1843-1846.—Great Sorrow.—Thomas Drowned.—Mary’s Letter.—The Indians’ Thoughts.—Old Gray-Leaf.—Oxen Killed.—Hard Field.—Sleepy Eyes’ Horse.—Indian in Prison.—The Lord Keeps Us.—Simon’s Shame.—Mary’s Letter.—Robert Hopkins and Agnes.—Le Bland.—White Man Ghost.—Bennett.—Sleepy Eyes’ Camp.—Drunken Indians.—Making Sugar.—Military Company.—Dakota Prisoners.—Stealing Melons.—Preaching and School.—A Canoe Voyage.—Red Wing.
Suddenly, at the very commencement of our new station, we were called to meet a great sorrow. Mary had come back from Lac-qui-parle with the two little girls, and our family were all together once more. Mr. Huggins and his sister, Miss Fanny Huggins, and Mr. Isaac Pettijohn had come down along. Mr. Pettijohn helped us much to forward the log cabin. Saturday came, the 15th of July—and the roof was nearly finished. We should move into its shelter very soon. No one was rejoicing in the prospect more than the young brother, Thomas Lawrence Longley. He sang as he worked that morning.
Mr. Huggins had the toothache, and, about 10 o’clock, said he would go and bathe, as that sometimes helped his teeth. Brother T. proposed that we should go also, to which I at first objected, and said we would go after dinner. He thought we should have something else to do then; and, remembering that once or twice I had prevented his bathing, by not going when he wished, I consented. We had been in the water but a moment, when, turning around, I saw T. throw up his hands and clap them over his head. My first thought was that he was drowning. The current was strong and setting out from the shore. I swam to him—he caught me by the hand, but did not appear to help himself in the least—probably had the cramp. I tried to get toward shore with him, but could not. He pulled me under once or twice, and I began to think I should be drowned with him. But when we came up again, he released his grasp, and, as I was coming into shallow water, with some difficulty, I reached the shore. But the dear boy Thomas appeared not again. The cruel waters rolled over him. In the meantime, Mr. Huggins had jumped into a canoe, and was coming to our relief. But it was too late—too late!
Mary’s first letter after the 15th of July, 1843:—“Traverse des Sioux, Friday noon: What shall I add, my dear parents, to the sad tidings my husband has written? Will it console you in any measure to know that one of our first and most frequent petitions at the throne of grace has been that God would prepare your hearts for the news, which, we feared, would be heart-breaking, unless ‘the Comforter’ comforted you and the Almighty strengthened you? We hope—indeed, some small measure of faith is given us to believe—that you will be comforted and sustained, under this chastening from the Lord. And oh, like subdued, humbled, and penitent children, may we all kiss the rod, and earnestly pray that this sore chastisement may be for our spiritual good!
“I feel that this affliction, such as I have never before known, is intended to prepare us who are left for life and death. Perhaps some of us may soon follow him whom we all loved. When I stand by his grave, overshadowed by three small oaks, with room for another person by his side, I think that place may be for me.
“The last Sabbath he was with us was just after my return from Lac-qui-parle. I reached here on Saturday, and having passed through distressing scenes on our way to Lac-qui-parle, occasioned by an attack of the Chippewas on some Sioux who were coming to meet us, I felt uncommon forebodings lest something had befallen the dear ones I had left here. But I endeavored to cast my care upon the Lord, remembering that while we were homeless and houseless we were more like our Saviour. And that if he was despised and rejected of men, we surely ought not to repine if we were treated as our Master. With such feelings as these, as we came in sight of husband’s tent, I pointed it out to Isabella, when she asked, ‘Where’s papa’s house?’ and soon I saw Mr. Riggs and brother Thomas and little Alfred coming to meet us.
“Not quite one week after that joyful hour, Mr. Riggs came home from the St. Peter’s, groaning, ‘Oh, Mary, Thomas is drowned—Thomas is drowned!’ I did not, I could not receive the full import. I still thought his body would be recovered and life restored; for your sakes, I cried for mercy, but it came not in the way I then desired. Still, I tried to flatter myself, even after search for the body had been given up for the day, that it had floated down upon a sand-bar, and he would yet live and return in the dusk of the evening. But when I lay down for the night, and the impossibility of my illusive hopes being realized burst upon me, oh—
“The hand of the Lord had touched us, and we were ready to sink; but the same kind hand sustained us. May the same Almighty Father strengthen you. One thought comforted me not a little. ‘If brother Thomas had gone home to our father’s house in Massachusetts, I should not have grieved much; and now he had gone to his Father’s and our Father’s home in Heaven, why should I mourn so bitterly? I felt that God had a right to call him when he pleased, and I saw his mercy, in sparing my husband to me a little longer, when he was but a step from the eternal world. Still, I felt that I had lost a brother, and such a brother!
“Before I went to Lac-qui-parle, I had confided Alfred to his special care. I knew that the rejection of our offer of stopping at the Little Rapids, by the Indians there, had been exceedingly painful and discouraging to Mr. Riggs, and the rumor that the Indians here would do likewise was no less so; and I should have felt very unpleasantly in going for Isabella at that time, but it seemed necessary, and I felt that brother Thomas would be, what he was, ‘a friend in need.’ On my return, on recounting the scenes I had passed through, the killing by the Chippewas of the eldest brother of one of our young men, as he was coming to meet him—the shooting of one of our horses by a Sioux man, who pretended to be offended because we did not pursue the Chippewas, when we were more than three miles from the mission, and that I carried Martha there in my arms, one of the warmest afternoons we had—Thomas said, ‘I see you have grown poor, but you will improve from this time.’
“On Saturday morning, as we were busily engaged near each other, he sang, ‘Our cabin is small and coarse our fare, But love has spread our banquet here!’ Soon afterward he went to bathe, and of course our roof and floor remained unfinished, but that evening we terminated in sadness what had been to us a happy feast of tabernacles, by moving into our humble dwelling. For a little while on Sabbath, his remains found a resting-place within the house his hands had reared. I kissed his cheek as he lay upon a plank resting on that large red chest and box which were sent from home, but, owing to the haste and excitement, I did not think to take a lock of hair. It curled as beautifully as ever, although dripping with water, and the countenance was natural, I thought, but it has rather dimmed my recollections of him as he was when living. I felt so thankful that his body had been found before any great change had taken place, that gratitude to God supplanted my grief while we buried him. Mr. Huggins and Fanny sang an Indian hymn made from the 15th chapter of First Corinthians, and then, ‘Unveil thy bosom, faithful tomb.’ We came home just after sunset. It is but a little distance from our dwelling, and in the same ‘garden of roses,’ as Thomas called it, where he now sleeps.”