Port of St. Vincent: Welcome to America

Originally issued in 1888, this is an 1891 copy of a
Declaration of Intention  [Courtesy:  Jim Benjaminson]

This Declaration of Intention certificate is for Magnus Benjaminson.  He emigrated from Iceland in 1886, and arrived in the United States via the Port of St. Vincent.

Many entered the United States via the Port of St. Vincent from Canada, and still more came across the young territory of Minnesota from the South by train, wagon, and even steamship. Some stayed, most left.  St. Vincent was a crossroads just like her sister city Pembina was before her.

New York had Ellis Island, Kittson County had St. Vincent!

BORDERTOWNS Update

The Manitoulin - steamer ship featured in Chuck Walker's BORDER TOWNS

The photograph above, recently located on this website, is one of the only known photographs of the original ship by that name that ran under the Great Northern Transport Company between Collingwood, ON and Duluth, MN.  It carried many emigrants from Canada to Minnesota in the 1870's and 1880's.  It had a colorful history, being known as the only ship to have sunk twice.  The short version of the story is, it caught fire in 1882 as the Manitoulin, the hull was salvaged and it was rebuilt as the Atlantic, and later burned/sunk again - this time for good - in 1903.  It was on a ship like this that the Gamble family took for part of their journey to St. Vincent, also.

Bordertowns: Chapter 3

I dare you, dear readers, to read just the first paragraph below, and not tell me that Chuck Walker is a master storyteller. He knows his subject, and his descriptions bring the time period, places, and people of our region alive. Chuck can write a mean love scene, too...*wink*

I proudly present Chapter 3 of Chuck Walker's Bordertowns...

The distance from Fisher's Landing to the Red River across country was only twelve miles, but by the twisty river the distance was nearly forty. As the river was sinuous, the International seemed to crash from one bank to the other, pausing for minutes to reverse engines, and then proceeding forward. Trees grew to the edge of the bank, scraping stanchions along the deck, leaving broken branches and leaves lying everywhere. Never did the boat go forward for more than a few minutes before contacting the bank, swinging crossways, and sometimes sticking fast. Maggy expressed her feeling pointedly.

"Pat! The captain must have the patience of a saint to absorb this punishment. Will traveling on the Red River be as bad?"

"Naw! We should be out of this river and into the other late this afternoon. The Red's supposed to be a good-sized river, wide enough for a boat with barges."

Long before dark they reached the much larger Red River and proceeded a short distance downstream before tying up. They secured alongside barges loaded with steel rails destined for the new Canadian Pacific Railroad to run between Emerson and Selkirk, in Canada. The barges had been loaded at the rail-end in Moorhead, and then floated downriver over the rapids to Grand Forks. The remainder of that day was spent securing a barge to each side of the boat and loading a supply of cordwood for the boat's boilers.

Ian struck up a conversation with one of the Norwegian crewmen to find they were paid $35 per month. They numbered twenty-two deck hands: The captain, the pilot and other officers. In addition to their work of loading and unloading cargo, each man was required to carry aboard one cord of wood each day, for the boat burned twenty-two cords in the two boilers every working day. Upon a casual inspection of the cargo at the bow of the boat, he noted consignments for the soldiers' fort at Pembina. Stacked high behind this were barrels, boxes and crates of machinery for Emerson, Manitoba. Even further back were massive piles of freight destined for the Hudson's Bay Company and other trade stores at Fort Garry. All had been arranged in convenient groups to facilitate easy unloading at succeeding ports of call. Being a deck hand is not the job for me, Ian thought. Too boring, and what do the men do when winter comes?

Supper that evening was served in the narrow central passageway that ran through the center of the hurricane deck. Maggy deemed it more of a hallway, but it was carpeted and along each wall stood several ornately decorated chairs for the patrons. These were interspaced so that beside each chair was the door to a stateroom. After the meal the dining tables were removed and the long corridor again became a sitting room. The ceiling was high, bridged across with slightly curved beams. A row of narrow skylights extended on either side for the full length of the long corridor. Decorative ropes with huge tassels hung below the coal oil lamps spaced along the ceiling. Here and there were small tables that could be moved at the passengers' convenience.

Their first-class tickets entitled them to three staterooms, which Maggy scorned as broom closets. "Pat, there's barely room to stand, let alone dress. You'll have to take the upper bunk. Two could never fit in these narrow beds."

"Not to worry, Maggy. At least they're nearly three feet wide." Running his hand over the upper bunk, he suddenly laughed. "Wonder how Ian will make out. These beds are not even six feet long." He turned to Maggy; she was smiling too, thinking of Ian's well over six-foot height.

Near midnight ominous claps of thunder became audible, gradually growing closer. Pulsing breezes that rapidly turned to a gale accompanied the sound. The slow sound of raindrops pit-patting on the small window rapidly changed to a steady drumming. Finally a tumult assaulted the roof above.

"What's happening?" Pat awoke with a start.

"It's pouring outside . . . nothing to worry about."

As he dozed off, Patrick thought of his earlier conversation with the captain, of the man's mention that the river was getting mighty low for navigation. He thought of the old saying: "It's an ill wind that blows no good."

The next morning it was still raining and the river had risen appreciably. At 5:30 a.m. they cast off for the Canadian border. Although it continued to drizzle, the wind subsided and the passengers could walk on the covered, exterior hurricane deck without getting wet.

The interior salon, which ran the entire length of the hurricane deck, remained crowded because of the inclement weather. Time played upon Maggy's mind as she noted and chafed at Mary's absence. She brought it to Pat's attention. "She's spending too much time with that boy. I don't want her getting involved at her age."

"Not to worry! The lad is going on to Fort Garry. They'll probably never see each other again."

"I wish I was as sure as you." Maggy was not mollified.

Mary was confused, for golden dreams were invading her mind. The strange feeling of response to Robert had begun in Duluth. Now, standing at the rail, she felt a tingling sensation, for he had put his arm around her waist and was holding her gently. Her sensation was a feeling of bliss and peace. She wanted to be loved and felt that her life was just now beginning. Unwanted warning thoughts came, perhaps orchestrated by her mother over the past years: Let your mind be superior to what your body says! Be strong! Men are weak but won't admit it! Casting unwanted advice from her mind, she raised her face to his. He drew her body tightly to him and kissed her tenderly. For seconds she was captivated, then she pulled away, almost breathless. But wasn't this what she wanted? Hadn't she wondered when this would happen? He was still holding her in a close embrace. Why was she pulling away?

Slowly she thrust loose, her sanity returning. "Oh, Robert, I'm only sixteen. You mustn't even think of loving me." Warning bells rang in her mind and she knew she must fight the feeling in her heart.

As Robert released her, he realized he was committing himself to this young girl. She appealed to his protective instinct and aroused his sense of responsibility. Now he believed he had pushed too hard and frightened her.

Grasping her shoulders gently, he said tersely, "Someday in the future you'll be my wife. I'll wait for you to grow up and mature. We'll be happy together, you'll see! Now, I've got to make my way in the world and build a future for us, but I'll be back. It may take some time, but I will be back." Pulling her warm body close, he kissed her again. She found herself clinging to him fiercely, returning his kiss with fervor.

Late in the afternoon as they approached Fort Pembina, three long echoing blasts of the ship's whistle brought nearly everyone to the outside deck. As they cleared the last bend, the passengers could see a group of soldiers walking down the hill on the west side of the river. When the boat nudged into the shore, wagons from the fort arrived to carry the cargo up the hill. Little could be seen of the fort itself except rooftops of stables on the high bank. The actual unloading at the fort took less than thirty minutes. Then the whistle sounded twice and the boat backed away amid a hissing and puffing of its engines. Minutes later they barely cleared under a telegraph wire that extended across the Red River near the settlement of Pembina.

On the west side of the river a ferry hugged the shore. It was apparent they had just lowered the cable crossing the river, enabling the International to proceed. Passing the mouth of the Pembina River, they swung into the west bank to unload goods at Pembina.

The stop here was brief, and after pulling back into the channel, the crew was kept busy moving cargo forward to the bow of the boat. Soon, just as the ship's whistle again sounded three deep blasts, Ian overheard one of the crew members remark, "We're just crossing into Canada. Emerson is around the next bend." Hearing the comment, he hurried to harness their team of horses.

Emerson had no dock, but the east bank was corduroyed with logs. A road angled down from the crest, leading to a widened, leveled-off space. As the boat swung in to tie-up, spectators came down the hill. With the giant paddle wheel still churning slowly under power to hold the bow of the boat firmly to the shore, the crew began to cast off lines to the barges. The downriver barge was tied ashore and the current swung it snugly to the bank. A team of horses was required to swing the other barge upstream, clear of the boat. These steel rails were to be unloaded for the Emerson end of the new railroad.

Simultaneously with the removal of the barges, the boarding ramp was lowered to the shore and the passengers began to disembark. Maggy and Mike watched apprehensively from shore as preparations were made aboard to move the team and wagon. Robert Douglas had come ashore and was standing to the side, conversing with Mary. For moments it seemed the horses were too frightened to cross the hurriedly placed plank ramp. Their terror forced Ian to jump from the wagon to grasp the bridle of one horse. Patrick reached the opposite horse quickly, and with soothing words the animals were coaxed step by step across the hazardous ramp to the shore.

"Judas! I'm glad that's over!" Ian sounded relieved. "Good thing there were two of us. One man couldn't have done it alone. Lordy, the horses were nervous."

Patrick wiped his forehead with his sleeve. "Let's get the family together and hunt up a place for the night."

Just as Ian climbed to the wagon seat, a well-dressed man approached Patrick. "Sir, my name is Thomas Carney. I watched you two manage that wild team. That was bully work!"

"They weren't wild, just nervous. They're young horses." Ian was quick to defend the team.

"Just so. May I ask if you are here as businessmen, or as settlers?"

Patrick noted the man's grey whiskers and balding head before answering. "I'm Patrick McLaren, and this is my son Ian. We're from Orillia, Ontario; we're looking for farmland."

Carney looked pleased. "We've plenty of land. Why don't you camp on the edge of town tonight? The campground is just up the hill and to the south. You can look up the government land agent in the morning; his name is Newcombe. It's too late to do anything tonight." Then he suggested, "Or would you rather stay at Hutchison's Hotel? It's not much, but they have food."

"No, I think we'll camp out. We have plenty of grub and can graze the horses. We'll probably see you again." Patrick was anxious to get his camp set for the night.

"See you later!" Carney raised his hand, and then turned to join other passengers.

It was evident to Maggy that many of the townspeople met the steamboats for the novelty. They apparently judged the financial status of each arrival by their clothes, equipment and furniture. She overheard comments to that effect made by the townspeople, especially the women.

While Ian drove the wagon slowly up the hill, his father and Mike followed on foot. Mary had tarried behind with Robert Douglas. Maggy turned impatiently, just in time to catch the two in an emotional embrace. Pretending not to notice, she turned her head. Moments later she heard Mary's hurried steps as she endeavored to catch up. Casting a quick glance at her daughter, she saw the tears and stricken look on her face.

Upon reaching the crest of the embankment, they noted several tents pitched on the open prairie to the south. "We'll camp there for tonight." Patrick pointed to the field. Ian nodded, and turning the team, selected an area far removed from the nearest tent. Unloading, they made hurried preparations for their camp.

Nightfall settled soon after they completed supper, and darkness found them all seated comfortably around their small campfire. All seemed too excited to seek their beds. "I wish Gramps was here with his fiddle. It'd seem a lot more like home." Mary sounded wistful and a bit homesick.

"Perhaps they'll come in another year or two. This is our home now." Maggy seemed unshakable. Then, turning to Patrick, she asked, "What are your plans for tomorrow?"

"I'll see the Canadian land agent first thing, and then check with the man representing the Minnesota land. We'll have to find out about a school, also about a church."

"Mary and I can see to the school and church. You and Ian look to the land." Pausing, Maggy looked up at the stars. "It's such a beautiful evening; it's cleared so perfectly that the Big Dipper stands out. Suddenly Patrick heard a distinct slap, then her voice again, "Darned mosquitoes!"

After an early breakfast Patrick took his family on a walking tour through the streets of Emerson. They were amazed to find the town, founded only three years ago, almost as large as Orillia. Every desirable type of store was available: a land titles office, a registry office, even a Masonic and an Orange Lodge. Most of the families lived in tents, but here and there were houses of log or frame construction. Several homes were in various stages of building.

Leaving the men, Maggy and Mary looked for, and found four active churches: a Methodist, Anglican, Baptist and Presbyterian. The latter, they were told, was still in the process of being formed. They also found the schoolhouse, and Maggy introduced herself. The schoolmaster, George Baldwin, was ecstatic to learn of Mary's advanced schooling and of her interest in mathematics. He questioned her at length to determine her qualifications, and then said, "You'll be a welcome addition to our one-man school staff, as I need an assistant. In fact, it's quite possible you may be able to teach in a school of your own in the near future. We're crowded, but will make room for you and your brother." Turning to Maggy, he said, "Alas, your youngest is just too young. Perhaps next year."

Patrick and Ian entered the Registry Office and were greeted by a jovial, florid faced man. "Come in! Come in! What's your pleasure?" The man seemed overeager. "My name is Bill Nash. If you're looking for a place to build, I'm your man!"

Patrick cast a wary glance at the man, suspecting chicanery. Finally he said, "We're looking for information about farm land. Can you help us?"

"That's no problem. First of all you are entitled to a free lot, courtesy of Mr. Carney and Mr. Fairbanks; they founded this town. If you're looking for work, the railroad is hiring anyone and everyone for grading, no questions asked." Then he said optimistically, "I guess you can find work anywhere. There's a dearth of labor."

"I'd be interested in that free lot, but all we have at present is a tent."

"It's all most of the newcomers have. Some don't even have that." Nash broke into a smile.

"We're farmers; we're looking for land."

"Then you need to see the titles agent, George Newcombe. His office is next door. He sold over 150,000 acres of government land last year, and is having a great run this season."

"What's land going for?"

"Well, the Hudson's Bay Company is asking twelve dollars per acre for their land, but the government wants only eight. I believe you can get terms from either."

Both father and son looked disappointed.

Ian spoke up. "I understood two quarter sections of land were available just for the filing fee, and homesteading."

"That's true, but that's land across the border in Minnesota. We can't match those prices."

"Then that's where we'll have to go; our finances are limited." Patrick turned to leave.

Nash looked crestfallen. "We'll hate to lose you; but before you leave, pick a lot from this plat sheet. I'll assign it to you free of charge. Perhaps you'll change your mind. You say you have a tent for your family, so you'll need a temporary spot. Also, we have a school for any children you may have."

"Sounds good," said Patrick. "A place along the border would suit us best, somewhere near our camping spot."

"There's lots of room. How about here, just east of the camp?" Nash slid his finger along the map. "I'll put you down for this one, just north of the boundary. It's #7, and staked on all four corners."

"Thanks! We'll find it."

Turning to leave, they heard Nash's final words. "Ask for Alexander Turner -- he's the land agent in St. Vincent."

Returning to their camp, they spent the remaining time until noon striking their tent and moving to the new lot assigned to them.

After a brief lunch, Patrick, Ian and Jerold drove south on the trail to enter the state of Minnesota. The grass along the dirt trail to St. Vincent was alive with prairie chickens and grouse. Interspersed between trees and brush were occasional patches of grass. At times birds ran along the path ahead of the horses before breaking into flight.

"Pa, we'll never starve here. Why, just look at the deer tracks." Ian marveled aloud.

"Look at those big tracks in the dried mud," Jerold added. They can't be made by cattle."

"Those are moose tracks, son," Patrick observed. "This land once belonged to the Indians. No wonder they didn't want to give it up."

Jerold interjected, "But Pa wasn't it bought from them in '63, by treaty?"

"Yup, and that's why they had to establish Fort Pembina. The Indians and Métis sold out and each got scrip for 160 acres. Trouble was, they sold the scrip for little or nothing to the traders, and then they wouldn't leave the land. In fact, they caused so much trouble with the settlers that the military had to be called to boot them out. I've heard they're still raising a ruckus with settlers in the Pembina hills, west of here. Oh, there were other reasons to bring in the soldiers: the Sioux began raiding close by in '68, and then Riel aroused the half-breeds in '70."

"Pa, why do they call the breeds Métis at times?" Jerold was puzzled.

Patrick mused thoughtfully. "Son, Métis is the French word for breeds of French-Indian mix. The English still call them half-breeds or breeds. Reflectively, he added, "Come to think of it, the word Métis sounds better."

Angling onto St. Vincent's main thoroughfare, they observed a narrow lake to the south. Scores of ducks could be seen. The lake seemed to extend far out of sight behind huge trees.

On the right side of the road men were clearing brush and cutting timber, making way for the future railroad yard of the Saint Paul and Pacific. The road from Crookston to Emerson was to be completed by the year-end of '78 to connect with the Canadian Pacific Railway, now under construction between Emerson and Selkirk.

Nearing the river, they by-passed a tent camp, and then approached several buildings along the west side of the load.

"Look, Pa! There's a lumber yard," Jerold observed. Patrick was gazing in contemplation at two men setting fence posts on one side of the road. "Ian, stop and we'll speak with them."

The rumbling of the wagon drew the men's attention, and they both looked up expectantly.

"Beg pardon! Can you tell us where to find the land agent, Turner?"

The nearer man was lanky, clean-shaven, with a weathered face covered with wrinkles. He studied Patrick for moments before pointing toward his companion. "He's Turner, I'm Joe McCaffery.

Turner thrust back his hat and approached the wagon. He was tall and thin¹, with a long goatee. "What's up?"

"I'm Patrick McLaren and these are my sons, Ian and Jerold. I hear tell you can put us onto some homestead land."

The land agent hesitated, as if in thought. Turning to his companion, he said, "Joe, we both need a rest. Hook up the horse. Damned if I'm going to ride in that wagon with them."

Turning back to Patrick, he smiled. "No insult intended, but you've only got one spring seat on that wagon. My buggy fits my rear end a lot better." Then he said reflectively, "The railroad is supposed to get all the odd-numbered sections for six miles on each side of the track, so that cuts the choice of land. Up to now they aren't selling -- guess they can't until they get the railroad in operation. What land I represent is all prime, with plenty of black loam. The quarters are scattered though, due to what has already been taken up. Do you understand the requirements? You get a quarter section by homesteading and a quarter by preemption."

As Patrick nodded, Turner added, "It'll take a few moments to get my map."

Upon his return he removed a pencil from a pocket to point out details on the sketch. "Now this section is nearby; these two are about two miles away; the rest are along the border." He glanced at Ian, "How old are you, son?"

Ian sensed disaster. "I'm nineteen."

"Too bad. You won't be eligible until you're twenty-one." Turning back to Patrick, he asked, "I assume you'll want land close to town."

Patrick nodded seriously, "Within reason."

Just then McCaffery returned with a single-seated Democrat, pulled by a large bay. Turner advised, "You and your boys follow us. We'll take a shortcut around the slough to section 12, then cut across to the other land. All of the quarters are well marked -- just surveyed this spring. If you can't find land to suit you by four o'clock, we'll try again tomorrow."

He tugged on the gold chain that hung across his vest, releasing his pocket watch. Glancing at it, he smiled. "I promised Johnny Kabernagle to meet him at his place in Pembina for supper and a game of billiards." Grinning, he added, "He fancies himself a pool shark, but I'll take his coin!" Then his manner changed, "We'll have to push hard this afternoon."

It took less than two hours for Patrick to pick two quarters of land, two adjoining quarters lying just southeast of town. Using a shovel from his wagon, he had tested the depth of the loam in several places. Nowhere could he find the depth of the rich, black topsoil less than 12 inches.

Turner sat quietly in his buggy as he watched his client dig. He seemed amused at Patrick's diligence. Finally he commented, "Mighty fine land, isn't it?"

Patrick grinned at Ian and Jerold. "Sure suits me." Turning to the agent he questioned, "That bush along the river -- is it included in this quarter?"

"Yup. Reckon there's about 25 acres of woodland. Plenty of trees to build a cabin, and for your firewood."

"No log cabin for us. We'll build a frame house when the time comes."

Ian felt depressed, almost wishing he had lied his age. Turner's final remarks brought expectations.

"Half of the settlers won't keep their land after proving up. They'll sell their improvements for a small amount, and then move on." He looked to Ian. "It'll be legal to pick it up by paying their price. Also, the railroad will be selling their grant land as soon as they get title. They don't care how old you are. Money talks! Further south of us, the St. Paul & Pacific² has been selling on yearly payments, making it easier to buy. I don't expect they'll change that policy." He concluded, "I'll register these quarters and submit your application and fee of $15. You can pay me now and move onto the land at your convenience."

After accepting Patrick's registration fee, he laboriously made out a receipt, wetting the lead of his stub pencil repeatedly with his tongue. "Good thing you're paying the filing fee in hard coin. Most paper money is worthless around here." Tearing the receipt from the pad, he handed it to Patrick. "Don't lose the slip. It's your only proof of purchase until I can get it recorded. You'll have to come to the office soon to sign the papers."

"Can we cut our winter's wood from the river quarter?" asked Patrick.

"Sure, it's your land now. So long." He stepped up into his buggy, turning the horse back toward town.

It was late in the afternoon when they returned to Emerson. The return trip was enlivened by rapid and enthusiastic conversation. Jerold was the silent listener. The older men could hardly contain their jubilation at the ease with which the quarters had been acquired. They knew that the preemption quarter required a payment of $1.25 per acre, but they had thirty-three months to comply with that payment.

"We should break your ten acres as soon as possible," Ian suggested eagerly.

"Yup, but first we need to buy a plow, maybe even another team of horses or mules."

"Why don't we work for the railroad the rest of the summer?" Ian replied. "I heard mention that they need horses for grading the right-of-way. Why not buy another team and let the railroad pay for them? I've saved over 100 pounds sterling from the smithing; that's over $500 out here. I'll pay for the plow and team."

"Pa," Jerold broke in. "I can do the plowing if you'll get me a team. Then you can both start working right off."

Patrick and Ian exchanged amused glances for a moment; then both realized the wisdom of his offer. "You think you can handle it, son? It's no easy job." Patrick was thinking it just might work.

"Sure, Pa. I saw several plows at that Ashdown's Hardware, and one is a dandy. It's a St. Paul Star, a riding sulky, with a cutting coulter and a 12-inch breaking bottom. I think it has a three-horse evener, but maybe our team can handle it."

Patrick put his arm around Jerold's shoulder and smiled. "O. K., son, in for a penny, in for a pound." At that moment they arrived at the open gate at the border and turned to their corner lot. "We'll think it over and decide tomorrow." Patrick seemed complacent.

Mary approached the slowing wagon excitedly. "Oh, Pa, I have a job!" She seemed overjoyed and was dancing from one foot to the other. "Mr Baldwin, the schoolmaster, was here this afternoon. He said the school board will pay me eight dollars a month to help teach. I'm to instruct in arithmetic." She smiled proudly, "Why, I don't even have a certificate to teach yet!"

Maggy approached with a well-pleased look, "What do you think of your daughter now, Pat? Is she too young?"

He stepped down to the wagon hub, then dropped to the ground to clasp Mary in a hug. "Colleen, it's proud of you I am." Turning to Maggy, he exclaimed, "We'll all be working soon; we've finally gotten our land."

She looked at him incredulously.

"It's true! We came here to seek land and a new life. Now we've got the land and can move onto it whenever we want!"

Maggy stepped forward and grasped him in a joint hug with Mary. Ian and Jerold exchanged amused glances. Young Mike seemed puzzled by their enthusiasm.

______________

¹ - NOTE from Trish: Knowing the Turner family as anyone from my area does, I can vouch for this description of a Turner...tall AND thin!

² - The earliest predecessor railroad to the GN was the St. Paul & Pacific Railroad, which Hill purchased in the late 19th century. He formed the Great Northern Railroad in 1889 merging the StP&P with the St. Paul, Minneapolis & Manitoba Railway and Montana Central Railroad. - FROM Great Northern Railway (U.S.) history

Bordertowns: Chapter 2

The ship to the left - named the "Metropolis" - was a passenger ship out of Duluth at the time of this story...The ship that our characters are on would have been very much like this ship...

After a hectic week of packing and saying their goodbyes, the McLaren family finally arrived at Collingwood. They were directed to the location where the Manitoulin was docked; it was the boat that was to carry them to Duluth - the first stop on their long journey.

"We're lucky that Ben purchased our mules and farm equipment for cash -- got it all in gold and silver coin too." Patrick said proudly. "Hated to sell the plow and harrows though. We'll have to buy anew; they were just too bulky and heavy to bring along."

Maggy seemed complacent. "Lordy, Pat, our wagon is loaded to the hilt as it is. I never dreamt Collingswood was so far.

"Shucks, it only took two days to get here. If we're lucky we'll only have a few more days to go. That is, if we're able to make connections."

"A woman told me they have small cabins on the boat. If one is available, get it! At least we'll be inside if bad weather comes."

Lying abed that first night aboard the Manitoulin, Patrick marveled at his family. Maggy seemed absolutely fearless, and although Mary hadn't taken her attack lightly, she never mentioned it. The boys were excited at the prospect of moving west; even now Ian and Jerold were sleeping out on the packet's open deck. The thought of leaving Orillia left Patrick with a bittersweet nostalgia. He had spent most of his years there and now he was leaving, probably never to return.

Mary, with young Mike, occupied the bunk opposite his and Maggy's. Others were forced to sleep on deck, subject to the vagaries of the weather. Maggy deemed six dollars a small price to pay for the cabin, considering the privacy it offered.

Passage on the Manitoulin proved more costly than Patrick had anticipated, due to his heavily loaded wagon and team of horses. The large tent he had purchased for their temporary home in the new land would have to suffice until he could build a permanent structure. All said and done, he judged they had sufficient funds to carry them for at least one year, possibly even two.

He had been advised, "Take the Northern Pacific train at Duluth to Glyndon, Minnesota. Another railroad will take you from there to Crookston. You'll probably have to walk about 15 miles to Fisher's Landing to catch the steamboat to Emerson, Manitoba, in Canada." The land agent had added, "They're building a spur track to the landing, but it won't be completed until next year. Emerson is only a stones throw from the United States border, and to either Minnesota or the Dakota Territory."

Patrick found himself unable to sleep, as their small cabin was humid and unbearably hot. Pushing aside the light blanket, he rolled to his side and put his arm around Maggy's shoulder. She partially turned to push away his sweaty arm; it was apparent she was not in a receptive mood. Rolling back to his side of the bed, he realized she was still awake, probably solving problems of her own. He would have liked to voice his thoughts aloud to her, but feared awakening the children.

Before leaving Orillia he had assured his father and mother that he would keep them informed of their progress in the West, and, if successful, would send for them. However, the look that passed between them as he said this, left little hope that they would ever make the move. They seemed satisfied in their present home, surrounded by their Irish, Scottish and English neighbors.

The Red River Valley, where Patrick and Maggy planned to settle, sounded quite secure from the dreaded Sioux Indians, as there had been a military fort at Pembina since l870, manned by United States Army troops. The land agent visiting Orillia had further said: "You can homestead a quarter section of land in Minnesota for the legal fee, and more than likely gain a second quarter by the Timber Culture Act or by Preemption. Preemption land will cost you $1.25 per acre and you have to reside on the land for six months prior to filing for it. The Timber Culture act requires your planting and caring for 10 acres of trees."

Maggy's deep breathing indicated that she had finally fallen asleep, so Patrick carefully arose from the bed and reached for his trousers. Slipping them on, he moved as quietly as possible out the door to the starboard side of the packet. He realized they were now passing through the north channel of Georgian Bay; occasional lights were discernible on either side of the craft.

The moon was occasionally hidden by large cumulus clouds, the fringes of which glowed faintly from hidden reflections. Although it was a quiet, windless night the movement of the boat brought a chilling breeze. The only sounds were of the puffing of the engine and the rippling sound of disturbed water at the bow.

He tried to cast off his feeling of insecurity and apprehension at the trip ahead. His childhood memories seemed far away, and he doubted he would ever visit Orillia again. He would miss the feeling of togetherness he had enjoyed with his folks, knowing he might never see them again. Casting aside his feelings of self-pity and guilt, he realized Maggy must feel even more uncertain about their future than he.

His thoughts turned to their arrival at Duluth. Would there be a problem arranging transportation for his team and wagon at the railhead, and at Fisher's Landing? And, when he arrived at Emerson, in Canada, would there be adequate wheat and barley seed available to put in a crop? Maggy had wisely prepared for a future garden, packing essential seeds, even bringing slips of her favorite plants. She had insisted upon silver and gold coin for their equipment and livestock, sagaciously deeming paper might not be accepted in the sparsely settled areas where they were headed. Patrick had agreed, entrusting their small hoard to her care.

In the dim light he could see that the deck was nearly covered with the lumpy forms of sleepers. It seemed that almost every Irishman and Scotsman wanted to move to the West. "God bless them!" he mused. "May they all find their dream."

It was beginning to lighten in the east when he finally resolved his thoughts. Returning to the cabin, he found the room had cooled. He moved to the bed and crowded closely to Maggy for warmth.

After a breakfast of porridge served in the galley, the packet Manitoulin entered the locks at Sault Ste. Marie. Two hours later it finally tied up at a dock to unload cargo. Patrick noted they took on even more freight than was dropped off, much of it heavy machinery. During the stop he and the boys fed his team with hay and oats carried in the back of his wagon. Two fellow travelers, perhaps bored by the monotony, watered his animals.

Passing through the locks had aroused the boys’ interest. Jerold exclaimed to Mike, "It's all done by the gates and water. A boat can be lowered or raised easily by adding water or draining water from a lock. Gosh it only took a few minutes to raise us up into Lake Superior."

So far, fair weather and a calm Lake Huron had been kind to the passengers, as none seemed to suffer from any malaise. Patrick had heard that Lake Superior was known for its sudden, violent storms with high waves. He hoped they would be fortunate in avoiding them, since human greed had sadly overloaded their small craft, leaving little freeboard.

By 3 p.m. they were well clear of the Sault and on their final 400-mile leg to Duluth. Time began to hang heavy upon all because of the crowded conditions.

Mary had recovered from her encounter with the exception of one remaining dark spot near her eye. Self-conscious because of it, she left their small cabin only at mealtimes. She spent her self-imposed confinement schooling Mike and playing card games with her mother.

Maggy saw little of her two oldest boys; they preferred to remain on deck, making casual acquaintances. When they did visit the cabin, they stayed only a few moments. Their enthusiasm and excitement seemed contagious. She was thankful that her family showed an eagerness at the venture and determined that whatever transpired at the end of the line, she would take in stride. She regretted sharing the small cabin with the two children, for at times she craved the love of Patrick. Yet she knew the trip would take only a week. When Pat napped that second afternoon in the cabin, she looked pointedly at Mary, but could not bring herself to ask for privacy, especially not after what had happened to her daughter at the trestle. Thank the Lord, Ian's arrival had been timely!

Speaking with the ship's captain, Patrick learned much about the Duluth area. The officer was loquacious, going on and on about Minnesota. "Helluva gold rush at Vermilion Lake in '65 and '66. Trouble was there were only a few pockets of gold found. My oldest boy tried it out and came back to Collingwood broke. He did say that north of Duluth a compass was worthless; it gave false readings.

Patrick met two geologists named Eames who told him the iron ore, called hematite, was magnetic. He also said that the ore was 65 to 80 percent iron.

"They say fortunes will be made up there in the future, but it'll take a heap of money. The country is mighty rough, nearly impassable in the summer because of the bogs. Supposedly they are improving a road from Duluth to the north, but they'll need rail lines to get any of that iron ore back to Duluth. Jay Cooke owned a big chunk of timber, about 45,000 acres. Also he had an interest in the Northern Pacific -- all until the bust of '73. Now Tower and Munson are the big wheels and they've named that north mountain of iron, the Vermilion Range. Oh yes, they've discovered another body of iron named the Mesabi. If you're looking for work in the mines, they are hiring anyone they can find."

Patrick was firm. "I'm a farmer, pure and simple. Be darned if I'm going to slave for someone else. With adequate and good farmland we can make a fair living. I've been told there's plenty of land in the Red River Valley, that's where we're headed."

"Well, I wish you luck, but I'll tell you many of my passengers are headed for the mines." The captain turned to disappear into the bowels of the boat.

Mary had been upset by her experience, but hid her discomfiture well. Her former self-assured manner had led to one of caution, although the change had not been immediately apparent to Maggy. Her attacker had truly frightened her; yet, she wished only for a man she could love and admire. She had had her menses at twelve, yet she had never felt uncomfortable about being a woman. Back at school in Orillia, boys had been of little interest. Her consequent over-attention to Mike's schooling ended in a near revolt. Mike began spending nearly all of his time out on the deck with his older brothers.

On the fourth evening of their boat trip, just at sunset, they approached the harbor of Duluth. The sky was alight with beautiful reds and pinks emanating from high white cloud wisps in the west. The sight was especially accentuated by the dark mass of hill to the northwest.

As Patrick stood at the rail alongside Maggy, he said, "'Red sky in morning, sailor take warning. Red sky at night, sailor's delight.'"

Maggy demurred. "Pat, that's not right. St. Matthew 16 says: "'It will be fair weather, for the sky is red. In the morning, it will be foul weather today, for the sky is red and lowering.'"

Patrick tightened his arm around her waist. "You're right as always, Meg darlin'" Amused at her mild rebuke, he added, "Your minister Father taught you well!"

She said nothing, wishing to forget those harsh years spent with her father.

It was dark when they finally tied to a rickety dock in Duluth harbor. Few of the passengers went ashore, most referring to remain on board yet another night rather than chance finding lodging in the town.

Raucous calls of sea gulls and rumbling sounds of unloading awoke them the next morning. Stepping from their small room, Patrick found passengers already debarking, carrying pitifully small bundles under their arms. He noted that the precarious ramp would never support his team and wagon and wondered how they planned to unload it.

"Mr. McLaren!" A crewmember approached him. "We'll have a better gangway up in about an hour to get your wagon ashore. Would you rent us your horses for a couple of hours? We've heavy goods to unload and will have need of a team."

"Yes, if you'll allow my son to handle the animals. I hope it won't take too long. I've got to obtain our tickets on the Northern Pacific to Glyndon. We want to leave Duluth as soon as possible."

"Tell you what -- why don't you go to the depot to get your tickets and arrange room for your team and wagon? By the time you get back we'll have a proper gangway to move the heavy gear."

"Where is the train station?"

"Only about a quarter mile to the west, just along the main street."

Moments later, Patrick, accompanied by Mary and Mike, headed toward the Northern Pacific depot. Ian was left behind to harness the team. Maggy, assisted by Jerold, busied herself folding their blankets and storing personal belongings in the wagon.

The depot was easily recognized from a distance. A group of people was gathered around the platform. Patrick noted that many of the throng were fellow passengers from the boat, evidently also headed to the west.

Leaving Mary and Mike on the depot platform, Patrick entered the office to transact his business. Glancing around, Mary noticed a well-dressed youth seated on the edge of the platform. He wore a brown derby and seemed preoccupied. Finally he stood and turned toward her. When he caught her stare, his tanned face broke into a wrinkled grin. Removing his hat, he boldly approached her.

"Hello! I'm Robert Douglas, I work for the railroads."

Mary was uncertain how to take this direct approach and said bashfully, "I'm Mary McLaren. We're on our way to Fisher's Landing."

"Then I'm in luck. I'm heading to the landing also." Then, noticing Mike, he asked, "and what is your name, young man?"

"My name is Mike McLaren and this is my sister." Mike moved close to Mary and grasped her hand possessively.

The stranger gave Mike an amused smile, and then turned back to Mary. His smile grew warmer. "I'm glad you're a sister! Single, I hope!"

Mary felt her face warm as she nodded. This boy seemed likeable, and he was handsome.

At that moment Patrick emerged from the depot. Seeing the stranger speaking with Mary and Mike, he paused to study the situation.

Mary's eye caught his. "Father, this gentleman is Robert Douglas. He is employed by the railroad and is going to Fisher's Landing."

The young man broke in sheepishly. "Truthfully, sir, I've just graduated from McGill University with a degree in engineering. I'm hoping to find employment on the railway to be built between Winnipeg and Emerson, Manitoba."

Patrick studied the young man shrewdly, deeming him presentable. He would like to have known more about this youth but was pressed for time.

"We've got to leave now. No doubt we'll see you in the future, Mr. Douglas."

Robert Douglas looked to Mary and bowed slightly. "I sincerely hope so!"

After walking a distance Mary looked back at the tall stranger. He seemed a lot like Ian, but she guessed him to be a year or two older. Shyly she raised her hand to wave goodbye. A strange new emotion seemed to possess her. "Why, he seemed nice . . . and he's manly." She became so immersed in her reflections that later she had no recollection of returning to the boat.

Late that afternoon a railroad section hand directed them to a boxcar and three dismal-looking passenger cars on a siding located by a side-track to the west of the depot.

"Park your wagon by the loading ramp. In the morning the yard crew will move the boxcar into place so you can load up."

After inspecting the passenger cars, Maggy complained. "Pat, the cars are filthy and there are no sanitary facilities. The toilets inside can't be used unless the train is in motion."

Glancing to Mary, she said, "We'll just have to walk back to the station when need be."

Few of the immigrants entered the cars to sleep that night, most electing to spend the warm evening under the stars. Patrick noted other groups had already prepared cooking fires along the right-of-way. He was not concerned about fuel, since he had kindling stored in a canvas slung under the wagon.

"Ian, you and Jerold get a fire going and we'll have supper within an hour or so. Mary, you and Mike get bedding out for dad and the boys. They'll have to sleep on the ground tonight -- the weather looks suitable." Maggy had taken over; she turned toward her husband.

Patrick smiled, "I don't need orders. I'll move the horses away a bit and tie them to graze." He looked along the siding. "It's a bit desolate here, isn't it."

After supper Maggy and Mary rummaged inside the wagon to prepare sleeping quarters for them. Caustic remarks were heard from fellow travelers sauntering by, about the so-called Zulu cars in which they were to travel. Word passed along the track that their train would depart the following morning at 9:30 a.m.

Shortly after daylight a snorting, hissing switch engine appeared to move the boxcar opposite the loading ramp. Ian drove the team up the ramp and into the car, and then, assisted by Patrick, removed the harness from the team. The stall had been obviously prepared beforehand; the feed bunk was full of hay and a barrel of water stood to the side.

After departing Duluth, the passengers found the roadbed rough and poorly ballasted, the train unable to travel more than twenty miles per hour. Even at that speed their car rocked wildly, as if about to leave the track at any moment. Occasionally smoke drifted into the car from the open upper vents, causing coughing and sneezing. Hot flying cinders became a problem.

Maggy felt nauseated and pressed Patrick. "How long do we have to stay in this dirty car? The rocking and jerking is driving me wild!"

"It's about 250 miles to Glyndon, but we'll reach Brainerd at 4 o'clock this afternoon. We can get out and stretch there."

"Why, that means we'll get into Glyndon long after dark." Her mind was not eased. How was she to tell Pat that she was pregnant again? My God! I'll be forty this fall. Why did it happen to me -- this late in life?"

"S'posed to be there about 10:30 tonight; then we'll sit on a siding until picked up by the Saint Paul and Pacific early tomorrow morning. We're lucky though; these cars go through to Crookston; we don't have to change."

"I just hope I don't get sick from this rocking. The boat wasn't jerky like this."

Patrick noted her pasty-grey face and watched sympathetically as she closed her eyes and attempted to sleep.

Mary and Mike mixed with the other children in the car and soon they were playing a game involving the clapping of hands and counting aloud.

Ian and Jerold sat quietly alongside a window. Jerold dreamily watching the trees pass by. Ian ignored the landscape, seemingly intent on the book he held in his lap. Actually, his thoughts were of Aggy Quinn. He pictured her smiling face in his mind, its total perfection. He wondered if he would ever see her again.

Shortly after 4 p.m. the train stopped in Brainerd with a shuddering jolt. The conductor entered the car to call, "Thirty minute stop here! Sandwiches are available in the depot."

Mary moved through the door of the car to the vestibule. Tugging her long skirt clear of her shoes, she carefully stepped down to the platform. As she lifted her eyes, there stood a smiling Robert Douglas.

"I thought you must be in this car. I've already checked the others."

She felt a sudden confusion at his boldness and, although unfamiliar emotions assailed her, she felt a strange accord. "You told me you were going to the landing, but I didn't know we were to be on the same train."

"Why, I'm planning to be on the same boat with you." His smile was spontaneous and catching. Extending his hand, he added, "Do you mind walking along the platform with me until the train departs? I'm tired of that hard seat."

"It's the dirt and smoke that's bothered me." Mary glanced fleetingly at his face. She wished it had been possible to wash before seeing him again. She felt she must look like a frump.

The first few steps of their stroll were conducted in silence, then both spoke at once. Breaking into laughter, they turned face to face. "What did you say?" he asked.

She felt herself blushing. "I was asking where you are from. We're from Orillia."

"My folks live in Ottawa; my Father is with the government. Originally my parents came from Glasgow, Scotland, but I was born in Canada. I finished my studies at McGill University this spring. My parents objected to my going west. Father hoped I would accept a government post at home." He shook his head. "He's a bit put out with me."

Gazing at him contemplatively, Mary noted his strong boned, clean-cut face with its slightly aquiline nose. He was tall and wiry, nicely built, with blue eyes and light wavy hair. He seemed precise in his speech and voiced his opinion in a pleasant manner with no sign of an accent. She felt a sudden rapport with him.

A shrill blast of the whistle called their attention to the train; they could see the passengers gathering.

"I'll see you at the landing -- I hope."

"I'd like that!" She looked into his eyes and smiled, then turned to step up into the car.

Maggy had been one of the last to leave the car at Brainerd. Upon stepping to the platform, she observed Mary in conversation with a young man. Patrick had mentioned seeing Mary speaking with a stranger in Duluth and volunteered the information that the youth seemed clean-cut and unpretentious. Maggy purposely moved a few steps away before turning to watch them surreptitiously. Mary seemed happy; the smile on her face bespoke that. The young man did seem handsome, and, Maggy reasoned, not too old for her daughter. She watched them for moments, then joined Patrick and Mike, who with others were admiring their huge railroad locomotive. "It's a Baldwin built, 4-4-0 engine, Mike," Patrick advised. "It has four guiding wheels forward, and four main driving wheels. That hump on the smokestack is to cut down sparks that may set bush and grass fires."

"That big lamp on front, Pa, what makes it work?"

Before Patrick could answer, another man spoke up. "It's run by carbide gas, son. It's real powerful!"

Moments after Maggy appeared the shrill whistle of the engine tore at their ears. From somewhere along the cars they heard a voice shout, "All aboard! All aboard!"

Hurrying back to their car, they were in time to see the young man assist Mary on the steps. She was smiling at him.

In a low tone Patrick observed. "Looks like Mary has found a beau."

"She's entitled to one," Maggy said softly. "The hell she's been through." Then she put her hand on Patrick's shoulder. "He does look like a nice boy. I'll have Mary introduce him properly."

Maggy awoke during the night to find it quiet and the car stationary. Puzzled, she shook her husband awake. "Did they leave us behind, Pat?"

"No, love, we've been on a siding for hours. We're at Glyndon. Go back to sleep; it must be after midnight."

The next morning car couplings thumped and wheels squealed as the cars were hooked to the train just arrived from Alexandria. By noon they were in Crookston, stopped momentarily before being shunted to s siding for unloading.

"End of the line, Maggy!" Patrick leaned across the seat to peer out the car window. Turning to Ian and Jerold, he said, "We'll have to get our wagon out of the boxcar."

"What do we do now, Pat?" Maggy questioned.

"I'll help the boys get our wagon and we'll load up for the drive to Fisher's Landing. I was told it's just a bit over 15 miles. They are supposed to finish a track to there this summer, but as it is now, we'll have to hoof it. We should make it long before dark."

"Pa, is that where we meet the boat that will take us down the Red River?" Mike asked excitedly.

"Supposed to be, but we'll find out for sure as soon as we get unloaded and ask around." Turning to Ian, Patrick said, "Why don't you and Jerold see get the wagon out of the boxcar? I'll go over to the depot and get directions to the landing."

For moments Patrick and Maggy made no effort to join the straggling line leaving the coach, for many of the passengers were carrying bulky articles. As the line thinned, Maggy said, "Pat, let's get out of this box. I'm so grimy from the engine smoke that I don't think I'll ever get clean again."

Stepping down from the stool placed by the brakeman, they were pleasantly surprised to find it sunny and warm. Clumps of grass and weeds were bending under the strong northwest breeze. Mary and the boys had preceded them from the train and the boys were already standing by the freight car that held their team and wagon. Mary was not in sight. Concerned, Maggy eyed the depot area. "There she is!" Involuntarily she pointed to her daughter. "She's with that boy again."

"Didn't take her long to find him." Patrick seemed amused.

"Oh, Pat! She's only sixteen. It's puppy love. She'll go through a lot of boys before she decides on the right one."

"Dunno! Kind of looks like she's taken to him." He grinned and squeezed her shoulder.

Unloading the team of horses from the freight car presented no problem, but when the wagon was manhandled on the ramp, a wheel broke through the planking, necessitating unloading nearly the entire wagon. Mary's friend Robert stepped forward and assisted Ian and Jerold in the tedious work. When the wagon was freed from the ramp and reloaded, Mary approached Robert and took his hand. "Come, I want you to meet my Mother."

Smiling, he wiped the perspiration from his forehead. "Mary, just give me time to fetch my coat. I want to be presentable." Shrugging it on hurriedly over his sweat- soaked shirt, he and Mary approached Maggy.

"Mother, this is Robert Douglas, from Ottawa."

Maggy smiled, "Thank you for helping us with the wagon, Robert."

"It was no trouble. I have nothing but time." He seemed almost embarrassed.

Patrick approached just as Ian and Jerold finished hooking the team to the wagon. "Maggy, you and Mary take Mike along with you in the wagon. We've about sixteen miles or more to cover this afternoon. The boys and I will walk. That's the trail to the landing." He pointed westward to a path alongside a new railroad grade.

"Pat, I'm making a bit of lunch before we leave." She turned to Robert. "You'll join us, won't you?"

"I'd love to, thank you." He removed his suit coat and turned to Mary. "It's just too darned hot to wear a coat. I'm frazzled. May I put my valise in your wagon? Would there be room?"

Ian overheard the request. "Sure, Robert. You've earned your keep today."

After a brief lunch, Patrick's wagon led the group of over forty immigrants on the trail to Fisher's Landing. Two other hired wagons followed, carrying women, children and surplus baggage.

It was nearing the supper hour when they arrived at the landing to find it a beehive of activity. A sawmill emitted dense clouds of smoke, accompanied by the soft puffing of a steam engine and the high whining pitch of the saw blade. Four men were busy pushing a large log onto the sawmill carrier, while at the dock several men were rolling kegs down an inclined ramp to the deck of the steamboat International. It was obvious the men were playing at their work since there was much shouting and joshing going on. No smoke appeared from either of the steamboat's stacks, indicating her boilers were probably cold and the boat would not move for hours.

Patrick joined the long line at the office and stood for several minutes before his turn came to speak to the clerk. "Have you cabin room for a family of six to Emerson, Manitoba?"

"The cabin comes with a first class ticket, unless you would rather go steerage. That's cheaper, but no frills and we don't furnish grub." The clerk seemed cheerful.

"I've got a wagonload of personal belongings and a team of horses. What about them?"

The clerk turned to a group of men playing cards at a table. "Captain Segars, have you a moment to spare?"

A tall, thin man arose from a chair and leisurely walked to the counter. "What's the problem, George?"

"This man has a team and wagon; he wants it dropped off at Emerson. Can you make room?"

The captain eyed Patrick momentarily. "The only room would be on the bow. Hadn't planned on another wagon, but I guess we can accommodate you." He looked to the clerk. "Have the crew get the wagon aboard last. Outside of what cargo we discharge at Fort Pembina and Emerson, the balance goes to Upper Fort Garry." Turning back to Patrick, he offered his hand. "I'm Segars, Captain of the International. My boat's been on the river since '62, but it's still the biggest and best!" He winked at Patrick slyly, then turned to rejoin his companions.

Patrick found their passage with staterooms came to $16.50, but the freight bill for his team and wagon was $24.00. They were to leave for Grand Forks early the next morning, and while there, pick up two barges loaded with railroad rails destined for Canada.

Bordertowns: Chapter 1

As a grandchild and great grand child of men and women who settled my hometown, I always wondered what it was like for them and their families to pull up stakes and move hundreds of miles to a new country and start over. It wasn't that long before they came to Minnesota that their parents or grandparents had come to Canada from Ireland, but here they were again moving on to find an even better life.

Well, I have a better idea of what it might have been like after reading the story that starts below. It's another book by Charles Walker, or Chuck as he likes to be called. We recently finished serializing Sheriff Charley Brown here, and Chuck has been kind enough to share this next book with us. (By the way, if you want to buy a copy of this book, he tells me it was just accepted for publication recently. I will be sure and share where and how you can buy it when I get the details...)

Read on, and you'll see how Chuck puts flesh and bone on the skeletons of history, making it come alive. He's a real local treasure¹, and I'm proud to know him...
_____________________

BORDER TOWNS
A Novel by
Charles H. Walker


PREFACE

This novel of pioneer life in the latter nineteenth century, along the Dakota, Minnesota and Canadian borders, is based upon history preserved by a local family. Parts of the plot are fiction, others are of real life. But historical needs place many actual names of participants in the story.

The three towns involved in the setting are Emerson, Manitoba, St. Vincent, Minnesota and Pembina, Dakota Territory, (according to local newspapers at the time) were troubled by many heinous crimes committed in the immediate area.

Construction of the railroad between Minneapolis, Minnesota, and Winnipeg, Manitoba, attracted over 2000 workers, many of whom were ne'er-do-wells, or opportunists. Others were persons seeking anonymity. This horde of men lacking female companionship, but were well supplied with liquor, provided the stimulus resulting in every type of crime. This fact should not cast aspersions upon the brave and competent men who eventually brought about law and order.

*****

Chapter 1

While sitting on the back doorstep of his home on the outskirts of Orillia, Ontario, Canada, Daniel McLaren recalled the hardships he and Kate had endured long years ago when they made the move from Ireland to Canada. Gradual starvation after the great potato blight of l845 had forced the Irish emigration, and of those who remained in Ireland, it was said that over one million died of starvation.

Here, in Canada, living was fair -- at least for him and Kate. They were both weavers and the demand for their cloth provided them with an adequate living. Not so for Patrick and Maggy, their son and daughter-in-law. Patrick's small, rented farm, although well managed, barely kept their family afloat. They were discouraged and could see little prospect in the future. This spring of l877 found his son in a desperate situation. Due to high land rent and ruinous crop prices, Patrick and Maggy were contemplating moving to the free farmland of Minnesota, in the United States.

Daniel's thoughts turned to his grandchildren, Patrick and Maggy's four children. The oldest, Ian, now nineteen years, worked for a local blacksmith and contributed one- half of his earnings to his father. He was a tall, lanky lad with an easy disposition and a wide, sensual mouth; yet he was leather tough. A perpetual grin seemed glued to his deeply tanned face, emphasized by thick, raven brows. His brown eyes reflected intelligence. Even the English girls were aware of his magnetism.

Their only daughter, Mary, now sixteen, was bright and attractive. She was a tall girl, lithe and athletic, with an oval face dominated by flashing blue eyes and delicate, high cheekbones. Her flying dark hair, full lips and creamy complexion were beginning to cause concern for her parents. She was naturally inquisitive, excelled in mathematics, and seemed to have a natural aptitude for teaching.

At thirteen years of age, Jerold appeared over-large for his age. He was competent to keep the stove supplied with wood, milk the cows, and do the easier farm chores. A bookworm, he was often blamed for the lack of candles in the house, since he was an avid reader. He perused every book that came to his hand.

The precocious one was Mike, now four years of age. He blithely wandered among the horses and mules that disdained kicking at him as they might have at an adult. He seemed always underfoot, but could carry on an intelligent conversation with his mother, with nothing of her brogue. To his delight Mary was teaching him his letters and he could already write his full name, although with a childish scrawl.

Daniel's reverie was broken when he heard footsteps approaching the door. As it opened, he heard his granddaughter's soft voice. "Room for one more beside you, Gramps?" asked Mary.

A smile came to his face. "'Tis true, just enough room for a bonny lass beside me." Sliding over, he made room for Mary who sat down, carefully bunching her long skirt tightly to her ankles.

"Past time you were on your way home, lass. 'Twill be dark soon."

She protested, "It's only a league down the tracks. Besides, it's time Ian was along; I'll walk home with him."

"Yes, that'd be best -- there are too many strangers about this month of May; there's been much stealing lately." He frowned, "I don't trust the bums that follow the rails."

With a teasing tone, Mary asked, "Gramps, will you play a tune if I fetch your fiddle?"

He noted the beseeching look on her face, and then brightened. "I'll play a jig or two, but only a few. Then, if Ian doesn't appear, off you must go for home!"

Smiling delightedly, she arose and disappeared into the house, reappearing within seconds with his violin case.

Removing the fiddle and bow, he stood, walked slowly away from the steps, and then turned to face her. As he tucked the violin under his chin and checked the strings, he queried, "What tune will it be?"

Clapping her hands happily, she implored, "A jig! A jig, of course! Any jig!"

Abruptly he broke into a fast, rollicking tune and Mary jumped up and began to dance around him. Just then her grandmother appeared at the door; Kate's face broke into a smile as she watched the dancing girl and instinctively she began to clap her hands in time to the music.

Kate proudly watched Mary's nimble feet as she danced to the tune, turning and jerking her skirt this way and that, often spinning rapidly, causing her gown to balloon out exposing shapely calves. Finally Daniel brought the music to a close with a dramatic flourish of his bow.

"Time to go home, youngster! It's nearly dark and no sign of Ian. I'll walk you partway to see you safe."

"No need, Gramps; it's not necessary." Running to him she quickly gave him a peck on the cheek, and then gave her Grandmother a fleeting hug. In seconds she scampered out of the yard and was up the grade to the railroad tracks.

Walking backward, she waved gaily and cried, "Tell Ian I couldn't wait any longer!" Then she turned and began skipping toward home.

On the farm Patrick and Jerold had just finished the evening chores and each carried pails of frothy milk to the homemade cooler. Upon opening the ice door, Patrick remarked, "Jerold, we're nearly out of ice. Will you fetch another block?"

As Jerold obediently turned toward the icehouse, Maggy came from the kitchen door and put her hand upon her husband's shoulder. "Pat, I worry about him."

"Worry? Why?"

"You work him too hard. He's just a boy and has little time to play."

"Maggy, darlin', the way things are going, none of us has time to sport. Lord knows, if it weren't for the bit Ian brings in, we'd go under."

"That's why I've overcome my misgivings about moving to the West. We're throwing good money after bad trying to keep this place. Since the crash of '73 we've not gotten ahead. We've too few acres and the rent is much too high.

Let's make the move!" Her look was grim. She had often been curious as to why the Scots and Irish were shunned by the English-Canadians. Canadians in truth? Why, they had been here only a few years before the newer immigrants, yet they acted as if they owned this land. Indeed, they carried their long noses in the air and spoke in guttural sounds.

Patrick turned and hugged her. "Luv', it isn't only the money; Canada is dead on its feet! Here, everything is British; the attitude here is that of a Crown Colony. People without property have no vote; there's little opportunity for advancement; the government is corrupt; the Tories run everything. This damned British mentality is pressing on me! I'm tired of our youngsters being called dirty trash and having clods thrown at them by the English brats. It's best we leave, but we can't until I find a buyer for our extra belongings."

"Have you seen Ben Thompson lately?"

"He offered to buy all at $475, but it's far too little."

"I've nearly $200 put by with my egg and butter money," Kate said softly.

The grim look left his face and he leaned to kiss her.

"Holding out on me, eh?"

"Didn't want you spending it at the pub." She was teasing; he seldom touched a drop.

The squeaking of the wheelbarrow announced Jerold's arrival with the ice. Patrick urged, "Bring it closer to the door." Then, eyeing the huge block, he questioned, "How on earth did you load that immense block by yourself?"

"Slid it up a plank, then washed it off in the barrow," Jerold said proudly.

Patrick looked to his wife and winked. "Looks like he inherited your brains."

"Ah, Pa!" The praise embarrassed Jerold.

Lifting together, using iron tongs, they hoisted the heavy block into the upper part of the cooler, and then stored the wood buckets of warm milk below. After a day or two the cream would raise to the top; Maggy or Mary would then skim it off and churn it into butter. The remaining milk, after they'd removed enough for their personal use, would be fed to the chickens and young pigs.

After supper, as Maggy began washing the dishes, Patrick turned to Jerold. "I'm going over to Thompson's. Want to come along?"

The boy grinned his acceptance and arose from the table.

"Me, too! Me too!" Young Mike chimed in.

Patrick bent to ruffle the boy's hair. "Mind your tongue, lad. You're the man of the house tonight. Someone has to stay and take care of your Mother."

Maggy felt a glow of pride at the closeness between her husband and sons. She visualized that Jerold would eventually be a huge man, since at thirteen years his shoulders were wide and his bone structure heavy. He was tall for his age, but he would never be an athlete for he was all hands and feet. Already he was stockier than any of his schoolmates.

It was almost dark when Patrick and Jerold returned. "Thompson's made his final offer, so he says. It’s $550 for all of the farm tools, the mules and harness. I think we should take it."

"If we sell the cows, pigs and sheep, we should have well over $1000. Can we start anew with that?" Maggy sounded doubtful.

"The railroad agent says the land out west can be bought on payments. We'll just have to make do."

"Pat, it's nearly dark and Mary hasn't come back from visiting your folks." She was suddenly worried.

"Worry wart!" Patrick smiled. "She'll be along soon. She's probably waited to walk home with Ian."

"Yes, but its Saturday night and he may be late. He's been seeing that Quinn girl, you know."

Jerold volunteered, "Ma, I'll walk down the track to meet her."

"Wait a few more minutes," said Patrick. "Then we'll both walk as far as the bridge." He seemed unworried.

As the sky darkened, Mary's sandals made dry scraping sounds on the rough-cut ties. She felt the evening dampness permeating the air, the sudden coolness of it bringing goose bumps. Extending her arms, she stepped to a steel rail and walked for some time, carefully concentrating on her balance. Just ahead, at the trestle spanning the creek, she thought she detected a movement at the edge of the bridge. A sudden chill seemed to tighten her scalp, then chased up and down her spine. Shaking her head forcefully, she put it from her mind. She knew groundhogs and young foxes were plentiful along the coulee. Also she knew that the bridge was a dropping off spot for the hobos who traveled the rails; trains slowed here in preparation for wooding and watering. The tramps seemed a friendly lot, mostly poor Irish, and she occasionally spoke with them. The so-called jungle where they camped was in the heavy brush upstream. She had noted that the vagrants seldom loitered near the tracks and then only when they were boarding or dropping from the slow-moving freights.

The spacing of the timbers and near darkness required concentration, and as Mary walked near the outside edge of the bridge, something forcefully seized her ankle. Unable to regain her balance, she fell heavily to the ties, nearly falling over the edge. Stunned by the impact and growing pain, she slowly regained her wits. She struggled to regain her feet, only to find herself pinned to the trestle by strong arms. A foul odor of sour sweat and tobacco enveloped her as a huge hand closed brutally over her mouth. An arm curled around her waist, jerking her body tight, squeezing the breath from her. She heard the low-grunted words, "Make a sound and I'll kill you!" Then she became aware she was being carried down under the bridge.

In stark horror, Mary realized the man's intent. Her heart pounded wildly and she felt a bitter taste in her mouth as her stomach partially revolted. Feeling her strength fading and realizing her attempts to free herself were futile, she attempted to bite the grimy fingers covering her mouth.

Slamming her brutally to the ground, her assailant grasped the neckline of her dress, savagely ripping it to her waist. Now he was hurting her breasts, his heavy weight almost crushing her. Hands fumbled at her waist, and then wet lips and wiry whiskers ground into her face. Final revulsion came as she became aware of the cold air enclosing her entire body. A frenzied lunge enabled her to bite into flesh, freeing her mouth for one desperate scream. Frantically she scratched at her assailant's face, and then a hammer-like blow struck her temple. Her head seemed to explode in a series of bright, colored flashes that faded into blackness as she became unconscious.

When Ian arrived at his Grandfather's, the elderly man was engrossed in playing an old Scottish ballad. Seeing Ian, he rested his bow. "Been girling again, lad?"

"I stayed a bit to walk Aggy Quinn home."

"Ah, yes, that's the colleen with the wealthy Father who owns the big hotel."

"Gramps, you've got a sneaky mind!" Ian grinned at his Grandfather's allusion.

Kate burst into laughter. "Yes, he's always looking for filthy lucre. It's that Scottish upbringing?"

Daniel winked at his grandson. "Scots are lusty men, too." Then he looked contritely at his wife, who smiled back at him.

Kate quipped, "I believe when the Hanoverians took away the Scots' kilts and forced them to wear trousers, they were warmed overmuch! That bragging sounds like blarney to me."

After the general laughter in which even Daniel took a part, she turned to Ian. "Mary left only minutes ago. She waited awhile; you can probably catch her."

"Not likely, but I'll not be delayin'. See you Monday." Ian turned and headed toward the tracks.

He found the sunset fading rapidly, so much so that it was becoming difficult to see the wooden ties as he approached the bridge. Suddenly he heard a scream pierce the near darkness; he instantly knew it was Mary's voice. Panicking, he ran with a burst of speed, only to trip and fall heavily between the rails. Momentarily stunned, he wasted seconds to gather his strength. Then, switching to the outside of the rails, he broke into a limping run.

Just as he reached the bridge, he detected gasping sounds from underneath the span. Sensing that someone was hurting his sister, he frantically sought a weapon. Then he remembered the spare rails and splice plates that hung just off the end of the bridge. Seizing the end of a plate, he attempted to wrench it loose from the bundle, only to find it securely wired. Putting his foot against the pack, he wrenched furiously, managing to free one end. Twisting the angle, Ian broke the remaining wire. Creeping cautiously down the creek bank toward the sound his foot caught on a protruding stone. As he recovered his balance the slight sound must have warned his adversary.

In the semi-darkness a man's shadow suddenly loomed up before him. Judging the distance, Ian stepped forward and swung the heavy iron with all his strength. Its solid strike made a dull, meaty sound, and the man he struck dropped almost soundlessly. Throwing the weapon aside, Ian fell to his knees to find Mary's assailant lying across her body. In the dim light he frantically rolled the man aside.

"Mary! Mary! It's me! It's Ian! Everything is fine. I'm here -- you're safe now!" Putting his arm around her shoulders, he raised her to a sitting position. For seconds he feared she was dead, but then he felt a convulsive shudder and detected her attempts to breathe. As she slowly regained consciousness, her body movements became more perceptible.

"It's me, Ian, you're safe now!"

The sound of his voice, as well as the effect of his raising her to a sitting position, served to bring her slowly to her senses. At first she was confused, but little by little normalcy returned and she realized this was her brother. She was sobbing and gasping, seemingly unable to gain a full breath. Then she seized his neck tightly with both arms, squeezing him fiercely. As seconds passed, awareness came to her that she was naked. She felt the warmth of Ian's chest and arms, but the rest of her body seemed almost frigid.

Ian, sensing her uneasiness, nervously released her. "Just a minute, I'll give you my shirt." Removing his work-stained shirt, he draped it over her shoulders and helped her find the sleeves. As he was attempting to button it, she began wildly groping on the ground.

"Hold still! What's the matter?"

"I've got to find my clothes; I can't go home like this!" Hunting feverishly, she found her dress, only to discover it badly torn. Trying to stand, she was suddenly conscious that her trembling legs would hardly respond to her effort. She finally managed to step into the torn skirt and, using the remnants, made a crude belt.

"Did he . . . well, you know . . .”

She began sobbing again. "No! Thank God! No! But he was trying! The scut!"

In the dim light she became aware of the form lying near her feet. "What about him? What did you do to him? Is he dead?"

"Leave the bastard!"

"What about the law?"

"What about it? Do you want everyone to know about this?"

She shuddered, "No! Love of God, no! Let's get out of here."

Together they clambered up the bank to the tracks, and, with Ian’s arm supporting her, they began the final mile home.

Suddenly she stopped to clasp him fiercely, "Ian, you saved me!"

Breaking away, he said, "Let's get home. Pa and Ma will be worried sick about you."

"What will we tell them?"

"The truth. What else?" Then he worried aloud. "I think that tramp is dead. I wonder what Pa will say?

Mary's appearance created near havoc when they entered the house. Even Ian was shocked when he saw his sister's face in the lamplight. One of her eyes was nearly swollen shut and her face was discolored, dirty and bloody. Even the hair on the back of her head was impregnated with mud.

As Maggy rushed to Mary, she screamed, "Lord in heaven, what has happened?"

Ian attempted to explain while Mary tearfully added details of the attack. Hurriedly, Maggy placed Mary in a chair and ordered Jerold to chip a pan of ice. Moments later she tenderly wiped the filth from Mary's face and applied cold cloths to reduce the swelling.

Patrick was upset, and began to berate Mary. "Lass, you were warned again and again about hoboes and being out after dark!"

Maggy turned to him angrily. "Enough of that talk, Pat. It's lucky we are that she's alive. God in his mercy sent our son to her. Let's not cry over spilt milk."

Her words and fierce manner served to calm him and he hugged the sobbing Mary. "No more tears darlin'. It's glad I am that you're home safe." Turning to his wife, he said grimly, "All the more reason to leave this damned place."

Mary shrugged from her Father's arms. "I've got to bathe; I'm filthy and I feel dirty all over."

Maggy looked at her sympathetically, and then turned to Jerold. "Fetch the washtub. You, Ian, heat water for her bath."

Minutes later Maggy shooed the men from the kitchen so Mary could undress.

Upon leaving the kitchen, Patrick questioned Ian carefully. "Are you sure you killed that scum?"

"I believe so Pa. I hit him as hard as I could; he sure didn't move afterward."

"Good! Then he'll still be there in the morning. No sense getting the neighbors up over it. Early tomorrow morning we'll have a look. Then I'll notify the magistrate in town. There shouldn't be any trouble about it, except for the possibility of an investigation. Also there may be talk . . . " Then a grim look appeared on his face. "And to hell with them that talk, I say!"

Mary felt her pain subside as she sank into the warm water of the wooden tub. Leaning back, her confidence and poise began to return. She closed her eyes and wiled away the horror of the past hour.

"Some men act like rutting beasts with women," her Mother broke in, "but some, like your Father, are gentle and kind. Don't attach too much importance to the act of that horrible man. Rather, take it as a warning to be more careful in the future. You're getting to be a young lady now. Someday you'll become a woman, a beautiful woman. But it's the beauty in your heart that's important. You already have that."

It was true. Mary had filled out this past winter from a coltish girl to an almost mature woman. Her thin, angular arms and legs had rounded, and no longer did she have the beanpole look. Her breasts had budded to fullness and were especially accentuated by her small waist.

Mary's voice was partially muffled from under the cold washcloth she was holding to her face. "I was really scared when that man grabbed me. Ma, I may seem naive, but I'm not simpleminded! Thank the Lord Ian was close behind me. I believe the man would have killed me. Now that I'm home with you and Pa, I'm not afraid anymore." Inwardly, she was content to relax, and she leaned forward as her Mother rinsed her hair. The fright of her experience seemed to be drifting away. Now, it seemed like a bad dream.

As Maggy knelt by the tub rinsing Mary's hair, she found herself almost breathless. She had bitten her lip and could taste the blood. How dare that filth attack my daughter! It's well Ian killed him. She could barely control her emotion when she thought of her daughter's narrow escape. She had no doubt the man would have disposed of Mary after using her. How am I to explain to Mary that this mustn't make a difference in her life? It's going to be a long time before she'll trust another man to put a hand upon her. Her thoughts turned to her own wedding night when Pat had introduced her to the carnal delights. She had been naive and bashful at first, then a willing and enthusiastic partner. For weeks it had bothered her that Pat had been experienced; later, she was almost grateful that he had been masterful, as he had never frightened her.

Maggy remembered nothing of her own mother because she had died before Maggy was old enough to remember, but her thoughts often returned to the years spent with her father. She remembered the harsh demands and rebukes, and the paltry meals due to his impoverished parish. Also the many hours she was forced to memorize biblical passages, from St. Matthew, the Psalms, and the Proverbs. She recalled her father's entreaty: "Remember them all, Margaret: they will lead you to the right path." A fire and brimstone preacher, he had been a strict disciplinarian. He had disapproved of her marriage to Pat, and she had not seen or heard from him these past twenty years.

Pat's plan to move west met with her full approval, and she had little fear of the future. After all, weren't both she and Pat fit and able to work? Their children were all healthy and hardy, needing no mollycoddling.

A smile of pride crept over Maggy's face as she toweled Mary's heavy mop of hair. Her daughter had turned into a beauty this past year, far surpassing her own plainness. She handed Mary a towel and said, "Dry yourself quickly. The kitchen is getting chilly. I'll fetch a robe for you."

There was little sleep that night. Maggy had moved in with Mary to give her a feeling of security; Pat found himself sleeping alone.

When the sun broke over the horizon the next morning, it seemed to dispel the horror of the past night. Before the rest of the family awoke, Patrick and Ian were up and Pat quickly made coffee. Ian watched silently as his father approached the closet and removed his shotgun. As he carefully loaded it and placed a cap on each nipple, he glanced at his son, who rose and walked expectantly to the door. Quietly they left the house and headed for the bridge.

Stopping in the middle of the span, Ian pointed. "He's over there."

"Where is he?"

"Well, he was there last night."

"We'll go down and have a look."

Crossing the span they cautiously descended to the edge of the creek. There, imprinted in the soft mud, were unmistakable signs showing the outline of a man's body. There was also a copious amount of congealed and dried blood by the shoulder imprint.

"The bastard must be alive!" Patrick muttered.

"Or someone carried him off!"

Squatting down, Patrick pointed, "No, those are his hand prints where he raised himself up. See, also the marks of his knees." Turning, he said, "You go back to the farm. I'll go into town and see the law."

There was no church for the McLaren family that Sunday morning, for Mary's swollen face required Maggy's full attention. Patrick failed to return until it was nearly the supper hour; he was tired and discouraged. "When I spoke with the police they immediately began a search, but with no luck. They think he caught one of the freight trains. They're still hopeful of catching him."


¹ - Charles H. Walker remained in the Army Reserve after serving in World War II. He spent ten exciting years as a bush pilot in Ontario, Canada, before returning to the United States and serving for twelve years as a county commissioner. Now retired, Walker concentrates on writing historically accurate stories about the military and pioneering. He lives in Pembina, North Dakota. - From About Author on page about Chuck's Combat Officer memoir, also highly recommended...

Minnesota Norwegians

The Norwegian journalist Paul Hjelm-Hansen was appointed by the governor of Minnesota as a special agent of the newly established Board of Immigration on June 5, 1869, recommended by Senator Aaker. Helm-Hansen was mostly concerned with promoting Norwegian settlement. His name has to a special degree become associated with the Red River Valley, and he is regarded as the one who opened up this area, in both North Dakota and Minnesota, to Norwegian settlement.

He emigrated from Norway a mature and experienced man of fifty-seven in 1867. He became concerned with the increasing number of his compatriots who for one reason or another settled in a city, such as Chicago, where, as he warned in Norwegian-American newspapers, they would become a part of a workers' proletariat, re-create the conditions they had left by emigrating, and be "doomed to poverty and annihilation." He made himself a spokesman for the healthy life as a farmer on the fertile soil of Minnesota.

In the summer of 1869, Hjelm-Hanson went by ox-drawn wagon from Alexandria in Douglas County all the way to the Red River district [the region around the Red River of the North in what became Manitoba...] When he returned to Alexandria after three weeks, he wrote his travel accounts, sixteen in all. These were printed in the newspapers Nordisk Folkeblad (Nordic People's Paper) and Fadrelandet og Emigranten (The Fatherland and the Emigrant). Hjelm-Hansen underscores how advantageous the new regions would be for "Scandinavian farmers" and how healthy "the clean air" is. For potential farmers, it was perhaps more important to know that the land was "to the highest degree fertile and extraordinarily easy to cultivate, for there was not as much as a stone or a stump to block the plow."

From The Promise of America by O.S. Lovoll

My own family, on my father's side, was part of that wave of Norwegian emigration. They settled in Polk County near McIntosh, Angus, and Tabor. Later his uncle opened a cafe in St. Vincent, and while working there, my father met a local girl he eventually married, my mother...