All people who keep the run of politics will remember that the Republican party, now called the "Grand Old Party" (I suppose on account of its extreme youth), had its birth in the year 1854, after the death of the Whig party, and succeeded to the position in American politics formerly occupied by the Whigs, with a strong tinge of abolition added. It was, of course, largely recruited from the Whigs, but had quite formidable acquisitions from the Free-soil Democrats. It sprang into prominence and power with phenomenal rapidity, coming very near to electing a president in 1856, and succeeding in 1860. Minnesota resisted the attractions of the new party, and remained Democratic until 1857, when the first state election occurred, and the whole Democratic state ticket was elected. Since then the Democrats have never succeeded in our state, unless the election of Governor Lind in 1898 may be called a Democratic victory.
It was very natural that the politicians who had joined the new party should be exceedingly zealous and enthusiastic for its success. Such is usually the case, and verifies the old proverb, that "A converted Turk makes the best Christian." This phase of political tendencies was fully illustrated by the conduct of my old friend, Mr. James W. Lynd of Henderson, more familiarly known by us as "Jim Lynd," which occurred at the election of 1856, and forms the text for the present story.
In the early days of the territory much had been said, and generally believed, about frauds being perpetrated by the Democrats in the elections on the frontier. For instance, it was asserted that, at Pembina and the Indian agencies, one pair of pantaloons would suffice to civilize several hundred Indians, as, by putting them on, and thus adopting the customs and habits of civilization, they would be entitled to vote. There never was much truth about these rumors, and being on the border, and having charge of an Indian agency, where hundreds of men were employed, I knew a good deal about how these matters were conducted, and I can conscientiously say that there never was much truth in them. The nearest approach to a violation of the election laws that I ever discovered was at Pembina, and that was free from any intention of fraud. It would come about in this way: Election day would arrive, the polls would open, and everybody who was at home would vote. It would then occur to some one that Baptiste La Cour or Alexis La Tour had not voted, and the question would be asked, why? It would be discovered that they were out on a buffalo hunt, and the judges would say, "We all know how they would vote if they were here," and they would be put down as voting the Democratic ticket. Of course, this would be a violation of the election laws, but who can say that it was not the expression of an honest intention by a simple people. While I cannot approve such methods in an election where the law and the necessities of civilization require the voter to be present, I cannot avoid the wish that we were all honest enough to make such a course possible as the one adopted by these simple border people.
The Republicans being the "outs" and the Democrats being the "ins," of course all the frauds were charged to the latter, and every movement of either party was watched with zealous scrutiny. The law governing the qualification of voters provided that soldiers enlisted in other states or territories, coming into Minnesota under military orders, did not gain a residence, and citizens of Minnesota enlisting in the army did not lose their residence or right to vote as long as they remained in the territory. It so happened, in 1856 or 1857, that there were at Fort Ridgely a number of recruits who had enlisted in the territory, and had not lost their right to vote; but there was no precinct or place to vote where they could exercise their privilege. Knowing that they were Democrats, we had a polling place established at the "Lone Cottonwood Tree," a point about three miles above Fort Ridgely, for the purpose of saving these votes.
Of course, it soon became known throughout the valley, and my friend Jim Lynd, who resided at Henderson, about fifty miles down the river, conceived the idea that it was the intention to vote the whole garrison for the Democrats, and he determined to checkmate it by challenging every soldier who cast his vote, laboring, as he did, under the erroneous impression that an enlistment in the army disqualified the soldiers as voters. So when the election day arrived, Jim, who had walked all the way from Henderson, was on the ground early, fully determined to exclude all soldiers from voting.
It so happened that I was at my Indian agency, at Redwood, and on the morning of the election was to start for St. Paul. The agency was about ten miles up the river from the "Lone Tree," and, starting early in the morning, brought me to the voting place about the time the polls were opened. I knew everybody in the valley and everybody knew me, and we never passed each other on the road without a stop and a chat. When I arrived at the polls all hands came out to greet me, and after the usual inquiries as to how the election was progressing, the judges told me that Lynd had challenged the first soldier who offered his vote, and they, being in doubt as to the law, had agreed to leave it to me. I gave my version of it, but Lynd still disputed it, and insisted that an enlistment in the army disqualified the man as a voter. Being unable to convince him, I, with a significant wink to the judges, suggested that he should get into my wagon and go down to the post (where I knew the sutler had a copy of the statutes), and we could readily settle the controversy. He consented willingly to this proposition, and we started for the post. When we arrived, I gave my team to the quartermaster's sergeant, and we looked up the law in the sutler's store. I then began a game of billiards with some of the officers, and accepted an invitation to lunch. As noon approached, Lynd began to show signs of impatience, and he asked me when I proposed to take him back to the polls. I quietly informed him that my route lay in the opposite direction, and that I would not go back at all. Instantly it flashed upon him that I had taken him away from the polls for a purpose, and he fled like a scared deer over the road we had just travelled, leaving me to pursue my journey alone in the other direction. I afterwards learned that in the interval between Lynd's departure and return, all the soldiers had voted the Democratic ticket without challenge or obstruction. Whether my friend Lynd walked back to Henderson or not, I never certainly ascertained. I was sufficiently satisfied with the success of my ruse not to desire to inflict any discomfort on my dear enemy.
This was the only political trick I remember of having perpetrated on the enemy during my long participation in active politics, and I don't believe any of my readers will regard it as transgressing the proverb that "all is fair in love or war."
My friend Lynd was, like most of the characters in my frontier experience, killed by the Indians in the outbreak of 1862.