1843-1846.—Great Sorrow.—Thomas Drowned.—Mary’s Letter.—The Indians’ Thoughts.—Old Gray-Leaf.—Oxen Killed.—Hard Field.—Sleepy Eyes’ Horse.—Indian in Prison.—The Lord Keeps Us.—Simon’s Shame.—Mary’s Letter.—Robert Hopkins and Agnes.—Le Bland.—White Man Ghost.—Bennett.—Sleepy Eyes’ Camp.—Drunken Indians.—Making Sugar.—Military Company.—Dakota Prisoners.—Stealing Melons.—Preaching and School.—A Canoe Voyage.—Red Wing.
Suddenly, at the very commencement of our new station, we were called to meet a great sorrow. Mary had come back from Lac-qui-parle with the two little girls, and our family were all together once more. Mr. Huggins and his sister, Miss Fanny Huggins, and Mr. Isaac Pettijohn had come down along. Mr. Pettijohn helped us much to forward the log cabin. Saturday came, the 15th of July—and the roof was nearly finished. We should move into its shelter very soon. No one was rejoicing in the prospect more than the young brother, Thomas Lawrence Longley. He sang as he worked that morning. Mr. Huggins had the toothache, and, about 10 o’clock, said he would go and bathe, as that sometimes helped his teeth. Brother T. proposed that we should go also, to which I at first objected, and said we would go after dinner. He thought we should have something else to do then; and, remembering that once or twice I had prevented his bathing, by not going when he wished, I consented. We had been in the water but a moment, when, turning around, I saw T. throw up his hands and clap them over his head. My first thought was that he was drowning. The current was strong and setting out from the shore. I swam to him—he caught me by the hand, but did not appear to help himself in the least—probably had the cramp. I tried to get toward shore with him, but could not. He pulled me under once or twice, and I began to think I should be drowned with him. But when we came up again, he released his grasp, and, as I was coming into shallow water, with some difficulty, I reached the shore. But the dear boy Thomas appeared not again. The cruel waters rolled over him. In the meantime, Mr. Huggins had jumped into a canoe, and was coming to our relief. But it was too late—too late! Mary’s first letter after the 15th of July, 1843:—“Traverse des Sioux, Friday noon: What shall I add, my dear parents, to the sad tidings my husband has written? Will it console you in any measure to know that one of our first and most frequent petitions at the throne of grace has been that God would prepare your hearts for the news, which, we feared, would be heart-breaking, unless ‘the Comforter’ comforted you and the Almighty strengthened you? We hope—indeed, some small measure of faith is given us to believe—that you will be comforted and sustained, under this chastening from the Lord. And oh, like subdued, humbled, and penitent children, may we all kiss the rod, and earnestly pray that this sore chastisement may be for our spiritual good! “I feel that this affliction, such as I have never before known, is intended to prepare us who are left for life and death. Perhaps some of us may soon follow him whom we all loved. When I stand by his grave, overshadowed by three small oaks, with room for another person by his side, I think that place may be for me. “The last Sabbath he was with us was just after my return from Lac-qui-parle. I reached here on Saturday, and having passed through distressing scenes on our way to Lac-qui-parle, occasioned by an attack of the Chippewas on some Sioux who were coming to meet us, I felt uncommon forebodings lest something had befallen the dear ones I had left here. But I endeavored to cast my care upon the Lord, remembering that while we were homeless and houseless we were more like our Saviour. And that if he was despised and rejected of men, we surely ought not to repine if we were treated as our Master. With such feelings as these, as we came in sight of husband’s tent, I pointed it out to Isabella, when she asked, ‘Where’s papa’s house?’ and soon I saw Mr. Riggs and brother Thomas and little Alfred coming to meet us. “Not quite one week after that joyful hour, Mr. Riggs came home from the St. Peter’s, groaning, ‘Oh, Mary, Thomas is drowned—Thomas is drowned!’ I did not, I could not receive the full import. I still thought his body would be recovered and life restored; for your sakes, I cried for mercy, but it came not in the way I then desired. Still, I tried to flatter myself, even after search for the body had been given up for the day, that it had floated down upon a sand-bar, and he would yet live and return in the dusk of the evening. But when I lay down for the night, and the impossibility of my illusive hopes being realized burst upon me, oh— “The hand of the Lord had touched us, and we were ready to sink; but the same kind hand sustained us. May the same Almighty Father strengthen you. One thought comforted me not a little. ‘If brother Thomas had gone home to our father’s house in Massachusetts, I should not have grieved much; and now he had gone to his Father’s and our Father’s home in Heaven, why should I mourn so bitterly? I felt that God had a right to call him when he pleased, and I saw his mercy, in sparing my husband to me a little longer, when he was but a step from the eternal world. Still, I felt that I had lost a brother, and such a brother! “Before I went to Lac-qui-parle, I had confided Alfred to his special care. I knew that the rejection of our offer of stopping at the Little Rapids, by the Indians there, had been exceedingly painful and discouraging to Mr. Riggs, and the rumor that the Indians here would do likewise was no less so; and I should have felt very unpleasantly in going for Isabella at that time, but it seemed necessary, and I felt that brother Thomas would be, what he was, ‘a friend in need.’ On my return, on recounting the scenes I had passed through, the killing by the Chippewas of the eldest brother of one of our young men, as he was coming to meet him—the shooting of one of our horses by a Sioux man, who pretended to be offended because we did not pursue the Chippewas, when we were more than three miles from the mission, and that I carried Martha there in my arms, one of the warmest afternoons we had—Thomas said, ‘I see you have grown poor, but you will improve from this time.’ “On Saturday morning, as we were busily engaged near each other, he sang, ‘Our cabin is small and coarse our fare, But love has spread our banquet here!’ Soon afterward he went to bathe, and of course our roof and floor remained unfinished, but that evening we terminated in sadness what had been to us a happy feast of tabernacles, by moving into our humble dwelling. For a little while on Sabbath, his remains found a resting-place within the house his hands had reared. I kissed his cheek as he lay upon a plank resting on that large red chest and box which were sent from home, but, owing to the haste and excitement, I did not think to take a lock of hair. It curled as beautifully as ever, although dripping with water, and the countenance was natural, I thought, but it has rather dimmed my recollections of him as he was when living. I felt so thankful that his body had been found before any great change had taken place, that gratitude to God supplanted my grief while we buried him. Mr. Huggins and Fanny sang an Indian hymn made from the 15th chapter of First Corinthians, and then, ‘Unveil thy bosom, faithful tomb.’ We came home just after sunset. It is but a little distance from our dwelling, and in the same ‘garden of roses,’ as Thomas called it, where he now sleeps.” Only a few additional circumstances need to be noted. The sad story was carried speedily to the Indian tents, and those who were in the neighborhood came to look on and give what sympathy and help they could. That was not much. The deep hole was too deep to be reached by any means at our command. The waters rolled on, and to us, as we gazed on them, knowing that the dear brother, Thomas, was underneath them, they began more and more to assume a frightful appearance. For months and months after, they had that frightful look. I shuddered when I looked. The Indians said their water God, Oonktehe, was displeased with us for coming to build there. He had seized the young man. It did seem sometimes as though God was against us. The Saturday’s sun went down without giving success to our efforts, and on Sabbath morning the Indians renewed the search somewhat, but with no better result. Toward evening the body was found to have risen and drifted to a sand-bar below. We took it up tenderly, washed and wrapped it in a clean linen sheet, and placed it in the new cabin, on which his hands had wrought. A grave was dug hastily under the scrub-oaks, where, with only some loose boards about it, we laid our brother to rest until the resurrection. That was our Allonbachuth. We were dumb, because God did it. That was the first great shadow that came over our home. It was one of ourselves that had gone. The sorrow was too great to find expression in tears or lamentations. The Dakotas observed this. One day old Black Eagle came in and chided us for it. “The ducks and the geese and the deer,” he said, “when one is killed, make an outcry about it, and the sorrow passes by. The Dakotas, too, like these wild animals, make a great wailing over a dead friend—they wail out their sorrow, and it becomes lighter; but you keep your sorrow—you brood over it, and it becomes heavier.” There was truth in what the old man said. But we did not fail to cast our burden upon the Lord, and to obtain strength from a source which the Black Eagle knew not of. The old men came frequently to comfort us in this way, and it gave us an opportunity of telling them about Christ, who is the great Conqueror over death and the grave. Sometimes they came in and sat in silence, as old Sleepy Eyes and Tankamane often did, and that did us good. Old Gray Leaf had a gift of talking—he believed in talking. When he came in, he made an excited speech, and at the close said, “I don’t mean anything.” About this time Mary wrote: “A few days after T. was drowned, some of the Indians here, entirely regardless of our affliction, came and demanded provisions as pay for the logs in our cabin. Mr. Riggs had previously given them two barrels of flour, and it was out of our power to aid them any more then, although Mr. R. told them, after their cruel speeches, that he would endeavor to purchase some corn, when the Fur Company’s boat came up. They threatened killing our cattle and tearing down our cabin, and husband’s proposition did not prevent their executing the first part of their threat. Just one week after dear T. was drowned, one ox was killed, and in eight days more the other shared the same fate. Then we felt that it was very probable our cabin would be demolished next.” The summer was wearing away. We were getting some access to the people. On the Sabbath, we could gather in a few, to be present while we sang Dakota hymns and read the Bible and prayed. But there was a good deal of opposition. As our oxen had been killed and eaten, and we were approaching the winter, it was necessary that we have some means of drawing our firewood. So I bought one ox, and harnessed him as the Red River people do. He was a faithful servant to us during that winter, but the next summer he too was killed and eaten. This time they came boldly, and broke open our stable, and killed and carried away the animal. It seemed as if they were determined that we should not stay. Did the Lord mean to have us give up our work there? We did not want to decide that question hastily. In the meantime, the field was proving to be a very unpromising as well as difficult one, because of the great quantities of whiskey brought in. St. Paul was then made up of a few grog-shops, which relied chiefly on the trade with the Indians. They took pelts, or guns, or blankets, or horses—whatever the Indian had to give for his keg of whiskey. The trade was a good one. The Lower Sioux bought for the Upper ones, and helped them to buy; and those at the Traverse and other points engaged in the carrying trade. When a keg was brought up, a general drunk was the result; but there was enough left to fill with water, and carry up farther and sell for a pony. This made our work very discouraging. Besides, we were often annoyed by the visits of drunken Indians. Sometimes they came with guns and knives. So that we all felt the strain of those years, and we often asked one another, “What good is to come of this?” One winter night, Sleepy Eyes had come in from Swan Lake, and placed his horse at our haystack, while he himself went to the trader’s to spend the night. Just before we retired to rest, we heard voices and feet hurrying past our door. I went out and found that two men and a woman were at the stable—the men were shooting arrows into Sleepy Eyes’ horse. One of the men said, “I asked uncle for this horse, and he did not give it to me—I am killing it.” They had done their work. Perhaps I had interfered unnecessarily—certainly unsuccessfully. As they returned and passed by our cabin, I was behind them, and, as I was stepping in at the door, an arrow whizzed by. Was it intended to hit? The next morning that Indian started off for whiskey, but a white man passed down the country also, and told the story at Fort Snelling. The result was that the man who killed his uncle’s horse was put in the guard-house. Not for that, but for shooting at a white man, he was to be taken down into Iowa, to be tried for assault. The commandant of the post at Snelling doubted whether good would come of it, and I fully agreed with him. And so, in the month of March, Tankamane (Big Walker) and I went down to the fort and procured his release. He promised well—he would drink no whiskey while he lived—he would always be the white man’s friend. He signed the pledge and went back with Big Walker and myself. A captain’s wife asked how I dared to go in company with that man. I said, “Madam, that man will be my best friend.” And so he was. He went up to the Blue Earth hunting-grounds, and brought us in some fine venison hams. But still intemperance increased. A drunken man went to the mission singing, and asked for food. They gave him a plate of rice and a spoon, but he did not feel like eating then. After slobbering over it awhile, he compelled the white women to eat it. They were too much afraid to refuse. One time Mr. Hopkins and I were both away until midnight, when my friend, Tankamane, while drunk, visited the house and threatened to break in the door. But we reached home soon afterward, and the women slept. Thus we had the “terror and the arrow,” but the Lord shielded us. These were very trying years of missionary work. It was at this time our good friend and brother, Simon Anawangmane, who had come from Lac-qui-parle, gave way to the temptation of strong drink. We were grieved, and he was ashamed. We prayed for him and with him, and besought him to touch it not again. He promised, but he did not keep his promise. He soon developed a passion for “fire water.” It was not long before he put off his white man’s clothes, and, dressed like an Indian, he too was on his way to the western plains, to buy a horse with a keg of whiskey. There were times of repenting and attempted reformation, but they were followed by sinning again and again. Shame took possession of the man, and shame among the Dakotas holds with a terrible grip. He will not let go, and is not easily shaken off. Shame is a shameless fellow; it instigates to many crimes. So eight years passed with Simon. Sometimes he was almost persuaded to attempt a new life. Sometimes he came to church and sat down on the door-step, not venturing to go in; he was afraid of himself, as well he might be. “... The Indians and the babies, the chickens and the mice, seem leagued to destroy the flowers, and they have wellnigh succeeded. Perhaps you will wonder why I should bestow any of my precious time on flowers, when their cultivation is attended with so many difficulties. The principal reason is that I find my mind needs some such cheering relaxation. In leaving my childhood’s home for this Indian land, you know, my dear mother, I left almost everything I held dear, and gave up almost every innocent pleasure I once enjoyed. Much as I may have failed in many respects, I am persuaded there was a firmness of purpose, to count no necessary sacrifice too great to be made. I do not think I have made what should be called great sacrifices, but I am using the phrase as it is often used, and I am conscious that, in some respects, I have tasked myself too hard. I feel that I have grown old beyond my years. Even the last year has added greatly to my gray hairs. I have been spending my strength too rapidly, and I have often neglected to apply to Him for strength of whom Isaiah says, ‘He giveth power to the faint; and to them that have no might he increaseth strength.’ How beautiful and precious is the promise to those who wait upon the Lord! When ‘even the youths shall faint and be weary, and the young men shall utterly fall’; ‘they that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength, they shall mount up with wings, as eagles, they shall run and not be weary, they shall walk and not faint.’ Oh, if we could live by faith, the difficulties and the trials of the way would not greatly trouble or distress us.”
In the spring of 1844, Robert and Agnes Hopkins came down from Lac-qui-parle, and, for the next seven years, were identified with the missionary work at Traverse des Sioux. The opposition to our remaining gradually died away and was lived down. Louis Provencalle, the trader, alias Le Bland, had probably tried to carry water on both shoulders, but he was thoroughly converted to our friendship by an accident which happened to himself. The old gentleman was carrying corn, in strings, into his upper chamber by an outside ladder. With a load of this corn on his back, he fell and caught on his picket fence, the sharp-pointed wood making a terrible hole in his flesh. For months I visited him almost daily and dressed his wound. He recovered, and, although he was not the less a Romanist, he and his family often came to our meetings, and were our fast friends. Perhaps some seeds of truth were then sown, which bore fruit in the family a score of years afterward. Thus we had, occasionally, an opportunity to help a fellow white man in trouble. It was one Saturday in the early part of September, while we were at work on our school-house, that an Indian runner came in from Swan Lake, to tell us that a “ghost” had come to their camp. A white man had come in in the most forlorn and destitute condition. The story is well told by Mary in her letters home. “We have just returned in safety, after spending a week very pleasantly and profitably at Lac-qui-parle. An armed force, from Forts Snelling and Atkinson, have recently passed up to Lake Traverse, to obtain the murderers of an American killed by a Sisseton war-party this summer. “The circumstances of the murder were very aggravating, as communicated to us by the only known survivor. A gentleman from the State of Missouri, Turner by name, with three men, were on their way to Fort Snelling with a drove of cattle for the Indians. Being unacquainted with the country, they wandered to the north-west, when they were met by a war-party of Sisseton Sioux, returning from an unsuccessful raid upon the Ojibwas. Finding them where they did, on their way apparently to the Red River of the North, they supposed they belonged to that settlement, with whom they had recently had a quarrel about hunting buffalo. And so they commenced to treat these white men roughly, demanding their horses, guns, and clothes. One man resisted and was killed, the others were robbed. Shirts, drawers, hats, and vests were all that were left them. Some of the cattle were killed, and the rest fled. One of the Americans, with some Indians, were sent after them, but he made his escape, and was never heard of again. The next morning, the other two were permitted to leave, but the only requests they made, for their coats, a knife, and a life-preserver, were not granted. “The second and third day after this escape, they saw the cattle, and if only a knife had been spared them, they might have supplied themselves with provisions, but as they were, it was safest, they thought, to hasten on. On the fourth day they came to a stream too deep to ford, and Turner could not swim. Poor Bennett attempted to swim with him, but was drawn under several times, and, to save his own life, was obliged to disengage himself from Turner, who was drowned. Bennett came on alone five days, finding nothing to eat but hazel-nuts, when at length he came in sight of the Sioux Lodges at Swan Lake. He lay awake that night deliberating whether he should go to them or not. ‘If I went,’ he said, ‘I expected they would kill me; if I did not go, I knew I must die, and I concluded to go, for I could but die.’ “The next morning he tottered toward the Sioux camp. Ever and anon he stopped and hid in the grass. The Dakotas watched his movements. Some young men went out to meet him, but Bennett was afraid of them, and tried to crawl away. When the old man Sleepy Eyes himself came in sight, his benevolent, honest countenance assured the young white man, and he staggered toward the Dakota chief. His confidence was not misplaced. Sleepy Eyes took the wanage ghost, as they called him, to his tent, and his daughter made bread for him of flour, which the old man had bought of us a few days before; and Bennett declared he never ate such good bread in his life. Mr. Riggs brought him home, for which he said he was willing to be his servant forever. We furnished him with such clothing as we had, and after three weeks recruiting we sent him home. At Fort Snelling, he was furnished with money to go to his parents, whom he had left without their consent. “Since our return from Lac-qui-parle, the Indians have been drunk less than for some time before. At one time quite a number of men came in a body and demanded powder, which Mr. Riggs intended giving them. I buttoned the door to prevent their entrance, as Mr. Riggs was not in at the moment, but the button flew into pieces as the sinewy arm of Tankamane pressed the latch. Some of the party were but slightly intoxicated. Those Mr. Riggs told positively that he should not listen to a request made by drunken men, notwithstanding their threatening ‘to soldier kill’ him—that is, to kill his horse. Tankamane was so drunk that he would not be silent enough to hear, until Mr. R. covered his mouth with his hand and commanded him to be still, and then assured them that he was not ready to give them the powder, and that they had better go home, which they did soon. “I am not usually much alarmed, though often considerably excited. Some Sabbaths since, a party of Indians brought a keg of whiskey, and proposed drinking it in our new building, which is intended for a chapel and school-room. But the Lord did not permit this desecration. One of their number objected to the plan, and they drank it outside the door.”
When our school-house was erected and partly finished, our efforts at teaching took on more of regularity. It was a more convenient room to hold our Sabbath service in. In religious teaching, as well as in the school, Mr. Hopkins was an indefatigable worker. He learned the language slowly but well. Often he made visits to the Indian camps miles away. When the Dakotas of that neighborhood abstained for a while from drinking, we became encouraged to think that some good impressions were being made upon them. But there would come a new flooding of spirit water, and a revival of drinking. Thus our hopes were blasted. “At the present time our Indian neighbors are absent, some at their sugar camps, and others hunting musk-rats. Thus far the season has not been favorable for making sugar, and we have purchased but a few pounds, giving in return flour or corn, of which we have but little to spare. Last spring, we procured our year’s supply from the Indians, and for the most of it we gave calico in exchange. Not for our sakes, but for the sake of our ragged and hungry neighbors, I should rejoice in their having an abundant supply. They eat sugar, during the season, as freely as we eat bread, and what they do not need for food they can exchange for clothing. But they will have but little for either, unless the weather is more favorable the last half than it has been the first part of this month. And they are so superstitious that some, I presume, will attribute the unpropitious sky and wind to our influence. Mr. Hopkins visited several camps about ten miles distant, soon after the first and thus far the only good sugar weather. One woman said to him, ‘You visited us last winter; before you came there were a great many deer, but afterward none; and now we have made some sugar, but you have come, and perhaps we shall make no more.’”
“My Dear Mother:— “Having put our missionary cabin in order for the reception of Captains Sumner and Allen, and Dr. Nichols, of the army, I am reminded of home. I have not made half the preparation which you used to make to receive military company, and I could not if I would, neither would I if I could. I do, however, sometimes wish it afforded me more pleasure to receive such guests, when they occasionally pass through the country. We have so many uncivilized and so few civilized, and our circumstances are such that I almost shrink from trying to entertain company. I sometimes think that even mother, with all her hospitality, would become a little selfish if her kitchen, parlor, and dining-room were all one.”
This was the second military expedition made to secure the offenders of the Sisseton war-party. The one made in the fall of 1844 secured five Indians, but not the ones considered most guilty. But they made their escape on the way down to Traverse des Sioux. The expedition, to which reference is made above, was more successful. The Indians pledged themselves to deliver up the guilty men. They did so. Four men were delivered up and taken down to Dubuque, Iowa, where they were kept in confinement until winter. Then they were permitted to escape, and, strange to say, three of them died while making their way back, and one lived to reach his friends. It was very remarkable that three Indians should be placed over against three white men in the outcome of Providence. “Our garden enclosure extends around the back side and both ends of our mission house, while in front is a double log cabin, with a porch between. Back of the porch we have a very small bedroom, which our children now occupy, and back of our cabin, as it was first erected, we have a larger bedroom, which, by way of distinction, we call the nursery. The door from this room opens into the garden. The room does not extend half the length of the double log cabin, so that Mr. Hopkins has a room corresponding with our nursery, and then, between the two wings, we have two small windows, one in the children’s bedroom, and the other in our family-room. Shading the latter are Alfred’s morning-glories and a rose-bush. A shoot from this wild rose has often attracted my attention, as, day after day, it has continued its upward course. It is now seven feet high—the growth of a single season—and is still aspiring to be higher. Bowed beneath it is a sister stalk laden with rose-buds. Last year it was trampled upon by drunken Indians, but now our fence affords us some protection, and we flattered ourselves that our pumpkins and squashes would be unmolested. But we found, to our surprise, one day, that our garden had been stripped of the larger pumpkins the night previous. Our situation here, at a point where the roving sons of the prairie congregate, exposes us to annoyances of this kind more frequently than at other stations among the Sioux. I can sympathize very fully with Moffat in like grievances, which he mentions in his ‘Southern Africa.’”
“For several Sabbaths past we have had a small congregation. It encourages us somewhat to see even a few induced to listen for a short time to the truths of the Gospel. But our chief encouragement is in God’s unfailing promises. The Indians here usually sit during the whole service, and sometimes smoke several times. “For some weeks I have been teaching the female part of our school. Some days half a dozen black-eyed girls come, and then, again, only one or two. Their parents tell them that we ought to pay them for coming to school, and, although there have been no threats of cutting up the blankets of those who read, as there was last winter, they are still ridiculed and reproached. We have in various ways endeavored to reward them for regular attendance, in such a manner as not to favor the idea that we were hiring them.”
In the spring of 1846, Mary wanted to get away for a little rest. We fitted up a canoe, and, with a young man of the fur-trade, we started down the Minnesota. Mary had her baby, our fourth child, whose name was Anna Jane. We had scarcely well started when we met drunken Indians. Their canoe was laden with kegs of whiskey, and they were on shore cooking. They called to us to come over and give them some food; but we passed by on the other side. One man raised his gun and poured into us a volley of buckshot. Fortunately, Mary and the baby were not touched. The canoe and the rest of us were somewhat sprinkled, but not seriously hurt. That canoe voyage was continued down the Mississippi River as far as Red Wing. At Mr. Pond’s station we took in Jane Lamonte, afterward Mrs. Titus. Where the city of St. Paul now is, we made a short stop, and I hunted up one of our Dakota church members, the wife of a Frenchman. A half a dozen log houses, one here and one there, made up the St. Paul of that day. At Pine Bend, Mr. Brown left us. After that, the rowing was heavy, and the muscles were light. Just above the mouth of the St. Croix, we found a house, where we spent the night comfortably. The next day, we reached Red Wing, a Dakota village, or Hay-minne-chan, with much difficulty. We had to row against a strong head wind, and I, who was the principal oarsman, fell sick. But, as Providence would have it, we came upon a wood-man, who took us to the village. Red Wing was the station of the Swiss mission, occupied by the Dentans. Mrs. Dentan had been a teacher in the Mackinaw mission school. Here we found good Christian friends, and spent two weeks in helping them to do missionary work. While we were there, I went to see a young man whom the medicine-men were conjuring. The Dakota doctor claimed that the spirit which caused the disease was greatly enraged at my presence. And so, at their earnest request, I retired. That sick young man is now one of our excellent native pastors. We have since talked over the event with much interest.
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