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I was born and raised in Minneapolis, Minnesota. My grandparents, who are now dead, lived to the south, in a small town called Fairmont. In our youth, my brother and I often found ourselves packed into the family car – I recall it was a Chevrolet Citation – for the two-hour-or-so-drive to visit them. That drive took us through the town of Mankato. Mankato is a bustling college town of over 30,000 people and home to Minnesota State (formerly Mankato State) University. Despite its size, though, Mankato has a lot of rural American charm. Indeed, the road through town is a time machine; the old downtown looks like something designed by Norman Rockwell and constructed by Frank Capra for a post-war film. There is an actual Main Street, flanked with candy-cane shaped light-posts; a local druggist on the corner; a looming brick courthouse; and a war-memorial park with a bronze cannon parked on the grass. At least, that’s how I remember it. When we drove through Mankato, I always kept my eyes facing out, and my nose to the tip of the glass, even though we never stopped – not even at the Hardees! – and never left the main road. See, I was precocious in matters of history (and in nothing else, I assure you), and I was looking for something very specific: the sight of the largest mass execution in United States history. My parents never had to shell out for Disneyland or Disneyworld for the simple fact that I could be bought off with history. We spent summers paddling in the Boundary Waters, following the vanished wakes of the coureurs des bois; we drove the North Shore, stopping at maritime museums to gawk at battered lifeboats from the doomed vessels that once plied the inland sea of Lake Superior; we spent hours looking at the charred items of the Hinckley’s Fire Museum, site of one of the deadliest fires in US history, but now known mainly as a place to drop some coin at a casino; and no summer would be complete without a day spent at Fort Snelling, eating rock candy while we watched re-enactors fire their muskets and attempt to affect old-timey accents. The best historical tour I ever took, though, began near Acton and ended in Mankato, at the end of 38 ropes. The story was enough to give me nightmares, which is just what any kid is looking for when he’s ten or eleven or twelve. It has gone down in history as the Great Sioux Uprising of 1862. It started in August, near Acton Township, when four Dakota Indians murdered five whites on a dare. Instead of trying to make amends, the Dakota – under Little Crow – decided to go all in, and launch a war against the whites of the Minnesota River Valley. What followed was a series of massacres, escapes, pitched battles, twists, and betrayals that would be the envy of any novelist. When it ended, between 400 and 1,000 settlers were killed. The Dakota were effectively expelled from Minnesota. And 38 Indians were hanged in the town of Mankato, after being subjected to trials by military commission. For whatever reason, this event never gained a lot of historical traction. Perhaps it is the brutality of it, or the fact that it occurred in the shadow of the vastly bloodier Civil War. Whatever the reason, there isn’t the volume of books devoted to the subject that other Indian-War-related events (Custer’s Last Stand, the Fetterman Massacre, etc) have garnered. Duane Shultz’s Over the Earth I Come, published in 1992, is easily the best work on the Sioux Uprising I’ve come across. It is strictly a narrative (complete with dialogue that I assume was recreated from primary sources) and reads like a novel by James Fenimore Cooper, except in language that can be understood by all. As in any story, you need a good central character, and Shultz has found one in Little Crow, the opaque, vacillating head chief of the Dakota: Although [Little Crow] lived in a two-story house rather than a deerskin lodge and often wore shirts and trousers, he resisted for a long time the white man’s religion. He kept his hair long in the Indian way, and resided with four wives, who were sisters. His family life has been described as happy and harmonious. A paradox and an enigma in many ways, Little Crow tried to integrate the two cultures, to balance his life and that of his people between them, and to make use of the best from each. In the end, he belonged to neither and felt betrayed by both.When Over the Earth I Come begins, Little Crow and his people are starving. Following a series of treaties, their once vast lands had been reduced to a strip of reservation along the Minnesota River. In return for this land, they had been promised a lot of things: money, food, farm aid. As everyone knows, however, if there’s anyone you can’t trust, it’s a 19th century white man with promises. In the summer of 1862, the Dakota were literally starving because of late annuities (“Let them eat grass or their own dung” exclaimed trader Andrew Myrick, who later discovered the karmic fact that the wheel comes round). They were also burdened by ridiculous debts incurred by dint of unscrupulous agents who made cheating Indians an art. It was a fraught situation that only required a little nudge for things to descend into chaos. Schultz sets this all up very quickly, because it is clear that he wants to get to the blood-and-thunder. By page 30, we witness the nudge into chaos provided by four Indians (in their twenties, Schultz notes) who killed five settlers near Acton Township. Chiefs Shakopee and Red Middle Voice wanted war; Chiefs Wabasha and Big Eagle opposed them. All rested with Little Crow, who seemed to understand that war would be fatal to his people. Yet he went ahead with war anyway, in what appears to be a callous attempt to maintain his own power. With Little Crow’s backing, the uprising was unleashed. The Sioux fall upon the unsuspecting settlements and agencies of the river valley with incredible fury. They killed men, women, and children without discretion. The thing that stands out is the intimacy of these massacres: by this point, the Indians and the whites in the area of the Lower Sioux Agency were on a first-name basis with each other. They were neighbors, in some cases, friends. With the rise of the blood-tide, some friendships were instantly forgotten, while others paid dividends. Schultz understands this inherent drama, and he does a good job spotlighting certain people and following them through their various arcs. Schultz recognizes that the tension is already there, and all he has to do is create a framework upon which the history can unfold. In doing so, Schultz lets you witness the visceral experiences of the uprising, the deaths, the escapes, the captures. And make no mistake, Schultz is mainly interested in the visceral experience, in the gory and the macabre: Shakopee and his braves, along with Red Middle Voice and his band, were particularly brutal. They rode up to Johann Schwandt’s cabin, where the farmer was repairing his roof, and shot him instantly. They tomahawked and slashed to death his wife, his pregnant daughter and her husband, his two sons, and a hired hand. The twelve-year-old son, August, was bludgeoned with a tomahawk and left for dead, but he remained conscious, recording in his mind the horrible deaths of his family. He watched the Indians slice open his sister’s belly, snatch up the fetus, and nail it to a tree… Scores of families met death in similar ways, many of them trapped in houses that were set on fire. Women and girls endured multiple rapes before being stabbed to death. Children were nailed to doors; heads, hands, and feet chopped off; bodies mutilated in the most appalling ways. The bulk of this book is taken up with slaughter and battle: the attack on the Lower Sioux Agency; the ambush of Captain Marsh’s men at Redwood Ferry; the slaughter of escaping settlers; the battles of New Ulm, Fort Ridgely, and Birch Coulee. The amazing thing is how close the Sioux came to seriously pushing back white progress in Minnesota. (Or rather, impeding the inevitable). Due to the exigencies of the Civil War, the best help Lincoln could offer was General John Pope, fresh off his all-time ass-kicking at Second Bull Run. Minnesota’s governor, Alexander Ramsey, had to rely on slow-moving Henry Sibley, who only emerged victorious when some of his hungry soldiers, foraging for food, prematurely tripped a Sioux ambush. (Sibley succeeded Ramsey as governor). It was really up to a small number of determined settlers, militiamen, and soldiers, to stem the onslaught (this is one of those rare occasions in the history of the Indian Wars when the Indians had a numerical advantage). Despite this determination, the Dakota should have captured Fort Ridgely, which at one point was garrisoned by only 29 men. The reason they failed was a lack of leadership and a desire for loot. One is forced to wonder what a stronger Indian leader might have accomplished. What would have happened if a visionary such as Tecumseh, Pontiac, or even Red Cloud, had been in charge? Would the Minnesota River Valley have been cleared of whites? Would Lincoln have been forced to turn to the Army of the Tennessee, thereby affecting the outcome of the Civil War? (The answer, of course, is probably no. The Dakota revolt would have run out of steam eventually, far short of its goals. But counterfactuals, like the stars, are perfect for pondering).The trouble with any narrative is that it is difficult to source. Schultz includes “chapter notes,” which tell you the sources for the direct quotes. This is pretty much the least an author can do while still claiming, with a straight face, to have a creditable history. I really wanted an expanded endnotes section, with at least a minimal discussion about the primary sources. The reason is that there are a lot of brutal allegations made against the Dakota, and I want to know whether these came from a credible eyewitness, or whether it is fourth-hand hearsay. (I’m not saying that children weren’t nailed to doorways, only that such a thing seems physically difficult to accomplish, and that such a tale could just as easily have been fabricated by some newspaperman who wanted to sell papers. This reality is borne out in the transcripts of the military commissions, where evidence proved hard to come by). It is clear that Schultz has attempted to be evenhanded in his treatment of the uprising. Unlike writers of an earlier era, he does not demonize all Indians and sanctify all whites. Indeed, he makes certain to highlight the story of Chaska, who at great risk to himself, saved a white woman by pretending that she was his captive. For Chaska’s trouble, a noose was placed around his neck and he was hanged until dead at Mankato, the result of a clerical error.However, readers unfamiliar with the dark complexity of the Indian Wars may be surprised that the Dakota fulfilled the promise of Shakespeare’s Shylock, rather than submitting meekly to starvation and exploitation. In terms of graphic descriptions of cruelty and violence, the balance tilts over to the Dakota. Here, Schultz could have done a better job of setting up the context of the uprising, and in following the Dakota in its aftermath. There are 200 pages dedicated to Indian depredations, and only a handful, maybe 20 pages, devoted to the sufferings of the Dakota. I understand that it is much simpler to describe a fetus torn from a mother’s womb, than to tell of an Indian dying of malnutrition, but a wrong is a wrong. And it’s not like the Dakota didn’t suffer. Part of their punishment was to be sent to a reservation chosen, it seems, for the fact that nothing could grow there. In the course of a single summer, 300 Indian men, women, and children had died. (Also, the Indians were taken to this reservation in freight cars. Draw your own historical parallels). In that vein, I also would have liked a bit more discussion on Sibley’s military commissions, which convicted over 300 Indians (Lincoln commuted all but 38) and sentenced them to die. Schultz only mentions in passing that these trials were really kangaroo courts; that evidence of only three rapes were adduced at these trials (the UMKC-Law school has some of the transcripts online); and that most of the Indian warriors were convicted of fighting against whites in legitimate battles such as Fort Ridgely and Birch Coulee. That such trials took place, and were somehow legitimized, is really amazing, especially considering they were devised by the plodding Sibley and the blockheaded John Pope. I remember, as a child, an uncle pointing out a loaf-shaped hill and telling me it was an Indian mound. When I asked what that meant, he said that it was a place Indians were buried. In hindsight, I realize that my uncle was pulling my leg a bit, since I believe we were driving past a golf course. Still, to this day, when I see a hill that looks a little too perfect, my imagination puts on its X-ray goggles, and I can look beneath the grass to see a pile of bones and headdresses. Finishing Over the Earth I Come, I realized that vision – at least figuratively – is close to the truth.
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