\'Three Score Years and Ten\'

C >> Charlotte Ouisconsin Van Cleve >> \'Three Score Years and Ten\'

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It must have been difficult to find amusements and recreations for the
winters in that fort, so completely shut away from the world, and so
environed by snow and ice, but various devices were planned to keep up
the general cheerfulness and to ward off gloomy feelings and
homesickness. I can dimly remember the acting of plays in which the
gentlemen personated all the characters and the ladies and children
looked on. I know the women of the plays looked very tall and angular,
and there was much merriment about the costumes which were eked out to
fit them. It may be that the performances were as much enjoyed as if
everything had been more complete, for I know there was a great deal
of fun and jollity at their theatricals.

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

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

_CHAPTER VI._

A COINCIDENCE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_CHAPTER VII._

ANDREW TULLY.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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