 | THE HEROINE OF SHETECK LAKE. Women of the war : |  |
THE HEROINE OF SHETECK LAKE.
A STORY OF BORDER SUFFERING.
THE indirect and remote sufferings occasioned by the
great civil war in America have been almost as great
as the direct miseries produced by battles. The greater
part of our standing army is, in time of peace, stationed
along the western frontier, and in a long series of outposts
that extend from the cool and lonely lakes of Western
Minnesota on the north to the haunts of the savage Camanches
on the Mexican border.
When the great demands of the crisis fell upon the
country in the spring of 1861, the first and most obvious
result was the calling eastward of all, or nearly all, the
regiments of the regular army who had been for the long
years of peace interposed as a barrier of steel between the
painted and treacherous barbarians of the mountain and the
prairie and the ever-advancing line of industrious civilization.
Lyon and Sedgwick, the heroic Lander, and the indomitable
Colonel Cross, with some who enlisted on the southern
side, and the rank and file, making an aggregate of nearly
thirteen thousand troops, were suddenly withdrawn from the
frontier; and this left a long line of pioneer settlement
wholly unprotected from the treacherous and savage foe.
of our national history.
Naked Camanches were creeping through the high grass
of Western Texas, and shooting ploughmen and shepherd
boys almost within sight of the state capital. The western
settlements of Arkansas and Kansas were unsafe; and farther
north, on the western line of Iowa and Minnesota, the
Sioux, friendly and peaceable only when utterly crushed,
were raising their heads, and perpetrating a series of atrocities
and murders which recall the old story of Wyoming,
and the early settlement of Kentucky. About the 17th of
August a party of two hundred and fifty or three hundred
Indians proceeded to the agency at Yellow Medicine, and
commenced an indiscriminate slaughter of all the whites,
young and old, male and female. Then the marauders,
flushed with success, pressed on with their work of death,
murdering, with the most atrocious brutalities, the settlers
in their isolated farm-houses, violating and then killing
women, beating out the brains of infants, or nailing them
to the doors of houses, and practising every species of
atrocity which their fiendish natures prompted.
The following account of the sufferings of Mrs. Hurd and
her children was elicited from her in an examination before
the United States commissioners at Davenport, in Iowa;
and during the recital of her story the audience were many
times melted to tears, and for a little while business was
suspended, and the hall of justice turned into a house of
mourning. The narrative is somewhat condensed, but the
simple words in which Mrs. Hurd told it are retained as
far as possible.
"I was born in the western part of the State of New
York, and removed with my parents to Steuben County, in
Iowa, where I passed my childhood. I was married, in
1857, to Phineas B. Hurd, and we went to live in La Crosse,
Wisconsin, and remained there about two years; and then
we started west, and settled, with a few others, on Sheteck
Lake, in Murray County, about a hundred miles west of
Mankato, on the Minnesota River. It was a beautiful lake,
and the lands around were excellent for grass and wheat.
There were not many of us; but we were contented, and
thought we had a permanent and happy home. The Indians
hung around the lake, as it was an old hunting-ground of
theirs; but they had sold out their title, and appeared to be
very friendly. I knew a good many of them, for they
would often come in and ask for something to eat, and I
always treated them well. Some time in June, Mr. Hurd
and another man left home on a trip to Dacotah, taking a
span of horses and a wagon, expecting to be gone about a
month. We had two children, and Mr. Voight was living
with us, and had charge of the farm.
"He had been gone over two months, and I began to
grow very anxious about him. One morning, the 20th of
August [1862], — it was about five o'clock in the morning,
— and I had just gone out to milking, and left my two
children asleep in the house, when about twenty Indians
rode up and jumped off their horses. I saw that one of the
horses was in the span that Mr. Hurd had when he started
on his trip. As soon as I got to the house, the Indians
went in, and commenced to light their pipes and smoke.
Pretty soon my youngest child woke up, and was frightened
Voight took him up and carried him out into the front yard,
when one of the Indians stepped to the door, and shot him
through the body, so he fell dead, with the child in his arms.
As soon as this shot was heard, ten or fifteen more Indians
and squaws rushed into the house, and began to destroy
everything they could lay their hands on. We had a good
stock of cows, and I had worked hard, and had on hand
about two hundred pounds of butter and twenty-three
cheeses. All this the Indians destroyed; and while it was
going on, some of them told me they would not kill me and
the children if I would not give any alarm, but go east, by
a very blind road, to the nearest settlement. They started
me off just as I was, without even a sun-bonnet on, and
would not let me dress either of the children.
"They went out with me about three miles. I took the
youngest in my arms, and led the other, a little boy, between
three and four years old. There were seven of them
who started with me; and I took just one look at what had
been our prosperous and happy home, now full of naked
and painted savages.
"Before they left me they repeated the condition on
which they would spare me and the children: that we were
to keep straight east, across the open prairie; that all the
whites were to be killed, but I might go to my mother. I
was bareheaded, the children almost naked, and we had not
a mouthful of food, nor a blanket to shelter us in the cool
nights or in a storm. We took the unfrequented road into
which the Indians had conducted us. It was clear, and the
sun shone uncommonly bright; but the dew on the grass
dressed very thin, and he clung close to me, and begged
me to go back to the house. He did not know of the
death of Mr. Voight, as I kept him from seeing the body;
and he cried piteously at first, but, after a while, pressed
my hand, and trudged manfully along by my side. The
little one was asleep in my arms, unconscious of our situation.
About ten o'clock in the forenoon a thunder-storm
came on, and the rain and wind were violent for about three
hours. I heard two guns fired, and I knew that my neighbor,
Mr. Cook, was killed.
"During the storm I lost the trail, and all that afternoon
walked on, not knowing whether I was right or wrong.
Water stood on all the lower parts of the prairie, and I kept
looking for a dry place where we could spend the night.
At last I came to a sand hill, and sat down on the top of it,
to rest for the night. I laid my children down, and leaned
over them, to keep the rain off their faces and protect them
from the cold wind. Hungry, and tired, and wet as he
was, William fell asleep, and slept nearly all night; but
the little one worried a good deal, and the night wore away
slowly. As soon as I could see, I took up the little ones,
and moved on. About seven o'clock I heard guns, and then
I knew I had lost my way, and was still in the vicinity of the
lake. I changed my course, and went away from the direction
in which the guns were heard. But no trail was visible.
I was not conscious of hunger myself, but it was so distressing
to hear my precious little boy crying for his bread
and milk, and moaning with hunger and weakness! It was
wet and misty all that day. Towards night William grew
up any longer. The youngest still nursed, and did not
seem to suffer materially.
"About dark, the second day, I struck a road, and saw,
to my sorrow, that I was only four miles from what had
been my home, and had not yet commenced my terrible
journey across the prairie.
"Then, for a little while, my heart sank in me, and I
thought it would be some satisfaction to die right there,
and end our weary journey on this travelled road, over
which I had passed with my husband in happier days.
But this feeling was but for a moment. I took courage,
and started on the road to New Ulm. When it was quite
dark I stopped, and passed the night as I had the former,
without sleep. In the morning I started on. It was foggy,
and the grass wet; the road, being but little travelled, was
grown up with grass. William was so faint and sick that
he could not walk much of the time; so I was obliged to
carry both. I was now much reduced in strength, and felt
very hungry. My boy no longer asked for food, but was
thirsty, and drank frequently from pools by the road-side.
I was too weak to carry both my children at the same time,
but took one a distance of a quarter or half a mile, laid it
in the grass, and went back for the other. In this way I
travelled twelve miles, to a place called Dutch Charlie's,
sixteen miles from Lake Sheteck. I arrived there about sunset,
having been sustained in my weary journey by the sweet
hope of relief. What was my consternation and despair
when I found it deserted and perfectly empty! The house
had not been plundered by the Indians, but abandoned by
despair. But the crying of my boy aroused me. I had
promised him food when we got there; and when none could
be found, he cried bitterly. But I could not shed a tear. I
found some green corn, which I tried to eat; but my stomach
rejected it. I found some carrots and onions growing in
the garden, which I ate raw. My oldest child continued
to vomit. I offered him some carrot, but he could not eat
it. That night I staid in a cornfield, and in the morning,
at daylight, continued my search for food.
"To my great delight, I found the remains of a spoiled
ham. Here I may say my good fortune began. There was
no more than a pound of it, and that much decayed; and I
saved this for my boy, feeding it to him in very small
quantities. His vomiting ceased, and he revived rapidly.
I gathered more carrots and onions; and with this store of
provisions, about eight o'clock on the morning of the third
day, I again set forth on my weary road for the residence
of Mr. Brown, twenty-five miles distant, and reached it in
two days. Under the effects of the food I was able to give
my boy, he gained strength, and was able to walk all the last
day. When within two or three miles of Mr. Brown's house,
two of our old neighbors from Lake Sheteck settlement
overtook us, under the escort of the mail-carrier. Both of
them had been wounded by the Indians, and left for dead.
Thomas Ireland had been hit with eight balls, and, strange
to say, was still able to walk, and had done so most of the
way. Mrs. Estleck was utterly unable to walk, having
been shot in the foot, in the side, and through the arm.
The mail-carrier had given her his seat in the buggy, and
the Indians, and that I and my little ones, after five days of
such fearful suffering and hunger, must die by the hands
of the savages. I did not dare to look around, but kept on
my way till overtaken; and then my joy was so great at
seeing my friends alive, that I sank to the earth insensible.
We staid at Mr. Brown's house ten days, living on potatoes
and green corn. Mr. Ireland and the carrier went on
to New Ulm, and found the settlement in ashes, the Indians
having burned nearly two hundred houses. A party of
twelve men, with a wagon, was sent to our relief, and we
were made comfortable; but the sad and sickening thought
was now fully confirmed in my mind that my husband had
been killed in the general massacre of all the remote
settlements, and my fatherless children and myself left
beggars."
It is some gratification to know that the government has
been very kind to these unhappy border sufferers, restoring
to them the value of their property destroyed. Governor
Ramsay considers that not less than five hundred persons
were murdered by the savages, and that between twenty
thousand and thirty thousand persons fled for their lives,
leaving everything behind them. For some months between
seven thousand and eight thousand persons, mostly
in the sad condition of Mrs. Hurd, were dependent upon
the charity of their friends. The property thus lost and
destroyed was between two and three millions, most of
which was restored by confiscating the annuity paid these
Minnesota Sioux. It is also a satisfaction to know that in
the whole of these Indians were met by our troops in a
battle at Wood Lake, on the 22d of September, and utterly
defeated. Five hundred were taken prisoners, of whom
three hundred were sentenced to be hanged; but the sentence
was finally executed on thirty-eight only of the ringleaders.
Little Crow, the chief who instigated the whole insurrection,
succeeded in making his escape into the wilds of
Dacotah.
Mrs. Hurd now finds a home with her brother, in La
Crosse, Wisconsin; and though the government has dealt
generously with her, and abundant sympathy has been
manifested in her sufferings, nothing can bring back to
her the murdered husband, the beauty, the loveliness,
and the sunny future opening before her on that pleasant
August morning, when, like the leap of a tiger, that storm
of savage desolation swept upon her, and in a brief half
hour left her to the awful consciousness of being a widow,
houseless, and without food, with two almost naked children
in an open prairie.
The great Latin poet has touched a chord of universal
sympathy in his elegant description of the flight of his hero
from burning Troy, bearing his aged father on his shoulders,
and leading his little boy, who trotted along beside him,
his little steps all unequal to the warrior's stride.
Our heroine bore her two children during a part of her
fearful flight, but having been without food for nearly
sixty hours, and all the time sustaining the little one on
her arm by food from her bosom, was compelled to deposit
other; thus, on the two days when she travelled, advancing
twelve miles each day, herself walking thirty-six. Could
the force of nature go farther? Do our annals anywhere
contain a more remarkable instance of the wonderful sustaining
power which maternal love can inspire in the
delicate frame of woman?
| THE HEROINE OF SHETECK LAKE. Women of the war : | |