Chapter XXVI

_In War Time_

In the early spring of 1861 the "Fanny Harris" was chartered by the

United States government to go to Fort Ridgeley, up the Minnesota

River, and bring down the battery of light artillery stationed at

that post, known as the Sherman Battery, Major T. W. Sherman having

been in command long enough to have conferred his name upon the

organization, and by that it was known at the time of which I write.

It is three hundred miles from St. Paul to Fort Ridgeley by the

river; as a crow flies, the distance is about half of that. A little

more than one year after our visit there was business at and near the

fort for many crows--the gruesome occupation of picking the bones of

a thousand white people (men, women, and children) murdered by the

crafty Sioux, who saw in the withdrawal of the troops an opportunity

to avenge all their wrongs, real or imaginary, and to regain the

lands which had been sold under treaty, or which had been stolen from

them by the fast encroaching white population of the state.

The Minnesota River is the worst twisted water course in the West.

No other affluent of the Mississippi can show as many bends to the

mile throughout its course. It is a series of curves from start to

finish, the river squirming its way through an alluvial prairie from

Beaver Falls, the head of navigation, to Mendota at its mouth. Up

this crooked stream it was the problem to force the largest boat that

had ever navigated it, and a stern-wheeler at that. At the time the

trip was made, there was a nineteen-foot rise in the river, resulting

from the melting of the snow after an exceptionally hard winter. This

precluded any danger of touching bottom anywhere, but it added ten

fold to the difficulties of navigating a two hundred-foot steamboat

around the short bends for the reason that the water did not follow

the regular channel, but cut right across bends and points, so that

most of the time the current was setting squarely across the river,

catching the steamer broadside on, and driving her into the woods,

and when there holding her as in a vise. Being a stern-wheeler it was

impossible, by going ahead on one wheel and backing on the other, as

would have been done by a side-wheeler, to keep her head clear of the

bank. All this work had to be done by the men at the wheel, and they

very soon found their work cut out for them, in handling the boat

by the steering wheel and rudders alone. We had a Minnesota River

pilot on board to assist our men in steering; it was an impossibility

to lose one's self, so that his services were confined almost

exclusively to steering, and not to piloting, in its true sense. We

also had an army officer from Fort Snelling on board, to see that all

possible speed was made. His orders were to "push her through" at

whatever cost, regardless of damage.

The boat was coaled at St. Paul for the round trip, for the woodyards

were all under water, and the cord wood was adrift on its way to

St. Louis, derelict. From the time we entered the river at Fort

Snelling, two men were at the wheel all the time. I was sent to the

engine-room, my experience as a "cub" engineer rendering my services

there of more importance for the time being than in the pilot house.

I stood at one engine all day, while one of the firemen detailed

for the purpose stood at the other, to "ship up", to back, or come

ahead. There were no unnecessary bells rung. If we were going ahead

and the stopping bell rang, followed by the backing bell we threw

the rods on to their "hooks", and the engineer gave her full steam

astern. This was usually followed by a crash forward, as the boat

was thrown broadside, with almost full speed ahead, into the woods,

after having struck one of the cross currents either unguardedly, or

else one which was too strong in any case for the wheelsmen to meet

and overcome by the rudder alone. If it chanced that the bank was

overhung by trees, the forward cabin lost an additional portion of

its ornamentation.

In nearly every such instance it was necessary to get the yawl

overboard, and with four men at the oars and a steersman sculling

astern, pull to the opposite side of the river and get a line fast

to a tree. The line was then taken to the steam capstan and the boat

would be hauled out of a position from which it would have been

impossible to release her by the engines and wheel alone. This work

was kept up from daylight until dark, and when the four men came down

from the pilot house they were apt to be so exhausted that they could

scarcely stand.

The boat tied up where night overtook her. In the engine-room, as

soon as the day's run was ended, all hands set to work--engineers,

"strikers" and firemen--to replace the lost and broken wheel-arms

and buckets. This was a hard and dangerous job, for the water ran

a raging torrent, six or eight miles an hour, and the nights were

dark and rainy. It was precarious business, this getting out on

the fantails, with only the dim light of half a dozen lanterns,

unscrewing refractory nuts and bolts with a big monkey-wrench, and in

the meantime holding on by one's legs only, over such a mill tail.

Everybody engaged in this work understood fully that if he ever fell

into the water it was the end of all things to him, for he would have

been swept away in the darkness and drowned in a minute. There was no

dry land for him to reach in any direction, the river sweeping across

the country five or ten feet deep in every direction. It was usually

far past midnight when the temporary and necessary repairs were

completed, and then the engine-room force "turned in" to get three

or four hours sleep before beginning another day as full of work and

danger as the preceding.

All this time the army man either stood on the roof with the captain,

dodging falling spars, chimneys, or limbs of trees, or at the wheel

with the pilots, or paced the engine-room, and urged speed, speed,

speed. "The United States will put a new cabin on your boat. Never

mind that. Keep your wheel turning and your machinery in working

order. We must have troops in Washington at once, or there will be no

United States." It is fair to say that every man on the boat worked

as though his life depended upon his exertions. Whatever may have

been their political sympathies, there was nothing on the surface

to indicate other than the determination to get that battery to La

Crosse in the shortest possible time.

That army officer was the epitome of concentrated energy. He was

a captain and quartermaster, and representing the United States,

was practically supreme on board. He had his limitations as a

steamboatman, but thanks to the splendid equipment which his

government had given him at West Point, coupled with the experience

he had gained during many years' service in the West in moving

troops, Indians, and supplies by steamboat, he had a pretty good idea

of what needed to be done, and could judge very clearly whether the

men in charge were competent, and were doing things in the right way

and to the best advantage.

Under ordinary circumstances such a close censorship of the officers

and crew would not have been maintained, nor would it have been

tolerated if suggested. But at this time everything was at white

heat. Fort Sumter had fallen. Men were stirred as never before in

this country, and officers of the regular army particularly, who

knew better than any others the gravity of the impending conflict,

were keyed up to the highest tension by the responsibility placed

upon them. On the other hand the officers of our boat were likewise

burdened with the responsibility of safely taking a big vessel

hundreds of miles up a narrow and crooked river, just now covered

with floating drift of every description, with undermined trees

falling at every mile. They were spurred on by the thought that the

difference of a day, or even of a few hours, might determine the loss

of the nation's capital. Under these circumstances the insistence of

the army man was passed by as a matter of course.

Near Belle Plaine a council was called to decide whether an attempt

should be made to force a passage through the thin strip of timber

that fringed the river bank. If successful, this would permit of

sailing the boat a straight course for ten miles across a submerged

prairie, thus cutting off twenty miles of crooked and arduous

navigation. The Minnesota River pilot was sure that we would meet

with no obstacles after passing the fringe of timber--not a house,

barn, or haystack, as all that somewhat unusual class of obstructions

to a steamboat had been carried away by the great flood. After

discussing the plan in all its bearings, it was decided to try it as

soon as a narrow and weak place could be found in the timber belt.

Such a place, where the willows and cottonwoods were the thinnest

and smallest in diameter, was chosen for the attempt. The boat, by

reason of its length, could not be pointed straight at the "hurdle",

as the pilots facetiously dubbed it, but a quartering cut was decided

upon. The jack staff had long ago been carried away; the spars and

derricks were housed below, and a large portion of the forward roof

was already missing. It was decided, therefore, that a little more

banging would count for nothing. Everybody was cautioned to stand

clear of the guards, and look out for himself. A big head of steam

was accumulated, and then with two men at the wheel and everybody

hanging on, the "Fanny Harris" was pointed at the opposite shore,

with its lining of woods, and the throttle thrown wide open. She

jumped across the river in a minute and dove into the young timber,

crushing trees six inches in diameter flat on either side; the

water-soaked, friable soil affording no secure holding ground for

the roots, which added greatly to our chances of success. The boat

plunged through all right, with little damage, until the wheel came

in over the bank. Then there was music. Many of the trees were only

bent out of perpendicular, and when the hull passed clear these trees

rebounded to more or less perpendicular positions--enough so as to

get into the wheel and very nearly strip it of its buckets, together

with a dozen of the wheel-arms. The pilots heard the crash and rang

to stop. The engineers knew more about the damage than the pilots,

but would not have stopped the engine of their own accord had the

whole stern of the boat gone with it. It wasn't their business to

stop without orders, and they knew their business.

When the wheel stopped turning, the boat stopped. The problem then

was, to get the boat through the remaining hundred feet or more. This

was done by carrying the big anchor ahead, and taking the cable to

the steam capstan. The boat was dragged "out of the woods", and all

hands turned to replace the smashed buckets. As soon as they were in

place we steamed gaily up the current, over the prairie, clean-swept

of fences, stacks, and barns, only a few isolated houses, built on

the higher knolls, having escaped the flood. At the upper end of the

prairie a weak place was found, and with a clear start in the open

water the boat was driven through the fringe of timber, clear into

the open channel, without stopping, and this time with but little

injury to the wheel.

Couriers had been sent ahead from Fort Snelling, by pony express,

to the commanding officer of the fort, to have his battery ready to

embark as soon as the boat should arrive. It had taken us four days

to run the three hundred miles, and it was a dilapidated steamboat

that at last made fast at the landing place at the foot of the bluff,

under the shadow of Fort Ridgeley.

The fort was ideally situated for defense against Indian attacks,

for which, of course, it was alone built. It would appear, however,

that its builders had little idea that it would ever be put to the

test--such a test as it was subjected to a little more than a year

after our visit. It was located on a sort of promontory formed by the

bluff on the side next the river, and a deep ravine on the other. On

the third side of the triangle lay the open prairie, stretching away

for miles, with only a slight sprinkling of scrub oaks to obstruct

the view. The barracks, stables, and storehouse (frame structures)

were built up solidly on two sides of this triangle, next the

ravines, the windowless backs of the buildings forming the walls of

the fort. Toward the prairie, the most vulnerable face, the buildings

did not fully cover the front, there being two or three wide openings

between those that formed that side of the defenses. These openings

were covered by cannon of the battery which garrisoned the fort.

When the battery embarked for the East there were left only two or

three small howitzers in charge of a sergeant of artillery, and it

was these little pieces that saved the garrison from massacre in

August, 1862, when the fort was for many days beleaguered by eight

hundred Sioux Indians under the chief, Little Crow, leader of the

uprising in Minnesota in that year. Undoubtedly the respect that

Indians have for any sort of cannon had as much to do with their

repulse as did the actual punishment inflicted by the howitzers,

however well-served they may have been. I have a letter somewhere,

written by a distant cousin who was a colonel in the Confederate

army, relating that they had several thousand Indians in the

Confederate army upon going into the battle of Prairie Grove, and

from them they expected great things. When the "Yanks" opened with

their artillery the sound alone brought the Indian contingent to a

stand. When the gunners got the range and began to drop shells among

them, the red men remembered that they had pressing business in the

Indian Territory, and it is Colonel Merrick's opinion that they did

not stop running until they reached their tepees. It is his opinion

also that as soldiers, for use in war where Anglo-Saxons are debating

grave questions of state with twelve pounders, they are not worth a

red copper.