'Three Score Years and Ten' / Life-Long Memories of Fort Snelling, Minnesota, and Other / Parts of the West

by Charlotte Ouisconsin Clark Van Cleve

"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.