontational. The council centered on the proposition of exchanging the prisoners for a negotiated peace.

The opinion of each Indian varied greatly and each held stringently to his own belief.

The council opened with Little Crow reading Colonel Sibley’s letter and then asking how it should be answered. There was an instant uproar even before Little Crow had a chance to finish speaking.

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The first man to step forward was Standing Buffalo, who was a member of the Upper Dakota. He raised both hands high in an attempt to quiet the crowd.

“Brothers!” he yelled out. “My Dakota brothers, listen to me.” As the crowd settled he began to speak. “While I am but a boy, I am the chief of our people. My father had dealings with the white people and I am afraid that you are going to destroy them all, and I dread the idea even that the connection that my father had with the white people, meaning the treaties that had been made between my father and the white people, should be destroyed. We live by the white people and by them alone. It would be well if you would end this thing now.”85 The crowd of Indians grew loud as some cheered Standing Buffalo while others jeered. Before the commotion could grow another Indian stepped forward. This Indian was Rdainyanka, who was the son-in-law of Chief Wabasha who had sympathized with me at the battle of Birch Coulee.

Rdainyanka raised his voice loud and clear to ensure that even the captives could hear him. “Ever since we made treaties with them,” shouted Rdainyanka, “their agents and traders have robbed and cheated us.” Rdainyanka then stood up on a barrel so he could be seen by everyone like a hawk perched on a roof. “Some of our people have been shot, some hanged, others placed upon floating ice and drowned, and many have been starved in their prisons. It was not the intention of the Dakota nation to kill any of the whites until after the four men returned from Acton and told what they had done. When they did this, all the young men became excited and commenced the massacre. The older ones would have prevented it if they could, but since the treaties, they had lost all their influence. We may regret what has happened, but the matter has gone too far to be remedied. We have got to die. Let us, then, kill as many of the whites as possible, and let the prisoners die with us.”

Before Rdainyanka could even step down, the crowd broke out into incoherent choirs of cheers, jeers, and taunts. Men and women alike shouted against or in support of Rdainyanka’s argument.

For a time the council continued like this. Each man took his turn giving his argument. Some were long, repetitive monologues while 86

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others were brief but convicting statements. Each time the crowd roared, giving their personal responses. No matter who spoke, it was clear the tribes were divided and that a consensus was impossible.

Finally, Paul Mazekutemani rose up so he could say his part. Like Rdainyanka, he stood high on a barrel and lifted his arms until the commotion had settled. “I am going to tell you what I think, and what I am ready to do, now and hereafter,” he projected his voice over the entire audience. Within moments everyone became silent. “I am going to tell you something you don’t like. You have gotten our people into this difficultly through your incitements to its rash young soldiers,” he said in a callous manner referring to the Mdewakanton. “I am opposed to their continuing this war, or of committing further outrages, and I warn them not to do it. I have heard a great many of you say that you were brave men, and could whip the whites. This is a lie. Persons who will cut women and children’s throats are nothing but cowards. You say the whites are not brave. You will see. They will not, it is true, kill women and children, as you have done, but they will fight you who have arms in your hands.” Despite Paul’s provocations, the crowd was still quiet and listened intently. “I am ashamed of the way that you have acted toward the captives. Fight the whites if you desire to, but do it like brave men. Give me the captives, and I will carry them to Fort Ridgely.”

Paul’s voice grew louder once again and he spoke with conviction. “I hear one of you say that if I take them there the soldiers will shoot me.

I will take the risk. I am not afraid of death, but I am opposed to the way you act toward the prisoners. If any of you have the feelings of men, you will give them up. You may look as fierce at me as you please, but I shall ask you once, twice, and ten times to deliver these women and children to their friends.” Paul paused and looked defiantly across the crowd. “That is all I have to say.”

The crowd exploded in a jumbled uproar of shouts and yells. The warriors raised their fists and jumped up and down while bumping into each other like some kind of uncontrollable dance. The noise and commotion was deafening to my ears.

After several minutes the men finally began to settle. But, before the council could be dismissed, the hostiles had to refute Paul’s tirade.

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The last man rose to speak and with his words he managed to create the largest uproar yet. He was in favor of continuing the war and in a cynical manner he said, “We must all die in battle or perish with hunger, and let the captives suffer what we suffer.”86 With that the men yelled once again, nearly all in unison. Then, as if on cue, they dispersed running in every direction like wild animals.

As the council broke, I knew Little Crow would be writing a response to Colonel Sibley. The council did nothing to help Little Crow in that cause. He was given a difficult task on which the future of his people hinged. The council did make clear that the Lower Dakota would not be willing to give up the captives. It was also likely that the captives could not be used as a bargaining tool. Though Little Crow had proven himself as a savvy politician, under the circumstances he had no leverage for persuasion or negotiation. I know Little Crow wanted a peaceable agreement, but he did not have enough control. He had become a figurehead of a divided cause that was fueled by immaturity and ignorance. Little Crow’s hands were tied.

Not long after the council, as I was making my way to check on some of the captives, a young man whom I immediately recognized approached me.

“Thomas!” I exclaimed with a smile.87 “Alfred,” he said as he reached to shake my hand.

“It has been years now. Why, I have not seen you since I went off to school.”

“Yes,” replied Thomas, “it has been quite a long time. But I still recall dearly our time at the mission together. So sad it has come to this.”

“Indeed,” I said somberly. “Are you captive then?” I asked.

“I would not say I am a captive. As a half-breed the hostiles believe I am on their side. But I can say I am here against my will,” Thomas explained.

I noticed a piece of discolored and somewhat ragged paper in Thomas’s hand. “Is that…” I stuttered, “is that Little Crow’s response to Colonel Sibley?”

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“Yes, that is why I have come to you,” Thomas replied as he lifted the paper to put it in view. “I have been asked to escort it to Fort Ridgely, and I would like you to come with me.”

“Of course,” I said without hesitation. “But first I must get Little Crow’s consent.”

“Very good,” said Thomas. “I will go with you.”

We walked hurriedly over to Little Crow’s tent. Why Thomas was so anxious I did not know.

When we arrived, Little Crow was alone in his tent. Thomas did not waste any time as we stood before him and asked if it was all right for me to accompany him.

“Are you not afraid?” Little Crow asked me.

“By this time fear has become my least concern,” I replied. “I will go anywhere I am told.”

“You can go then,” Little Crow said while laughing. “I will get you a rig.”

Thomas and I thanked Little Crow and walked out together. We went back to Thomas’s tent and soon after, a small mule-drawn buggy was brought to us. We quickly gathered whatever we might need and started on our way to Fort Ridgely.

It was a long trip made short by conversation and by our determined little mule. Thomas told me about what he had been doing since I saw him last at the mission school and I told him all about my time at school and my friendship with Little Crow. At the time of the outbreak he was living near the Upper Agency when his home was surprisingly ransacked. He was spared only because of his Indian ancestry and was taken prisoner.

We stopped only a few times on the way to the fort. Once on our way through Yellow Medicine, we halted at an Indian grave that had a white handkerchief hung from it. The handkerchief had a blue spot on it, but it was the closest thing we could find to a truce flag. Later, at a home near the Redwood Agency we stopped and took half an hour to scrub the handkerchief clean of the blue spot.

At about four in the afternoon, the day after we had left the camp, we came in site of the fort. Our presence created some excitement, but 89

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we held our handkerchief high to indicate that we did not come as enemies.

Before long a Captain came riding out to meet us. The man raised his hand to salute us and asked very succinctly, “Where have you come from?”

“We are from Little Crow’s camp,” answered Thomas. “We bear with us a reply from Crow to Colonel Sibley’s letter. It is for Sibley alone.”88 “Ah,” he said, “you stick to that until you see Colonel Sibley.”

The man, who I later learned to be Captain McPhail, then led us through the picket line and into camp.

As we entered, a group of soldiers met us and formed a guard around us. They appeared squeamish and must have felt very uneasy knowing we had come from the hostile camp. They led us into the mess hall and fed us a decent meal of beef, corn, and apple wedges. I was famished, and I can say it was the best I had eaten for weeks. Just after our meal we were taken to Colonel Sibley’s tent where we waited apprehensively to speak with the Colonel.

We were interviewed separately. Thomas went in first with the letter.

I continued to wait and thought about all of the things Colonel Sibley might ask me. After just fifteen minutes Thomas exited and told me that the Colonel would see me.

I pushed back the door flap and entered the large rectangular tent.

Toward the back and in the center was a large wooden desk that was absolutely littered with papers, maps, notebooks, and several quill pens.

To each side were large candles that had been well used as shown by the dry wax that spilled over the sides and onto the desk. Behind the desk stood Colonel Sibley. He was tall and somewhat slender but he looked imposing in his decorated army outfit. His hair, which had receded to expose a large forehead, was long and pulled across his head, but had become misplaced and disheveled. He also had a mustache that curled just over the sides of his mouth and a small tuft of hair just underneath his lower lip.

“Welcome,” the Colonel said just after saluting me. “Please, have a seat.”

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Out of politeness I waited for the Colonel to sit first. Oddly, he reminded me very much of Little Crow. He was a man of like age and like position. And, just as Little Crow, he was a man on which much depended. Also, although Colonel Sibley was a man to be revered, even feared, he appeared old and tired. He seemed uneasy, almost fragile, as if he had not slept for days. For all I knew, perhaps he hadn’t.89 “What is your name, son?” Colonel Sibley began.

“Riggs, sir. Alfred Riggs.”

“Riggs,” Colonel Sibley said inquisitively. “Is the missionary Stephen Riggs your father?”

“Yes,” I replied as my eyes widened a little. “Have you met my father?”

“Surely I have, he is here. He is working on this expedition. He is our chaplain.”

My heart leapt at hearing this. First to know my father was safe and second that he would know that I was safe. However, I knew he would be unhappy with my continued involvement in this terrible war.

“I should be very happy to meet with him,” I said to Colonel Sibley.

“Of course, that will be arranged, but first I would like to ask you a few questions.” Colonel Sibley reached for his notebook.

I nodded in return.

“I must know,” he continued, “if you are white, why are you dressed as the Dakota dress?”

“Ironically,” I returned, “it is for my own protection. Many of the warriors deeply resented my presence in the camp and so the Soldier’s Lodge determined that if I was to remain alive, I must dress like a Dakota and show loyalty toward their cause. I had to oblige.”

“I understand. What is the situation like at the camp?”

“It is tense and uncomfortable.” I tried to be as honest as possible.

“Why?” asked Colonel Sibley.

“Not all of the Dakota are waging war. And, even those who are do not know what action should taken. There is a large and growing faction of peace seeking Dakota who wish to see the captives set free. But the hostiles are still in control and they have become stubborn.”

“And what is Little Crow’s position?”

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I thought on this for a moment, but was unsure how to articulate what Little Crow now sought and hoped for. “Little Crow knows he cannot beat your army. He wishes to negotiate, but he knows as soon as he relinquishes the captives, the white courts will show no mercy on his people. He is stubborn too and I believe he will do what is necessary to uphold his people, his tradition, and himself, even if it means his death.”

“I was afraid of that,” replied Colonel Sibley somberly. “I know Little Crow well from my days hunting elk with him. But we now have conflicting interests,” Colonel Sibley said as he looked to the side. “It is my job to ensure the safe release of all captives and this is an end to which I cannot fail.” Colonel Sibley turned his eyes toward me once more. “I will write up a reply and have it ready for you in the morning.

Until then, I will see that you speak to your father.”

I rose and gave Colonel Sibley a respectful salute. I turned and walked out of the tent feeling content with Colonel Sibley’s patient determination. Next I would see my father.

Thomas and I were given a small room in the barracks. It was familiar to me now since I had been there not long before during the siege at Fort Ridgely. I thought of Joseph Coursolle and his wife Jane and hoped that he had not fallen at the Battle of Birch Coulee. I did not know if he was at the fort and since I had no news of his daughters I did not want to disappoint him with that.

Later that night, around midnight, a knock came at the door. I had not yet gone to sleep. I was at a small desk, or table really, writing. I tilted my head and said, “Enter.”

My father appeared from behind the door and slowly walked in. I immediately rose and smiled and then quickly walked forward to shake his hand. My father was hesitant.

“Father,” I said, “are you okay?”

“I’m sorry,” he replied, “I was just startled by your choice of clothes.

Have you become a Dakota?” My father cracked a smile as he spoke almost sarcastically.

“Oh, of course not. If I could describe to you the things I have been through. Regardless, it is good to know we are both safe.”

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“Indeed it is.” My father still appeared uncomfortable as if he had something he needed to admit.

“You seem uneasy.” I tried to say this as inoffensively as possible.

“I want you to stay here. I don’t want you to go back to the Dakota.”

“And I don’t want to go back, but it is has become my duty.”

“Your duty is to your family,” my father replied almost before I had finished speaking.

“Little Crow trusts me,” I argued. “I must go back and help bring this conflict to an end. And, if I don’t return, it will anger many of the warring Dakota. It may persuade them to start killing captives.”

“You are being foolish,” my father said, now beginning to sound angry. “Besides, what can you do to change the outcome?”

“I know it is dangerous. I know it is irrational. But I believe in Little Crow. I believe in the strength and will and good heartedness of the Dakota.” I spoke confidently but it was a gentle plea. “They need an ally.”

“Alfred, how can you say these things after you have witnessed such wanton savagery on the settlers? On women and children even.”

“You know very well I don’t support the death and murder that comes from this war.” I began to feel uncomfortable when I realized I had never argued with my father before. “There is an understanding that has to be met, a compassion that must be given, a mutual respect that must exist. I know I can’t change things, but I can’t walk away.”

“You are a good man, and I am proud of you,” my father said, “but I forbid you to go back to that Indian camp.

“But, Father!” I exclaimed.

“You will go to St. Anthony to be with your mother and your brothers and sisters.”

“No! I will not,” I said defiantly and I stood straight as if to make myself more astute.

“I am not giving you a choice here Alfred,” my father retorted.

“In the morning I am going back to the Indian camp. I have to see this through.”

“You have never disobeyed me; don’t disobey me now.”

“I’m sorry, Father, but I am going back.”

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My father took a breath as if he would speak again. He looked directly into my eyes, but then turned, left the room and slammed the door behind him. I did not know what I just did, I did not know what compelled me.

I did not see my father before leaving. I looked in every direction, not searching him out, but somehow expecting he would appear. But he never showed himself that morning. Thomas and I loaded our buggy and left early with Colonel Sibley’s reply. The letter was sealed, but our curiosity was too great, so after travelling some distance from the fort, Thomas and I carefully broke the seal and read the letter. Colonel Sibley replied as follows: You have murdered many of our people without any sufficient cause. Return me the prisoners, under flag of truce, and I will talk to you like a man. I have sent your message to Governor Ramsey.90 The reply was curt and to the point. Sibley left no niceties, just a statement to blame Little Crow and then demand that he meet and negotiate. I do not know what I expected, but I felt satisfied at this letter. Thomas and I resealed the note and continued on our way. The trip back was uneventful and plain. Nothing happened that would even be of interest to a child. I had a lot on my mind though. I felt ashamed at disobeying my father and denying my family. I felt regret as we rode back to camp, but I could not change what happened.

When we arrived back at camp, everything was in disarray. Half of the camp was gone and what was left, was being packed and ready to move. After finding members of the Soldier’s Lodge and handing over Colonel Sibley’s letter, we were instructed to pack up and follow the procession north. Apparently the Dakota had determined that they needed to put more distance between themselves and the white army.

I was not sure how far we would go, but I knew the direction we were going. We were headed toward Lac qui Parle.

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Chapter 8 But Die, if Die you Must Intertribal Conflict among the Dakota The prairie sun was stifling hot. The rising dust from the road made the air filthy and it stuck to my skin like honey to bread. If the walk itself was not exhausting enough, the heat, the choking air, and the heavy loads of goods and plunder made it almost impossibly exhausting. Of all the processions yet, this was the most difficult. To begin, the warring bands and the peace camp had chosen to travel together. This made for a massive caravan that was nearly six miles long all pushing down the same road. Everything had to be taken—all of the livestock, all of the equipment, all of the plunder, and all of the captives. Everyone and everything was dragged, pushed, pulled, and trudged over the dusty road and through the dry grass. And, what’s more, there was no time for rest. The Indians were anxious to put as much distance between themselves and Colonel Sibley, no matter how awful the trek north became.

While the procession was still getting underway, I witnessed the most horrifying and heart-wrenching scene of this war yet. As we marched, I looked to the south, over the rolling prairie and into the woods toward my home; toward the Hazelwood Mission. With a gasp I saw my father’s home and his church gone up in flames. The flames enveloped both buildings and the smoke bellowed into the sky. With 95

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those flames were lost years of hard work, dedication, and the hopes of many faithful servants such as my father. What a treacherous act and one I could not believe Little Crow allowed to happen. Heartbreak turned to contempt, utter contempt for this cruel and ghastly war and the vile fiends who perpetuated it. The hope I had clung to for so long suddenly became criticism. And, for those moments, while I watched my youth go up in flames, vitriol boiled through my veins like a caustic substance.

From that point I lumbered along, feeling no inclinations to anyone or anything. I kept my head low and deflected any precept of attention that was directed toward me. I did not care. I did not care for the captives, I did not care to appease the warring Dakota, I did not care for myself. I had already lost everything and my father was right to be upset. I had reached a breaking point and I cared only to move ahead toward our destination, where I could wallow in my sufferings.

Later that afternoon, however, something changed. As I lumbered forward through the dry and prickly prairie grass, I came behind the most poor and wretched looking captive woman. Her clothes were wet and dirty, her skin was covered in dust, and her hair had turned prematurely white, most likely out of fear. What struck me most were her feet. She had made this entire journey barefoot and now her feet were dirty, bruised, and cut to the point of bleeding.

“Excuse me,” I said cautiously.

The woman continued walking in a slow and methodical fashion.

She limped on both her right and her left steps.

“Excuse me,” I said again as I tapped her on the shoulder.

The woman stopped and paused as if she wasn’t sure if she should acknowledge me. Finally she began to turn her face in my direction. She was a white captive but her face was dark with dirt so that the whites of her eyes gleamed like pearls in the sand. She did not look tired or afraid or even hopeless. She just looked like she had accepted her role as a captive to the Dakota.

“Pardon me ma’am, but your feet, they are bleeding. They must hurt.”

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The woman did not respond. To my surprise, she actually continued walking.

I leapt forward and suddenly felt quite spry. I tapped her on the shoulder once more.

“Ma’am, I want to help you. I have cloth for your feet.”

When she heard this she stopped, turned again, and with a slight smile said, “I would like that.”

In my waist pocket I had the cloth Thomas and I had used as a truce flag. I took the cloth out of my pocket and tore it in half. I then wrapped the woman’s feet as carefully as I could.

“Thank you,” she said gratefully as she got up to continue walking.

“Who are you?” she asked. “You don’t look like an Indian.”

“My name is Alfred. I am the son of a missionary and an interpreter to Little Crow.”

“I am Sarah, Sarah Wakefield. My two sons and I have been prisoners ever since the Indians started this uprising.” There was no stress to her voice and she spoke plainly.

“I am sorry for the suffering you are going through,” I said apologetically. “This war has gone on long enough.”

“Do not feel sorry for me,” Sarah replied. “It is true this dusty road and dry prairie does nothing for my looks, but we each have our own lot, we each carry our own burden.”

I was enlightened by Sarah’s response. I was amazed that despite all her suffering these past weeks, she had no apparent resentment.

“But they have taken everything from you. And now they force you to march without rest, without water, without even moccasins to cover your feet.”

“They have,” Sarah said softly and then paused to wipe the dirt from her brow. “But I can’t help to think of their loss.”

I did not reply. I wondered to myself, in my current demeanor of contempt, still outraged over the loss of my father’s church, how could she take such a forgiving attitude.

“I may be right, I may be wrong,” Sarah continued, “but I believe our own people are to blame for all this.”

I continued to listen, and I was quite perplexed.

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“We starved them, we cheated them, we lied to them. We took their land and tried to change their ways. And their Great Father, their very own Father did not provide what he promised. In the end they know no justice but in dealing out death for their wrongs.”

There was silence between us as we both thought about our situations. She was right, this unenviable prisoner. She was right to be forgiving, to be understanding. Not that there was justification for the irremediable wrongs that had been done, but that hate and contempt are too heavy a load to bear.91 Sarah and I spoke for the rest of our trek that day. She was a stout-hearted woman and did not deserve what had befallen her and her family. She had lost hope in Sibley’s coming and instead took to her role among the Indian women. She said she busied herself with cleaning laundry, making bread, frying meat and potatoes, and sewing dresses for the women. Sarah also related to me several stories of Indian generosity. She went as far to say that there are many, very many good, kind-hearted Indians. Despite her situation, Sarah was content in all things. I was glad to meet her that day, as she renewed my spirit.

As we marched, we came very near Lac qui Parle. This was the place I was born and where I spent my early childhood growing up with the Dakota. We had marched sixteen miles that day without rest and the caravan began to stagger a bit. It was obvious that the people and even livestock had been overworked, but the Indians pressed on.

Suddenly, the march was halted. Off in the distance, toward the front of the line, I could hear whooping and yelling and firing of guns.

There was a great commotion and excitement and some panicked at the thought that Sibley and his army had arrived. As I got closer I could see that it was not Sibley, but another band of Dakota. One hundred and fifty Sisseton warriors lined the road and refused to let Little Crow pass.

The man who led this band was Red Iron. He was a man I recognized from his trip to Washington in 1858.

After what seemed like many minutes, the commotion finally settled.

Out in from of the line stepped Red Iron, their chief. He was very old, at least Little Crow’s age and probably much older. He also appeared very stoic and wise. He had two long braids of hair coming down from 98

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both sides of his head and two long and beautiful looking feathers rising from behind his head. He was wrapped in a red-and-white patterned blanket which was most likely a gift from the government. Around his neck were many silver necklaces that draped down his neck and onto his chest. He also had a large coin or emblem with the profile of George Washington embedded on it. It shone brightly in the setting sun.

Red Iron lifted his hand to speak, “I am Mazasa. The pale faces call me Red Iron. I am chief of these Sissetons and this is our home.

Our babies are born here, our men become warriors here. This is our country. We want no part in this war that you started. You should fight it in your own country. We cannot let you pass onto our land. If you do, then when the white soldiers come, they will find us first and they will fight us. You can see then why we cannot let you pass.”

As Red Iron finished, there were several threats yelled from among the crowd. Some called Red Iron and his men cowards and traitors and some clamored to fight against Red Iron and his warriors. But before much opposition could be raised Little Crow thwarted his men with a loud call for silence and then faced Red Iron to respond.

“We seek no conflict with you or your braves,” Little Crow said delicately. “We wish only to go through to Big Stone. Perhaps if we share some plunder with you, you will let us pass?”

Red Iron opened his mouth to reply, but before he could another Sisseton rode forward and began to speak.

In a loud and determined voice he called, “I am Waanatan. I live by the white man and the buffalo. These people who have done this act have destroyed everything I have; the treaties with the whites and everything else. And for that reason I shall object to their going across my land.”92 Waanatan then whirled around on his horse as a show of vigor and confidence.

“You have heard my position,” Red Iron said, “and the position of my people. You will go no further,” and then Red Iron pointed to a spot in the ground just in front of Little Crow.

A slight commotion was raised, but again Little Crow admonished his warriors. “Very well,” he replied, “where shall you have us camp?”

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Little Crow conceded quite readily to the propositions of Red Iron and his men. Though he had many more men then Red Iron, I think he knew the futility of starting a conflict there. There was already so much dissension among his own group and he did not need to start an open conflict with another. Furthermore, he believed more and more that the only option left was to face Sibley and his army. This would be done sooner or later and he would need every man available. It is for these reasons, I am certain, he conceded to Red Iron.

Red Iron led us two miles east to camp near the mouth of the Chippewa River. This spot would eventually become known as Camp Release. The Dakota slowly and casually set up camp. They separated themselves, as they had before, into groups of those engaged in war and those seeking peace. The group at war was still much larger than the peace camp, but it was clear that several former warring Dakota had now joined the peace camp of Dakota. Warriors such as Wabasha, Taopi, and Wacouta now pitched their tents on the side of the peace camp. The change of heart exhibited by these and other Dakota was due in large part to the growing word that Colonel Sibley would spare those who had taken no part in the uprising or shown mercy toward the whites.93 This change or movement only added to Little Crow’s discouragement.

The hopes and aspirations the Dakota had to begin the war were now long gone. All that remained was quarrelling and frustration. The goals of the war had been discarded, and Little Crow’s influence had been lost. Even among those who remained hostile to the whites, many of them only did so because they believed the captives were now their only protection. They thought of them only as barter for their own lives.

Despite all of this, the first night at the new camp was one of ritual and celebrations. There was singing and dancing and feasting the likes of which I had never witnessed before. The atmosphere that night was lively and filled with joyful noises and luscious smells. Every Indian man, woman, and child, warring or peaceful, joined in the festivities.

It was amazing to witness these groups come together under such dire circumstances and engage in such rich, bombastic ceremonies.

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laughing, and eating in the most gay and carefree manner. It was quite unexpected, and the grandeur of the entire evening was so great, it was contagious. Despite it all, a smile swelled from deep inside and lit up my face as I watched the Dakota celebrate life.

In one such celebration, the warriors painted themselves black from head to toe and then ringed their eyes and mouth red to make themselves fierce looking. They pranced around in a circle in the most vigorous and abrupt fashion. Their bodies leapt and weaved and contorted in such a fashion that was extremely taxing on their physical strength, agility, and prowess. One by one they took turns regaling tales of their most horrific and graphic war exploits. They reveled in their most gruesome accomplishments. The whole scene was vexing to watch and one which would strike fear in the eye of even the bravest of observers.94 The rituals and dancing continued well into the night until many had simply collapsed from exhaustion. One by one they passed out until the entire camp was quiet as if the earth itself had gone to sleep.

For the time being the war and the frustrations of the war had been put behind them. I was without a tent that night, and I laid under the stars. I thought perhaps I might be able to slip away that night while the Dakota were unconscious with sleep. But I had no energy to do so.

I remained there, under the night sky, and I knew the end of this would come before long.

A couple of days passed without incident. Things were quiet and somewhat settled. The old women and captives went to sewing and cooking as well as the drying of corn, potatoes, and beef to be laid in a stock for winter. The warriors went about resting mostly while some hunted small game. They also sat around playing cards or shooting at ducks for sport. Others scouted the area and came back with reports of no movement from the army. Things were relatively peaceable and routine while at Red Iron’s camp. There was no fear of attack and there was no advantage to trigger an assault. So, Indian life, for the moment, carried on much like it would had there been no war.

On the evening of Friday, September 12, Little Crow called for Thomas and I for what was likely to be his reply for Colonel Sibley. At 101

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the time we entered Little Crow’s tent he seemed to be engaged in a frank discussion with Joseph Brown’s wife, Susan Brown. Little Crow had confided often with Mrs. Brown and was probably expressing some of his discouragement.95 “This is my reply to Colonel Sibley,” Little Crow stated taking no time for friendly courtesies. “I expect to depart at dawn for the white man’s fort. Make no delay.” This was all Little Crow had to say and we were dismissed.

The reply, which we took hastily but inconspicuously back to our tent, read as follows: We have in Mdewakanton band one hundred and fiftyfive prisoners. They are at Lac qui Parle now. The words that I sent to the governor I want to hear from him also, and I want to know from you as a friend what way that I can make peace for my people. In regard to prisoners they fare with our children or ourself just as well as us.96 Little Crow signed the note with “Your Truly Friend.” It seemed by this note that Little Crow sought to remind Colonel Sibley of their once cordial relations in hopes of bringing a reasonable negotiation for his people. He also reminded Sibley of the many captives he held. This was likely to help spur negotiation.

I had no disagreements toward Little Crow’s response. I was actually quite glad to see that Little Crow still had hopes of ending this war peacefully and giving his people at least a chance for a future in Minnesota. Little Crow had not lost all of his sensibilities.

Late that night, after I had already gone to sleep, there was an intrusion into our tepee. The visitor entered stealthily so as not to be noticed, and I was somewhat frightened at first. But, immediately after entering the tepee the man called to me.

“Good Bird, it is me, Good Thunder,” he said in a low whisper.

“Good Thunder,” I replied as I sat up and sought to light a candle.

“Why have you entered our tepee in the waning hours of the night?”

“I have come in secret,” he said, still speaking through the dark.

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I fumbled to find a candle but could not find anything that would bring about light.

Good Thunder continued. “I want to write a letter on behalf of the peace camp. I want you to deliver it to Colonel Sibley. But we must act quietly and quickly. There is a growing suspicion among the warring Dakota that Thomas and you are sabotaging their cause. They cannot know what we are doing.”

I quickly searched my pocket and found a short piece of pencil and an old memorandum book. “I can write your letter, but we need light.”

“I will find a candle,” Good Thunder said as he swiftly ducked out of our tepee.

I set up a place to write on top of a short table alongside my cot.

Good Thunder returned promptly with a short piece of candle and Thomas summarily lit it. Then Good Thunder, without wasting any time and speaking in a very low whisper, dictated what I was to write and what Colonel Sibley would receive. I translated the words as exactly as I could.

You know that Little Crow has been opposed to me in everything that our people have had to do with the whites. He has been opposed to everything in the form of civilization and Christianity. I have always been in favor of, and of late years have done everything of the kind that has been offered to us by the Government and other good white people. He has now got himself into trouble that we know he can never get himself out of, and he is trying to involve those of us in the murder of poor whites that have been settled in the border; but I have been kept back with threats that I should be killed if I did anything to help the whites. But if you will now appoint some place for me to meet you, myself and the few friends that I have will get all the prisoners that we can, and with our families go to whatever place you will appoint for us to meet. Return the messengers as quick as possible. We have not much time to spare.97 103

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Good Thunder had me sign with the names of Wabasha and Taopi.

Then, Good Thunder wished us Godspeed, and with as much stealth as he entered, he departed.

This was a shocking and pivotal piece of information Good Thunder had me write. First of all, it was very bold. If the warring bands had discovered this letter, we would surely all be killed. Also, it demonstrated the strength and determination of the peace camp as well as the growing discord between the two groups of Dakota. To Sibley, it was a very fortuitous development. It showed the waning power and control held

by Little Crow and made the rift between the two groups indisputable.

With this information Sibley could almost sit back and let the peace camp gain control of the captives and then sweep through with almost no resistance.

Due to its tremendous importance, I guarded the letter close to my body. I tried to sleep, but for the remainder of the night, sleep escaped me.

At dawn Thomas and I set off for Fort Ridgely for the second time.

We used the same mule-drawn buggy as before and carried only enough supplies to last little more than a day. We had a long, but now very familiar trip ahead of us. I was not weary at the thought of more travel, but instead relished the notion of being away from it all. To me, the trips to and from Fort Ridgely fittingly represented my role in the war. I was caught between two different interests, between two different cultures, and between two different pasts and two different futures. I was caught between the Dakota and the settlers of Minnesota.

We arrived at Fort Ridgely on the afternoon of the next day. I thought I might be welcomed by my father, but he was nowhere in sight. We were cordially accepted by the guards and given a nice meal.

While eating I spoke briefly with Joseph Coursolle. He informed me that his wife was well, but that she still struggled over the loss of their infant son. Joseph himself was still very concerned about his daughters Elizabeth and Minnie, but unfortunately I had no news of them. I began to fear that perhaps they had perished since that day at the Redwood Agency. Joseph also expressed frustration over Colonel Sibley, because he kept them constantly drilling and drilling, rather than going 104

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out and whipping the Dakota. He went on and on about numbers of soldiers and their now endless supplies. He could tell he was anxious and rambunctious to put an abrupt and definite end to this war.98 Joseph also stated that he was at Birch Coulee at which my heart crumbled upon hearing. I could not tell him what role I played in his and his compatriots’ calamity.

After our meal, Thomas and I were invited in one by one to speak with Colonel Sibley just as we had before. Thomas went first. I was not sure how long Thomas was with the Colonel because I had nearly fallen asleep while waiting. My eyes felt heavy and my head fell down toward my chest. Thomas nudged me awake and informed me it was my turn to see the Colonel. As I regained consciousness and entered the tent I saw that everything was just as I had remembered it, only this time the light of day revealed much more clutter than I had noticed before. Colonel Sibley had several pieces of furniture such as an ottoman, drawers, and a table, all of which were strewn with clothes, paper, and even dishes. It was far from tidy. As Colonel Sibley rose to salute, I thought he looked much more pensive than before. It was as if I had interrupted him while he was contemplating important strategic figures.

“Have a seat, please,” he said strictly.

No sooner than I had sat down, Colonel Sibley sat down. He made no effort to digress from the matter at hand.

“I understand there is much dissension between the two groups of Indians,” he said. “How valid do you believe this dissension is and have you witnessed any acts to demonstrate that there exists Dakota who are truly peaceful to the whites?”

I sat forward to show that I sought to be truly honest. “The dissension, sir, is very real. It has been the cause of many councils as well as many possible violent situations. And yes,” I said with confidence, “I know many Dakota in favor of a peaceful resolution. Many, like myself, are forced to play a role in this war, but want no part in the fighting. Many more are willing to risk themselves to help you end this.”

Colonel Sibley leaned back just slightly with his elbows on his desk and with his hands crossed. “That is what I suspected, but I just needed to hear it from someone in their camp. I cannot proceed too carefully.”

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“With all due respect, sir, may I ask you a question?” I tried not to sound condescending. The last thing I wanted to do was offend our former governor and military leader of the expedition.

“Certainly,” Colonel Sibley replied.

I looked around while trying to formulate my thoughts. “I have heard much complaint about the slowness of your campaign. Some of the captives have lost hope you will rescue them. Some of the soldiers are tired of being drilled. When will you move out? What are you waiting for?”

Colonel Sibley took a deep breath as if to bite his tongue. “I have faced more criticism in these past weeks than I have in my entire political career beforehand,” Colonel Sibley said calmly. “I understand your frustrations, as well as those in the rest of the state. But I do not act alone. I have clamored all the way to Washington. I have begged for supplies, but they do not come. I have made known the gravity and desperation of the situation, but still my pleas go unanswered. We are in great need of cartridges, hard bread, and clothing. We cannot move out until we obtain these things.” As Colonel Sibley spoke he supplemented each statement with a hand gesture to show his seriousness. His hands moved so wildly it was if he were trying to swim through the air.

“Furthermore,” he continued, “the lives of the captives are tenuous and that is based on my actions. Should I make an advance movement, two or three hundred white women and children might be murdered in cold blood. And finally, we need cavalry. Since our losses at Birch Coulee we are left with virtually no mounted forces. Is this beginning to make sense?”99 “Yes,” I replied soberly.

“It must be understood that we have only one real shot at this. My troops must be ready and they must be prepared. And knowing what I know now about the situation in the Indian camp, I believe we can afford to be patient rather than hasty. I can handle the criticism, just so long as my effort, motivation, and expertise are focused properly on ending this war and sparing as many lives as possible.”

Our conversation did not continue much further. I thanked Colonel Sibley, he thanked me, and then I left very politely. I felt enlightened once 106

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more, just as I had after speaking with Sarah Wakefield. I discovered that there was so much more to this war than I could witness and understand—so many unseen circumstances and nuances that played into every part of the conflict, so many different people and priorities and interests. If only everyone shared in the privilege I had to see the war from so many different perspectives.

Thomas and I did not stay the night. We waited for an hour or so until Colonel Sibley formulated his response to both letters. I did not see my father. I sought to apologize, but I was not ready to stay behind and search him out. Perhaps it was best that I did not find him.

Our trip back to the camp was a challenging one. We got a late start in the day, so we had to camp near Birch Coulee. The night was moonless and very dark. We were very much on alert and even the movement of a hawk startled us greatly. The ground was wet and soggy, and the stench near Birch Coulee was almost intolerable. The next day a steady rain came up and continued all the way through to the evening.

It made for a very uncomfortable trip and it sufficiently slowed our progress.

On our way back, Thomas and I took the time to read Colonel Sibley’s responses. We had to be very careful not to disrupt the seal. We took a big risk to open them but our curiosity had the better of us. To Little Crow, Colonel Sibley wrote: I have received your letter today. You have not done as I had wished in giving up the prisoners taken by your people. It would be better for you to do so. I told you I had sent your former letter to Governor Ramsey, but I have not yet had time to receive a reply. You have allowed your young men to commit some murders since you wrote your first letter. This is not the way to make peace.100 Colonel Sibley’s reply was straightforward, authoritative, and anything but timid. It showed a growing confidence that Colonel Sibley 107

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had in successfully concluding the war. It left Little Crow no options but to surrender or fight.

To Wabasha and Taopi, Colonel Sibley took the same tone. He did not write as if to scold and discipline them, but again he was straightforward and frank. He told them exactly what to expect and exactly what he needed. Colonel Sibley left no room for error or ambivalence. To Wabasha and Taopi he wrote: I have received your private message. I have come up here with a large force to punish the murderers of my people. It was not my purpose to injure any innocent person. If you and others who have not been concerned in the murders and expeditions, will gather yourselves, with all the prisoners, on the prairie in full sight of my troops, and when the white flag is displayed by you, a white flag will be hoisted in my camp, and then you can come forward and place yourselves under my protection. My troops will be all mounted in two days’ time, and in three days from this day I expect to march.

There must be no attempt to approach my column or my camp, except in open day, and with a flag of truce conspicuously displayed. I shall be glad to receive all true friends of the whites with as many prisoners as they can bring, and I am powerful enough to crush all who attempt to oppose my march, and to punish those who have washed their hands in innocent blood. I sign myself the friend of all who were friends of your great American Father.101 Through these letters Colonel Sibley made his intentions known, and he left no doubt that he would follow through.

When we finally arrived back at camp, things were not nearly as peaceful and calm as when we had left. The peace camp had grown stronger and formed their own camp west of the Chippewa River. I wondered if, by this time, I could join their camp, but many of the 108

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warring Dakota still kept a close eye on me. If I were to join the peace camp, I would risk capture and death. Because the peace camp had grown, tensions also grew. During the afternoon of our arrival, several of the warring Dakota went over to the peace camp and pushed down tents. The peace camp of Dakota retaliated with shows of strength, speed, and bravery, but no violence broke out.

Also during this time the captives were treated contemptuously by many of the warring Dakota. The captives were given less to eat and more work to do. They were also taunted and mocked and told they would never be rescued. Furthermore, they were threatened with death morning, noon, and night. The warring Dakota often started rumors that the captives would all be slain before dawn of the next day, forcing the poor women and children to live as companions to fear. It was horrible to witness the depravity of the captives’ situation. I did what I could to provide the captives with food, water, and comfort, but at times I just had to watch.102 For several evenings, there were great and wild demonstrations.

Both camps put on long and loud dances in some sort of contest over the captives. They were continually singing war songs, beating their breasts, and making displays of strength. Each dance was answered by an opposing group like some kind of ritual tug-of-war. They continued long into the night.103 On Thursday, the eighteenth of September, it was reported by the scouts that Sibley had finally moved out from Fort Ridgely on his way toward Lac qui Parle. Sibley, however, moved very slowly. He covered fewer than ten miles each day which many of the Indians found humorous. They made much sport of the slow movements of Sibley and claimed that they must not care much about their wives and children or they would have hurried on faster. Regardless, they were indeed on their way and therefore one last great council was called.

Little Crow gathered all of the Indians, both peaceful and those at war, in order to garner as much support as he could. I’m sure he knew the fate of this final battle, just as he knew the fate of this war before it started. But for Little Crow there was no turning back. Colonel Sibley had offered him no sympathy and I’m not sure it would matter if he had.

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The Dakota had become nomads in their own country and there was no concession great enough to change that. The way of life of the Dakota forefathers was gone and would not come back. Little Crow, with the persuasion of many naïve young warriors, decided he would rather fight or even run than to concede. This day he made one last genuine attempt to call on all his brothers to help him. He knew the outcome was bleak, but if he was to fight, he would fight to win.

Little Crow was the first to speak.

“Mdewakantons, Sissetons, Wahpetons, Wahpekutes, Yanktons, Winnebago, all Dakota who gather here. The white army is on their way to destroy us. They will capture us, imprison us, starve us, and hang us.

They have already taken everything from us and now they will take our lives. I do not wish to run and I will not be taken alive. I will fight for my nation, for my family, and for my ancestors. The Great Spirit gave us this land and everything in it, but now the white man wants to take it away. Fight with me. If you are a Dakota you cannot give up your homes or your dignity. If you do not fight you are a coward and you are a disgrace. How many ways can we suffer before we say no more? The white man is powerful, so we need all Dakota to unite as brothers. The Great Spirit will give us our homes once more if we fight.”

Applause and cheering broke out just after Little Crow finished speaking. The commotion rose louder and louder and then guns were fired into the air. Many of the Dakota looked jubilant, while others had looks of distaste on their faces.

Paul Mazekutemani was the next speaker and the commotion settled.

“Soldiers and young men of the Sissetons! I told the Lower Indians my mind before your arrival, and am now going to repeat what I have said in your hearing. First of all they commenced war upon the whites without letting us know anything about it. The Sissetons didn’t hear of it until several days afterward. Why should we assist them? We are under no obligation to do so. I am part Sisseton and part Wahpeton, and I know that they have never interested themselves in our affairs.

When we went to war against the Chippewas they never helped us.”

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Paul was now emphatic and determined and spoke with more conviction than he had before.

“Lower Indians! You are fools. We want nothing to do with you.

We belong to the same nation, but you started the massacre without telling us about it, and have bribed the young men to kill the whites.

You thought that by doing so you could involve us all in the same trouble. You are mistaken. You must give up the prisoners or we will fight you. I and a hundred others have made up our minds to wait here for the soldiers.”

Like a scheduled routine the commotion rose once again. Men raised their war spears and guns were fired into the air. Loud shouts were made and men beat their chests as a sign of strength. Angry demonstrations were made and for a moment I thought a violent outbreak was certain.

But Paul Mazekutemani threw up his hands and pleaded for silence.

Within seconds the angry crowd hushed and Paul continued his speech.

“I want to know from you Lower Indians whether you were asleep or crazy. In fighting the whites, you are fighting the thunder and lighting.

You will all be killed off. You might as well try to bail out the waters of the Mississippi as to whip them. You say you can make a treaty with the British government.104 That is impossible. Have you not yet come to your senses? They are also white men, and neighbors and friends to the soldiers. They are ruled by a petticoat, and she has the tender heart of a woman. What will she do for men who have committed the murders you have? Your young men have brought a great misfortune upon us.

Let them go and fight the soldiers. But you, who want to live and not die, come with me. I am going to shake hands with the whites. I hear some of your young men talking very loud, and boasting that you have killed so many women and children. That’s not brave; it is cowardly. Go and fight the soldiers. That’s brave. You dare not. When you see their army coming on the plains, you will faint with fright. You will throw down your arms, and fly in one direction and your women in another, and this winter you will all starve. You will see that my words will come true. Go back from the lands of the Sissetons. They have not buffaloes enough for themselves, and cannot feed you. Fight the whites on your 111

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reservation if you are not afraid of them. Make your boasts good, and stop your lies.”105 Again the excitement rose. Many of the Lower Indians yelled out “Kill him! Kill him!” But Paul stood before them undaunted and unafraid. Before things could get out of hand Little Crow stepped forward to answer Paul’s harangue.

“Paul wants to make peace!” Little Crow shouted with both hands held high in the air. “It is impossible to do so, if we desired. Did we ever do the most trifling thing, and the whites not hang us? Now we have been killing them by hundreds in Dakota, Minnesota, and Iowa, and I know that if they get us into their power they will hang every one of us. As for me, I will kill as many of them as I can, and fight them till I die. Do not think you will escape. There is not a band of Indians from the Redwood Agency to Big Stone Lake that has not had some of its members embroiled in the war. I tell you we must fight and perish together. A man is a fool and a coward who thinks otherwise, and who will desert his nation at such a time? Disgrace not yourselves by a surrender to those who will hang you up like dogs, but die, if die you must, with arms in your hands, like warriors and braves of the Dakota.”106 Cheers once again followed Little Crow’s address. The commotion rose and became so great that the council could not be continued.

Warriors yelled and danced and beat their chests. Each Indian was certain of his stance and was prepared to die for it. There would be no more persuasion one way or another.

With that the next great collision was determined. The Dakota warriors were ready and even rambunctious for a conflict, while the peace camp were determined to save and release the captives and avoid a conflict with the whites. Still, the power of the warring bands was greater and the fate of the captives grew more hopeless. While the army slowly approached, Little Crow did not cease to encourage his men or devise his hopeful but improbable plans. He had no other course but battle and whether it was true or not, he incited confidence by telling his men two or three thousand British soldiers were on their way from Lac Traverse to assist them. He also urged the Winnebagoes to go down 112

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the Mississippi while he and other Dakota warriors would capture forts along the Missouri. Excitement was high and battle was imminent.

I doubt whether or not Little Crow believed he could defeat Sibley and then continue west. But he was a warrior and a shrewd leader and he refused to give up. He gave his men hope and the impression of victory.

He renewed their confidence. He had them believe that victory was not only possible, but probable. The men were invigorated with the notion that the future was now nearer than ever. And not a dismal future, but one in which they could roam the land free of white intrusion like they had in so many years gone by. But Little Crow ultimately knew better.

Though it grieved him, Little Crow knew that the Dakota of Minnesota were on their last leg toward a precarious future.

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Chapter 9 No Grander Sight Battle of Wood Lake and Release of the Captives That evening was just one of many sleepless nights I had experienced in the last six weeks. I tried not to worry, I tried not to think, but still my mind raced. I thought about all of the bloodshed I had seen, and all of the threats on my life. I thought about Little Crow and the friendships I had with many of the Dakota. I thought about my family and my father who was now just a few miles away. Within a day I would be across from him on a battlefield when instead I could be safe at home.

I worried for the captives as well. Those women and children who had been through so much and who were now on the brink of total annihilation, or glorious redemption. And, I could not help but worry for my own life. If I was not killed in battle I might just as well be killed by the warring Dakota.

The morning of September 22 was cool and gray. The wind howled ever so gently over the undulating prairie in such a way that it sounded almost ominous. The captives were huddled together while eating their portions of bread. They appeared ragged and cold, so I offered one young girl a blanket. She accepted it without saying a word to me.

Before long the Indian crier came racing through camp announcing the decree for battle. “All warriors prepare for war!� he called in his native tongue.

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The call was answered with scattered and resounding yells that sounded like something coming from a bird of prey swooping down for its catch. Excitement ensued as the young men hurriedly prepared to go to battle. I knew not what to do so I merely followed suit. I knew there were many Dakota who did not wish to fight Sibley, but I did not know if they would be allowed to stay back or if they would be forced to join the fight. I did not want to discover the consequences of staying back, so I prepared myself as an Indian going to war.

As the men gathered their weapons and painted their bodies, the crier continued to urge the warriors on.

“All men must take up arms and fight or he shall be shot down,” the crier warned. “Fight with us,” the crier continued passionately. “Fight with us and save our nation and the nation of our ancestors from the white demons. If all fight the Great Spirit will give us victory,” the crier called out while speaking to everyone, but at the same time speaking to know one. “Be brave and I promise glory, gifts, and all of the honors our people can bestow. Even greater honors I promise to those warriors who capture the red and blue flag or the scalps of Sibley, Forbes, Roberts, or Myrick.”

It was obvious that the crier sought to rile support and confidence from the warriors but as for me it sent chills up my spine.

That afternoon the warriors were assembled and ready to march.

The column was large, confident, and appeared gruesome and fierce.

Each man was painted from head to toe with red and black dye that made the warriors look as if they were the devil’s army fresh from the underworld. Each man was also fully armed with a bow and arrow, a spear, a tomahawk, and a rifle. At the head of the column was the vicious and dreadful looking Cutnose. Of all the Dakota I had come across, Cutnose was the most awful, savage looking, ferocious man-eater among them. He was indeed bent on destroying the white army.107 As the march began, each warrior was to pick up a stick and then hand it to one of two scouts as they passed by. This was done to count the number of warriors. The number came to total seven hundred thirty-eight.108 115

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The reports were that Colonel Sibley and about sixteen hundred men were camped just east of little Wood Lake. Wood Lake lay just south of the Yellow Medicine Agency and about eighteen miles from our current camp. We marched into the darkness of the night and I must say I felt painfully out of place. It seemed surreal, as if I was part of a savage band of disgruntled serfs out to reclaim their plot against an overbearing, profit-mongering monarch. I had no more place among this warring tribe of Indians as a young child would in the Union army.

I longed to slip away and protect the captives, but I did not know how.

I am led to believe, however, that many from the peace camp did slip away. The warring Dakota had threatened to kill all of the captives upon their return, and so the peace camp of Dakota were eager to save them from such a calamity.

We arrived within about a half mile of Sibley’s camp late that night.

The Indians stayed quiet and hid just beyond the river bluffs so that their presence would not be made known. From a low hill Little Crow, Cutnose, Mankato and some of the other chiefs observed the unwitting army camp. The men seemed jovial and unaware. Their lamps were lit and they could be heard laughing and singing and sharing each other’s pleasantries. They appeared totally content and totally unprepared for what was, for the Dakota, a battle of epic proportion. Even their pickets were sparse and remained very near to the camp.

That night, as the majority of the Dakota slept heavily in the grass, the Dakota chiefs and Soldier’s Lodge discussed what method would be best to attack the oblivious white army. I stayed close by and listened intently for each word and each detail. At the beginning, Little Crow dictated the consultation.

“We must crawl up quietly, like the fox,” recommended Little Crow.

“We shall use the cover of darkness and surprise the soldiers while they dream.” The way Little Crow spoke, I could tell that he felt confident in this course of action.

“No,” answered Gabrielle Renville firmly. Renville was the mixed blood step-son of the Indian Akipa, and he had never shown much support for the war. “The white soldiers will use their spy-glasses to see us approach and will be ready for an attack,” 109 Renville explained 116

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as I strained to listen. “A surprise attack at night will surely fail,” he continued.

Renville was then immediately supported by Soloman Two Stars.

Two Stars was Paul Mazekutemani’s nephew and a man I recognized from his days at my father’s mission on Lac qui Parle. Two Stars was an Upper Dakota and was also unlikely to be in support of the war.

Nonetheless, he spoke out adamantly against Little Crow’s plan. “Little Crow’s plan is cowardly,” said Soloman Two Stars in an insulting tone.

“It is so cowardly as to be unworthy of a Dakota brave and of the great chief who proposes it. 110 If you will hear me, I suggest a different course of action.” I could now hear Soloman Two Stars loud and clear through the cool night air. I was surprised by his scolding binge of Little Crow, but I don’t believe it was meant in lack of respect. “We must lure the soldiers into an ambush by light of day. We must wait for them up the road. Once they have spread out along the road we can cut them in half and make our numbers equal to theirs. This is how we will win,” said Soloman Two Stars confidently. 111 Both recommended plans of action received equal amounts of support. The Dakota leaders proceeded to debate the issue for several hours. Ultimately it was decided that an ambush was the best plan of attack. By the time the leaders broke council it was already early morning and the battle to decide the war, to decide the fate of the Dakota, was only a short matter of time away.

Early that morning, while the sun was not yet visible, the chiefs began to organize the warriors and send us in different directions. I was sent to the north along the road where the ambush was set to begin. I felt unfortunate to be given this position because it was likely to be the one under the most duress. Still I carried my rifle and followed along like any one of the Dakota. Further south and closer to the soldier’s camp there was a small ravine. Many of the Dakota were sent to wait there. The intention was that the ambush would surprise the soldiers, and there the men in the ravine would rush out and cut off any retreat.

This would separate and confuse the army and make them vulnerable to defeat.

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As I lay quietly in the grass, I had nothing to do but listen. It was still early and there was no knowing when Sibley would break camp. I was, like I had been many times now, in a precarious situation I never imagined myself in. Despite my fear and anxiety, I felt at peace. The stillness of the land had a calming effect. Though it made no sound, it spoke honestly and genuinely. It spoke of the future when it would remain still and calm, while we would pass away as no more than a shadow. The air too whispered softly as it passed daintily over my head.

The air was brisk and spoke of changing seasons. It knew the scorching heat of summer and the chilling cold of winter. It spoke of the radiant, life giving sun on a spring afternoon, and the turbulent, violent rain of a thunderstorm on a summer evening. All things spoke of their perpetual reverence; something so great, something so sacred; something that could not be owned, something that could not be taken by something so fragile and so ephemeral as a beating heart. Still I lay there, gun in hand. Shakespeare once wrote, “Thy eternal summer shall not fade.”

He spoke of beauty, but not just any beauty, immortal beauty. Beauty undefined, beauty unending. He spoke of a beauty that cannot be judged or measured that surpasses even time itself. No hate, nor hunger, nor violence, nor even death could alter it. Here, among this bristle, within this conflict, thy eternal summer would endure.

Finally, I was startled by the unnatural sound of wagon wheels. My heart began to pump hard, as I knew soldiers were coming. The sun had now clearly risen and it must have been near 7 a.m. As I peeked through the grass down the road I could only vaguely see what was coming. It appeared, however, that Sibley’s army was not headed toward us. It was instead a small group of four wagons of soldiers who must have been out looking for something to eat.112 As the wagons rolled forward I could see that one was not on the road. This wagon was in direct line with our group of hiding Indians. This was a terrible development because it would force the ambush to be sprung before Sibley’s army broke camp, which would act as great fortune for the purposes of Sibley’s army.

The rattling wheels became louder and louder as they approached. The wagons were so close now I could hear the muddled, incoherent voices 118

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of the men. Someone would have to spring up or the wagon would roll right over us.

“Heee!” yelled the first Dakota to rise as he fired his rifle at the nearest wagon, striking the man who was driving it. I hesitated while the entire group rose and began to fire. I finally jumped up and clenched at the sight of the wounded and scrambling white men. I fired my rifle well high and then shifted around as if I were trying to get a better angle. The wagons were just fifty feet in front of me with only four or five warriors ahead of me. The white soldiers fired several shots from behind the wagons, but none hit their mark. The men then turned and ran down the road calling for help. They fell back just beyond a rise in the road where they could lay and fire from under cover. They fought like desperate men as we marched forward and closed the gap they had earned through their retreat. Just down the road, with an almost immediate response, came the thundering clomp of the nearly three hundred men of the Third Minnesota Regiment. They came as one massive, impenetrable group, all of them on the double quick. Like a great tidal wave I thought they would sweep us away. The soldiers took their position not more than thirty yards from us and began to open fire. Several of the Dakota were hit, and we were forced to fall back.

But, the Indians were savvy and reinforcements pushed forward from the back. The firing was constant, but all the men, Indian and white, lay low and had at least a subtle degree of safety. But our safety was fleeting.

The soldiers had too many numbers and we were forced to fall back and regroup behind the bluffs of the Minnesota River. The skirmish line of the white soldiers kept moving steadily forward. Surprisingly, this worked to the Dakota’s advantage. They began to send men pouring out of the ravine to attack from the rear and separate the Third Minnesota Regiment from the rest of the camp. Meanwhile, Sibley’s men began to mobilize and repel the additional Dakota braves attacking from the ravine.

As we regrouped from behind the bluffs, I took a moment to breathe and collect myself. The constant noise rattled my nerves, and I was perspiring like I might if I spent a hot summer afternoon in the field.

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There was no way out, as everywhere I turned there was a Dakota warrior pushing me onward.

We regrouped to form a semi-circle in front of the oncoming army. The warriors howled and roared to make themselves seem more intense. They moved quickly from one position to another to avoid being targeted and to make our numbers look greater. The tactic must have worked because I heard orders given to the soldiers to retreat. But, just after those orders were given, the bugle call gave different orders.

This sent the army column into mass confusion and allowed the Dakota to gain the advantage. Ultimately, the men did not retreat; they stayed and fought hard. Shots were fired and answered constantly and neither side was able to push one way or another. Bullets flew right over my head, narrowly missing my skull. I tried my best to stay out of the way while still appearing to take an active role in the fray. The soldiers were too strong and the Dakota had to draw back to the low hills and the narrow intervals along the creek.

I steadied myself from behind a knoll among several other Dakota.

From this point the fighting became unorganized and independent.

Each man fought for his own life. On the other end, toward the ravine, things took on a much worse perspective for the Dakota. Sibley managed to wheel several artillery pieces into place and open fire on the charging Indians. The artillery took great effect as it immediately killed several Dakota and sent the rest running like jackrabbits the opposite way.

After the ineffective charge and the failed attempt to divide Sibley’s army, the battle settled into a general skirmish marked by desultory fire from both sides under cover. After just over an hour it was clear that the Dakota would not be able to defeat or even challenge the powerful white army. The Indians were forced to retreat, heads low and hopes dashed, back to camp. They were not even able to recover their dead or wounded. Sibley, who had a great opportunity to capture the warring bands of Dakota, for whatever reason, did not pursue.

The Indians marched back to camp dejected and angry. They had nothing left and no hope of defeating Sibley’s army. Now they could only flee or surrender. Neither option was agreeable and both could easily lead to death or starvation. The battle that day never had much 120

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of a chance. For the Dakota, the beginning of the end was when the wagons came rolling and they had to spring their ambush early. But even before that, victory was unlikely. In the two hour battle the Dakota lost fifteen killed and approximately fifty wounded.113 The deaths included the great chief Mankato, who was killed by a cannon ball. With all of this sour knowledge the warriors were depressed and frustrated. Some were still quite vindictive. As they returned to camp their malicious nature stewed for revenge and retribution which they longed to take out on the white captives. By the time the warriors returned, there was sure to be conflict.

After a long and mournful march, the Dakota braves arrived at camp just before sundown. What they encountered came as a great relief to me, but as another devastating setback for them. The peace camp of Dakota that had remained in camp recovered most of the captives and put them under their protection. They clumped all of the lodges together and dug small holes for the captives to lie in while using the misplaced dirt as protective barriers. The peace camp was ready to fight for the lives of the captives. For the warring bands, whatever hope remained to use the captives as a bargaining tool was now lost.

The defeated warriors reacted quite negatively to this new development and pandemonium broke out. Warriors ran in search of their captives but the Dakota from the peace camp pushed them away.

Men pushed and shoved and violence nearly erupted. But Little Crow, who could not bear to witness civil war among his own people, called out to calm the feuding.

“Braves!” he yelled indignantly. “Stop fighting like children. We have suffered enough and don’t need to fight each other.” Little Crow was despondent and even heartbroken. “I am ashamed to call myself a Dakota,” he said in despair. “Seven hundred picked warriors whipped by the cowardly whites. Better run away and scatter out over the plains like buffalo and wolves.” Little Crow softened his voice as he continued, knowing he had their attention. “To be sure, the whites had big guns and better arms than the Indians and outnumbered us four or five to one, but that is no reason we should not have whipped them, for we are 121

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brave men while they are cowardly women. I cannot account for this disgraceful defeat. It must be the work of traitors in our midst.”114 Little Crow then turned with his head low and returned to his tepee. Surely the traitors he spoke of were the peace camp and most likely he referred to Gabrielle Renville and Soloman Two Stars.

Tensions remained high in the camp and individual squabbling broke out over the right to certain white prisoners. A note came via the mixed-blood interpreter Joseph Campbell delivered from Sibley’s camp after the Dakota requested the privilege to recover their dead. I did not see the note myself, but rumor was that Sibley had buried the bodies and would wait for delivery of the captives under flag of truce.115 Fear still existed throughout the white and mixed-blood captives. Until Sibley came to protect them, they did not know if they would live or die.

Later that evening Little Crow summoned to speak with me. Like before, I did not know what to expect and I even felt a tinge of fear. As I approached Little Crow’s lodge I was met by a group of warriors who seemed as if they were acting as guards. I did not know why and it made me quite uncomfortable as they followed behind.

The flap to Little Crow’s lodge was open, and with a slight bend, I entered in. Little Crow sat cross-legged in front of me, and he appeared more himself than he had recently. His face did not sag over his jutting cheekbones but instead showed a glimmer of youthfulness long forgotten. His hair was loose around his shoulders, his war paint had been washed clean, and his beads, feathers, and jewelry, had been set aside. He appeared plain.

“You wish to speak with me,” I began as I stepped toward him.

“Ho, Good Bird,” he replied while nodding.

“I am going away,” Little Crow said as I seated myself across from him. “You have been a good friend to me and I have put you through a lot. You are an honorable man and so is your father. Is there any last favor you would like to ask of me?”

I sat wide eyed for a moment, unsure how I should respond. “Colonel Sibley will be here soon and I think that you and your warriors should give yourselves up.”

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Little Crow laughed derisively. “The long merchant Sibley would like to put the rope around my neck but he will not get the chance.”

“They will not hang you,” I said without hesitation. “They have never hanged an Indian before.”

“No, Good Bird. Anything else, but to give myself up to hang by the neck. If they would shoot me like a man I would, but otherwise, they will never get my live body.”

“Very well then,” I said with a soft sigh. “If you can’t do that, then I would like to get the prisoners.”

“Yes,” he replied stoically and without thought, “you shall have them.”

With that Little Crow ordered the warriors outside of his lodge to release all of their prisoners and any other prisoners into my custody.

The warriors nodded and immediately set out to give up all control of the captives.116 As I stood to exit I bowed politely to Little Crow. He lifted his arm and lowered his head and then reached for his pipe.

“Alfred,” Little Crow called before I could exit. “Remember the Dakota spirit. Honor and protect it.”

I smiled and left the tepee, knowing this was the last time I would see Little Crow.

I put my sentiment behind me and went forward with the work of collecting the captives. They were a dirty and debilitated-looking group. Most of their faces were covered with dirt and they stood in a manner appearing hunched and worn. I don’t know if they yet realized the essence of their release. They came to me slowly as if encumbered by some sort of mental shackles. One by one I took their names along with Taopi and Wabasha. I came across those such as Mrs. White whom I had assisted on the first march and Sarah Wakefield who greatly lifted my spirits on the second march. And, with great and sudden joy, I found Elizabeth and Minnie! These brave young girls were Joseph Coursolle’s daughters whom I had lost at the Redwood Agency six weeks before.

The girls did not recognize me, but they smiled at my excitement and they seemed to be in relatively good condition. I also looked for Mrs. DeCamp, but I learned that she had successfully made her escape to 123

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Fort Ridgely with the help of my father’s very good friend and full-blood Dakota, Lorenzo Lawrence. Altogether, one hundred seven prisoners were given up in that moment. There were many more to be released later.117 The next morning several hundred Indians disassembled their tepees, gathered their belongings, and prepared to head west. Some planned to continue on as fugitives with Little Crow while others went off on their own out of fear of an attack by Colonel Sibley. Those who stayed were ready to meet with Sibley and face his justice. Still others were just tired and ready to give up.

Quickly and quietly Little Crow led his band north. Before leaving beyond our camp site, he turned and took a long look back. I lifted my arm high as if to say good bye, but Little Crow was not looking at me.

He was looking over the vast and lush Minnesota River Valley where his ancestors once flourished. This great and generous land would never be home to his people again.

After the warring Dakota departed, there was a certain sense of relief. But the now former captives did not embrace their freedom yet.

They still feared that Little Crow and his men would return and wreak havoc on the camp. And, they still had no solid proof that Sibley was even coming. For the time being many stayed huddled in their rifle pits just waiting for something to happen.

Wabasha constructed a short letter to Colonel Sibley that he delivered just as soon as the warring Dakota were gone. The letter informed Sibley that the captives were safe and that they were awaiting his arrival. That same day the courier returned with Sibley’s response.

He wrote the following: My friends. I call you so because I have reason to believe that you have nothing to do with the cruel murders and massacres that have been committed upon the poor white people who had placed confidence in the friendship of the Dakota Indians. I repeat what I have already stated to you, that I have not come to make war upon those who are innocent but upon the guilty. I have 124

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waited here one day, and intended to wait still another day, to hear from the friendly half-breeds and Indians, because I feared that if I advanced my troops before you could make your arrangements, the war party would murder the prisoners.

Now that I learn from Joseph Campbell that most of the captives are in safety in your camp, I shall move tomorrow, so that you may expect to see me very soon. Have a white flag displayed so that my men may not fire upon you.118 After receiving this letter from Colonel Sibley, there was great excitement in the camp. Finally, with the warring Dakota gone and the knowledge that Colonel Sibley was coming, there was a sense of relief. The weight of mental anguish was almost completely expelled.

The first thing the captives did was to recover some of their old clothes and then change out of all of their Indian clothing. I did the same.

Changing back into my typical attire was like a breath of fresh air. It was exhilarating; it was redeeming.

Unfortunately the excitement of the camp did not last long. All afternoon and evening the once captive men and women kept watch over the horizon for Sibley’s men, but Sibley’s men never came. Excitement changed to fear and anxiety. Everyone dreaded that Little Crow and his band would return and destroy the camp. That night everyone was on guard and no one slept.

The second day was much the same as the previous day had ended.

The former captives huddled in their rifle pits while keeping a constant watch on the eastern horizon. The white and mixed-blood men and women were angry and tired and sought the safety they had missed for the last month and a half. “Be calm and patient,” I said, doing my best to comfort and assure the worried women and children. “Relief will be here soon.” I also spent much time with Elizabeth and Minnie, who desperately sought to see their mother and father.

In the meantime, our camp grew in numbers. Many of the Dakota who had scattered over the countryside decided it was safe enough to 125

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return. They feared the white man’s justice so they hid from Sibley.

Slowly but surely, however, they determined it was better to give themselves up so that they might not starve over the winter.

The third day came, and there was still no sight of Sibley. The tension had grown all throughout the night and by morning was at an almost unbearable level. Then, like a star in the night, over the horizon came the glimmer of bayonets. They shone bright and brilliant like a visual metaphor of freedom. The camp broke out with cheers and applause. People laughed and raised their arms and some were so happy that tears fell from their eyes. The excitement was immense and the relief was indescribable.119 The soldiers set up camp about a half mile away, and we waited for Sibley to come and formally release the captives. In this time the Dakota Indians that remained in camp became frantic and worried and alarmed all at the same time. They did not know how they would be met by Colonel Sibley, so they did everything they could to mitigate his wrath and cajole his forgiveness. White rags, towels, blankets, shirts, and shawls were fastened everywhere. They were tied to the tips of tepee poles, to wagon wheels, to sticks in the ground, and to nearly every conceivable object that could hold a white flag. One young Dakota brave in particular covered his horse in a white blanket, tied a white rag to its tail, and to leave no doubts as to where his loyalties lay, wrapped himself in a large America flag. The sight was almost comical.

Finally, at about 2 p.m., Colonel Sibley approached the camp along with several Captains and an entourage of guards. They sauntered slowly atop their steeds in a wedge formation with Colonel Sibley at the front. Sibley was well groomed and in full army attire; medals, badges, saber and all. He came into camp looking more like a king than an army leader.

Sibley and his men were met in the center of camp by myself, Gabrielle Renville, Taopi, Paul Mazekutemani, Wabasha, and Good Thunder. I was proud to be among the leaders to formally meet with Sibley and release the captives. Colonel Sibley dismounted first followed in unison by the rest of his men. Sibley paused and no words were spoken. We simply stood eye to eye for a moment like students in front 126

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of their teacher. After a few moments Colonel Sibley removed his glove and reached out to shake hands with each one of us. When he reached Mazekutemani, Paul could not wait and had to speak his part.

“I have grown up like a child of yours,” Paul said anxiously in broken English. “With what is yours, you have caused me to grow, and now I take your hand as a child takes the hand of his father. My hand is not bad. With a clean hand I take your hand.120 I know whence this blessing cometh. I have regarded all white people as my friends, and from this I understand this blessing has come. This is a good work we do today, whereof I am glad. Yes, before the great God I am glad.” Paul finally released the Colonel’s hand and stepped back with a slight bow.

“This is good,” Colonel Sibley replied. “Henceforth I will take you into my service.”

Sibley then finished shaking our hands and gave me a friendly nod since we had met twice recently. He stepped back and stood upright to address us all.

“Gentlemen,” he said loud and clear. Alongside him was the Dakota from the Upper bands John Other Day who acted as the interpreter.

“The past six weeks have wrought terror on the people—men, women, and children of southwestern Minnesota. Over four hundred innocent civilians have been murdered, hundreds captured and taken prisoner, and thousands more displaced from their homes and ways of life.

The culprits of these heinous crimes will be pursued, overtaken, and punished. Those of you surrendering now will be taken under my custody and given a fair trial where your actions will be judged and your guilt or innocence will be determined.” Sibley was direct in each word he spoke and confident in his manner of speaking. He did not wish to leave any room for error or interpretation. “First and foremost,” he continued, “I demand the release of all prisoners into my custody so that they may be safely escorted to my camp where they will be afforded my protection. Is this understood?”

“Ho,” replied Wabasha softly. “We will hand over all the captives we have. And we wish to work with you in every manner possible.”

“Very good,” said Sibley. “Let it be done.”

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Over the next several hours, the captives were lined up, their names were taken, and they were led to the army camp where they were given food, clothes, and shelter. As the captives met Sibley and were formally released there were many mixed emotions. Some were stolid and impassive. They stood silently and their eyes glazed over as if they were blind; speechless as if they were mute. Others were hysterical with joy and excitement. They cried and wailed and were filled with tears and laughter, incredulous that they were in the hands of the preservers.121 For the Indians it was a time of mixed emotion as well. Those who remained in camp were mostly those who befriended and protected the captives. For some, the captives became like their very own children.

They were heartbroken to part ways, but they knew it was best. The young Dakota woman Snana, for instance, protected and cared for Mary Schwandt as if she were her daughter.122 Also, Chaska and his mother watched over Sarah Wakefield and saved her from many tense moments. The two developed a mutual respect for each other which made it very difficult for them to part.

As I sat and watched these remarkable scenes unfold before me, all of the sudden Joseph Coursolle rode into camp looking like a dog after a squirrel. He leaped from his horse and darted left and right with his eyes peeled wide open.

“Elizabeth! Minnie!” he shouted.

“Joseph,” I said, but he moved to quickly to get his attention.

“Where are my girls?” I heard him say. “I must find my little girls.”

Finally he stopped, like a statue, and stared at his long lost treasures.

He knelt down and stretched out his arms as Elizabeth and Minnie ran to meet him. Without a word they crashed in to him, one in each arm and embraced their father from around the neck.

“Girls, I am so sorry,” he said while sobbing. “I am so sorry for losing you.”

The girls replied only with cries as their little hands clutched to the back of their father as tightly as possible. All three now were crying helpless tears of joy. For the longest of moments they embraced, never wanting to let go.

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That day two hundred sixty-nine captives were officially released.

One hundred seven were white and one hundred sixty-two were mixed blood.123 They were greeted by the soldiers with tenderness and concern, and they were given all of the necessities they had been lacking. It was a glorious and impressive scene to witness and one I shall not easily forget.

But despite the joy and alleviation of that day, I felt somewhat empty. I felt ambiguous. Nothing could right the wrongs that were done to the whites or to the Dakota. Also, I still had not seen my father whom I knew was near and among the soldiers in camp. And lastly, I did not know what was to become of me. Would I be treated as a captive or would I be treated as a criminal? I felt an uneasiness I cannot explain.

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Chapter 10 The End Justifies the Means Arrest of the Dakota “You are not permitted to leave camp,” the soldier stated as he lowered his bayonet.

“Whatever do you mean?” I replied with an honest amount of confusion in my voice.

“We are ordered to guard this camp and ensure that no prisoners take leave from here,” the soldier spoke as clearly as possible with no signs of discomfort or doubt.

“But,” I said dissentingly, “I am white, I belong among those captives who have been released. I am not a Mdewakanton.”

“We have been ordered by Colonel Sibley that because of your inclusion in the battles at Birch Coulee and Wood Lake, you are to be detained and eventually tried.”

“That is ridiculous,” I said. “I was forced against my will.” I stepped forward with every intent of leaving the Indian camp. But the soldier thrust his bayonet directly in my path.

“You must turn back,” he said with a glare.

I had no choice but to turn back as ordered. I could not believe what had happened. Though the war had ended, though the prisoners had been released, I was still a prisoner. It came as a shock after having met with Colonel Sibley three times now. Certainly he did not suspect that I committed atrocities against the white settlers. Though I sympathized 130

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with the Dakota, I did everything in my power to bring reason and comfort and safety to this wretched conflict. Now was I to be punished for it? In a matter of days, I went from being a captive of the Indians to being a captive of the whites.

Over the next several days, Colonel Sibley did not waste any time arresting those he believed to be the most obvious culprits. In truth, those Indians guilty of the most heinous crimes had fled to the prairies out west. But, many of the released captives undoubtedly brought up evidence against many of the Indians still in camp. Because of this, sixteen Dakota were arrested in the first few days. These sixteen were put into log prisons that had been quickly constructed by the white soldiers. Though Sibley arrested these Dakota right away, he did little else. He did not pursue Little Crow’s band which must have now been well beyond Big Stone. In fact, I received word that on the twenty sixth, Little Crow led an unsuccessful attack on Fort Abercrombie which lay beyond the Minnesota state boundary.124 Sibley also did nothing to capture those Dakota still hiding out in the nearby area. But, as time would prove, he did not have to. Everyday more Dakota and their families entered camp under flag of truce and gave themselves up. These Indians feared the white man’s retribution and fled before Sibley arrived.

Once they saw that the captured Indians at Camp Release were not punished or mistreated, they decided it was best to give themselves up as opposed to risking starvation over the long winter. Camp Release, which had just one hundred fifty lodges when Sibley arrived, grew to two hundred forty-three lodges by early October.125 One thing Sibley did do was set up a military commission of five officers. The commission was composed of Colonel William Crooks, Lieutenant Colonel William R. Marshall, Captain Hiram P. Grant, Captain Hiram S. Bailey, and Lieutenant Rollin C. Olin. The judge advocate was the lawyer Isaac V.D. Heard. This commission was used to determine the guilt of those first sixteen men arrested and put into the log prison. I was quite displeased, however, with their indiscreet trial methods in order to convict these men. They seemed very much in a hurry to accuse and arrest the Indians and thereby condemn them, without listening to details or giving heed to testimony.

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While still at Camp Release, the Commission decided to begin the trials. This was just two days after the first arrests making it appear that the commissioners were eager to appoint convictions. The trial was held out in the open air without even time taken to find a proper building from which to be housed.

“I have been treated well by the Dakota Indians,” said Sarah Wakefield who was the initial witness to be heard by the commission.

“They have treated me and my daughter as their very own.”

“You have no complaints whatsoever regarding your captivity?” asked one of the commissioners in rather curious tone.

“Certainly I do not,” answered Sarah without hesitation. “MotherFriend and Chaska protected me and my daughter throughout the conflict. I owe to them my life.”

The commissioners appeared confused and were in disbelief of Sarah’s testimony.

“And what of Chaska?” asked the commissioner. “Do you believe he shot and killed Mr. George Gleason, as he has been charged?”

“No, certainly not,” said Sarah with conviction. “It was Hapa. It was Hapa that shot Mr. Gleason.”

“Are you so sure?” responded the commissioner.

“Yes,” said Sarah. “Chaska only snapped his gun, but did not fire.

He is a good Indian. Although he had on leggings at the time Gleason was shot, he is a farmer Indian and he spells a little,” she said trying to convince the commissioners that Chaska was on the side of the whites.

Sarah’s testimony went on like this, but ultimately, despite Sarah’s praise, Chaska was one of the first to be convicted. This happened with all of the initial men that were arrested. Each one was convicted and sentenced to be hanged.126 I spent just over a week stuck inside Camp Release. At first I was terribly bored. Without being able to leave, the days dragged on and seemed tirelessly long. I avoided any and all Dakota customs so that I did not appear any guiltier than I was already accused of being. I occupied myself as best I could, writing and reading and laying out under the cool fall breeze. I was anxious and frustrated, but I knew in my heart I had done nothing wrong. I would only have to be patient.

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As the camp grew in numbers, the tedium became much less significant and the days became much more active. By the end of the first week there were about 1,500 men, women, and children present in camp. Some of the Dakota in camp felt threatened by me being a white man among them, but enough of them knew me and acknowledged me as a friend. As the camp grew, it came to feel less of a prison and more of a bustling Indian village. But, the soldiers and the jail were an everpresent reminder of the war just past and of the coming consequences.

For now all was well, or at least, well enough among the Dakota. This was done intentionally by Colonel Sibley. He kept things light and showed mercy upon the camp for a very distinct purpose. As long as more Dakota roamed the prairie, Sibley would show mercy in order to entice the surrender of more warriors. Had he given the Dakota reason to fear, they may not have surrendered.

On October 4, nine days since the release of the captives, the majority of us were ordered to break camp and head toward the Yellow Medicine Agency. We did so promptly and the large number of cattle, horses, wagons, carriages, buggies and about one hundred fifty soldiers, with their provisions and baggage wagons, made the train a long one.

The move was made as smoothly as possible, mostly because the Dakota had become very adept nomads over the past few years, and especially over the past few weeks.

Once we arrived at Yellow Medicine, our task was to dig potatoes and harvest corn. Food was scarce and it was not easy to feed the thousands of Indians and soldiers. For many days we worked diligently under heavy guard. Though under compulsion, the Dakota men and women knew they would need this harvest and worked as if no one was watching, as if no loaded guns were pointed in their direction. But many of them were also growing weary. One night, several of them looked to me for answers.

“Good Bird,” one of them commanded while we ate our serving of beef stew around a warm and crackling fire. “How long will we be held like this? How long will we be caged like birds?”

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I looked up to see the middle-aged Dakota warrior eagerly awaiting my answer. “I know nothing more than the rest of you. I am just an ignorant prisoner.”

“Ho,” he laughed, “the white man has such greed for justice they have imprisoned one of their own.”

The other men around the fire chuckled softly and smiled loudly.

After a few moments another Dakota spoke up. “I do not understand.

We, who are innocent, are held here. Those who are guilty are free. Why do they hold us who have done nothing?”

“Many of the settlers have reason for fear,” I said, defending the white actions. “They only wish to ensure that their homes are safe against terror.”

“The terror is long gone,” the first Dakota said. “He has fled to Devil’s Lake. He and his companions are well beyond the horizon.”

“We will never be free again,” another Dakota said cynically. “We will never walk among the buffalo or hunt the great bear. We will never return to the Big Woods.127 They have taken our land and now they have reason to take our lives. They will keep us under watch until we starve or until we are hanged.”

“Will they search and capture Little Crow?” another asked me.

I coughed gently and tried to swallow as I was caught off guard by the question. “He is too far off this fall. But Sibley will mount an expedition in the spring I am sure. Already I have heard there is a $500 reward for Little Crow’s capture. As long as Little Crow is alive, the government will search him out.”

“He has reduced us to nothing,” another Dakota said loudly. “He has brought shame to our people. He and others like Cutnose and Shakopee. They should hang.”

“Still, they fought that our nation and our people would not have to kneel against a foreign power,” argued one of the men. “For years we conceded to their constant implications. If they did not kill us, they killed our spirits and they killed our past. They treated us like cattle and told us to eat grass. We had to fight. What do you say Good Bird?”

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“I do not know,” I replied quietly and without looking up. “The world is not the same as it used to be. Maybe there is no use in even trying.”

From that moment I excused myself. I wept bitterly that night for the first time since I could remember. I wasn’t sure why, but at the same time I wasn’t sure why not. It felt exhausting, as if my body was depleted and my livelihood was dead. I longed for the time before all this occurred.

The following day was a Saturday. It was pleasant, but cool and breezy. Fall had set in and there was a definite chill in the air. We had spent a week digging potatoes and it was becoming routine, but this day began much differently.

Early in the morning, Samuel Brown, son of former Indian agent Joseph Brown, arrived at the camp and announced that the Dakota were to assemble and be counted so that they could receive this year’s annuity payment. The Dakota were very pleased to learn that they would still be given their annuity monies despite the war. None of the Indians showed any inhibitions about the unexpected announcement.

Rather, they readily prepared themselves and their families for this twist of good fortune.

I could not help but feel suspicious. It seemed unusual that the government would pay its annuities while still detaining its prisoners.

Certainly, I figured, they were not prepared to release us.

Nonetheless, the Dakota did just as they were ordered. Each man, along with his family, approached a table where Major Galbraith, Captain Whitney, and three clerks waited with pens to write the names of the Indians. This was not unlike roll taken during prior annuity payments. Once the families were accounted for, the men, or heads of family, were ordered to proceed to the two-story brick warehouse to be counted separately. Again, the Dakota obeyed without any reluctance.

They even assumed that as heads of family they would receive extra money. But, once again it seemed quite odd to me.

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“Greetings, young Mr. Riggs,” said Major Galbraith as I reached the table. “If you would kindly sign here and then report to the warehouse,” he said in a very casual manner.

I was hesitant, but I really had no other option but to follow instructions. Once I arrived in the warehouse I was met by Samuel Brown. He was a rather young man and could not have been more than seventeen years old. He was a captive throughout the war, but he remained always in the relative safety of the peace camp. I was not surprised to see him working for the army now since his father was a former Indian Agent. Next to Samuel were three large barrels filled to the brim with guns, knives, tomahawks, and any other kind of weapon conceivable. It was then I realized their scheme. They never intended to give a single man his annuity payment, just as I had suspected. Instead, they used it as a trick in order to count each man, get his name, obtain his weapons, and arrest him.

Samuel just looked at me and said, “I’m sorry. Please proceed to the next room.”

There, in the crowded back room of the agency warehouse, partially torn apart from the war, myself and 234 Dakota men were arrested.

We were each shackled at the ankle alongside another man. Whatever freedom we knew was now completely lost. We were held as true prisoners who now awaited trial.128

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Chapter 11 Guilty until Proven Innocent Trial of the Dakota “Left! Left!� the soldiers saluted sarcastically as the shackled warriors hobbled by. They laughed and smiled and thoroughly enjoyed watching the Dakota men defeated, crestfallen, and hopeless. And why shouldn’t they, I thought. We were a defeated foe marching against our will at the hands of our captors. We looked sullen and tired and helpless. It was just as the soldiers had imagined it to be and nothing like what the Dakota had envisioned.

By October 11, the now-promoted, General Sibley had things just as he wanted.129 Many or even most of the Dakota had now surrendered.

Many others had been found by groups of foraging soldiers and given an ultimatum: surrender now or all will be killed, men, women, and children alike. The marauding bands of Indians invariably surrendered.

Because so many Dakota had been discovered, General Sibley decided it was time to exact punishment for crimes committed. The same day he arrested me and over two hundred thirty men at Yellow Medicine, he also arrested and shackled eighty-one men who still remained at Camp Release.130 By this time any who were still at large would remain so until spring.

The day following my arrest, we were all loaded into wagons and taken to the Lower Agency. It was a long and humiliating trip. The space was unbearably small for the number it tried to accommodate. I stood 137

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straight, barely able to move collapsed between two Indians at my side and any number of men to my front and back. Without being able to adjust my position my muscles were continually strained.

The first day, a Sunday, was particularly cold and windy. The cold air turned my hands red and caused me a great deal of pain until they finally became numb. Meanwhile, I felt completely alienated by my country, by Little Crow, and by my father. Surely anyone at any moment could acquit and redeem me. I had sought to do nothing but good. I had longed to be nothing but brave. Despite my efforts, my country had arrested me, my friends had abandoned me, and my father had forgotten me.

It took three long and agonizing days, but we finally arrived at the Lower Agency. The place was desolate compared to days past before the war. Most of the buildings were destroyed and the rest had been ransacked and abandoned. Evidence of the death and destruction that occurred still lingered everywhere. Overturned wagons, broken and looted goods, bullet holes, and even some dead bodies remained throughout parts of the agency. Most bodies had been previously discovered and given a proper burial, but around any corner there was still a chance to find groups of rotting and mutilated corpses. The entire atmosphere at the agency was one of gloom and despair.

A camp was quickly strewn together where the Indian women and children could stay. The men, still forged together at the ankle, were held under heavy guard while log prisons were once again constructed.

Once completed, the over three hundred warriors and myself were placed within the prison to await our trials. I remained sullen, deflated, and depressed. As I tried to sleep that night, I longed for this all to just go away.

The next morning the trials were set to begin. There was no reason to wait, and there was even a certain urgency to proceed. Several Indians had already been tried and convicted by the Commission, and I believe, if it had been within his authority, General Sibley would have already executed those found guilty. Though he could not proceed with the executions, he could still sentence each man to death.

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I longed to observe the proceedings, but for the moment I was trapped in my miserable log cage along with all of the other downtrodden Dakota. I paced back and forth like a dog sniffing the ground. I was filled with anxiety and fear. I watched as officers, soldiers, and the curious onlookers smitten with lust for justice climbed into the one room log home that would be used as a courthouse. I looked on feverishly and felt myself perspire from stress. I did not know what was coming over me.

“Stop moving so much!” exclaimed one of the guards. “Can’t you just sit down.”

I looked blankly at the guard and paused only for a moment. I then continued my agitated walk. Suddenly I heard a voice. It was a familiar voice. It was the voice of my father.

“Alfred,” he said quickly. “Alfred,” he called again as I failed to acknowledge my own name.

“Father?” I finally replied in a questioning tone.

“What on earth are you doing Alfred? You look skittish as a cat.”

“I—I’m nervous about the trials,” I stammered as I tried to clear my head. It took me a moment, but I shook my head and found some focus.

“I just wanted to see you before the trials begin,” my father said with a steady tone.

“What is going on here, father? Why am I imprisoned? Why am I being put to trial? Why are all these men imprisoned?”

“It is a judicial matter of law and order,” replied my father very plainly.

“How so?” I barked back.

“Don’t speak to me as if you know better. Evidence has been gathered against all of these men and charges have been made. I have spent countless hours gathering and interviewing witnesses. I have personally determined real and fair charges under which these men will tried.”

“All of these men?” I asked. “I find that completely unlikely.” I was surprised at the indignation I showed toward my father, but I felt as if I could hold nothing back.

My father paused and clenched his mouth tight. “Regardless,” he fired back, “all of these men have partaken in the outbreak. It would be 139

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ludicrous to try each man on a specific charge. Rather, all grown men are subject to an investigation of the Commission, trusting that the innocent can make their innocency appear.”

“That is not law and order.”

“That is reality!” shouted my father sternly. “Don’t be so naive, Alfred. Listen, the people of Minnesota have clamored with a wail and a howl, demanding the execution of every Indian that comes into our hands. By taking our time and resources toward giving them an opportunity to prove their innocence is to do them a favor. But the fact is they are Dakota Indians, and they belong to the bands that had engaged in the rebellion.”131 “And what of me, father? I am not a Dakota Indian,” I stated objectively.

With a deep breath my father replied, “Witnesses have testified to your presence at two of the battles. You will be tried and given a chance to prove your innocence like all the rest. You had your chance to get out, Alfred.” My father was quite aggravated. He lowered his eyes and put his hand to his forehead. “I apologize, but I am due in the courtroom,” he said with a sigh.

With that my father tipped his hat, turned, and walked away. I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came out. I leaned my arms against the log bars and watched him leave.

“Guard!” I yelled while immediately pushing aside the ugly confrontation I had with my father.

A young soldier approached. His face was clear and innocent looking.

I supposed he could not have been more than sixteen or seventeen years old. “What?” he asked as if I bothered him from something more important.

“I wish to observe the trials,” I stated matter-of-factly, thereby making my request more of an order.

“You will wait your turn here just like all the prisoners,” he replied.

“Please,” I pleaded, “I am Alfred Riggs, son of the interpreter, Stephen Riggs. I only want to sit and watch. You can keep my hands shackled.”

“I cannot allow it,” replied the soldier somewhat unsure of himself.

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“Look,” I argued, “I am a white man, I am a missionary, I accept my fate under trial. I just wish to observe from inside the courtroom where people will be able to keep a close watch over me.”

“Ah.” He thought for a moment. “Fine then. But I will follow you with my bayonet to your back all the way to the courtroom.”

I was quite relieved when I finally persuaded the guard to allow me into the courtroom. My curiosity and interest, like several times before, was too great and got the better of me. I felt entirely too uncomfortable being away from the action.

I walked slowly from the log prison to the courthouse, and sure to his word, the young soldier held his bayonet tightly to my back the entire way. The quaint square log building was even smaller than I thought. But despite its diminutive size it appeared in relatively good shape. There were a few cracks in the wood and even some burn marks crawling upward from the foundation, but still it looked untouched by the recent war. I entered slowly and surprisingly drew no attention. The room was nearly full, and everyone was engaged in some sort of business or conversation. At the front was a long table with five spots, one for each man on the military commission. To my left and just in front of the table was a small desk. On top of the desk there was a quill pen and a large stack of paper, presumably for the court reporter. From the back there were several rows of seating for trial witnesses and observers to sit which appeared much like the pews of any church. I moved to my left and immediately had a seat in just about the only place I could. My hands were shackled, and I was uncomfortable, but at the very least, I was in the courtroom.

After a few minutes, the Commission finally took their spots at the head table. Colonel William Crooks stood at the center of the Commission. The Colonel was a large and imposing man. He did not seem to carry extra weight, but he had an amazing girth that must have struck fear in any opponent. His hair was thick and his beard was full, while his face appeared weathered. He grabbed the gavel with his workmanlike hand and banged it three times.

“This court is in session,” he called loudly. “Please have a seat.”

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I noticed that General Sibley was not present in the courtroom.

I supposed he was still dealing with the capture and surrender of as many Indians as possible. My father sat facing the Commission at the counsel’s desk. My father was not a lawyer, nor was he to act as one during the trial. He was merely the man most familiar with the Dakota and most knowledgeable about each man’s personality and character.

Any charges brought forth were brought forth by him.132 Alongside my father, also facing toward the Commission, was Joseph Godfrey. Godfrey was known by the Dakota as “Otakle,” which means “Many Kills.” Godfrey was a black man who grew up among a mixed blood family and married a full blood Dakota woman. I met Mr. Godfrey on the day the outbreak began when he led Mrs. DeCamp and me to Little Crow’s village. At the time he told us that he was involved in the war against his will. As I can remember, he seemed sincere.

After a few formalities, the trial was ready to begin. My father stood to address the Commission.

“Case number one we have Mr. Joseph Godfrey,” my father stated clearly as he read off a paper in his right hand. “Charge and specifications against Otakle, or Godfrey, a colored man connected with the Dakota tribe of Indians.” My father raised his left hand to his mouth and then politely cleared his throat. “Specification the first,” he articulated. “In this, that the said Otakle, or Godfrey, a colored man, did, at or near New Ulm, Minnesota on or about the nineteenth day of August, 1862, join in a war party of the Dakota tribe of Indians against the citizens of the United States, and did with his own hand murder seven white men, women, and children, peaceable citizens of the United States.”

The charge was a harsh one and astounded the innocent crowd. It was met with a subtle gasp. After a brief pause my father continued.

“Specification the second,” he said. “In this that the said Otakle, or Godfrey, a colored man, did at various times and places between the nineteenth of August, 1862, and the twenty-eighth day of September, 1862, join and participate in the murders and massacre committed by the Dakota Indians on the Minnesota frontier. This concludes the charges,” my father said humbly as he looked up from his paper and pulled his chair out to sit down.133 142

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There was a slight commotion in the small courtroom as my father finished and Colonel Crooks banged his gavel twice to silence the agitated observers.

“Mr. Godfrey,” said Colonel Crooks with the gavel still in hand.

“You have heard the charges against you. How do you plea?”

Godfrey leaned forward nervously, “I not guilty.”

Godfrey’s plea was answered by another spurt of commotion throughout the courtroom. Again Colonel Crooks banged his gavel.

“Very well,” returned Colonel Crooks. “You may plead your case.

The floor is yours, Mr. Godfrey.”

Godfrey stood slowly and straightened his jacket. He was not a large man. He was thin with a light complexion and curly dark hair. There was nothing about him that appeared Indian.

“I have twenty-seven years,” he began. “I was born at Mendota.

My father is Canadian Frenchmen and my mother a colored woman.”

Godfrey spoke broken English and he often paused between words.

I could see that he struggled to choose words that might best express himself. He also spoke with a very soft and gentle voice. His voice was one of the softest I had ever listened to.

“I live at Lower Agency for past five years,” he continued. “I marry four years past to woman of Wabasha’s band, daughter of Wakpadota.

When war start I was mowing hay. About noon I was loading hay when a man come on horseback with a gun across lap. When he saw me he drew his gun and cocked it. ‘What’s the matter?’ I say. He looked strange and say that all the white people been killed at the Agency.”

As I sat I listened very carefully. I remembered that upon meeting Godfrey the first time he said that he was forced to join the war just as I had been. I wondered if and how he would be able to prove this to the Commission.

“I asked the man who did this, and he say the Indians. He say that they be down my way soon to kill settlers toward New Ulm. He then say I have to take off my clothes and put on breech cloth. He say I have to dress like Indians. I was afraid because he held his gun as if he would kill me. I went to my house and told my wife we try to get away. We got into woods, but the man called us to come back. I still had my pants 143

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on and I was afraid. The man say I must wear breech cloth and say I be safe to join Indian.”

As Godfrey continued the Commission of five officers seemed somewhat disinterested. They leaned back on their chairs and jotted notes occasionally. They looked as if it were inconvenient to pay attention. The entire courtroom had an aura of discomfort about it that could not be ignored. It was rich in the air almost like a pungent smell. Nonetheless, Mr. Godfrey continued his tale softly and sincerely.

“I started with the man toward New Ulm, and we met a lot of Indians at the creek, about one mile from my house. They all painted and say I must be painted. I was afraid to refuse and they painted me.

They give me a hatchet and say must fight with the Indians or I be killed. We started down the road and got to a house where a man lived named Schling —a German— an old man. The Indians found a jug in the wagon and were now almost drunk. They say to me to jump out and start ahead, but they call me to come back. They threw out a hatchet and say I must go to house and kill people. Mazabomdo was ahead, and I was afraid. I went into house. There was old man, wife, son, a boy and another man. They were at dinner. The door was open and they Indians pushed me in. I hit old man on shoulder with flat side of my hatchet. Then Indians rush in and shoot them. The old man, woman, and boy ran in kitchen. Old man, he run out some way, I did not see how. When we went back on road, I saw him dead. He was man I hit on shoulder. I heard Indians at house shoot, but I did not see what. After, we start go to Redwood. One little Indian, with pox marks on his face, and was killed at Wood Lake, said he struck boy with his knife, but he not say if he kill boy.”

Mr. Godfrey went on like this for quite some time. He spoke of many instances which took place on August the eighteenth. Each time he was very detailed and very specific. He gave many names and remembered exactly the things that had been said. He recalled one Dutch family named Masseybush which was killed by the Indians. He cited one instance in which the Dakota Indian Wakantonka cut a man to pieces. He spoke of an ambush on a wagon taken from a man named Patville from which they subsequently captured Mattie Williams, Mary 144

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Anderson, and Mary Schwandt. At no time, however, did Godfrey admit to murder or theft of any kind. According to his account he was merely a bystander forced to do the Dakota’s bidding. The most dangerous act he committed was that of striking a man on the shoulder with the blunt end of a hatchet.

Once Godfrey finished talking about the events of August 18, he continued into the rest of the war. However, he was far less detailed and much more ambiguous about his involvement thereafter. He spoke of being present at the first battle of Fort Ridgely and admitted to stealing a horse upon inducement, but he never mentioned that he had fired a shot. When he spoke of Birch Coulee he said he could hear the firing in the distance and he recalled five Dakota being killed, but he did not confirm or deny his involvement in battle. Lastly, he admitted to being at Wood Lake, but again he did not say if he took part in battle.

When Godfrey finally finished, Colonel Crooks leaned forward and drew his eyes wide open as if he had just awoken from a long nap.

“Thank you Mr. Godfrey,” said Colonel Crooks. “The court will take a short recess,” he stated and then banged his gavel, which made a shrill and echoing clap.

The courtroom became loud as conversation broke out and everyone tried to expel their restlessness. I sat patiently and I could see that the rather hefty soldier posted at the back door had a close eye on me. I found it humorous that he watched me so closely. I was probably the least dangerous character in the room that day.

After just a few minutes Colonel Crooks banged his gavel again and the hearing was ready to proceed.

“Thank you for your testimony Mr. Godfrey,” began Colonel Crooks. “Before we begin, is there anything else you would like to say on your behalf?”

“Yes,” replied Godfrey so softly that he could vaguely be heard. “I wish to say that I commit no murders. I was at battles only by force of the Dakota. And when I spoke of killing, I boasted only for the good will of the Indians.”

“Very well, Mr. Godfrey,” said Colonel Crooks. “The Commission will take your testimony into consideration. Before we are able to 145

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rule on your charges, we would like to hear the testimonies of several eyewitnesses as gathered by Reverend Riggs. Reverend Riggs, will you call the first witness?”

“Certainly,” my father replied as he stood and turned toward the witness. In this moment his eye caught my own and he paused as this was the first he had realized I was in the room. “The court calls Mrs. Mary Woodbury,” my father said. He gave me one last look, but then gave his attention back to the proceedings.

Mrs. Woodbury stood up from the front row and made her way to the aisle. I recognized Mrs. Woodbury from among the captives but had only briefly made her acquaintance. She was a plain looking white woman who had likely been living somewhere near the agency when the outbreak occurred. She stepped forward and took a seat to the right of the Commission in a chair facing partly toward the Commission and partly toward Mr. Godfrey and my father.

My father slowly approached Mrs. Woodbury. “Mrs. Woodbury,” he said, “please tell the Commission why you are here today.”

“Oh,” she hesitated as if she felt this were obvious. “I am here to testify against Mr. Godfrey.”

“Yes,” replied my father, “but what qualifies you to do so? What events took place over the last six weeks?”

“Ah, of course,” she stuttered and seemed embarrassed. “Well, I was living just south of the Redwood Agency that day when the Dakota came and attacked. I was just sitting down to breakfast when they came, killed my husband,” her tone suddenly became very harsh, “and took my daughter and me captive. My daughter and I, we were held captive until General Sibley came to rescue us.”

“And what can you tell us about Mr. Joseph Godfrey?” my father asked directly. “What did you see or observe from him? What did you hear?”

“Um,” Mrs. Woodbury took a deep breath. Her hands were crossed on her lap and she appeared very innocent. “I first saw Mr. Godfrey two or three days after the outbreak began. He was at Little Crow’s village.

He was dressed like an Indian with a breech cloth and his legs and face were painted for war. He appeared very happy and content with 146

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the Indians. He was whooping around and yelling and was apparently as fierce as any one of them.” Mrs. Woodbury paused but did not say anything else.

“Thank you, Mrs. Woodbury,” my father replied with a nod. “Was this the only occasion in which you saw Mr. Godfrey? Did you witness anything else?”

“This was the only time I recall seeing him,” Mrs. Woodbury stated politely.

“Very well then, you may return to your seat,” my father said as he leaned forward and waved his arm to direct Mrs. Woodbury back to her seat.

“Thank you, Mrs. Woodbury,” said Colonel Crooks. “Reverend Riggs, you may call the next witness.”

“Certainly,” replied my father. “The court calls the Wahpeton, Hunka.”

Sitting alongside Mrs. Woodbury was a young Indian woman.

She had long dark hair that was braided and stretched far down her back. Her face looked young and unblemished and she was remarkably attractive. She was not in Indian clothing, but instead wore a simple plaid dress. She stood and made her way to the front of the courtroom.

“Thank you, Hunka,” my father said as she sat down. “Please tell the court about your involvement in the conflict and what you know of Mr. Joseph Godfrey or Otakle.”

Hunka looked attentive as my father spoke, but she could not understand a word which was said. As soon as my father finished speaking she looked over immediately to Anotine Frenier who was acting as the interpreter. Mr. Frenier then spoke the words in Dakota.

“My name is Hunka, and I am a warrior’s wife from the Wahpeton band.” Between each sentence, she would pause and look to Mr. Frenier who then quickly translated her words into English. “My husband was a warrior in the war. I cooked his meals and carried his materials and helped by driving wagons,” she explained. “But I did not fight the battles.”

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“And what did you notice about Mr. Godfrey?” my father asked, speaking directly to her as if there were no interpreter involved in the conversation.

“Mr. Godfrey,” she said clearly, “he was a fierce Indian. He was the bravest of them all. I saw him lead a group into a house and then he clubbed the inmates with a hatchet.”

“And what else?” inquired my father in English.

“One day, when I was standing in the doorway of the prisoner’s tent, I heard the Indians ask him, Otakle I mean, how many whites had he killed. He said only seven,” Hunka stressed the word only, as did Mr. Frenier as he translated Hunka’s statement adequately into English.

“And is there anything else about Mr. Godfrey that might benefit the Commission to know?”

Hunka thought for a moment and turned her eyes up as if searching her memory. “Only that once, upon starting off, he had with him a gun, a knife, and a hatchet.”

There was no reaction to Hunka’s words. Once they were translated there was a slight hush over the crowd.

“Thank you, Hunka,” said my father, “you may return to your seat.”

Hunka rose and slowly walked back to her seat among the audience.

She looked toward Mr. Godfrey, but Godfrey held his head low and his eyes toward his feet.

The Commission continued to interview witnesses well into the afternoon. Both Mattie Williams and Mary Schwandt, captives with whom I had been during my night in Little Crow’s village, were interviewed by my father. Their testimony was almost identical. Both of them said that when he captured them, he was unarmed but that he appeared to be as much in favor of the outrages as any of the Indians.

They further noted that he made no intimation to the contrary in a conversation the witnesses had with him.

The store owner, La Batte, was also brought forth to testify, but I am unsure why. He could make no statements one way or the other about Mr. Godfrey except that he saw him as a member of a war party.

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Lastly, David Faribault, a well-known trader and half-breed, took the stand. Mr. Faribault offered perhaps the most condemning testimony against Mr. Godfrey.

“That wretched Mr. Godfrey boasted of killing seven men with his tomahawk,” Mr. Faribault stated emphatically. “He also killed some children, but being so vile and wicked he considered the children did not amount to anything and so he did not include them in his murderous count.” Mr. Faribault had his eyes wide with passion as he continued to accuse the black man Godfrey. “He never told me he was forced to fight with the Indians,” explained Mr. Faribault. “Instead I saw him at the fort and at New Ulm fighting and acting the devilish Indians.”

By the end of Mr. Faribault’s testimony, it was nearly dark, and the entire court had grown quite restless and most likely very hungry as well. The case against Mr. Godfrey was a thorough one, but in the end, not a single witness could swear to seeing Mr. Godfrey kill anyone.

Furthermore, Mr. Godfrey has such an honest look, and spoke with such a truthful tone, that the Commission was inclined to believe that there were possibilities to his sincerity.

After Mr. Faribault’s testimony was completed, the Commission took a recess to discuss the verdict on Mr. Godfrey. After about five minutes the Commission returned.

“Order please,” called Colonel Crooks as he stood and banged the gavel several times. “Would the accused, Mr. Joseph Godfrey, please rise,” he finally stated once the courtroom had quieted. Godfrey pushed his chair back and stood. Then, in a loud, clear voice, Colonel Crooks called out, “on the first specification the accused, Mr. Joseph Godfrey is found not guilty.”

There was a gasp and a disturbed rustle among the audience.

“Order! Order!” demanded Colonel Crooks, “Quiet, please!” he shouted.

“On the second specification, the accused, Mr. Joseph Godfrey, is found guilty and is sentenced to death by hanging.”

There was another loud clamor among the audience and even some applause. Mr. Godfrey, from what I could tell, gave no reaction. I’m sure 149

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he understood by the reaction of the crowd that he had been convicted and he must have been devastated.134 “However!” Colonel Crooks called out trying to grab the crowd’s attention once more despite the obvious commotion. “However!” he repeated, “Mr. Godfrey will remain in this court and bear witness for the remainder of the hearings. This court is adjourned until eight a.m. tomorrow morning.” Colonel Crooks then rapped his gavel one last time.

For the next day and the days to follow, I was allowed to remain in the courtroom as an observer of the proceedings. No one seemed to mind much or even look in my direction. The scene in the courtroom remained much the same and even became rather tedious. The only noticeable difference from one day to the next was the dwindling crowds as people began to lose interest and return to their daily labors and routines. No case following Godfrey’s was nearly as elaborate, nor did any case take nearly so much time. The first few cases following Godfrey’s were somewhat elaborate and drawn out, but as the hearings proceeded, the Commission became very familiar with the events and particulars of the war. Each case was introduced by my father with almost identical charges as the one before. And each time the man on trial was given the chance to plead his case. Almost inevitably, this was followed by several witnesses who could swear to having seen that particular Indian either go off to battle or actually partake in battle. In addition, as the trials proceeded, the Commission grew impatient and weary with the repetitive nature of each case and began dismissing them in as little as five minutes. In one day they tried as many as forty men.135 As the trials went on, I became increasingly displeased with how they were conducted. After just the first few cases, it was evident that either witness testimony or admission by the prisoner that he was a participant in battle was considered sufficient evidence to condemn a man to death. This was entirely unfair and seemed far beyond any legal authority. What made things worse was that most Dakota did not speak English, and they became very confused. They often appeared led into an admission of guilt. Furthermore, and perhaps most outrageous, the Dakota were not represented by a lawyer. They had no one to speak on 150

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their behalf or guide them through misleading questioning. Once it was established that any Dakota partook in battle, he was considered guilty and his case was dismissed. Those convicted of plundering and theft were also quickly disposed of and condemned to imprisonment.

Eventually, the Dakota realized the coercion that was taking place and understood that if it was determined that they had fired a weapon, they would be hanged. This, however, led to even greater debasement of the already flawed trials. Indians began to make up strange and bizarre excuses to avoid any kind of admission of guilt. Their excuses were childlike in nature and took a different shape every day. Many men said that they were too old and their hair was too gray to participate in battle while others said they were too young and that their hearts were too weak to face gun-fire. Some Indians suggested that they slept through entire battles and others claimed they suffered from great bellyaches and were writhing in pain and unable to fight. One old gentleman went as far to pretend he was asleep while on trial. His mouth was open and his eyes were closed and he had to be nudged every two minutes. “Wake him up! Stir him up!” was the constant call of the interpreter. Another man astonished the court by claiming that he was the specific cause of the war. He said that the whites were lavishly kind to him and to such an extent that the other Indians became jealous of him. He argued that it was their jealously that excited them so much as to start a war.

Another curious observation I made about the hearings was the repeated interrogation conducted by Joseph Godfrey. Though Godfrey had been convicted, he remained in the courtroom throughout the trials and acted as a witness in nearly a quarter of the cases. Godfrey’s observations and memory were astonishing. It seemed that over the entire length of the war, nothing escaped his eye. He knew the precise type of gun each man used and where and when they had used it. He recalled men’s actions and words and who they were with. He became a means for justice substantiated by the subsequent admission of the Indians themselves. Each time an Indian told a lie, Godfrey knew otherwise and led them to the admittance of truth. One man, for instance, denied that he was ever at the fort, but Godfrey immediately sprang up with a rebuttal. He asked the man if he remembered that he 151

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had prepared his sons for battle by painting the face of one red while he drew a streak of green over the eyes of the other. The man could not deny this truth. It was truly remarkable to watch Godfrey at work. He studied each man’s face, listened intently to each word, and sprang forth at every untruth. He was truly an instrument of justice.136 I was never so enamored than I was to watch the trials unfold before me. The clash of one culture against another, the postulation of one people toward another, and the sheer distortion of it all, was put on display before my very eyes. It was like theater in which the story’s conflict created an astounding misapprehension of convoluted characters. Only in this theater, the consequences were real.

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Chapter 12 Have him Hanged!

The Trial of Alfred Riggs Several weeks passed at the Lower Agency, and it was now early November. The wind had been whipping a cold chill day and night and the signs of winter were unmistakable. Nearly four hundred Dakota braves had been tried, and I knew my turn was at hand. I did not feel frightened or nervous. I really didn’t feel much of anything. So much had happened. So much I didn’t understand, so much I was unclear and uncertain of, so much hope and yet so much doubt, so much sorrow and grief and misery. It was all surreal, and it made my senses numb.

My perspective had become empirical and completely void of emotion.

I could no longer, nor could I ever, predict what might happen, or even strive to create what I perceived to be the ideal outcome. I had lost all control and only now realized I had never had control. No matter what happened to me or the Dakota, my view had become a cynical one.

One night, as I slept peacefully, and my trial drew near, I was disrupted. It was my father.

“Alfred. Wake up, Alfred,” my father said bluntly as he pressed his hand to my shoulder and shook me softly.

“Yes,” I muttered still unsure of where I was.

“It is me, Alfred, your father. I have good news and I needed to talk to you right away.”

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“Yes, what?” I said now comprehending where I was and who was speaking to me.

“I have just returned from the west,” my father explained hurriedly while I sat up to listen. “I spoke with General Sibley and he has agreed to pardon you. He knows you are a good man.”

“That is great news,” I said excitedly while trying to keep my voice down.

“There is one condition,” replied my father.

I did not reply, but just raised my eyebrows in curiosity.

“You must agree,” my father spoke slowly and clearly but in a whispering tone, “to join General Sibley’s expedition in the spring. And, as a member of that expedition, you will be expected to exploit your relationship with Little Crow and join his band in order to lead us to him. I told General Sibley that you would gladly accept.”

The news hit me like a shock and sent a nervous rush through my body. “I cannot agree to that,” I replied immediately.

My father’s head drew back like he had just been bitten by a bug.

“Don’t make another foolish mistake, Alfred.”

“But certainly I cannot agree to deceive my friend and then lure the army directly toward him so that they might capture him, kill him, and put his body on display.”

“Little Crow incited a massacre on the people of Minnesota. His fate has been sealed, yours has not!” stated my father emphatically.

I took a moment to think and the night was suddenly very still. In a way, my father was right, but I dared not put my life before the life of Little Crow, from whom I had learned so much. “Father,” I said calmly.

“I know you are only protecting me, but I will not do what General Sibley is asking. One could argue for centuries whether Little Crow’s actions were justified or not; whether they are punishable or honorable.

But I don’t wish to choose and I don’t wish to take sides and I certainly don’t wish to give in to the pressures of the world around me. Even if the earth gives way and the mountains fall into the heart of the sea, even then I would not deceive Little Crow. He is a good man, and he is my friend. This much I am sure of.”

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My father raised his hand to his forehead and let out a deep sigh.

“Good night, Alfred. Good luck tomorrow.” My father stood from his crouched position and walked away. I knew I had hurt him, but I do not believe I let him down. I felt good and my mind was clear. The rest of the night I slept easy.

There was a large crowd forming around the courthouse. People were lined up, taking turns one by one to enter the building. The trials were nearly over and I was surprised to see such a renewed interest in the proceedings. As much as I did not wish to believe it, I knew these people had come to see my trial. I was the only full-blooded white man to be tried. They came in flocks and they came for retribution.

I waited patiently in my log prison. I enjoyed the usual breakfast of milk and bread and even shared some laughs with the Dakota prisoners.

We had, in a way, come to accept our fate however fair or unfair it was.

Finally, the guard called me out.

“The Great Spirit is with you,” said some of my Dakota inmates as I stepped forward. Before I could toward the courthouse, the guard placed shackles over my wrists and then turned and pulled me forward.

Though it was a short distance to the courthouse, the walk was slow and time seemed at a standstill. The air no longer felt cold, and my body no longer felt tired. I felt only numbness in body and mind. All that I could see was the blowing leaves, and all that I could hear was the rattle of my chains.

Suddenly, I felt a striking pain at the back of my right shoulder, and it pulled me from my momentary trance. The crowds began throwing rocks in my direction. I was now very near the courthouse and two more guards had been rushed to my side. The crowd was large and boisterous and their attention was directed solely toward me. Men and women and even some children had gathered in scores outside the courthouse. As the soldiers, now bodyguards, led me toward the courthouse, the crowd grew loud and angry. “He is a traitor!” they shouted derisively while their faces were filled with hate. “He murdered whites! He should be tortured and hanged!” I heard them continually call out. More objects came flying toward me and I huddled low from between the guards for 155

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protection as if they were a walled fortress from which within I could hide.

Finally, I made it inside the courtroom and the door was closed behind me. The room was oozing with people. Every seat was occupied while the back and the sides were filled with standing observers. As I entered there was a great commotion, but it was not nearly as emphatic as the greeting I had received from outside. Still the people looked upon me with contempt as if they could kill me with just the glare in their eyes.

I had no idea I would be received with such negative popularity.

To this point in the trials the people had hardly noticed me. Somehow word must have spread that the white Indian, the son of a missionary who fought against the settlers, had come to trial.

I took my seat up front at the table, facing the Commission. The same seat I had seen so many Dakota be tried and convicted from.

It was the seat from where so many lives had been dismissed like an undesirable weed, torn from the soil and thrown among the rest. There was no one alongside me; the seat was empty. This was the spot that was in every other case reserved for my father, but I looked around and did not see him present in the room.

The courtroom was still very loud and unsettled. The crowd forced its way in until the room was almost bursting at the seams. From outside I could still hear their taunts which echoed so loud the walls seemed to shake.

As I took a deep breath and calmed myself from amongst the commotion, I looked to my right to identify the witnesses who had come to testify. Among them I first saw Joseph Coursolle. He appeared somber and kept his head down. Next to him was Chief Big Eagle. Big Eagle had earlier been tried and sentenced to prison. I also saw several others like Dr. Alfred Muller, George Spencer, Charles Blair, Mrs. White, Mrs. DeCamp, Sarah Wakefield, and Thomas Robinson. There was also a soldier whom I did not recognize. I suddenly felt very hopeful.

As I thought back, these were all people I helped or at least showed some kindness to. Perhaps, I thought, their testimony would absolve me.

Perhaps they would show the crowd, the people who had come to hang 156

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me, that I was not a traitor or villain, but that I had struggled to prevent death and suffering. Perhaps I could make my innocence known.

Finally, Colonel Crooks stood from his position at the center of the Commission.

Bang! Bang! Bang! he knocked his gavel three times silencing the crowd like a parent scolding a child.

“Your attention,” he called. “We are ready to resume the hearings.

We have a very large audience today and we would appreciate your utmost cooperation in order that today’s trial is conducted effectively.”

The crowd calmed itself leaving only their anticipation to be heard.

“We begin trial today with Mr. Alfred Riggs,” continued Colonel Crooks. “Because Reverend Riggs is a close kin to the younger Mr. Riggs he will not be performing his normal duties at today’s proceedings. In his stead, I will conduct the questioning.” The Colonel spoke like a man who enjoyed the spotlight, as if he were quite pleased to be given more attention. “Without further adieu then, let us get started. Mr. Frenier, will you please announce the charges.” Colonel Crooks motioned to the court interpreter and then sat down.

Antoine Frenier stood and held the charges out in front of him.

In a surprisingly nervous and quiet voice he read the charges. “Charge and Specifications against Alfred Riggs, a white man and son of a missionary connected with Little Crow and the Dakota tribe of Indians. Specification the first. In this, that the said, Alfred Riggs, did, at various times and places between the eighteenth of August, 1862, and the twenty third day of September, 1862, join and participate in the murders and massacres committed by the Dakota Indians on the Minnesota frontier.”

“Have him hanged!” came the sudden and shrill cry of a woman from behind me.

Before anymore commotion could break out, Colonel Crooks immediately rapped his gavel. “Order!” he shouted. “There will be no more outbursts from anyone or you will be summarily dismissed from the courtroom,” he demanded. Colonel Crooks paused as he stared out over the crowd with a look of reproach on his face. “Please continue, Mr. Frenier.”

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Mr. Frenier nodded and continued. “Specification the second. In this, that the said, Alfred Riggs, did at various times and in various ways conspire with Little Crow and the warring bands of Dakota Indians in order to deceive and cause great harm to the white populations of southern Minnesota.”

There was only a very slight reaction to the charge this time, likely because of Colonel Crooks’ staunch reprimand just moments before. I had no idea I would be charged for conspiring, but I understood how that may have been perceived.

“Thank you very much,” Colonel Crooks said to Mr. Frenier.

“Before we call any witnesses, Mr. Riggs, you have the opportunity to debate your charges if you wish.”

I hesitated. I knew this time would come, but I was not prepared for it. I had seen so many speak before and each time they had condemned themselves or created some sort of story so outlandish that they lost all credibility. I did not wish to make the same mistakes. I stood and began to turn to face the audience, but stopped and realized I was to speak to the Commission.

“I grew up as a good friend to the Dakota Indians,” I began casually.

“I have never had a quarrel with them. I can admit that I am a good friend of Little Crow’s. But even General Sibley can make that claim.

I was as surprised as anyone else when this war began. I was hurt and devastated that our two peoples could not settle their differences peacefully, mutually, and even productively. But we could not, and I was caught in the middle. Though I had the opportunity to escape the dreadful scenes of the conflict, I sought to mitigate its effect. I sought to council its leaders. I sought to bring about resolution even if I was incapable of doing so.”

I was not sure where I was going with my words. I had nothing prepared. But I felt comfortable and I had everyone’s attention so I just continued. “In the end this war was far greater than anything I could do or prevent. I realize I was naive, but my intentions were genuine.”

I chose to stop there. I knew I could go on and deny specific charges and explain every reason and notion and occurrence, but I decided, 158

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whether it was necessary or not, that my actions and my intentions should speak for themselves. I sat down and waited.

There was a dull silence throughout the courtroom. What could be heard was the shuffling of feet, the rearranging of clothes and the very subtle movements made to relieve discomfort. Meanwhile Colonel Crooks leaned to his left and whispered something to Lt. Col. William Marshal. Finally, while everyone waited diligently, Colonel Crooks stood to speak.

“Thank you, Mr. Riggs. Your testimony will be considered in this Commission’s final decision.” Colonel Crooks hesitated and took a breath. He turned his attention away from me and toward the room as a whole. “However,” he continued, “before we can reach that decision, there are several witnesses we desire to question. Because your father represents a conflict of interest,” Colonel Crooks said as he looked back toward me, “I will accept the responsibility of questioning the witnesses.” Colonel Crooks pushed his chair back and meandered from behind the long table until he stood at the very center of the floor just in front of the deluge of observers. “Our first witness to be called is Mr. Joseph Coursolle.”

I turned my head and saw Joseph stand and walk toward the witness seat. He did not look up, he did not acknowledge me. He sat quietly and bore a look of humility on his face.

“Mr. Coursolle,” began Colonel Crooks as he paced ever so slightly, “this is not a typical court hearing. There are no lawyers, there is no defense, persecution, or judge. I am not trying to lead you one way or another in order to prove guilt or innocence. I am only here to guide you so that all the necessary facts are obtained in order to determine the punishment or lack thereof for the accused. With that said, could you please tell us about your experience with Alfred Riggs during the recent Indian war?”

Joseph nodded and finally his eye caught mine. He looked blank and turned his attention back to Colonel Crooks. “Before the war started,” explained Joseph in a polite and easy manner, “I was acquainted with Alfred, or Mr. Riggs.”

“Alfred is fine,” interrupted Colonel Crooks.

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“Alfred seemed like a nice fellow,” continued Joseph. “He was kind and polite, and I reckoned everyone liked him. After this whole conflict started I met him first at Fort Ridgely just a few days after the war began. I was surprised to see him.”

“Why were you surprised?” asked Colonel Crooks immediately.

“Well,” said Joseph, “I knew he was friends with the Dakota. I figured he might know before anyone else that the Indians were going to attack. I thought he would have been long gone.”

“I see. Continue,” said Colonel Crooks with a hand raised to his chin as if in thought.

“Anyway, he was with me at the fort for several days. He helped dig trenches and build barricades. He was a good worker and left no question about his loyalties. During the battles he did not fight, but I did see him risk his life to put out a roof fire. It was quite valiant.”

“And what about your daughters?” asked the Colonel.

“Oh, my daughters,” responded Joseph as if he forgot he had daughters. “Upon meeting Alfred at the fort, he told me that he found my daughters at the agency, but that he lost them to a Dakota warrior.

He consoled me and he appeared genuinely concerned for my daughter’s well-beings. I was grateful to know they were alive.”

Colonel Crooks looked to the floor and made it evident that something else was on his mind. “If Mr. Riggs was at Fort Ridgely during the battles, do you know how it is that he left?”

“I do,” returned Joseph as he nodded his head. “I actually had planned to leave myself. I told him that I was leaving to go find my daughters. But he persuaded me against it. He told me it was too dangerous and that I would be better served to stay and protect the fort.

That was the last I saw of him at the fort. He slipped away on his own accord despite his own advice against it.”

“Thank you, Mr. Coursolle,” said Colonel Crooks. “Did you happen across Mr. Riggs at any time after that?”

“Yes, yes I did. It was during the Battle at Birch Coulee.”

A gasp rose among the crowd of observers.

“Quiet please,” said Colonel Crooks with a slightly raised tone.

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“I was a soldier at the battle,” explained Joseph as if he were telling a story. “I and my comrades were stuck, nearly helpless for almost two days while under siege. As much as it agonizes me, I distinctly remember seeing Alfred from across the lines dressed as a Dakota with a rifle in his hands.”

A much louder gasp rose from the crowd as they simultaneously sucked out all of the air from the room. Voices began to rise, one cancelling out another, making it impossible to determine what was said.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” shouted the Colonel. “Please contain yourselves.”

The crowd continued to murmur until Colonel Crooks reached for his gavel and banged it several times.

“Please,” pleaded Colonel Crooks, “that is enough.” He waited a moment and then looked back to Joseph. “Thank you, Mr. Coursolle.

Is there any other information you would like to share?”

“No,” was all Joseph said.

“All right then, thank you for your testimony. You may return to your seat.” Colonel Crooks gave a smile which was little more than a smirk and directed Joseph back to his seat among the first row of the audience. Still Joseph ignored me. I could not tell exactly what he felt, but his character was heavy and he seemed guilty or ashamed. Perhaps he knew just how devastating his testimony was to my case. Perhaps he felt my life was in his hands and he had just let me go.

“The next witness the Commission calls,” announced Colonel Crooks as he stood unabashed at the center of the floor, “is the Mdewakanton chief, Big Eagle.”

Without hesitation Big Eagle rose and made his way to the witness seat. I had known of Big Eagle before the outbreak, but I had not known him personally. At the time of the outbreak he was a farmer Indian living at the Redwood Agency. From what I could tell he supported Little Crow and the war effort.137 Big Eagle sat tall and upright, perched truly like an eagle that scans a valley for prey. He was relatively young, perhaps in his early thirties.

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He had long, dark black hair and a well defined face. He looked exactly like one might picture an Indian who had never seen one.

“Do you recognize this man?” asked Colonel Crooks as he pointed directly at me.

“This man?” repeated Big Eagle while he pointed at me with both hands. “Good Bird—Good Bird,” he stuttered sounding more like a parrot than a man.

“Did you see him fight?” Colonel Crooks asked slowly knowing that Big Eagle had a limited knowledge of English.

“Fight?” returned Big Eagle trying to understand the question.

“Fight,” repeated Colonel Crooks as he lifted an imaginary rifle to his shoulder and pretended to aim and shoot.

“Fight, yes he fight,” said Big Eagle while repeating the imaginary action of firing a rifle. “He with my men.” Big Eagle spoke slowly and used his hands to help him communicate. “He at Birch Coulee. He at Wood Lake. He shoot. He a Dakota Indian.”

This statement startled the audience and renewed their vigor for contempt. I could feel their eyes all turn toward me the moment Big Eagle finished his sentence. I merely closed my eyes, breathed slowly, and absorbed the tension.

“Thank you Big Eagle,” said Colonel Crooks.

“Th—” responded Big Eagle as he only mimicked Colonel Crooks.

“Thank you. You may sit down.”

Big Eagle slowly rose from the chair while staring hesitantly at Colonel Crooks, trying to assure that he understood that he was allowed to leave the witness seat.

The testimony to this point left little doubt as to the outcome of my trial. It was now evident that I was present and included in two battles against the whites. Could this really be happening, I wondered? Did they really believe I would do such things? My only hope was that in the remaining testimony, there would be enough positive evidence to sway the Commissioners’ judgment in my favor.

Following Big Eagle, there were a number of witnesses who could only speak briefly of their acquaintance with me. Each time Colonel Crooks stood almost ceremoniously at the center of the floor and called 162

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the next witness. And each time the witness quietly and calmly got up from the first row of the audience, walked slowly forward, and modestly took their spot at the witness seat. Colonel Crooks paced a few steps left, then a few steps right, and always asked two or three questions.

The witnesses invariably responded with brief, but polite and truthful words about what they had seen and heard. Then Colonel Crooks would courteously dismiss them from the stand and prepare to call the next witness. It was all done very routinely and appeared to be rehearsed. It seemed like my trial had no urgency, as if it stood alone.

Immediately following Big Eagle, Dr. Alfred Muller was called to testify. Dr. Muller was present at Fort Ridgely during the attacks.

He spoke of me admirably and commended me for the assistance I offered after the first attack. His testimony left a pleasant impression on all the spectators that day. Other brief but positive testimonies came from George Spencer and Charles Blair. Mr. Spencer explained to the Commission how I and Wabasha arguably saved his life at the agency on the first day of the outbreak. He said that he was grateful for my presence that day. Charles Blair was with me the night I escaped from Little Crow’s village. He did not have much to say, but he was able to confirm that I was a prisoner of the Dakota and that I sought to escape in order to spare my life. Mr. Blair was followed by Mrs. Jannette DeCamp, Mrs. Nancy White, and Mrs. Sarah Wakefield. Like Mr. Blair, Mrs. DeCamp also confirmed that I was, at least at one point, a prisoner.

She did not speak strictly kindly of me, but she did not condemn me either. Mrs. White and Mrs. Wakefield did speak kindly of me. To my great benefit, Mrs. White and Mrs. Wakefield were able to witness that despite dressing and looking like an Indian, I was very helpful and generous to them. Mrs. Wakefield herself said that she could not see a sliver of enmity in my being. Thomas Robinson’s testimony reflected the words of Sarah Wakefield. Thomas and I built a sturdy friendship during our travels together. In his testimony Thomas suggested that he had no doubt that I sought peace as my main objective. Finally, the soldier I did not recognize was Captain Ezra T. Champlin.138 Captain Champlin was the only witness after Big Eagle to give condemning testimony. He was present at Wood Lake and verified that I was at that 163

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battle and that I had a rifle in my hands. Regardless, the evidence given by the witnesses was positive overall. No one could cite any specific negative behavior and those who were with me were grateful and pleased with my attitude. Though I was at Birch Coulee and Wood Lake, I was forced to be there. Because of all of the positive testimony given, my emotion began to return to me. Instead of numbness, I began to feel hope. I felt, after such glowing testimony, I might be exonerated after all.

Before the trial continued, Colonel Crooks ordered a recess for lunch. As I was led out of the courtroom, the mood was far less tense.

It was rather much more tranquil and reticent. The eyes of the observers still locked on to me from every side, but this time in an uncertain manner of how they ought to feel. It was as if they did not know whether to thank me or persecute me.

When I returned to the courtroom an hour later, I expected that all that remained was to hear my verdict. Nearly the entire crowd had already gathered back in and around the courthouse, and I was met with the same reticence from which I had departed. The Commissioners were shuffling papers and finishing their last sips of coffee while others were turning pages in the newspaper. The scene was nothing short of monotonous and it made it hard to believe that life or death was at stake.

After a few dull moments, Colonel Crooks removed his glasses and stood at the center of the Commissioner’s table while scanning the room. Finally, he banged his gavel.

“In the trial against Mr. Alfred Riggs,” he announced, “this Commission is ready to proceed. Please take your seats and give us your attention.” Colonel Crooks paused and allowed everyone to settle in until there wasn’t a single startling movement. Colonel Crooks then continued. “We have had the privilege to hear testimony through a variety of eyewitnesses who permit us to make a much more informed decision regarding Mr. Riggs’ role in the recent outbreak. But, before we can reach a unanimous decision, there is one more witness we would like to hear from whom we believe is vital to the case.”

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I shrugged upon hearing this and wondered who it might be. We had already heard from everyone I had significant interactions with during the course of the war.

“The Commission calls Reverend Stephen Riggs.”

There was a collective gasp and some scattered murmurs immediately following this announcement. As for myself, I was not shocked. I was not heartbroken. I was, once again, plain, sedate, and emotionless. My numbness returned.

My father appeared from somewhere hidden in the back of the crowd. I do not know if he had been there for the entirety of the trial or not. He looked himself—not tired or worn or stressed, just dutiful. He looked ready to bargain or make some important transaction. He took his seat and like all the witnesses, he made no eye contact with me. He just straightened his jacket, cleared his throat, and pushed back his hair.

“Reverend Riggs,” began Colonel Crooks. “First of all I would like to thank you for your time and dedication toward these hearings. The state of Minnesota and the mourning families of this recent tragedy are grateful for your service.”

“It is my honor,” replied my father with little more than a whisper.

“Now, Reverend Riggs,” stated Colonel Crooks as he began his usual pacing. “You are the father to the accused and you no doubt know him better than anyone else in this room. But today we are not interested in your observations as a father. Instead we would like to hear your objective observations concerning the accused during the time of the war. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” my father said and nodded.

“Please then, recount for us your interactions with Alfred during the conflict,” said Colonel Crooks with a slight wave of his hand.

“Well, ah,” my father hesitated uncharacteristically. “I suppose the first such interaction occurred the night of August seventeenth. It was late, I don’t recall how late. It may have been past midnight. He came galloping in on his horse in a frantic rush and he was completely out of breath.”

“Where was he travelling from?” interjected Colonel Crooks.

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“Oh, he had been living at the Lower Agency for about a month or so prior to the war,” explained my father. “He was trying to help the Mdewakantons acquire their annuity benefits. That particular night he came riding directly from Little Crow’s home.”

There was a pause and in that moment the room was more silent than it had ever yet been. Colonel Crooks simply urged my father to continue.

“Right,” said my father, acknowledging the Colonel. “I was on the porch when he arrived. Once I managed to calm him down he explained to me what was so urgent, what we all now know about. I did not disbelieve him and I took heed to the information he gave me.”

“Are you saying then,” said Colonel Crooks in some mode of realization, “that Alfred knew about the Indian’s intentions before they commenced war?”

“Yes, I suppose he did.”

“And it’s true, then, that rather than alert the settlers of the Lower Agency, he rode some forty miles to alert you?”

“I cannot argue your rationale. I suppose that is true.”

“And after he gave you this information?” asked Colonel Crooks in a rising tone.

“He said that he had to return to the Lower Agency to try and warn them, to try and save them. I made no attempt to stop him. He may have been foolhardy, but I admired his bravery.”

The stark silence had since left the courtroom. There were now brief, but unmistakable reactions to each and every word spoken. Though not every reaction was verbal, I could feel the bending and swaying of judgment and emotion. It was thick and heavy like a wave coursing through the air. I just sat still, as immovable as a statue, and took it all in.

“When did you next encounter Alfred?” asked Colonel Crooks, continuing the trial.

“I did not see him again, nor did I know of his whereabouts until sometime mid-September,” responded my father, seeming much more like himself. “I was at Fort Ridgely as a member of General Sibley’s expedition. I was told that two messengers had come from Little Crow’s 166

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camp and that one of them was my son. So, the evening he arrived I went to visit him in the barracks. I was startled at first because he was dressed like a Dakota Indian, but I did not consider that he might be fighting on the side of the Indians.”

My father paused here, leaned back and began to look more comfortable as if he wanted to put his feet up. As I watched him, I noticed that he looked very old. Not old, but his age showed in a way I had never noticed. All my life I had known him only as my father and not a man of any particular age. His hair was gray and his face wrinkled.

His features remained the same but his body had shown the passing of days. As he testified now he suddenly appeared as he was: a man, and a man of age like any other.

“I greeted him,” said my father as he continued his description, “but I wasted little time in conversation. Instead, as a father,” he emphasized the word, “I instructed him not to return to the Indian camp, but rather to go to St. Anthony to join his mother and siblings. He refused.

I understood his courage the first time he left me, but this time he was being ignorant and naive. So, I forbade him to return to the Indian camp, but still he refused. I was ashamed and embarrassed and scared.

I was disappointed. There seemed nothing I could do to change his mind and I could not bear to see him destroy his young life. So I left his presence. I did not see Alfred again until after the surrender.”

“Thank you,” said Colonel Crooks pleasingly. “Is there anything else you can relate to the Commission that will aid us in making a well-informed decision?”

My father thought for a moment and the entire crowd perked their ears, anticipating that my father would come to my defense. He looked at me briefly as if pondering whether or not to reveal our conversation the night before. Instead my father only exhaled, threw out his hands, and shook his head to say no.

“Very well then,” said Colonel Crooks. “You are dismissed. We greatly appreciate your honest and sincere testimony despite your obvious conflict of interest in this trial.”

My father stepped down and walked toward the center aisle. As he continued, just walking plainly, everyone paused and watched.

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They watched not out of expectation, but out of some unique sense of solemnity. They knew it was his son they had chastised and his own son for whom he testified. No one knew quite what my father was going through. He just continued walking until he exited the courtroom.

There was an unmistakable sensation of awkwardness as he departed.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” announced the Colonel breaking the awkward silence, “the Commission will require some time to confer.

There will be a brief recess while we do so.”

The Commission rarely took time to confer in any of the previous cases. Most of the time it was quite straightforward: guilty or not; guilty nearly every time. I did not know whether or not their minds were made up in my case. Perhaps they were decided and only discussed the case out of respect for my father or some other public display of careful vigilance. Or, perhaps they really were deliberating my fate. I did not know. I was ready for all of this to end. I was ready to return to a normal life. But I knew I may not get that chance.

The five stout-looking Commissioners returned after just ten minutes.

They arranged themselves at the front in their normal positions, though they did not sit down. The courtroom was filled to capacity and even the door was left open so that those outside could hear the verdict. I merely watched with a sudden tinge of disbelief that it had come to this.

“Would the accused, Mr. Alfred Riggs, please rise,” announced Colonel Crooks like he had so many times before. “On the second specification,” he called while looking briefly at the document in his hand, “that Mr. Alfred Riggs did at various times and in various ways conspire with Little Crow and the warring Dakota Indians in order to deceive and cause great harm to the white populations of Minnesota, the accused, is found not guilty.”

There was a burst and a roar from the crowd. Several people called out “No!” to express their dissatisfaction. Colonel Crooks made no attempt to quiet the crowd this time, he just looked over them and waited for silence. The audience was anxious to hear the next verdict so they quickly became silent again.

“On the first specification,” continued Colonel Crooks again looking down at the document, “that Mr. Alfred Riggs did at various 168

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times and places between the eighteenth of August, 1862, and the twenty third of September, 1862, join and participate in the murders and massacres committed by the Dakota Indians of the Minnesota frontier, the accused, Mr. Alfred Riggs…”

My heart began to rise and seemed to swell first in my chest and then in my throat. I felt hot all over and in a way that left my extremities tingling. With each word the Colonel spoke I grew more uncomfortable, more faint, more anxious like I might swell and steam and explode like a fuming tea kettle. I closed my eyes and clenched my discomfort. “… is found guilty and is sentenced to death by hanging.”

Like air out of a balloon my heart dropped and the distress sprang from my pores. I suddenly felt weak and cold and void of blood. The audience shouted and hollered. Some in anger, some in vindication.

They flailed their arms and wailed their voices.

I was grabbed by the arm and surrounded by several guards. They began to force me through the crowd and out of the courtroom. I knew little of what was happening. The sounds were muddled and all that I could perceive were the dark shadows of the soldiers who surrounded me. They pushed me forward like a mouse through a maze until finally we were out in the open. I was led quickly all the way back to the log prison where I was thrust inside. My head was spinning and my body was weak but I was taken in by several of the Dakota and cared for like a wounded soldier. Finally, after much time, I could breathe again, finally I could think. My case was over and it seemed my time was as well. It was all for not. I had been condemned. The Dakota were condemned.

I was a fool for thinking I could help.

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Chapter 13 As Becomes a Dakota The Executions The trials were completed on Tuesday, November 5, the same day of my trial. I am not sure if I was the final man to be tried or not. I was in a bit of disarray immediately following my conviction and I paid little attention to what was going on around me.

In total the Commission tried some three hundred ninety-two men of which three hundred three were sentenced to death while eighteen others were sentenced to imprisonment.139 It seemed remarkable to me the number of men ordered for execution. The thought of so many men hanging from the gallows was unimaginable. There were, without doubt, crimes and atrocities committed during the outbreak that were worthy of stringent punishment, but that over three hundred were deserving of that most unenviable fate is unthinkable. In the hours and days following my trial, I pondered these results with anger. Most of the Dakota were tried in haste and few had any understanding of the proceedings. They were tried against the word of a white victim or witness and were not allowed to properly defend themselves. They were seen as guilty the moment they were brought to trial and were forced to try and prove their innocence. Many of the condemned had willingly and peacefully surrendered and expected no harm to come to them, while those truly guilty of heinous crimes fled the region. For many,

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their only crime was being Indian. As for myself, my only crime was being associated with Indians.

The next few days passed slowly and without consequence. I was there, but I was not. I felt lost, angry, forlorn, and with an overwhelming sense of hopelessness. I talked to almost no one and I thought even less.

I did not think of my father or my family. I did not think about what had happened or what was going to happen. Rather, I passed the time in some sort of inanimate mode of lifelessness. And, it appeared that many of the condemned Dakota felt the same way. All of them were sluggish and expressionless. They remained in a mode of solace and they felt a deep sense of loss.

On November 7, the majority of the camp was broken down and moved. Nearly seventeen hundred Indians—men, women, and children—were loaded into wagons and sent north to Fort Snelling for the winter. These were the Dakota that were not convicted nor tried.

Before they left they were allowed to say good-bye, but the farewells were kept brief and the men were not allowed outside of the prison.

The train that formed was miles long and it took several hours for the last wagon to depart the agency. As they slowly went away, I pondered if their fate would be any more fortunate than the fate of those left behind—the fate of those sentenced to death, or if, possibly, the fate of those headed to Fort Snelling was worse than our own.140 Two more days passed, and I finally managed to arouse myself from my stupor. Not completely, but at least I felt coherent once more.

On Saturday, November 9, General Sibley arrived with a large body of men and prepared us for another move. Our temporary stockade at the Lower Agency was summarily dismantled and the prisoners were once again chained together.

“Into the wagons!” the soldiers commanded discourteously.

“Quickly! As many as can possibly fit.”

We were headed for Mankato, where our executions would take place. In all there were three hundred ninety-two prisoners, seventeen Indian women to act as cooks and laundresses, four papooses, and four Dakota from the peace camp to act as assistants in the care of the 171

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prisoners. Of course, there was also included General Sibley, Major Brown, and fifteen hundred soldiers.141 The trip was rather uncomfortable. Just as they were before, the wagons were as crowded as could be leaving almost no room to move about. Being chained to another man made it even less possible to find a position of comfort. The air was cold, the skies were gray, and the roads were much less traversable than they had been in the summer.

Upon each proceeding mile we seemed to encounter more bumps and holes and all other kinds of uncomfortable and sudden shifts. We were allowed few stops, and even when the wagon train did pause we were rarely permitted to leave the wagons.

Though I suffered from great discomfort, I did not realize that things would get much worse. As we approached the nearly obliterated town of New Ulm, there was a massive crowd that awaited us. There I saw hundreds of women and children but very few men. They looked angry as if bent on revenge.

“Savages!” they called out. “Murderers! Barbarians! Death to all Indians!”

They began violently throwing rocks and other dangerous objects.

The soldiers were stunned, and all we could do was lower our heads and raise our forearms to protect ourselves. Within moments the crowd broke loose and came at the wagons with bricks, pitchforks, hoes, sticks, and anything else they could lay their hands on. The people went absolutely berserk, some running and screaming, others furiously pelting the men in the wagons. The Indians were defenseless and the soldiers were stunned and confused. I crouched deep inside my wagon with my hands held over my head. The darkness created by my body’s narrow contortion was the only refuge I could find, but it seemed just enough to spare me any major blows. Other men weren’t so lucky and suffered violent strikes to the head and neck. Finally, after what seemed like forever, General Sibley organized his men from their disbelief and ordered a bayonet charge.

In a great pack the soldiers roared forward with their bayonets thrust forward. Like one great force the men charged toward the angry and violent citizens hoping to influence their retreat. The crowd took 172

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immediate note of the powerful charge and began dispersing in all directions. None were serious about taking on the army and they fled to a safe distance while still embracing their tools of vengeance and raising their angry voices. Sibley ordered the wagon train down another route to quickly escape from town while the soldiers held off any more would-be assaults.

The fray was a dramatic one and one none of us would wish to relive. The sentiment of the townspeople was filled with protestation and vengeance. And why not? Their homes and businesses had been destroyed, their lives altered forever. Many lost more than their homes—they lost their loved ones as well. They had no patience for law or government or rights. They had no perception of legal discourse or formalities. They had no understanding of property; they lost it the day they went under siege and were huddled in the basement of a few small buildings while the rest of the town was burned to cinders all around them. The people of New Ulm had their chance for revenge and so they took the law into their own hands. Thankfully, Sibley acted quickly and no one was killed, although one soldier and fifteen Dakota sustained serious injuries before the procession of prisoners could escape the town.142 The remainder of the trip was slowed by the need of several for medical care. But the slowness seemed inconsequential as none of us were in a hurry to take our final breaths. After a few days, we finally arrived at our destination just west of the town of Mankato along the Minnesota River. Our new home was known as Camp Lincoln. It was a slightly more permanent dwelling than our previous encampment, but still very temporary. It sat low among the hills and trees of the Minnesota River Valley and away from public view. There were several small wood frame buildings and yet another makeshift log prison. Upon arrival we were quickly unloaded, though not unchained, and sent to wait in our cells.

The time passed slowly at Camp Lincoln. We were given only enough food to survive, enough clothes to make do, and we were forced into manual labor for no particular purpose other than staying active.

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frozen dirt and then next day we were made to refill the ditch. Our tasks were as menial as the time we spent there. I didn’t speak much with the other inmates either. I did not know most of them and they were bitter and resentful. Though I was tried and convicted like each of them, many still viewed me as white and so considered me their enemy.143 If it were up to General Sibley and the people of Minnesota, the executions would have taken place immediately. But, as it was, President Lincoln requested to review the trial records in order to determine the validity of each sentence. As I wallowed slowly in my prison, I doubted seriously if the federal government would allow the simultaneous execution of three hundred three men. The people of Minnesota called furiously for our execution, not only as retribution, but as an example to those natives throughout the rest of the country. However, to the general public on the east coast, far removed from the recent events, the execution of three hundred three men would be quite unsettling and might have caused an uproar in an already very unstable country.

Nonetheless, the executions were postponed indefinitely while President Lincoln’s advisors reviewed the trial proceedings. This, I knew, might save me.

During this time, the camp was heavily guarded. General Sibley feared and did not want a repeat of that terrible scene in New Ulm. As the executions remained indefinite, General Sibley and others worried that the people of Minnesota would riot and take justice into their own hands. The longer we waited to hear the federal government’s decision, the greater the fear that thousands would rise up in revolt. Throughout the days I could overhear the soldiers express their discomfort and worry.

They feared an attack at any time and hoped, unlike their prisoners, that the execution would be ordered soon.144 On Thursday, December 4, those fears of revolt were nearly realized.

I was awoken that night by the sound of bottles shattering against the trees. This was followed by unintelligible shouts and screams of angry, and almost certainly drunk, men. As I looked, I could see that a large mob of men had gathered and were coming toward the log prison. They were loud and unruly, but few if any appeared to be armed. Finally, some soldiers met them and stopped their advance. Though the mob 174

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was halted, they continued shouting and jeering and hurling insults. The crowd was unorganized and it appeared as if this were a spontaneous visit upon the camp. Eventually, the soldiers surrounded the crowd of inebriated and unruly men and arrested them. I doubt if any real punishment was brought upon the men. They were probably questioned and released and told to do their gawking at a more reasonable hour.

Regardless, it was an anxious moment and one that if multiplied could result in real pandemonium.145 The next two weeks passed without incident. There was the occasional gawker that strolled by the camp and hurled insults, but no one who posed a real threat. The weather proved more dangerous than anything else as the cold night air turned frigid. Though the winter became bitter, neither our shelter nor provisions were improved upon.

Instead we just had to endure what seemed impossible to withstand.

During this time I also grew quite thin. It was a combination of the cold weather, the meager supplies, and my constant anxiety that lent to my frail condition. I was thinner than I could ever remember being.

Every bone seemed to protrude from my body as if my skin had been pulled tight.

But, though thin and frail, I still felt healthy and somewhat strong.

I also grew a thick beard, which made me look about ten years older. I did not know what lay ahead for me, but I was not going to give up. I pondered a different life, a life without missionary work, a life without the Dakota. I felt, after all that had happened, that I no longer had a place among these natives who had now jeopardized my life and tainted my work. Everything had been taken away from me because of the risks I took to support the Dakota people, culture, and ideals. Even my relationship with my father had been strained to a point that may have been irreparable. But, even in my dire condition, I did not give in to my notions of complacency. I maintained as much focus as I could and pushed aside all feelings of resentment and apathy. And, from deep inside, I heard a constant and compelling voice reciting the words, “this is the way, walk in it.�146 In the midst of my gloom, and despite all of my misfortunes, I did enjoy a visit from my family on my twenty-fifth birthday. I was quite 175

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lucky as no other prisoners were allowed any visitors (nor had they that option as their families were either held at Fort Snelling or had fled). I was surprised when my family came and I had completely forgotten it was my birthday.

“Happy Birthday!” shouted my brothers and sisters as if nothing at all were wrong.

To see my brothers and sisters again was a great pleasure. In those few moments they were with me, I felt more joy and more ease than I had felt since I could last remember. My entire family, save my father, made it to wish me well, though they were clearly disheartened at my present circumstances.

“Where is father?” I asked.

“He is away and could not come,” my mother said softly.

I doubted whether that was true, but it did not cause me concern.

Rather, it pleased my heart to see Isabella and Martha, my eldest sisters, who had been away at school the past few years. They had grown to become intelligent and lovely young women. Anna was also growing into a bright young woman and was already seventeen years old. My three younger brothers, Thomas, Henry, and Robert, were rambunctious as ever. They teased each other and played games as boys do, but even they showed sadness in seeing me as a prisoner. And then there was Mary. Mary was just three and she did not know what was happening.

“Why don’t you come home?” little Mary asked again and again.

“I will be home soon,” I answered with veiled sadness.

My mother stood quietly by and held tightly to Mary’s hand and did her best to keep back her tears. I told her I was sorry and little else.

Sorry seemed to be the only thing that was appropriate. She nodded in such a calm and loving way that I knew she understood.

They were with me for little more than an hour, but it was the most real and heartfelt time I had experienced in my life to that point. There is no way to truly explain how such dire need can turn such a simple gift into something immaculate. I realized that night that those souls imprisoned with me didn’t get such a wonderful gift. Perhaps they never would.

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The time went slowly while at Camp Lincoln, but like all things, it did pass. I do not know when the federal government finally completed their review of the trials, but it was not until Tuesday, December 17, when Colonel Stephen Miller announced the results.147 Colonel Miller gathered all of us just outside the log prison because there was no single room large enough for all of us to fit. All of the men were quiet and attentive even if they did not understand a word Colonel Miller spoke.

They knew they needed only to listen for their name. It would be they, whose names were called, that would be condemned to death. And so they stretched their necks long and tilted their heads forward in such a uniform manner that it looked almost choreographed. Colonel Miller did not waste any time and got right to the names of those whose lives would soon end.

“Ordered that,” began the Colonel in a clear, resonating voice, “of the Indians and half-breeds sentenced to be hanged by the military commission, composed of Colonel Crooks Lieutenant Colonel Marshall, Captain Grant, Captain Bailey, and Lieutenant Olin, and lately sitting in Minnesota, you cause to be executed on Friday, the twenty-sixth day of December instant, the following named, to-wit:” The Colonel paused here and looked over the crowd accused and soon to be convicted Indians. He bore no sympathy in his eyes, only steadiness.

“Number two by the record,” he began, “Te-he-hdo-ne-cha.”

An incoherent wail immediately followed the Colonel’s announcement. It was Te-he-hdo-ne-cha who cried out to the spirit world, perhaps for mercy.

“Number 5 by the record,” continued the Colonel with little pause in between, “Wy-a-tah-to-wah.”

Again there was heard a loud and painful cry. It seemed almost amplified by the cold, brisk December air.

The Colonel wasted no time for bereavement, but continued with name after name. He was clear and concise, only sometimes stumbling over the pronunciation. Each time a name was read there could be heard a lamentable cry from the man whose fate was now inescapable.

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I just stood, eyes closed, listening. “Chas-kay-don” I heard. I cringed, for it was Chaska who had proved himself a good man. “Baptiste Campbell,” I heard. A half-breed and the brother the interpreter Joseph Campbell, a man I knew well. Name after name the Colonel read.

When he finally finished, I opened my eyes. I did not hear my own.

By the time Colonel Miller finished, thirty-nine death sentences had been confirmed. The mood was sullen. The convicted had fallen to their knees and bemoaned their unenviable fate. But for the remainder there was a great sense of relief. Where three hundred three had once thought their life’s journey had come to an end, now just thirty nine would face the gallows.

“The other condemned prisoners,” announced Colonel Miller as if nothing had changed, “you will be held subject to further orders that you neither escape, nor are subjected to any unlawful violence.” The Colonel then quickly gathered his documents and looked to his soldiers.

His work was done. No more time was wasted, and the soldiers herded us all back into the prison.

Later that same day, as I sat reading and trying not to contemplate what might become of me, I received a personal visit from Colonel Miller. I had no idea what business he had with me.

“Mr. Riggs,” he said while standing on the other side of the wooden bars. “I have some important news for you.”

I stood and walked toward the Colonel, who I noticed was at least half a foot taller than I was. “What is it?” I asked anxiously.

“I must speak softly because I do not wish any other prisoners to hear this, but, on behalf of the President of the United States, you have received a free and full pardon.”

I was unable to respond at first. I don’t know that I understood exactly what Colonel Miller told me. It seemed too good to be true.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“You are no longer a prisoner of the U.S. army,” he said succinctly, still speaking in a whisper.

“Why?” was all I could think to say.

“The pardon states that because of your loyal and incontrovertible service to this country as both an interpreter and a Senate staff member 178

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you are deserving of a full pardon. It further notes your dedicated service to this country for your notable efforts to civilize and Christianize the Dakota people in Minnesota. Lastly, the pardon recognizes your profound efforts to assist in the defense of Fort Ridgely, and your valued work as a messenger between the Indian and Army camps.

Congratulations, Mr. Riggs.”

I was overwhelmed inside and stunned to silence. I was proud to have my good deeds recognized and grateful that my good intentions saved me. “What happens next?” I asked after a few moments.

“Well,” replied Colonel Miller, “we actually have some work for you.

As you are unaware, your father has taken a leave from the expedition.

In this final week before the execution, we would like for you to work in his stead. Like your father, you have the expertise and knowledge necessary to properly assist the men sentenced for execution.”148 “I consider it an honor,” I said in an almost bewildered manner. I did not know what became of my father and my mind was preoccupied with his possible whereabouts.

“Very good,” said Colonel Miller. “Someone will be along to gather you and set you up in the officer’s quarters. Your assistance will be appreciated.”

I nodded, still preoccupied in my own mind, and Colonel Miller walked away. I felt a confusion of amazement, joy, and bewilderment.

I was ecstatic to be saved and to be free. But I was still disheartened by the entire effect the last five months had on me. The two men I had admired and respected most, Little Crow and my father, were grieving in one way or another. All I could do was look past it and accept the role laid out before me.

I settled into the officer’s quarters under awkward silence. The men knew what I went through and some may have felt guilty for accusing me while others may still have suspected that I had colluded with Little Crow. I tried not to let it bother me and just focused on the days ahead.

On Monday, December 22, the thirty-nine condemned men were selected from among the prisoners and separated to a stone building alongside the prison. This simple task was not as simple as it seemed.

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men. But, many of the Indians had the same or similar names. And, though each Indian was tried under a case number, no one associated with the trials could remember which number went with which man.

In the end Mr. Brown could only say that he was pretty sure he had selected the right ones.149 At 2:30 p.m., Colonel Miller and I were sent to inform the Dakota men what was to happen. We were also to allow them to express any final thoughts, wisdom, or wishes. As we entered they were sitting calmly on the floor, many of them just smoking a pipe. None of them seemed to react to my presence, as I believe they already knew I had been pardoned. Colonel Miller stepped forward, introduced himself, and explained that I would act as interpreter and chaplain. He then addressed the prisoners.

“The commanding officer at this place has called to speak to you upon a very serious subject this afternoon,” said Colonel Miller, sounding more like a professor than an officer. “Your Great Father at Washington, after carefully reading what the witnesses have testified in your several trials, has come to the conclusion that you have each been guilty of wantonly and wickedly murdering his children,” Colonel Miller paused naturally and allowed me to translate. “And, for this reason,” he continued, “he has directed that you each be hanged by the neck until you are dead, on next Friday, and that order will be carried into effect on that day at ten o’clock in the forenoon.”

The men listened solemnly, most of them just smoking their pipes.

Some grunted in acknowledgment, but said nothing else.

“Good ministers,” announced Colonel Miller, “both Catholic and Protestant, are here, from among whom each of you can select your spiritual advisor, who will be permitted to commune with you constantly during the few days that you are yet to live.”

Colonel Miller was referring to myself, the Catholic priest Father Ravoux, and my father’s good friend and missionary Reverend Thomas Williamson.

“Adjutant Arnold,” instructed Colonel Miller, “will you read them the order of execution by their Great Father.”

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Adjutant Arnold, who was just a young man who appeared out of place, took the order from his pocket and began to read. It was brief and it did not give them any new information, but rather was the same document read by Colonel Miller a few days prior. It was read now as an appropriate formality.

The Indians and half-breeds remained impassive and quiet. Only two or three showed any signs of emotion and even those were subtle.

Colonel Miller finished with an appeal of religion. He called upon the sanctity of their immortal souls. “Say to them now,” he said while directly addressing me, “that they have so sinned against their fellow men that there is no hope for clemency except in the mercy of God, through the merits of the blessed Redeemer; and that I earnestly exhort to apply to that, as their remaining source of comfort and consolation.”150 I did as Colonel Miller directed. He then bid the men good-bye and left the room. I stayed with them for several hours, consoling and consulting them as well as noting any final thoughts or wishes they had. Some were bitter and continued to deny all accusations. Some were quiet and calm and sought only to write a letter of farewell to their loved ones. Rdainyanka was particularly excitable and bitter and he asked that I dictate a letter to his father-in-law, the Chief Wabasha.

I have included it here: You have deceived me. You told me that if we followed the advice of General Sibley, and gave ourselves up to the whites, all would be well, no innocent man would be injured. I have not killed, wounded, or injured a white man, or any white persons. I have not participated in the plunder of their property; and yet today I am set apart for execution, and must die in a few days, while men who are guilty will remain in prison. My wife is your daughter, my children are your grandchildren. I leave them all in your care and under your protection. Do not let them suffer; and when my children are grown up, let them know that their father died because he followed 181

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the advice of his chief, and without having the blood of a white man to answer for the Great Spirit.

My wife and children are dear to me. Let them not grieve for me. Let them remember that the brave should be prepared to meet death; and I will do as becomes a Dakota.151 What Rdainyanka expressed was similar to most of the other men that day. They denied killing any white person but admitted to being present at several battles. Most were angry and felt that those who were truly guilty were imprisoned and not set apart for execution. They also showed resentment toward their Dakota brothers who fled Minnesota and now faced no punishment. But whether or not they were guilty did not concern me. I was there to listen to what they had to say, and I dictated what they would have me write. I heard each man plead his case and make his final statements. Some were solemn and almost eloquent, others were angry and spiteful. After hearing each man, I closed their accounts by leaving it in God’s hands and wrote the following: “And now, guilty or not guilty, may God have mercy upon these poor human creatures, and, if it be possible, save them in the other world through Jesus Christ his Son.”152 I did not see the condemned men again until Wednesday, December 24. It was on this day that the men set apart for execution were allowed to call upon two or three of their friends or relatives to make their final goodbyes. This occasion was much more heartfelt than any of the days prior. I cannot say that I saw a single man who was not moved to tears in the presence of his dearest of kin. Some moaned and cried and held their loved ones close. Others were carefree and laughed as if sitting around the campfire by night. Still others were humbled. Rather than express hatred and denial, some chose to be more optimistic and accepting.

“I am an old man,” said Tatimina. “Do not mourn for my loss. I could not hope to live long by any circumstances and the execution will shorten my life but little. I would rather die now, innocent of white man’s blood. Maybe I will have a better chance to be saved.”

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Tatimina spoke solemnly, accepting his fate. It was difficult to understand what he now went through, but he appeared at peace. “I have every hope,” he said, “of going direct to the abode of the Great Spirit, where I shall always be happy.”

Tazoo overheard this remark and broke in saying, “Yes, tell our friends that we are being removed from this world over the same path they must shortly travel. Though we go first, we go directly to the abode the Great Spirit and we will be happy when we get there.”

Together the men shared a rare moment and a brief smile. I watched with sympathy and a certain joy for their sense of acceptance. For they were no longer bitter and spiteful. They found hope in their circumstances.

Being in the forgiving mood, Tazoo went on to shake hands with Red Iron and Akipa. “Friends, last summer you were opposed to us,” he said. “You were living in continual apprehension of an attack from those who were determined to exterminate the whites. Yourselves and families were subjected to many taunts, insults, and threats. Still you stood firm in our friendship for the whites, and continually counseled the Indians to abandon their raid against the whites. Your course was condemned at the time, but now we see your wisdom. You were right when you said the whites could not be exterminated, and the attempt indicated folly. Today you are here at liberty, assisting in feeding and guarding us, and thrity-nine men will die in two days because they did not follow your example and advice.”153 The men shook hands once more and departed on good terms.

Tazoo’s meekness and sorrow was repeated by many of the Dakota that day. They knew their time was short, but they accepted it bravely.

I felt rather uneasy leaving that night. To witness the sheer humanity of these brave, strong, virile, and sometimes savage men was quite startling. It is true that most, if not all, had committed vicious crimes worthy of vicious punishment. But their consequences were not for me to decide, nor were their actions for me to judge. To see their humanity with all of its fear, sadness, passion, and love poured out in such an obvious display of human desperation was enough to cause me pause.

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confused reflections. But my reflections gave me no avail. They left me only with a sense of remorse for our human condition. It seems as though our faults are unavoidable and so too with it, our grief, agony, suffering, and loss.

The next day was Christmas Day. There was no celebration among the officers because of the tasks at hand. It felt as if it were not Christmas at all. There certainly did not seem to be anything worth rejoicing. That evening, the women who were employed as cooks as well as others who had relations among the condemned were allowed to visit. This occasion was far less stirring than the day before, but still interesting. I determined that the men did not wish to show any weakness or cowardice in front of the women. Moreover, their executions were forthcoming so shortly, they already expressed any grief and were ready to die.

The women came with a subtle sadness as if any real emotion might upset the men. They exchanged gifts such as locks of hair, blankets, coats, and almost every other article possessed by the men was given in trust to be obtained by a friend or relative. The messages of the men that evening were simple. Most, if not all, demanded of the women to bear the execution with fortitude and to refrain from great mourning.

Late that night, after the women had left, the men were moved to new quarters in a three-story building downtown near the gallows. They were held on the lowest floor and chained to the ground, two by two.

Here, they were allowed to prepare in whatever manner they saw fit.

Some slept, most did not. They changed into traditional Indian regalia of breech cloth, leggings, and blankets, with the exception of a few half breeds who were dressed in citizen’s clothes. Those in Indian garments also painted themselves fantastic colors of vermillion and ultramarine.

They covered their bodies with stripes and their faces were made brilliant in an artistic mode. They looked ready for a grand celebration rather than a tragic ending. Their character was now much the same as their appearance. They were friendly and talkative. They smiled and shook hands with anyone nearby and though once dangerous warriors, now appeared innocent as children. They were relaxed and content and most likely resigned to their fate.

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Father Ravoux and I spent the entire night with them, consoling, advising, and talking with them about their fate. That night thirty of the men asked Father Ravoux to baptize them. “I wish to be reborn with water,” they would say. The Catholic Priest did not hesitate to grant each request. I am not sure if the baptized men understood or sincerely believed in the purpose of baptism, but as ministers and faithful servants we were delighted to see each man that took part. At the very least, it offered them some solace in their final moments.

“All must now depart,” commanded a guard at 7 a.m. Friday morning. “Except those employed by duty.”

Whatever remaining visitors there were said their last good byes and filed out of the room. It was a somber moment filled mostly with silence.

In addition to the visitors, the Indian Round Wind was also allowed to leave. Based on the appeal of Reverend Williamson, Round Wind received a last minute pardon. He was expressionless as he departed with his life intact. This left thirty-eight men to be hanged from the gallows.

“Form a line, two feet apart,” commanded the unknown guard.

I translated and the men did not hesitate to follow orders as if good behavior their waning moments might mitigate their shame or erase their deeds. The line followed to the back of the room, until it began to wrap around in a semi-circle toward the center of the room. The officers Major Brown and Captain Redfield, along with some assistance from me, tied a long and continuous cord between the Dakota men. Their elbows were pinned back and their forearms were held parallel to the floor while their wrists, about six inches apart, were pinioned together.

“Be strong and fearless,” preached Father Ravoux as the Indians patiently awaited the gallows. “Be bold as a lion. Remember the great Redeemer who bore all and died before you.”

“I do not wish to be tied,” White Dog stated as I came near his hands. He looked at me with pain and anger in his eyes. “Little Crow, Young Six, 154 and Big Eagle’s brother got us into war and now I die for it.” I looked at him briefly but said nothing and proceeded to tie his wrists together.

This took about an hour and a half to tie all the condemned together.

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men those extra moments. As we were finishing, Tazoo led a long and dramatic death wail. I had heard the Dakota chant many times before, but nothing was quite like what I heard that morning. Their trembling voices resonated throughout the room. The sounds and halfuttered words felt like an honest and sincere expression of their Dakota tradition.

“Hey-Haa, Hey-Haa” they repeated over and over created a loud pitched and gyrating sound. “Hoo-Hey, Hoo-Haa” they chanted and moaned in perfect harmony. It was somber, but also thrilling beyond expression.

Finally, the time had come. At 10 a.m., they were lined up at the door. They jostled for position as if there were a reward for being first.

Outside the grounds were packed with observers crowding the town square. And though it was winter, though the observers stood with their arms tightly crossed to keep warm, and though it was the day after Christmas, the streets, hotels, houses, doorways, shops, rooftops, and every eligible spot was occupied with people trying to catch a glimpse of history. It seemed as if the entire state came to witness the war’s bitter conclusion. In the center of it all were the gallows. It was a huge wooden structure designed especially for this event. Built like a giant U three sides were required to make room for the hanging of all thirty-eight men at once. It was a detestable contraption built solely for mass murder.

The rhythmic wailing of the men began again. “Hey-haa-aa-aa, hey-ha-aa-aa,” they chanted together in solidarity and fear only stopping once the white muslin caps were lowered onto their heads. The caps looked almost like empty flour bags atop their heads. The sight of the gallows and ropes did not startle the men, but for some reason the white caps did. But despite the overwhelming scene they seemed pleasant and joyful. They shook hands with the officers as the caps were placed over their heads. Many of them pointed toward the sky and said, “Me going up.” Others took these final moments to adjust their eagle plumes, owl’s tail feathers, and beaded necklaces. For the Dakota, even death was ceremonial and they wanted to be in their best form. Finally the word was given and Captain Redfield opened the cell door. The men were led out amongst a boundless crowd which included nearly 1,500 soldiers.

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The soldiers stood between the crowd and the gallows to maintain order. Every precaution was taken to ensure an orderly execution. Two days prior martial law had been declared along with the prohibition of alcohol. There was to be no unforeseen disturbances.

Once released from the building, the Dakota men walked swiftly up the wooden stairs and took their places along the long, narrow, wood frame gallows. Thirty-eight nooses hung still in the soft and calm morning air. The crowd looked on attentively but silently as each man took his spot behind a noose. Once in place, the white caps were rolled down over their heads and light was shut out from their eyes forever.

The mournful, rhythmic death chant began once again.

“Hooo-haa-aa-aa, Hey-haa-aa-aa”, their chants rose long and loud and echoed over the crowd. It sounded like an amazing chorus of voices that no one present would ever forget. As the men continued to chant, they also reached their hands out to each side while trying to find the hand of the man next to him. It was eerie the way each man knew exactly when to reach out despite having no vision. Many succeeded in finding the hand of another, creating strings of three and four men while some men merely grasped the air. The condemned men continued to sing and chant as the ropes were placed over their head and secured snuggly around their necks. There was never a display of fear or cowardice, just noble acceptance of death. When each prisoner was ready, Captain Redfield pointed to Major Brown, who began to beat the drum slowly and rhythmically.

“Boom, boom, boom,” he made measured, distinct beats. The beat of the drum created a great and indescribable hush among the audience and it caused the Indians to end their chant. All that could be heard now was the resonating drum beat. The scene can only be described as a moment of breathless suspense.155 Mr. William Duley was enlisted to cut the rope at the proper time. Mr. Duley had tragically lost his wife and five children during the war. He raised his axe high in the air and was ready to release it.

Major Brown slowed his beats even further. Each beat grew louder and more powerful and seemed to echo on and on toward infinity. One… two…three. Mr. Duley cut the rope and in one fell swoop thirty-eight 187

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bodies fell like heavy stones through the gallows’ floor. With a sudden and simultaneous thud, all life evacuated the thirty-eight men. The silence was broken and a cheer rose from the crowd. People applauded and whistled and lifted up shouts of joy. The men dangled like heavy bricks and swayed back and forth as if they were pendulums keeping time. Some still twitched their arms and legs while others as still and motionless as a wet bag of sand. After a few minutes, the men were examined by doctors and all were confirmed to be dead. As the men were lowered from the gallows and dropped in a wagon, the crowd slowly dispersed. The spectators walked away without even looking back and continued their lives like nothing had happened that morning.

Once all of the men had been lowered from the gallows they were taken to a sand bar in the front of town. There they were dumped in a long and shallow hole. Their bodies were lined, one next to another, with their feet toward the center and their head toward the outside. There was no ceremony, no mourners, and no final words. They found their final resting place.

I was left to myself still staring at the gallows in the town square. I was not sure where the officers went or even how much time had passed since the execution. I was stuck, not in thought, but in disillusionment.

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Chapter 14 The Value of Duty Reconciliation It snowed significantly the next few days, which made travel difficult.

Every day, even when it looked like the skies would clear, the atmosphere managed to dump several inches of snow on the ground. And then, after the snow finally came to a halt, it turned cold. Not the kind of cold that you can prepare for with a good jacket and a thick scarf. It turned bitterly cold. The kind of cold that makes you shrink like a turtle as if there were a way to hide from the piercing temperatures. I thought of Little Crow during this time and pondered whether he was warm or if he was even still alive.

I finally reached St. Anthony on New Year’s Eve. Since the war, and since there was no longer a place for us along the Minnesota frontier, my family had resettled here in a nice home just north of Minnehaha Falls.

Although the Indians remained prisoners in Mankato, my services were no longer needed, and I was allowed to take leave.

Surprisingly, I felt very uncomfortable when I was instructed to go home. I had not been home, nor even had a home for the previous six months. And, after having experienced so much, after facing death so many times, after having struggled through unimaginable circumstances, after having been prisoner to one group and then another, to now be free was unnerving. I had the complete freedom to come and go as I chose and to do as I pleased. After many months of 189

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anxiety and strife, the sensation of freedom was odd and uncomfortable to me. So, after embracing this new and foreign sensation, I decided I ought to go home. I really had no other place to go.

When I arrived at the house, there was no one to answer the door. I knocked impatiently, feeling the bitter cold through my coat. Because I had nowhere to go and because I could not wait in the cold, I set off by foot to the nearest church. Thankfully it was not far off. I ran hurriedly to the door and started knocking, though I doubted that the church was occupied. After a few minutes while I was ready to turn away, the door opened.

“Hello, young man, please come in out of the cold,” said the man at the door as he politely directed me inside the church. “You must be freezing,” he continued cheerfully. “Please, sit down. Let me get you some warm tea.”

“That’s not necessary,” I said as I lifted my hand apologetically.

“Well please, make yourself comfortable.”

The man had a thick beard and he was perfectly bald. He was energetic, almost youthful, but the gray and white hair throughout his beard showed his age.

“What were you doing out in the cold?” he asked worriedly.

“Oh,” I responded slowly, “I just had a long trip, and I was coming to see my family.”

“Your family,” he repeated as he sat next to me. “Where are they?”

“I don’t actually know,” I said as if I had just realized it now. “They did not know I was coming.”

“Oh,” the man nodded, and I noticed he was a Reverend like my father. “What is your name, son? Perhaps I can reunite you with your family.”

“My name—I am Alfred Riggs.”

“Ah,” he responded with his mouth open wide. “I know your family well,” he said with a tinge of affection. “Then you have just missed your father.”

“What do you mean?” I shot back with a sudden feeling of intense worry.

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“I did not mean to startle you,” returned the Reverend. “I am Reverend Sercombe, and I have initiated a relief effort for those affected by the recent Indian war. Your father volunteered to distribute alms to those in the region. He left just yesterday.”156 I became much less worried at the Reverend’s explanation, but I was still concerned that my father and I would remain apart. I had expected to see him that very evening. I was also on edge because I did not know how my father would receive me or what might transpire. I was anxious for reconciliation.

“Where is he then?” I asked in a strong and steadfast tone.

“He left for Hutchinson. Where exactly I cannot say.” The Reverend paused and tilted his head just slightly. “Is there a problem?” he inquired.

“Oh,” I realized I was acting almost confrontationally. “No, not at all,” I said with a slight smile. “I’m just anxious to see him.”

The Reverend allowed me to stay the night. We spoke well into the late hours of the day, mostly about the war and the differing perspectives surrounding it. The Reverend Sercombe was a pleasant and intelligent man and I was grateful to meet him.

The following day, I returned to my family’s home, where, this time, I was welcomed by the open arms of my mother. Her embrace gave me a greater sense of security than I had even thought possible just a few short weeks ago.

My family was in great spirits to see me. It was remarkable to be with all of them again, and this time not from the inside of a prison cell. This time my life was not hanging in the balance. But despite the grandeur of the occasion, I was unable to reciprocate the pleasure and excitement shown by my family. I tried. I feigned great joy and comfort to be reunited. All that I could think of was my father. All that I occupied my mind was the memory of seeing him walk out of the courtroom, leaving me in uncertainty.

I decided that I could not stay. I needed to go find my father and talk about what happened. Otherwise, I may have just grown to resent him. My family urged me not to go. They said he would be home soon enough and that I should just relax until then. But I had to go—I had to.

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I sought to leave for Hutchinson as soon as possible. I had no information on which to rely other than what the Reverend Sercombe relayed to me. It was a three-day trip by carriage, but I made it with relative ease. Thankfully, it was not nearly as cold as it had been the week before.

When I arrived in Hutchinson, I immediately set out to find my father. Though I had not been to Hutchinson before, I noticed that the town was bustling. It was not a large town, but for the moment, it was certainly overcrowded. This, I discovered, was because of the thousands of displaced settlers along the Minnesota River Valley. Many of their homes had been desolated during the war and they were unable to rebuild during the winter months. For the time being, they lived in Hutchinson as refugees.

I went to the local church to see if they had any information about my father’s whereabouts. Unfortunately, no one there had seen my father nor even knew who he was. But, they did inform me about a man from St. Anthony who was organizing the relief effort in the region.

His name was W.W. Wales, and they directed me to the place where he was staying.

Luckily, I found Mr. Wales almost immediately after seeking him out. He was in the lobby of his hotel smoking a pipe and reading the newspaper. He was a diminutive man with a short mustache and a top hat. His suit was clean pressed and his jacket and vest were stunning.

He appeared very sophisticated, very wealthy.

“Mr. Wales, I presume,” I said politely while standing over him.

“Indeed,” he said as he peeked his eyes from over the newspaper. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“I am Alfred Riggs. My father is Stephen Riggs. Do you know my father?” I spoke with an air of caution and almost shyness.

“Ah,” Mr. Wales smiled. “Please sit down. Your father is working for me. What did you say your name was?” Mr. Wales put down his pipe and reached for my hand.

“Alfred,” I replied as we shook hands.

“I have sent your father to Glencoe. He is distributing funds for the relief effort. He is a good man, your father.” Mr. Wales was very 192

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charismatic. He spoke quickly and didn’t allow time to interject. “I cannot say where in Glencoe, but he should be returning soon.”

“Oh, thank you so much, Mr. Wales. I must be on my way then,” I said as I stood up to leave the hotel.

“No need to leave so soon, Alfred. We’ve just met.”

“Forgive me for being impolite, Mr. Wales. I am quite anxious to find my father.”

“Very well,” replied Mr. Wales as he stuffed his pipe back in his mouth. “Good luck then, you shall find him in Glencoe.”

With that I was on my way. Within minutes I located a horse and buggy that would take me to Glencoe. I settled in and asked that the driver travel as quickly as prudence would allow. I took a deep breath and the buggy departed.

I tried to relax, but I was still quite tired and quite nervous. Although I was hastily searching for my father, I was not sure I wanted to find him. What would happen, I wondered? What would I say to him? What would he say to me? So many thoughts raced through my mind I found it impossible to relax.

About halfway to Glencoe, the buggy came to a sudden halt. I looked out to see there was another buggy coming the opposite way and the road was not wide enough for both carriages. The driver told me we would have to back up to make more space. But, for some reason I had a very peculiar feeling about the approaching buggy. I told the driver to wait, and I thought for a moment. The feeling wasn’t going away.

Instead it grew stronger. So much so that I was compelled to leave my buggy and determine who was in the opposite buggy.

“Excuse me!” I called while walking closer. “Excuse me!”

The carriage door opened and a man began to step out. He wore a long, dark jacket, and his head was covered by a tall, wide brimmed hat. He slowly stepped to the ground and turned my way. The figure was unmistakable to me; it was my father.

“Father!” I exclaimed and stopped stiff in my tracks. “What are you doing here?”

“I should be asking you the same question,” he said in a seemingly formal manner.

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“I came looking for you.” I shrugged my shoulders because I considered my reply to be already apparent.

“I know,” he said, this time sounding more contrite. “I was looking for you too.”

“What happened?” I asked. “Where did you go, why did you leave me to die back there?”

“I was doing my job.”

“No, father!” Suddenly, I took on a dominant, parental role. “Forget about your job, or the law, or right and wrong. I am your son. Tell me what happened.”

My father hesitated and looked to the ground. He appeared ashamed like a child caught in a lie. He removed his hat and took a breath. “I was confused,” he said with a sigh. “I truly sought to do my job as best I could. I also wanted to teach you about the value of duty and justice and responsibility. I wanted you to know that there are consequences no matter what our intentions are. And, I guess, I didn’t want to appear subjective. I didn’t want my judgment to appear weak and tainted.” My father barely looked up. He pushed snow beneath his feet as if he were waiting for me to scold him again.

“But, Father,” I said, calmly but confidently. “Sometimes the law isn’t always right. Sometimes justice skews our perspective. Sometimes the bond between a father and son transcends worldly constrictions and expectations. Doesn’t my life mean more than your duty to the State?”

“I was confused,” my father said again while shaking his head. “That is why I left. That is why I didn’t come back. I couldn’t do it anymore.

I couldn’t be a part of it. I felt guilty. I was guilty in a way I never knew before.”

“And now?” I interrupted.

“Now, Alfred.” My father was finally able to look up at me. “Now, I have had time to think. Now, I realize I was wrong. I can see how brave you were, how strong. You stood up for the rights of the Dakota when no one else would. You saw through the hate and revenge and destruction. You saw past the here and now and fought for mercy, forgiveness, cooperation and understanding. Rather than condemn you, 194

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I ought to have commended you. I am nothing but a feeble-minded man standing before a strong-willed, benevolent man. Will you forgive me?”

I didn’t need time to think. I had never seen my father do anything with less than perfect intentions. I will admit I was hurt that he turned his back on me. But I could see that he was caught up in the events and emotions that seemed only to be aggravated by everyone around.

I had no reason to distrust my father. I had no reason to resent him.

He was a victim to the mayhem that surrounded him and he didn’t have the advantage of hindsight. Nor would I forget that my actions were not necessarily wise. They were, in most cases reckless. I acted with disregard for myself and for those who cared about me. I did not thoughtfully consider what I did or what the consequences may have been. Perhaps we were both in the wrong. Now I only knew we were fortunate for a second chance.

“Of course I forgive you,” I replied as I took a step toward my father.

He stepped toward me and we embraced. It was a warm embrace; one I felt like I had missed out on somewhere along the way.

“I’m sorry. I am proud of you, son,” my father said emotionally.

I did not reply. The moment was worth more than words.

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Epilogue Enlightenment through Selfless Tolerance Little Crow’s Death I never did see Little Crow again. The general feeling throughout the state prior and following the executions was one of intense hostility toward not only the Dakota, but toward all Native American cultures.

Even I received occasional slander and threats by those who knew what role I had in the war. And it was not just me. All missionaries who continued to work on behalf of the Indians became targets of bigotry and hatred. After a while I decided I could no longer even glance at a newspaper. Everyday there was a long-winded, passionate editorial about what ought to be done with the remaining Indians. Most sought their entire removal while some went so far to advocate their complete extinction. The absurdity of such notions made me cower. As far as their removal was concerned, it seemed as if the entire population had unanimously resolved that no Indian should ever again set foot within the boundaries of the state of Minnesota. The only remaining question was where to take them. Some suggested they be sent west to work on the North Pacific Railroad or perhaps that they be forced to mine for gold in the Black Hills. Another proposal that struck me as particularly inhumane, was that they all be sent and confined to Isle Royale. This 197

was an island in Lake Superior where they could be monitored and imprisoned from here to eternity.157 Unfortunately, the actual treatment and outcome of what to do with the Dakota, was not much better than those recommended outcomes.

The result for the Dakota may even have been worse. To begin, those Indians housed at Fort Snelling were housed under the most despicable of conditions. They were given little to eat or drink and forced to spend the winter in crowded and squalid conditions. All of them must have questioned whether or not it might have been better to flee. There, in the cold and desolate wilderness, their odds of survival were no different than in the forced confines of Fort Snelling. That winter, over three hundred of the Dakota died while at Fort Snelling.

By February 16, it was determined by act of law in the U.S. Congress that all treaties with the Sisseton, Wahpeton, Mdewakanton, and Wapekuta bands of Sioux or Dakota Indians was declared to be abrogated and annulled. Furthermore, all lands and rights of occupancy within the State of Minnesota, and all annuities, were forfeited to the United States. Also, it was determined on February 21, by act of law, that all Winnebago lands be sold and that they also be banished from the state—this despite the fact that the Winnebago took no active part in the war. Essentially, the Dakota and Winnebago Indians had been exiled from the state of Minnesota forever.

I cringed the day I learned of this act. I knew it was coming, that it was only a matter of time. But I could not help but recall that day in front of Little Crow’s home when so many fierce and brash young warriors urged Little Crow to lead them into battle. And Little Crow scolded them and warned them against such foolish actions. Little Crow knew this would happen. He knew his people would be ridiculed, exiled, and destroyed. But after so much time fighting it, even he could not stop it.

The prisoners still held in Mankato were eventually shipped south on April 22.158 They were sent to a prison called Camp McClellan in Davenport, Iowa. During three years imprisonment the conditions were so poor that one hundred twenty of the just over three hundred men died. After three years, those who survived were released and pardoned.

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The 1300 or so Dakota that survived the winter at Fort Snelling were finally put aboard two very small, cramped ships on May 4 and 5.159 They were sent south along the Mississippi and then northwest along the Missouri before finally arriving at the Crow Creek reservation on June 21. Crow Creek was a barren and uninhabitable land where nothing could grow. It was emptiness for as far as the eye could see. By the end of the summer, conditions proved to be so poor that over three hundred had died. This led the Reverend John Williamson, who lived among the Dakota at Crow Creek, to remark that it was rare a day when there was not a funeral.160 I heard almost nothing of Little Crow during the months following the executions. I only learned what became of him after the close of the Indian expedition that summer. After Little Crow and his followers fled, they settled in the region of Big Stone at the mouth of the Minnesota River. Little Crow appealed to Standing Buffalo and his band of Sisseton’s, but Standing Buffalo rejected Little Crow’s appeal and asked Little Crow to get away from his land and his people. Little Crow acquiesced to Standing Buffalo’s demand and moved his band of about three hundred followers west to the Missouri River. There, Little Crow pleaded with several bands of Yankton Dakota to join him in his war against the whites. He pleaded with them for many weeks but found no support. He then continued north along the Missouri to seek an alliance with the Mandan, Hidatsa, and Arikara tribes. However, Little Crow and his band were met with disaster. Upon approaching the tribes of the Upper Missouri they were immediately attacked despite clearly indicating that they were not a war party. Little Crow was forced to flee while leaving eight dead behind.161 Finding no support within the United States, Little Crow looked next to Canada. In February, Little Crow moved his band to Devil’s Lake to wait until spring. Then, in April, Little Crow set out for Canada with the goal of garnering support from the British. He thought perhaps he might be able to exploit the relationship his ancestors built with the British during the War of 1812, a war his grandfather was a part of. In May, Little Crow did manage to arrange a meeting at Fort Garry with the governor of the Hudson’s Bay Company, Alexander Dallas. But, 199

Governor Dallas refused Little Crow’s request for weapons and support.

Instead Dallas gave Little Crow and his followers some food and a few gifts and then suggested that they not return to Canada.

Little Crow, rejected and depressed, abandoned efforts to form an alliance. Furthermore, his band grew increasingly small, as more and more of his followers left to settle elsewhere. By June, Little Crow knew there was no hope of finding assistance. He gathered a few close relatives and associates, including his son Wowinape, and decided to mount one last raid on the Minnesota frontier. Knowing his time was short, Little Crow asked his son to carry with him his medicine bundles. In Dakota lore, the passing down of the medicine bundles represented the passing of leadership from one generation to the next. It indicated that Little Crow knew his time was near.

The small group of just nineteen left by foot for the Minnesota frontier in late June. Shortly after arriving in Minnesota, the group had a disagreement and split up. Several from the group continued south, others returned north. Little Crow and his son did not go with either group. In the late afternoon of July 3, 1863, Little Crow and his son were picking raspberries just a few miles north of Hutchinson. They were spotted by a hunter named Nathan Lamson. Lamson, who took aim and fired, hitting Little Crow in the side just above the hip. Little Crow fired back several times, but he was hit a second time near the shoulder. Little Crow fell to the ground and never got back up.

The people of Minnesota rejoiced at the death of Little Crow. His head was scalped and his body was dragged into town and used as a major Independence Day attraction. Fireworks were stuffed into his mouth and ears and set off. Eventually, his body was gathered up and put on display at the State Historical Society in St. Paul. The following year, Nathan Lamson received five hundred dollars by the state legislature for killing Little Crow.

I was quite saddened when I learned of Little Crow’s death. He died alone with only his son at his side. He never gave up his cause, even after it was clearly lost, even after everyone else had abandoned it. In the end Little Crow was right. Everything he had warned against had come to fruition. But, Little Crow was a passionate leader and a noble 200

Dakota warrior. Once he had chosen his path, there was no deviating from it. He had spent years and years accepting the onslaught of white advancement through peaceful negotiation and barter. He was savvy and intelligent and he worked with the whites to maintain a level of dignity for his people out of respect for his ancestors and his tradition.

But, despite his discernment and political savvy, nothing promised was ever delivered. In a matter of thirty short years, his nation and his people, which had existed since time immemorial, had been swept to the side and forced onto smaller and smaller parcels of land. He had fought for his people by every appropriate and respectful means possible. By the time of the war, though he knew defeat was certain, he chose honor over complacency. He chose to die out of respect and honor for his once thriving and beautiful culture.

I moved on with my life following the war. I continued my missionary work and eventually moved to the Santee Sioux Reservation in Nebraska.

I married and had five wonderful children. When I think back on the days of the war I have no regrets. I am honored and ameliorated for having met, lived with, and learned from Little Crow. I often think fondly of my days growing up with the Dakota in Minnesota. I still struggle to understand quite what happened. Certainly, I know why it happened. I know why the Dakota were compelled to retaliate in a violent and dramatic fashion. And I know why the white settlers were compelled to defend themselves and their families and eventually to seek revenge and retribution. Like my effort spent during the war, I have never been able to pick one side over another. I cannot claim that one side was right and one side was wrong. What happened I see based only in misunderstanding. The war, the hangings, the expulsion of the Dakota that followed. Everything really. From the beginning when the starving Dakota were denied their annuity payment, to the middle when families of happy and hopeful settlers were torn apart, to the end when an entire nation of people was imprisoned, expelled, and virtually destroyed. It was not an aberration, but seemed to happen everywhere throughout this country. Two cultures clashed, both very different from each other. Both had wants, both had needs, both had hopes and dreams. Both even claimed to have entitlement. Unfortunately, 201

they could not come to understand each other. They could not come to edify each other. Instead the hate, greed, and misconceptions of those powerful, and visible, and influential few, led to abominable and unfathomable subjugation and ultimate destruction of one culture over another. Looking back I can see that there was nothing I could do to stop that war from happening, nor change its outcome. But, I would do it all again, if only to instill in one heart, in one mind the need and the power of understanding and cooperation; of enlightenment through selfless tolerance.

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End Notes 1

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4 5 6 7 8 9 10

Little Crow’s first trip to Washington occurred in 1854. He considered this trip to be a thorough success because the Dakota were promised their land forever.

However, by 1858 the Dakota were obliged to sign a third in a series of treaties relinquishing their lands. In this third treaty they were resigned to accept a ten mile wide strip of land along the Minnesota River. Gary Clayton Anderson, Little Crow: Spokesman for the Sioux, (St. Paul: Minnesota Historical Society, 1986), 72, 104; Alan R. and Nancy L. Woolworth, The Treaties of June 19, 1858 at Washington D.C. Between the United States and the Sisseton and Wahpeton; and the Mdewakanton and Wahpekute Tribes of Dakota Indians: An Historical Study, (White Bear Lake, Minnesota: Woolworth Research Associates, 1982), 12.

The main character of this book is a young man named Alfred Riggs. It is historically accurate to say that Alfred attended Knox College during the year 1858, however it is inaccurate to say that he was a Congressional Page. In reality the interpreter to Dakota during the 1858 meetings was Antoine J. Campbell, who also played a large role in the U.S. Dakota Conflict of 1862. Woolworth, The Treaties, 4; Stephen Return Riggs, Mary and I: Forty Years with the Sioux, (Boston: Congregational Sabbath School and Publishing Society, 1887), 159.

Minnesota did not officially become a territory until 1849. Anderson, Little Crow, 53.

Riggs, Mary and I, 142.

Anderson, Little Crow, 53.

Ibid., 101.

Kaposia was in the area that is currently the town of West St. Paul.

Anderson, Little Crow, 44.

When Alfred graduated from Knox College in 1858 he returned to Hazelwood.

On August 4, 1862, violence broke out when members of the Soldier’s Lodge broke into a storehouse and began taking food. This incident resulted in a series of councils between the Dakota Indians and government officials that was eventually resolved by Little Crow and others. In his concluding remarks Little

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13

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Crow stated, “when men are hungry they help themselves.” Anderson, Little Crow, 123-128.

Island Cloud has been incited as one of the Dakota who led the band that killed the settlers in Acton. However, it is unclear if he headed the party that demanded Little Crow lead them in war. Marion P. Satterlee, A Detailed Account of the Massacre by the Dakota Indians of Minnesota in 1862, (Minneapolis: Marion P. Satterlee, 1923), 11.

On August 17, 1862, a hunting party killed five white settlers presumably over some stolen eggs. Out of fear for consequences, many of the young Indian warriors decided it was time to go to war. Upon reaching this decision the braves gathered and rode to Little Crow’s home in a huge and energetic display in order to urge him to act as their leader in the inevitable uprising. Anderson, Little Crow, 130-131; Isaac V.D. Heard, History of the Sioux War and Massacres of 1862 and 1863, (New York: Harper and Brothers, 1864), 59; Satterlee, A Detailed Account, 11-12; Collections of the Minnesota Historical Society, Chief Big Eagle’s Story, Vol. 6, (St. Paul: The Pioneer Press Company, 1894), 388-390.

Little Crow initially assumed his role as chief based on birth rank and kinship ties. Anderson, Little Crow, 5.

There are several accounts of the August 17 confrontation at Little Crow’s home.

I relied here on the one given by Hanford L. Gordon. Hanford L. Gordon, The Feast of the Virgins and other Poems, (Chicago: Laird and Lee, 1891), 341-344; Mr. and Mrs. Harry Lawrence, The Indian Nations of Minnesota: The Sioux Uprising in Minnesota Heritage: A Panoramic Narrative of the Historical Development of the North Star State, Edited by Lawrence M. Brings (Minneapolis: T.S. Dinison and Co., 1960), 80-82; Heard, History of the Sioux War, 60-61.

At the time of the Outbreak the settlers considered no reason for alarm. There were rarely any violent incidents and most people got along well with their Dakota neighbors. If there ever was a war party, they were merely out looking for Chippewa. Gary Clayton Anderson and Allan R. Woolworth, Eds., “Good Star Woman’s Recollections” in Through Dakota Eyes: Narrative Accounts of the Minnesota Indian War of 1862, (St. Paul: Minnesota Historical Society Press, 1988), 52-53; Gary Clayton Anderson and Allan R. Woolworth, Eds., “Samuel J. Brown’s Recollections” in Through Dakota Eyes: Narrative Accounts of the Minnesota Indian War of 1862, (St. Paul: Minnesota Historical Society, 1988), 71-72; Duane Schultz, Over the Earth I Come: The Great Sioux Uprising of 1862, (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1992), 47.

This description actually fits that of Wabasha given by Janette E. DeCamp as she was taken captive by the Dakota. Collections of the Minnesota Historical Society, Sioux Outbreak of 1862: Mrs. J.E. DeCamp Sweet’s Narrative of her Captivity, Vol. 6, (St. Paul: The Pioneer Press Company, 1894), 358-359.

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According to Prescott, Little Crow told him to “go into your house and stay there.” Schultz, Over the Earth, 47; Philander Prescott, The Recollections of Philander Prescott: Frontiersman of the Old Northwest, 1819-1862, Edited by Donald Dean Parker, (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1966), 254.

According to Heard, Reverend Hinman asked Little Crow what was wrong.

Reverend Hinman reported that Little Crow gave him no answer and regarded him with a savage look. Heard, History of the Sioux War, 66.

In early August while Little Crow and the Dakota pleaded with Indian Agent Major Galbraith to open the storehouse, trader Andrew Myrick stated, “as far as I am concerned, if they are hungry, let them eat grass.” As a result many of the Dakota held a particular vendetta against Myrick. Upon killing him, they stuffed grass in his mouth. Anderson, Little Crow, 128.

According to Big Eagle, he is the one who saved the life of George Spencer.

But according to several other accounts George Spencer was rescued by Wakinyatawa, also known as Good Thunder. Gary Clayton Anderson and Allan R. Woolworth, Eds., “Big Eagle’s Account” in Through Dakota Eyes: Narrative Accounts of the Minnesota Indian War of 1862, (St. Paul: Minnesota Historical Society, 1988), 56; Gary Clayton Anderson, Kinsmen of Another Kind: DakotaWhite Relations in the Upper Mississippi Valley, 1650-1862, (St. Paul: Minnesota Historical Society Press, 1997), 264; Schultz, Over the Earth, 50-51; Harriet E. Bishop McConkey, Dakota War Whoop: Indian Massacres and War in Minnesota of 1862-1863, (St. Paul: Clerk’s Office of the District of Columbia, 1863, 59.

In his personal narrative Joseph Coursolle explains how he lost his daughters.

Upon realizing they were missing Joseph said, “my heart turned to stone.” Gary Clayton Anderson and Allan R. Woolworth, Eds., “Joseph Coursolle’s Story” in Through Dakota Eyes: Narrative Accounts of the Minnesota Indian War of 1862, (St. Paul: Minnesota Historical Society, 1988), 59.

Schultz, Over the Earth, 57.

A battle report of the incident was left by First Lt. John F. Bishop that gives a full account of what happened at the ferry. Ultimately, twenty four men from that detachment were killed while just thirteen made it back alive. Captain Marsh drown in the river while trying to escape later that same day. As described by Lt. Bishop, “I will never forget the look that brave officer gave us just before he sank for the last time…” Minnesota Board of Commissioners, Eds., Minnesota in the Civil and Indian Wars, 1861-1865: Official Reports and Correspondences, Vol. 2, (St. Paul: The Pioneer Press Company, 1893), 166-170.

Throughout the day on August 18, many residents of the Upper Agency heard reports of the attack on the Lower Agency, but did not believe them. By evening the warring bands of Dakota Indians had reached the Upper Agency and began looting and plundering the agency stores, killing or wounding several of the store owners. The rest of the settlers took refuge in the stone warehouse where 205

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they were protected by the full-blooded Dakota Indian, John Other Day. Early the next morning the fifty eight white men and women slipped away unnoticed and made their way safely to St. Paul. Schultz, Over the Earth, 74-77.

In Sarah Wakefield’s narrative she thoroughly explains how frantic and terror stricken she became shortly after being taken captive. She considers slitting the throat of her own daughter and prays to God that lightning would strike her dead. Sarah Wakefield, Six Weeks in the Sioux Tepees: A Narrative of Indian Captivity, Edited by June Namias, (University of Oklahoma Press: Norman and London, 1996, 1864), 72-74.

Ibid., 71.

Hapa was described by Sarah Wakefield as “a horrid, blood thirsty wretch…”

Ibid., 69.

According to Sarah Wakefield, while in captivity, “nearly every day someone would look at us saying they are going to ‘Pa Baska,’ meaning you will have your head cut off.” Ibid., 79.

As captive Helen Carothers describes, she and the Dakota women found great humor in sewing and trying on Indian clothes. So much so that they laughed heartily, although Mrs. Carothers suggests she may only have laughed to appear as agreeable as possible. Charles S. Bryant, A History of the Great Massacre by the Sioux Indians, in Minnesota, Including the Personal Narratives of Many who Escaped, (Cincinnati: Ricky and Carroll, 1864), 291.

Mrs. DeCamp was referring to the telegraph.

Wacouta showed great concern for the lives and well-being of the white settlers during the conflict. He assured Mrs. DeCamp that he was a true friend of the whites and that he would save as many as he could. Collections of the Minnesota Historical Society, Mrs. J.E. DeCamp Sweet’s Narrative, 361.

In her personal narrative, captive Helen Carothers stated that she was welcomed cordially by Little Crow. She went on to call is home an “Indian Mansion” and described it as “a two-story wood frame house, made of boards, set upright and battened, with one room below and two above, all plastered, furnished with a good cooking stove, chairs, tables, and good common furniture.” Bryant, A History of the Great Massacre, 289.

The Indians often referred to the President of the United States as their Great Father.

According to the Mdewakanton Dakota Indian Lightning Blanket, “they sat up all night with their blankets around them until the sun was just coming up.”

Gary Clayton Anderson and Allan R. Woolworth, Eds., “Lightning Blanket’s Account” in Through Dakota Eyes: Narrative Accounts of the Minnesota Indian War of 1862, (St. Paul: Minnesota Historical Society Press, 1988), 154.

Little Crow’s position on the war to this point is summed up nicely by the active participant Isaac V.D. Heard. Heard noted that the day following the outbreak, 206

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Little Crow addressed his men saying, “soldiers and young men, you ought not to kill women and children. Your conscience will reproach you for it hereafter, and make you weak in battle. You were too hasty in going into the country. You should have killed only those who have been robbing us for so long.” Heard, History of the Sioux War, 143-144.

In Samuel J. Brown’s Recollections, he observed that the presence of Mr. Blair made the warriors very angry and because of Mr. Blair they insisted that Brown’s entire family should all be killed at once. According to Brown, “not only was Blair’s life in danger, but the lives of all of us, including that of Little Crow himself. The only hope was to get Blair away – send him off in the dark.” Through Dakota Eyes, “Samuel J. Brown’s Recollections,” 132.

Chief Big Eagle stated that to take the fort was of utmost importance because, “if we could take it we would soon have the whole Minnesota Valley.” Through Dakota Eyes, “Chief Big Eagle’s Account, 148.

Approximately two-thirds of the warriors favored an attack on New Ulm that day. But, only about one hundred went on to attack New Ulm. However, they went without a leader. The people of New Ulm knew of the outbreak and they were prepared for such an attack. The managed to hold off the about an hour and a half until torrential downpours forced the Dakota to retreat. Schultz, Over the Earth, 96-100.

A private, Oscar Garrett Wall, serving at the fort stated that, “it is not too much to say that the insubordination of Little Crow’s warriors, on August 19, saved the lives of a thousand people.” Oscar Garrett Wall, Recollection of the Sioux Massacre: An Authentic History of the Yellow Medicine Incident, the Fate of Marsh and His Men, of the Siege and Battles of Fort Ridgely, and other Important Battles and Experiences, (Lake City, Minnesota: The Home Printery, 1909), 80.

In his recollection, Oscar Garrett Wall adequately described the hope he and others at the fort felt that day: “We have all experienced the soul’s gratitude, when depressed with the gloom of prolonged darkness, at a rift in angry clouds, through which the sun poured forth a flood of golden light, as if bearing a golden message from the land of eternal life, but a thousand times intensified in comparison was the thrill of joy that electrified every soul in the garrison when Sheehan and his fifty men, just as the Indians were dispersing from their council, filed rapidly into the fort at the end of an all-night forced march of forty-two miles.” Ibid.

Joseph Coursolle, known as Hinhankaga (The Owl) to the Indians, was a mixed-blood blacksmith who was raised at Mendota. He married and moved to the Redwood Agency in 1860 and became a teamster and fur trader. He was twenty-nine years old at the time of the outbreak. Through Dakota Eyes, “Joseph Coursolle’s Story, 57.

Wall, Recollections of the Sioux Massacre, 87.

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According to the report of Lt. Sheehan, “during the night several people, remnants of once thriving families, arrived at the post in a most miserable condition, some wounded – several burned – have made their escape from their dwellings, which were fired by the Indians.” Minnesota Board of Commissioners, Minnesota in the Civil and Indian Wars, 171.

This particular incident happened to Joseph Coursolle as described in his personal narrative. Through Dakota Eyes, Joseph Coursolle’s Story, 159.

The number of soldiers killed and wounded varies depending on the source. The number given here is according to Isaac V.D. Heard. Heard, History of the Sioux War, 83.

Upon learning of the seriousness of the Indian threat, Mr. Riggs and his family, along with several others, stowed away in the night to hide on an island in the Minnesota River. The next day they joined Andrew Hunter and several other families and decided it was best to flee the region. After a few days of uncomfortable travel through much wet weather they reached Fort Ridgely.

But, they observed that the fort had been beleaguered by Indians and they determined that it was best to continue on to St. Peter where they arrived safely the next day. A rare photo of this group is available in Duane Schultz,’ Over the Earth I Come; Riggs, Mary and I, 155-163; Schultz, Over the Earth, 148-149.

In more than one account praise is given to the work of Dr. Alfred and Eliza Muller. Lt. Sheehan noted that they “attended to the wounded promptly,” and that “under his careful treatment most all of them are prospering favorably.” Lt. Sheehan went on to boast that, “Post Surgeon Muller was active in attention to the wounded and ill, nobly seconded by his brave wife, who was, throughout the dark days, an angel of mercy and comfort to the sufferers, and who, with many other ladies, admirably illustrated the quality of most praiseworthy courage in the midst of surrounding danger.” In another account Private A.J. Van Vorhes credited Dr. Muller with “doing all that his acknowledged skill can suggest” for the relief of the injured men. Minnesota Board of Commissioners, Minnesota in the Civil and Indian Wars, 171-172, 186; St. Paul Pioneer and Democrat, “Letter from A.J. Van Vorhes, August 22, 1862.

Chief Big Eagle reported that there were 800 warriors that day. He was also the one to refer to it as a grand affair. According to Joseph Coursolle, “there seemed to be thousands” of Indians and he stated they “were ten to one.”

Through Dakota Eyes, “Big Eagle’s Account, 148; Through Dakota Eyes, “Joseph Coursolle’s Story, 159.

Through Dakota Eyes, “Joseph Coursolle’s Story, 159.

Wall, Recollections of the Sioux Massacre, 104.

Again, this number is arguable and varies among sources. The number given here is reported from historian Duane Schultz. Schultz, Over the Earth, 150.

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After the attack on the fort, Joseph stated that, “all the time, day and night, [Jane] and I were driven nearly frantic by our concern for Minnie and Elizabeth.”

He proceeded to ask his captain if he could leave to find them, but the Captain convinced Joseph that it was too dangerous. Through Dakota Eyes, “Joseph Coursolle’s Story, 160-161.

This tactic by the Dakota made it overwhelmingly apparent that they were on their way to attack New Ulm. Judge Charles Flandrau who organized the defense of New Ulm noted that from New Ulm he could see each column of smoke become nearer than the last. Also because of this and because of the earlier attack, the town had much time to prepare. According to Asa W. Daniels, who was present at the Battle of New Ulm, time had been taken in preparing “by burning outer buildings, digging rifle pits, and loop-holing such walls as might be made serviceable.” Charles E. Flandrau, The History of Minnesota and Tales of the Frontier, (St. Paul: E.W. Porter, 1900), 150. Asa W. Daniels, “Reminiscences of the Little Crow Uprising,” in Collections of the Minnesota Historical Society, Vol. 15, (St. Paul: The Pioneer Press Company, 1915), 328.

This particular decoy was effective in leading seventy five men across the river who were then cut off from New Ulm by the larger force of Indians. The detachment was forced to withdraw to St. Peter. Schultz, Over the Earth, 153.

Daniels, “Reminiscences of the Little Crow Uprising, 329.

As described by Charles Flandrau, “their advance upon the sloping prairie in the bright sunlight was a very fine spectacle, and to such inexperienced soldiers as we all were, intensely exciting.” Minnesota Board of Commissioners, Minnesota in the Civil and Indian Wars, 204.

These men were know as the Le Sueur Tigers and there were about twenty of them held up in the windmill. Ibid.

The man referred to here is William B. Dodd of St. Peter. He died later that afternoon. Daniels, Reminiscences of the Little Crow Uprising, 332.

Flandrau reports losing four men in this exploit. One of those men was Newell Houghton who Flandrau deeply regretted losing. He describes Houghton as “a man of cool head, an exceptionally fine shot, and armed with a reliable rifle… and we all held him in high respect as a fine type of frontiersman.” Flandrau, The History of Minnesota, 155.

On that particular day the defenders lost fourteen killed and approximately sixty wounded. The town itself lost one hundred ninety buildings that were burned to the ground. Dakota losses are unknown but are estimated to be similar to the losses of the New Ulm defenders. Ibid., 156.

Colonel Sibley did not arrive at Fort Ridgely until the morning of Wednesday, August 27. He was slow in leaving St. Peter because he did not believe his outfit was properly equipped or prepared to crush the Indian force. In a letter to Governor Ramsey on August 26, Sibley argued, “oh, that I had the means 209

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to pursue and crush these wretches, without being obliged at every moment to halt and calculate how far I can go, and how long I can get along without the veriest necessities.” Meanwhile, the men and women at Fort Ridgely had no information about when Colonel Sibley might arrive. After the battle on the 22nd, they guarded the fort in a constant state of panic and fear that the Indians might return and renew their attack. Schultz, Over the Earth, 176-179; Wall, Recollections of the Sioux Massacre, 104-105.

According to historians Duane Schultz and Gary Clayton Anderson, the Dakota retreat began on Tuesday, August 26. But, according to captive Samuel J. Brown the Dakota moved out on Sunday, August 24, while captive J.E. DeCamp states that the retreat began on Monday, August 25. Through Dakota Eyes, “The Flight North and the Emergence of the Peace Party,” 168; Schultz, Over the Earth, 180; Through Dakota Eyes, “Samuel J. Brown’s Recollections, 134; Collections of the Minnesota Historical Society, Mrs. J.E. DeCamp Sweet’s Narrative, 366.

Gabrielle Renville, a mixed blood Sisseton, noted that he saw “many white prisoners, old women, young women, boys and girls, bareheaded and barefooted, and it made [his] heart hot… “ Through Dakota Eyes, “Gabrielle Renville’s Memoir, 186.

When this occurred the Dakota held a council to decide what to do about Mrs. White and her baby. They determined to put her baby in a wagon and if she did not get up and follow, they would kill her and her baby. Mrs. N.D. White, Captivity Among the Sioux, August 18 to September 26, 1862 in Collections of the Minnesota Historical Society, Vol. 9, (St. Paul: Minnesota Historical Society, 1901), 410-411.

Paul Mazekutemani, or He Who Shoots When He Walks, played a pivotal role in the eventual rescue of the captives. During the conflict he acted as spokesman for the opponents of the war, also known as the friendlies. He spoke out boldly on several occasions on behalf of peace and the safe release of the captives. He was also Little Crow’s cousin. Gary Clayton Anderson and Alan R. Woolworth, Eds., “Paul Mazekutemani’s Statement,” in Through Dakota Eyes: Narrative Accounts of the Minnesota Indian War of 1862, (St. Paul: Minnesota Historical Society Press, 1988), 194-195.

In this first encounter the Lower Dakota rode into the camp of the Upper Dakota and demanded that they join the war effort. The Upper Dakota were greatly offended that the Lower Dakota sought to make them captive just as the whites were captive. They turned away the Lower Dakota and formed a Soldier’s Lodge in order to defend themselves. Through Dakota Eyes, Gabrielle Renville’s Memoir, 186-187.

Through Dakota Eyes, “Paul Mazekutemani’s Statement, 196.

This was a daring move by Paul Mazekutemani and he feared it might cost him his own life. Ibid., 197.

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Other men included here were Simon Anawangmani, Lorenzo Lawrence, Wamdisuntanka, and Hayokisna. Ibid.

According to Gabriel Renville, Little Crow said, “that as long as he was alive no white man should touch him; that if he ever should be taken alive, he would be made a show of before the whites; and that, if he was ever touched by a white man, it would be after he was dead.” Ibid., 189-190.

Captive N.D. (Urania) White witnessed and described this particular council.

She stated that there were twenty to thirty chiefs, that they ate dog soup, and ironically, that they flew an American flag over their heads. White, Captivity Among the Sioux, 415.

Coulee is a French word for a deep streambed with steep sides that is either dry or filled with water. Birch Coulee Battlefield Historic Site.

Captain Hiram P. Grant stated that, “from all reports I did not think there were any Indians within twenty miles of us…” Because of fresh tracks at the bank of the creek, Joseph Coursolle suspected there may be Indians near. However, Joseph Brown said, “don’t worry about Indians, there are none within a hundred miles. You’re just as safe as if you were home in your own beds!” Minnesota Board of Commissioners, Minnesota in the Civil and Indian Wars, 216; Through Dakota Eyes, “Joseph Coursolle’s Story,” 162.

This was the voice of Captain Joseph Anderson. Minnesota Board of Commissioners, Minnesota in the Civil and Indian Wars, 220.

When asked by captive J.E. DeCamp if he would kill his white brothers, Wabasha said that he would not kill anyone – he would “shoot up.” Collections of the Minnesota Historical Society, Mrs. J.E. DeCamp Sweet’s Narrative, 370.

According to Captain Grant, “as soon as we had forced the Indians back I put every man I could spare digging and throwing up breastworks. We had nothing but our bayonets to dig with, but by noon we had ourselves pretty well entrenched, using our dead soldiers and horses to help our breastworks,” Minnesota Board of Commissioners, Minnesota in the Civil and Indian Wars, 217.

At Fort Ridgely the men could scarcely make out the sounds of battle. Sibley ordered Colonel McPhail to take a detachment of 240 men up river to investigate the situation. Three miles from Birch Coulee the detachment encountered Chief Mankato and about fifty Indians. But, the Indians “all yelled and made such a noise that the white must have thought there were a great many more…” Colonel McPhail decided to retreat and the Indians laughed at having deceived the white men. Schultz, Over the Earth, 197-198.

In his statement James J. Egan called it “a night of black despair.” He went on to write that, “the agony we suffered, expecting every moment we would be rushed upon, through that long, long night, is indescribable.” Joseph Coursolle wrote that the night was characterized by “the nauseating stench of death, the desperate thirst for water, the gnawing pangs of hunger, [and] the death rattle 211

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in the throats of dying men.” Minnesota Board of Commissioners, Minnesota in the Civil and Indian Wars, 222; Through Dakota Eyes, “Joseph Coursolle’s Story,” 164.

The messenger here was Corporal James Auge who acted as interpreter during this interaction. Minnesota Board of Commissioners, Minnesota in the Civil and Indian Wars, 218; Schultz, Over the Earth, 198-199.

According to Chief Big Eagle this man was Alex Faribault. Through Dakota Eyes, “Big Eagle’s Account, 151.

The army at Birch Coulee ultimately lost eighty-seven dead horses, twenty two dead soldiers, and sixty wounded. James Egan said of the battle, “no engagement with the Indians that I am aware of compares with the battle of Birch Coulee in its duration, in the disparity of numbers between the respective combatants and severity of loss sustained by the whites, in the desperate resistance of the besieged, in the tragic elements of death-dealing terror…” Minnesota Board of Commissioners, Minnesota in the Civil and Indian Wars, 222.

Although Sibley marched out from Fort Ridgely, he only came to rescue the beleaguered men at Birch Coulee. They did not continue to follow the Indians, but marched back to the fort.

This was the case for Janette DeCamp and Mrs. Magloire Robideau and their children who were brought to the safety of Fort Ridgely by Lorenzo Lawrence.

Lorenzo Lawrence grew up at Lac qui Parle and helped found Mr. Riggs’ Hazelwood Mission. He opposed the war and therefore helped Mrs. DeCamp slip away at night and later discovered Mrs. Robideau and her children. Lawrence went on to act as a scout and aided Sibley’s army. Gary Clayton Anderson and Allan R. Woolworth, Eds., “Lorenzo Lawrence’s Story” in Through Dakota Eyes: Narrative Accounts of the Minnesota Indian War of 1862, (St. Paul: Minnesota Historical Society Press, 1988), 205-215.

While Little Crow took his men toward the northeast, he wrote a letter proposing a truce to Colonel Sibley. Most of his men, however, rejected this letter and considered it a sign of weakness. As a result, the band split up into two smaller groups. Shortly after the separation, Little Crow’s band encountered Captain Richard Strout and his detail of seventy-five volunteer militia on their way to Hutchinson. The two bands of Indians joined back together to rout Strout and his men and send them fleeing toward Hutchinson. Strout lost six soldiers killed and twenty-three wounded. After the brief conflict, Little Crow and his men decided to attack Hutchinson and Forest City. They split up and the next morning they raided each city. However, in both cases the towns were well prepared and waited safely behind fortified stockades. Both raids were unsuccessful and the Dakota were forced to return to camp. Schultz, Over the Earth, 205-208; Heard, History of the Sioux War, 138-142.

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This conversation actually occurred between Little Crow and Thomas A. Robertson. Robertson was a mixed-blood captive throughout the conflict and acted as a courier between Little Crow and Colonel Sibley. Gary Clayton Anderson and Allan R. Woolworth, Eds., “Thomas A. Robertson’s Reminiscences” in Through Dakota Eyes: Narrative Accounts of the Minnesota Indian War of 1862, (St. Paul: Minnesota Historical Society Press, 1988), 177-178.

According to the Wahpeton Dakota Ecetukiya, the first man to speak at this council was actually Waanatan. Gary Clayton Anderson and Allan R. Woolworth, Eds., “Ecetukiya’s Testimony” in Through Dakota Eyes: Narrative Accounts of the Minnesota Indian War of 1862, (St. Paul: Minnesota Historical Society Press, 1988), 200-201.

Heard, History of the Sioux War, 151-153.

This was Thomas Robinson. Thomas volunteered himself to act as courier between Little Crow and Colonel Sibley as requested in Colonel Sibley’s initial correspondence. In reality, he asked Thomas Robertson to accompany him.

Through Dakota Eyes, “Thomas A. Robertson’s Reminiscences,” 179.

The following is Little Crow’s response to Sibley’s first correspondence: “Dear Sir: For what reason we have commenced this war, I will tell you. It is on account of Major Galbraith, we made a treaty with the Government a beg for what little we do get and then can’t get it till our children are dieing with hunger. It was with the traders that commence. Mr. A.J. Myrick told the Indians they would eat grass or their own dung, then Mr. Forbes told the Lower Dakota that were not men then Robert he was making with his friends how to defraud us of our money, if the young braves have push the white man, I have done this myself; So I want you to let the Governor Ramsey know this. I have a great many prisoners women and children it aint all our fault the Winnebagoes was in the engagement, two of them was killed. I want you to give me answer by bearer all at present.” Nathaniel West, The Ancestry, Life, and Times of Honorable Henry Hastings Sibley, (St. Paul: Pioneer Press Publishing Company, 1889), 263.

In a letter to his wife Colonel Sibley wrote, “the responsibilities of my position are so great that I am deprived of necessary rest.” Ibid., 266.

Ibid., 263.

Wakefield, Six Weeks, 100.

Gary Clayton Anderson and Allan R. Woolworth, Eds., “Star’s Testimony,” in Through Dakota Eyes: Narrative Accounts of the Minnesota Indian War of 1862, (St. Paul: Minnesota Historical Society Press, 1988), 204.

Gabrielle Renville noted that, “the friendly Indians were by this time becoming much stronger, and getting together formed a camp west of the mouth of the Chippewa River. Through Dakota Eyes, “Gabrielle Renville’s Memoir,” 191.

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There were left several eyewitness accounts of this celebration. White, Captivity Among the Sioux, 416; Through Dakota Eyes, “Samuel J. Brown’s Recollections,” 174; Wakefield, Six Weeks, 104.

Little Crow confided in Susan Brown “that he intended to spend the coming winter in the Green Lake region of the Big Woods and kill as many whites as he could, but if he should get killed himself it would be all right.” Through Dakota Eyes, “Samuel J. Brown’s Recollections,” 174.

West, The Ancestry, Life, and Times, 264.

Ibid.

Joseph Coursolle expressed great frustration in his narrative writing, “we drilled and drilled and drilled while more troops came pouring in. Soon there were two thousand soldiers in the fort and an almost endless train of wagons hauling in supplies. I thought we had enough to lick General Lee but Sibley kept drilling us for two whole weeks! All that time I was tormented with anxiety, wondering whether Traveling Hail’s warriors had killed Elizabeth and Minnie.” Through Dakota Eyes, “Joseph Coursolle’s Story,” 239.

Sibley was under intense pressure to march into Indian country and exact retribution against the Dakota Indians. He also faced severe criticism for the massacre at Birch Coulee. Dissatisfaction with Sibley became so great, Governor Ramsey was under increasing pressure to fire Sibley. As Sibley described it while writing in his journal on September 10, 1862, “… should I make an advance movement, two or three hundred white women and children might be murdered in cold blood. I must use what craft I possess to get these poor creatures out of the hands of the red devils, and then pursue the latter with fire and sword. I am in want of cartridges, hard bread, and clothing for the soldiers…” Schultz, Over the Earth, 211-212; West, The Ancestry, Life, and Times, 267.

West, The Ancestry, Life, and Times, 265.

Ibid.

Not every captive was treated in this manner. While explaining her experience, Sarah Wakefield stated, “the Indians were all very kind to me; they brought me books and papers to read, and I would make them shirts, so as to return their favors… I shall say there are many, very many good, kind hearted Indians.”

Wakefield, Six Weeks, 103.

According to historian Gary Clayton Anderson, “over the next week, the two Indian camps contested for control of the captives – dancing, feasting, and continually singing war songs in characteristic displays of strength.” Anderson, Little Crow, 158.

After the conflict, those who fled with Little Crow made clear attempts to ally themselves with the British in Canada. But, it is unclear if the Dakota made reasonable attempts to form such an alliance during the conflict other than just a few brief statements like the one here by Paul Mazekutemani.

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Heard, History of the Sioux War, 156-157.

Heard also records several other speakers at this council. Heard, History of the Sioux War, 158-161.

Samuel J. Brown left a description of Cutnose observing that he “presented a most forbidden, horrifying spectacle. With his bloody thumb he had besmeared his naked body, with his blackened face and long bushy hair like a Zulu’s, and half nose he was by far the ugliest looking and most repulsive specimen of humanity I had ever seen.” An Illustration of Cutnose is available in Heard.

Through Dakota Eyes, “Samuel J. Brown’s Recollections,” 77; Heard, History of the Sioux War, 204.

Through Dakota Eyes, “Samuel J. Brown’s Recollections,” 223.

Spy-glasses are binoculars.

Doane Robinson, A History of the Dakota or Sioux Indians, Vol. 2, (Aberdeen, South Dakota: News Printing Company, 1904), 294.

In his testimony Soloman Two Stars suggests that his intent was to coerce the men and foil the battle. When commenting on his advice he stated, “of course, I was saying this to try and not to have the attack made in the night, but to have it in the daytime…” Gary Clayton Anderson and Alan R. Woolworth, Eds., “Soloman Two Star’s Testimony,” in Through Dakota Eyes: Narrative Accounts of the Minnesota Indian War of 1862, (St. Paul: Minnesota Historical Society Press, 1988), 243.

These men heard that there were Indian farms nearby, so they went out ahead of the army camp to look for potatoes, melons, and sweet corn. Schultz, Over the Earth, 232.

The army lost seven killed and thirty-four wounded. Schultz, Over the Earth, 233.

Ibid., 237.

The letter in reply to the Indian’s request read as follows: “When you bring up the prisoners and deliver them to me under the flag of truce I will be ready to talk of peace. The bodies of the Indians that have been killed will be buried like white people and the wounded will be attended to as our own; but none will be given until the prisoners are brought in. I will wait here a reasonable time for the delivery of the prisoners; if you send me word they will be given up. A flag of truce will always be protected in and out of my camp if one or two come with it.” Minnesota Board of Commissioners, Minnesota in the Civil and Indian Wars, 249.

This particular conversation actually occurred between Little Crow and the mixed-blood interpreter Joseph Campbell. Gary Clayton Anderson and Allan R. Woolworth, Eds., “Cecelia Campbell Stay’s Account,” in Through Dakota Eyes: Narrative Accounts of the Minnesota Indian War of 1862, (St. Paul: Minnesota Historical Society Press, 1988), 252-253.

Ibid., 253.

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West, The Ancestry, Life and Times, 471-472.

Samuel J. Brown described the event by writing, “no grander sight ever met the eyes of anybody than when the troops marched up with bayonets glistening in the bright noon day sun and colors flying, drums beating and fifes playing. I shall never forget it while I live. We could hardly realize that our deliverance had come.” Through Dakota Eyes, “Samuel J. Brown’s Recollections,” 224.

It was the stance of the Dakota leaders that they would not dare take the hand of Colonel Sibley if their own hand were stained in blood. Schultz, Over the Earth, 240; Through Dakota Eyes, “Paul Mazekutemani’s Statement,” 256.

Sibley wrote a very detailed record of what he encountered that day. At one point he noted that, “… a worse accoutered, or more distressed, group of civilized beings imagination would fail to picture.” West, The Ancestry, Life, and Times, 275-276.

In her recollections, Snana wrote, “When I turned this dear child over to the soldiers my heart ached again; but afterward I knew that I had done something which was right.” Gary Clayton Anderson and Alan R. Woolworth, Eds., “Snana’s Story,” in Through Dakota Eyes: Narrative Accounts of the Minnesota Indian War of 1862, (St. Paul: Minnesota Historical Society Press, 1988), 258.

Schultz, Over the Earth, 240.

Upon fleeing Camp Release, Little Crow and his followers immediately sought refuge at Big Stone among Standing Buffalo and his band of Wahpetons.

However, Standing Buffalo rejected Little Crow’s request for refuge and said, “go to Canada or where you please, but go away from me and off the lands of my people.” It is unclear which band of Indians attacked Fort Abercrombie on the morning of September 26. But they were repulsed by the garrison and lost six to eight warriors. The garrison lost one man. Anderson, Little Crow, 168; Minnesota Board of Commissioners, Minnesota in the Civil and Indian Wars, 253.

Through Dakota Eyes, “Samuel J. Brown’s Recollections,” 224.

The same evening Mrs. Wakefield testified, she claims to have heard Captain Hiram Grant boast, “… we have seven of those black devils, and before tomorrow night they will hang as high as Haman.” Wakefield, Six Weeks, 114.

The Big Woods refers to the great hardwood forest that covers much of the eastern half of Minnesota. It was filled with deer, beaver, otter, bears, elk, and buffalo. For centuries it was utilized by the Dakota as the best hunting grounds east of the Missouri River. C.M. Oehler, The Great Sioux Uprising, (New York: Oxford University Press, 1959), 3.

While describing this ruse to arrest the Indians, Samuel J. Brown noted that “the end justified the means.” Through Dakota Eyes, “Samuel J. Brown’s Recollections,” 226.

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On September 29, 1862, Major General John Pope promoted Sibley to Brigadier General “for his judicious fight at Yellow Medicine.” Minnesota Board of Commissioners, Minnesota in the Civil and Indian Wars, 258.

Schultz, Over the Earth, 245.

According to Rev. Riggs, “The revelations of the white women caused great indignation among our soldiers, to which must be added the outside pressure coming to our camp in letters from all parts of Minnesota —a wail and a howl,— in many cases demanding the execution of every Indian coming into our hands.” Riggs, Mary and I, 180.

According to Isaac V.D. Heard, Rev. Riggs was chosen for this position because, “his long residence in the country, and extensive acquaintance with the Indians, his knowledge of the character and habits of most of them, enabling him to tell almost with certainty what Indians would be implicated and what ones not, either from their disposition or their relatives being engaged, and his familiarity with their language, eminently qualified him for the position.” Heard, History of the Sioux War, 251.

The charges and court proceedings are recorded in Heard. The full text of the court proceedings are available at the Minnesota Historical Society. Heard, History of the Sioux War, 251-271.

In reality, the court held Mr. Godfrey’s case open for a long time and “while the other trials were progressing, asked every person who was brought in about him, but could find no person that saw him kill anyone…” Ibid.

Schultz, Over the Earth, 250.

Because of Godfrey’s thorough testimony against many of the Dakota his sentence to be executed was eventually commutated to imprisonment for ten years. Heard, History of the Sioux War, 254.

Big Eagle, or Wamditanka, was born in 1827 near Mankato. He succeeded his father as chief of his band in 1857. In June, 1862 he ran as an unsuccessful candidate for spokesman of the Mdewakantons. Once the war started he only reluctantly joined his warriors in battle. Through Dakota Eyes, “Big Eagle’s Account,” 21.

Captain Ezra T. Champlin was a member of the Third Minnesota Infantry who were the first to become engaged in the Battle of Wood Lake. He left a full account of the battle. Minnesota Board of Commissioners, Minnesota in the Civil and Indian Wars, 244-247.

These numbers vary depending on the source. Charles S. Bryant and Abel B. Murch, A History of the Great Massacre by the Sioux Indians, in Minnesota, (Cincinnati: Rickey and Carroll, 1864), 454.

The actual number of Indians leaving for Fort Snelling was reported as 1,658.

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guns, knives, clubs and stones, rushed upon the Indians, as the train was passing by, and before the soldiers could interfere and stop them, succeeded in pulling many of the old men and women and even children from the wagons by the hair of the head, and beating them, and otherwise inflicting injury upon the helpless and miserable creatures.” Furthermore, upon reaching Fort Snelling the Dakota were met by very inhospitable conditions. They were allotted meager rations and their shelter offered little protection from the cold. Shortly after arriving, an epidemic of measles broke out to which they had no immunity. Schultz, Over the Earth, 253-254; Through Dakota Eyes, Samuel J. Brown’s Recollections, 227.

Through Dakota Eyes, “Samuel J. Brown’s Recollections,” 227.

Schultz, Over the Earth, 254.

Though the Indians spent nearly two months at Camp Lincoln, I found almost no evidence about the conditions at the camp or about the treatment of the Indians.

In a letter to his commanding department, General Sibley expressed his fear of a citizen outbreak: “Dispatches and private letter just received indicate a fearful collision between the United States forces and the citizens. Combinations, embracing thousands of men in all parts of the state, are said to be forming, and in a few days our troops, with the Indian prisoners, will be literally besieged.

I shall concentrate all the men I can at Mankato. But should the president pardon the condemned Indians, there will be a determined effort to get them in possession, which will be resented, and may cost the lives of our citizens. Ask the president to keep secret his decision, whatever it may be, until I have prepared myself as best I can. God knows how much the excitement is increasing and extending. Telegraph without delay to headquarters.” West, The Ancestry, Life, and Times, 286.

These men were interrogated by Colonel Miller and they referred to themselves as the Noble Red Men of the Forest. Bryant, A History of the Great Massacre, 468.

These notions were expressed by Alfred’s father, Stephen Riggs. Riggs, Mary and I, 435-436.

President Lincoln and his advisors reached their decision on December 6, 1862.

The executive order follows here: “Ordered that, of the Indians and half-breeds sentenced to be hanged by the military commission, composed of Colonel Crooks, Lieutenant Olin, and lately sitting in Minnesota, you cause to be executed on Friday, the nineteenth day of December instant, the following named, to-wit: (the names are here omitted).

The other condemned prisoners you will hold subject to further orders, taking care that they neither escape, nor are subjected to any unlawful violence.”

At a later time President Lincoln postponed the executions for December 26.

West, The Ancestry, Life, and Times, 287-288.

218

148

149

150 151 152

153 154 155 156

157

158 159

160 161

In reality, Stephen Riggs was not absent during the execution period, but rather fulfilled his role as chaplain.

The Reverend Riggs admits that two mistakes were made. The two men mistakenly identified were Round Wind and Chaska. Round Wind eventually received a last-minute pardon. Chaska was the man who protected and cared for Sarah Wakefield throughout the conflict. Stephen Riggs wrote a letter to Mrs. Wakefield apologizing for the mistake: “In regard to the mistake by which Chaska was hung instead of another, I doubt whether I can satisfactorily explain it. We all felt a solemn responsibility, and a fear that some mistake should occur. We had forgotten that he was condemned under the name We-ehan-hpe-wash-tay-do-pe. We knew he was called Chaska in the prison, and had forgotten that any other except Robert Hopkins, who was loved by Dr. Williamson, was so called. We never thought of the third one; so when the name Chaska was called in the prison on that fatal morning, your protector answered to it and walked out. I do not think any one was really to blame. We all regretted the mistake very much.� Riggs, Mary and I, 211-212; Wakefield, Six Weeks, 121-122.

Heard, History of the Sioux War, 272-275.

Ibid., 284.

Heard recorded the accounts of eleven different men who were to be executed.

Ibid., 278-283.

Ibid., 286.

Young Six is a reference to Chief Shakopee.

Heard, History of the Sioux War, 291.

Reverend Riggs actually mad this trip during the month of December while the Indians were awaiting execution. Riggs, Mary and I, 210.

The attitude toward the Dakota at this time is thoroughly reflected by James W. Taylor. James W. Taylor, The Sioux War: What shall we do with it? The Sioux Indians: What shall we do with them? (St. Paul: Office of the Press Printing Company, 1862).

This number equaled 326 men. Anderson, Little Crow, 165.

On May 4, 771 of the Dakota were boarded on a ship and sent south to St. Louis.

On May 5, the rest of them, 547 in number, were also sent south to St. Louis.

Once there, both groups were herded aboard the same ship and sent northwest on the Missouri River to the Crow Creek Reservation. Schultz, Over the Earth, 281-282.

Ibid., 282.

Anderson, Little Crow, 169-171.

219

Bibliogr aphy “Besieged by the Indians: Address of Captain James McGrew.” St. Paul Pioneer Press. August 24, 1896.

“Letter from A.J. Van Vorhes.” St. Paul Pioneer and Democrat. August 22, 24, 29, 1862.

“Little Crow, Indian Chief,” St. Paul Pioneer Press, October 24, 1897.

Anderson, Gary Clayton, and Alan R. Woolworth, eds. Through Dakota Eyes Narrative Accounts of the Minnesota Indian War of 1862. St. Paul: Minnesota Historical Society Press, 1988.

Anderson, Gary Clayton. Kinsmen of Another Kind: Dakota-White Relations in the Upper Mississippi Valley, 1650-1862. St. Paul: Minnesota Historical Society Press, 1997.

Barton, Winifred W. John P. Williamson: A Brother to the Sioux. New York: Fleming H. Revell, 1919.

Berghold, Alexander. The Indians Revenge: or, Days of Horror, Some Appalling Events in the History of the Sioux. San Francisco: P.J. Thomas, 1891.

Bryant, Charles S., and Abel B. Murch. A History of the Great Massacre by the Sioux Indians, in Minnesota, Including the Personal Narratives of Many who Escaped. Cincinnati: Rickey and Carroll, 1864.

221

Flandrau, Charles E. The History of Minnesota and Tales of the Frontier.

St. Paul: E.W. Porter, 1900.

Folwell, William Watts. A History of Minnesota. Vol. 2. St. Paul: Minnesota Historical Society, 1961.

Fortier, Joseph. “Causes of the Sioux Outbreak of 1862.� Unpublished Manuscript, Minnesota Historical Society. St. Paul, Minnesota.

Fritsche, L.A., Ed. History of Brown County Minnesota: Its People, Industries, and Institutions. Vol. 1. Indianapolis: B.F. Bowen and Company, 1916.

Gordon, Hanford L. The Feast of the Virgins and other Poems. Chicago: Laird and Lee, 1891.

Heard, Isaac V.D. History of the Sioux War and Massacres of 1862 and 1863. New York: Harper and Brothers, 1864.

Lawrence, Mr. and Mrs. Harry. The Indian Nations of Minnesota: The Sioux Uprising in Minnesota Heritage: A Panoramic Narrative of the Historical Development of the North Star State. Edited by Lawrence M. Brings. Minneapolis: T.S. Dinison and Co., 1960.

Minnesota Board of Commissioners on Publication of History of Minnesota in Civil and Indian Wars. Minnesota in the Civil and Indians Wars, 1861-1865. 2 vols. St. Paul: Pioneer Press Company, 1893.

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St. Paul: The Society, 1860-1920.

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St. Paul: Minnesota Historical Society Press, 1986.

222

Riggs, Reverend Stephen Return. Mary and I: Forty Years with the Sioux.

Boston: Congregational Sunday School and Publishing Society, 1880, 1887.

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Aberdeen, South Dakota: News Printing Co., 1904.

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Schultz, Duane. Over the Earth I Come: The Great Sioux Uprising of 1862. New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1992.

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Wall, Oscar Garrett. Recollections of the Sioux Massacre: An Authentic History of the Yellow Medicine Incident, the Fate of Marsh and His Men, of the Siege and Battles of Fort Ridgely, and other Important Battles and Experiences. Lake City, Minnesota: The Home Printery, 1909.

West, Nathaniel. The Ancestry, Life, and Times of Henry Hastings Sibley.

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Woolworth, Alan R. and Nancy L. The Treaties of June 19, 1858, at Washington D.C. Between the United States and the Sisseton and Wahpeton; and the Mdewakanton and Wahpekute Tribes of Dakota Indians: An Historical Study. White Bear Lake, Minnesota: Woolworth Research Associates, 1892.

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FICTION

Alfred Riggs was a twenty-five year old son of a missionary who found himself helplessly intertwined in the real life actions, events, and people of a harrowing conflict in the history of Minnesota. Alfred grew up among the Dakota Indians of Minnesota and he developed a profound respect for their people and established a near kinship tie to their leader, Little Crow. When war broke out, Alfred was torn between the safety of his family and friends, and his deep understanding and respect for the grievances and traditions of his Indian neighbors. As death and vengeance unfolded before him, he was motivated by valor and a brazen ambition for peace that nearly led to his death and alienated him from his father.

Throughout the story Alfred met and interacted with real life participants and witnesses of the war. He shared in their struggles and sought to understand their perspectives. But, rather than mitigate death and disaster, Alfred found himself in a number of dire situations from both sides of the war. In the end, Alfred was helpless to quell the senseless feud between the Dakota Indians and the white settlers. Ultimately, Alfred was fortunate to escape with his life and finally reconcile with his father.

Colin Mustful writes a unique cross-genre of historical fiction and narrative nonfiction. Through this brand of writing, the author creates compelling stories that inform and entertain. The author’s work focusses on the tragic and complicated history surrounding the largely unknown and misunderstood event of the U.S. – Dakota War of 1862. Using a variety of sources, author Colin Mustful objectively considers this important part of Minnesota history through multiple perspectives. The result is an educational narrative that includes fictional drama and a thought-provoking story.