News from the Past: 1852 Pembina

Pembina in 1850: Illiteracy, Flood, and Warpath

From Pembina – The U.S. Deputy Marshal who has been engaged in taking the census at Pembina has arrive at St. Paul. He reports the crops entirely destroyed by the unusually high waters, and many houses swept away. He reports the educational interests of Pembina, not in a very flattering state. The schoolmaster has gone abroad, and of 166 inhabitants, only twenty-six can read and write – fifteen males and eleven females. When three days travel southwest of Pembina a party of seven Sioux Indians were attacked by sixty Chippewas, and six were killed and scalped. These tribes are always at war.

SOURCE
Wisconsin Democrat, page [3], vol. 5, iss. 40
Publication Date: November 2, 1850
Location: Madison, Wisconsin
Headline: From Pembina
Article Type: News/Opinion

Do You Know These People?

Mike Rustad contacted me today with the photo above. He gave me the information below...

Trish, you would not remember either Gunda Rustad Campbell (Grandpa Rustad's sister and her much older husband, James Campbell. I remember James Campbell when I was a toddler. Gunda died many years before me and lived next door to Mary Flankey. My second-cousin was trying to identify the persons in the photo. I believe it was a young Mary Flankey. Maybe you could post these St. Vincent residents picture on St. Vincent Girl. I would love it if you would because they do have a St. Vincent connection. Do you remember hearing the name, Mary Flankey?

The name Flankey seems vaguely familiar, hearing it from my family, but I'm not sure. Anyone reading this can help identify those in the photo, please leave a comment here...

Nuisance Ground

Alec Mason, a past resident of St. Vincent, used to haul unburnable trash to the local nuisance ground with his horse and wagon. Back in the day, everyone burned their trash - many would compost peelings and leftover fruit and veg - and before there was such a thing known as recycling, people returned bottles for deposit refunds, etc.

When I was a little girl, I looked forward to a run to the nuisance grounds with my Dad. It always meant we would drive there in the '50 Chevy, my grandparents' old car, and use the trailer; the trailer was made out of the bed of an old Ford Model A pickup truck. As we'd drive down our road Dad would let me put my arms out of the car to touch the foxtails as they whipped past. It was as much fun to me as going to the fair to ride a merry-go-round.

Once we got down into town, we'd turn right (going west) to head for the river. The sloping river banks of the Red River of the North was where St. Vincent's nuisance grounds were. I always wanted to hunt around to find treasures, but Dad warned me it was too dangerous for me, so I heeded him despite my curiousity. Once he dumped everything, then I got to ride in the back of the trailer all the way home, a real treat for me!

When the nuisance ground got 'full', or fall came around (whichever came first), the town would have someone bulldoze the whole mess into the river; heaven knows what explorers might find at the bottom of the red near the confluence of the Pembina and Red rivers!

News from the Past: Land Rights

Oh, dear - I wonder if anyone lost their land in the end result?

Retracing the Red River Trail

.
The names are like historical markers in the tale of America's westward expansion: the Cumberland Road, the Oregon Trail, the Santa Fe Trail. These passages of pioneers and commerce have become the stuff of legend.

But the Red River Trail? Who remembers its place in history? Indeed, how many people know of it at all?

From Retracing the Red River Trail

"The ancient Lake Ridge . . . forms a beautiful dry gravel road wherever traversed, and suffers only from the drawback of being the favourite haunt of numerous badgers, whose holes . . . are dangerous to horses; it is, apparently perfectly level for a hundred miles."
Henry Hind, 1857

Profile: Lillian Lapp

For some of my grade school years, I attended the St. Vincent School. It was a very special place, and I feel very lucky to have been able to do so. My mother and my grandfather also attended school in it.

One grade that I attended there was 4th grade, taught by Mrs. Bergh. Mrs. Bergh was a traveler in her off-months, and would bring us back tales, foods, and souveniers from exotic places like Hawaii and Alaska.

Her teacher's aide was Mrs. Lapp...

Mrs. Lapp was from the old school. She ran a tight ship and would not tolerate foolishness. One day, my foolishness caught up with me.

"Patricia Short, you can't do more than one thing at a time unless you're in the circus!" Mrs. Lapp told me, when I wasn't paying full attention in class. I then proceeded to demonstrate to her that I could, by standing on one leg, rubbing the top of my head, and rubbing my stomach counter clockwise, all at the same time...she was not amused...! And no, I do not remember what happened next.

Profile: Clara Fitzpatrick

Clara, in the middle, serving at a friend's wedding, Church of the Assumption, Pembina ND (1947)

She had a great sense of humor and was always jolly. My Aunt Pat and her used to laugh almost non-stop when together. She was also a fantastic cook. She ran a restaurant for a time in Pembina. She made all the meals and even baked all kinds of stuff and sold bakery items. Made the best raised donuts. Baked bread and sold it, pies, cakes, cookies etc. Plus raising 6 kids. How she did all that baking and cooked the restauant meals too is beyond me. Aunt Pat used to help her out a lot when there visiting. She would not ever give out a recipe though for her bakery items as she said every time she gave out a recipe it would fail for her next time she made it. So she would not give them out.

NOTE: Others in photo are - Harriet (Fitzpatrick) Short (my mother, to Clara's left), Rose Monet & Therese Roy... sure who 5th person is, nor which is Rose and which is Therese!

Sheriff Charley Brown: Chapter XXI

Wednesday, June 23, l881

For the past week Marguerite's thoughts had become more and more unsettled. Although she and Charley met almost daily and spent an occasional evening together, she knew he was frequently seeing Josey and her children. In fact she had seen the four promenading along the downtown streets on more than one occasion. Whenever she brought up the subject, Charley immediately grew cold, obviously irritated, finally saying, "Damn it all, Marguerite, get off that subject."

Revulsion finally came as she was checking the hotel dining room in preparation for the noon meal; Eliza Brown entered the doorway to confront her.

"Miss Grant, I must speak with you. It is vitally important, for my son is preparing to marry soon."

Marguerite was startled, almost speechless as Eliza's words registered. "Are you sure about that?"

"Dead sure! He is going to marry Josey Watson. Hasn't he told you yet?"

"He hasn't said a word to me." A sudden, sickening feeling came; she could feel her world falling apart.

"Young lady, did you think he was going to marry you? Why, you are nothing but a breed! Nothing but a tramp! Used goods! Do you think a man of my son's stature would stoop so low as to marry the likes of you?"

Colors began to swim before Marguerite's eyes; she was beginning to feel faint. Sagging into a chair, she muttered, "I don't believe it. Charley would never marry that woman without telling me."

"Oh no? Perhaps he hesitates to do so. Did you think that after two years he would finally marry you?" Her vicious look suddenly turned triumphant, "Why buy the cow when the milk is free?"

Marguerite suddenly felt an inner strength and rose to her feet -- a sudden rage came. "Get away from me, you old hag! Marry your precious son to that woman who abandoned him years ago. If he marries her after the way she treated him, he'll deserve everything he gets!"

At that moment Mrs. Geroux entered the room. "What is the trouble, Marguerite? I heard loud shouting."

Marguerite's temper had peaked and she pointed her finger shakily at Eliza Brown. "That old woman has just informed me that Charley is marrying the woman who is visiting her. She, the same as called me a slut because I'm of mixed breed, a Métis!

Mrs. Geroux looked coldly at Eliza. "Eliza, up to now we have been pleasant friends, but no longer. Please leave my place of business this instant -- don't ever come back! You won't be served. I happen to be Métis myself, and both my husband and I are proud of it."

The look on Eliza's face was scathing as she hurriedly left. Marguerite almost instantly burst into tears, throwing herself into the protective arms of her friend. Gently, Mrs. Geroux led her to the adjoining bar.

"We both need a lift after seeing that old harridan." Handing a napkin to Marguerite, she added, "Wipe your tears child. Some men just aren't worth a damn!"

Casually she poured whiskey into two glasses and added water. Handing one to Marguerite, she spoke softly, "It's a bit strong, but perhaps that's best." Picking up the other glass she tossed the drink down neatly. Turning, she asked, "What are you going to do now?"

Marguerite barely sipped at her drink. "Paul has asked me to marry him; I'm going to do just that. Perhaps it will be for the best. He's handsome and although I don't believe I love him, perhaps that will come in time."

"Isn't that the young man who was here during the Christmas holidays, the one who escorted you to the Emerson Ball?"

"Yes. He proposed to me that night while on our way back from Emerson, but I was so confused. I still love Charley, but it's hopeless now. I'll wire Paul to see if he still wants me. Perhaps he's changed his mind."

"I doubt it. He seemed to have a serious crush on you. Couldn't you tell?"

Marguerite shook her head impatiently, "I'll soon know. I'll send a wire from the telegraph office."

"Best you wire from the depot in St. Vincent. Anything that's sent from Pembina seems to be on the street within minutes." She put a comforting arm around Marguerite's shoulders. "I know you won't feel like working tonight. Why don't you go home and think things over. Perhaps you're being too hasty."

"You're right. I don't feel up to facing people. I feel more like hiding myself away. But I've made up my mind; if Paul wants me I'll go to him."

Leaving the hotel Marguerite found the street almost devoid of people. A slight breeze from the west filtered dancing spots of sunlight beneath the trees. As she turned down the hill toward the ferry a startled flock of redwing blackbirds rose in a black cloud to twist away up-river, the rust-tinted females mixed with black, shiny males. Trudo, the ferryman was lounging on a bench just outside his small shack on the barge, his hooked pipe resting against his chin. Rising, he walked over to his rowboat and began untying the bow rope. "I'll row you over, Marguerite -- it's quicker." Steadying her step into the flat-bottomed boat, he queried, "Quitting early today? You usually don't return home until just before dark."

"I've got problems, Joe. I'll have to sort them out on my own."

Trudo stepped into the craft and unshipped the oars, using one to push away from the barge a wry smile came to his face. "Everyone has troubles, even me. If the river is high, ferrying is hard work. If the river is low the barge sticks in the mud and I've got to dig it out. Then too, I must lower the cable when each steamboat passes. Either that or they'll break my wire. My only solace is a drink now and then."

Marguerite said nothing, knowing well that Joe was often too drunk to operate the ferry. When that happened teamsters took matters into hand and cranked the ferry across themselves, failing to pay. Determined, she stopped at the railroad depot to wire Paul. She found herself fighting tears that embarrassed her. Her wire was blunt: Do you still want to marry me? If so, where will I meet you? Marguerite.

Her answer came shortly before the supper hour while she and her mother were arguing over her decision to marry Paul. Her mother was advising restraint, when a sudden knock on the door was heard. Opening the door Marguerite found the depot agent's small son holding an envelope. The lad was smiling bashfully. "Pa said you'd want this telegram right away."

"Thank you, Pat!" Nervously she handed him a coin, then as he left she slid her finger under the envelope flap. Unfolded, the message brought a sudden feeling of euphoria and confidence: Yes! Yes! Yes! When can you take the train to Chicago? Let me know the time of your arrival. I will meet you, or I'll come for you if you like. All my love! Hurry! Hurry! Paul.

Handing the wire to her mother, she said, "Mother, my mind is made up! I'm going to look out for myself, and gain all the happiness I can. There is nothing left for me here. There must be a future with Paul."

"I still think you are making a mistake. You should confront Charley."

"After that scene with his Mother? I just couldn't face him. I'm not going to take any more abuse."

"At least talk with Susan. If you do go to Paul you'll have to plan ahead."

"Oh, I'll see Susan, but I'm leaving tomorrow morning. I'll pack my clothes tonight. Thank goodness I've money on hand."

"If you're short that's no problem. You know I keep a little hidden away."

Putting her arms around her mother, Marguerite hugged her affectionately. "Mom, you've put up with me for years. It's time I left the nest. I'll always love you, you know that!"

"Yes, both you and Susan have grown up to be everything I've wanted you to be. You both have talent and I'm proud of you. Susan has married a fine man and I know you'll do well. I did like Paul, he was honest with me when he came to pick you up that New Year's evening. He told me he was going to marry you. It came as a sudden shock and I never mentioned it to you. Perhaps I've favored Charley too much. Anyway, you know I'll always support you."

Marguerite took the telegram from her mother's hand, folding it slowly. "I'm going over to Susan's. If I catch the early train tomorrow, I'd better say my good-byes."

She found Susan in the garden behind their house weeding rows of vegetables. Her small son, Patrick, was rolling on a blanket nearby, bare legs thrust in the air. Susan was obviously surprised at her sister’s appearance.

"How come you're home so early?" Then she detected the signs of distress on Marguerite's face. Rising to her feet she brushed the dirt from her hands. "What's up? Is there trouble?"

Marguerite silently handed her the telegram, then turned to pick up the baby.

"So what are you going to do about this?" Susan waved the wire impatiently.

Fondling the smiling child, Marguerite attempted to explain her encounter with Charley's mother.

"That horrible woman!" Susan's anger showed. "Then you're really going to marry Paul. Is that it?" Suddenly she looked distressed, "Oh, Marguerite, you'll be so far away from us!"

"It's not the end of the world. We'll see each other; the trains still run."

"I've done enough weeding. Let's go inside and make tea." She looked toward the lowering sun as it cast long shadows across the garden. "It's getting late, Ian and the boys will be home soon. Best I get supper started."

While preparing tea, she suggested, "I've that yellow silk dress and the long blue one. I'll never wear them again. They'll be handy where you're going."

"Oh, they've both meant so much to you, I can't accept them."

"Why not? Mary passed that yellow silk down to me when she married Kirby, and I've worn the blue one on three occasions. They'll both fit you. Heck, they're old hat to me."

"In that case I'll gladly take them. I had planned on traveling light, but perhaps I should pack a small trunk. I can check it on my ticket."

"That's what I'd do; you can carry a small bag too. Since Paul will meet you at the station in Chicago there shouldn't be a problem. Why don't I come over after supper and help you pack. I'll bring the dresses. After all, we probably won't see each other for weeks, even months. At least I'll be able to see you off at the depot."

Marguerite found herself tossing and turning in bed that night, unable to catch a firm sleep. She hoped she would be able to relax on the trip, not wanting to appear tired and worn when she reached Paul. At early daylight she awoke to the crunching sounds of coffee beans being ground in the kitchen. Dressing hurriedly, she joined her mother who was bustling about the stove.

"Marguerite, Susan and I will both see you off on the train. I'm taking the day off." She turned to face her daughter, "I can't afford going to Chicago to see you married, but I'll see you on your way."

"Oh, Mom, you'll lose a day's pay at the fort.""

"No I won't. I'm getting $20 a month now and the fort furnishes me rations to take home. That's a lot more than the $13 a month the soldiers get. Ian is coming by to pick up your trunk. He'll drop Susan so the three of us can walk to the depot together.

"Where's Pa?"

"He went fishing at daylight. I didn't tell him you are leaving."

"No matter, I know who my true Father is." She felt an instant guilt, knowing the hurt her Mother must feel.

She could bite her tongue for she knew the remark was uncalled for. Her mother flushed, dropping her head. "Long ago I should have told you girls the truth, that Peter was your Father, but he wouldn't allow it. At least he told Susan the truth before he was murdered."

"Yes, he told Susan and she told me. That was after the night she was nearly raped; the night our Father killed that horrible man."

Marguerite, Susan and her mother walked to the depot at 7 a.m. the following morning, arriving only minutes before the train pulled into the station. The sharp whistle of the engine could be heard in the distance as the train switched onto the St. Vincent spur. The low rumble gradually grew louder and louder, the sound diminishing as the engine slowed to a stop just beyond the depot platform. Clouds of steam immediately surrounded the huge wheels, accompanied by a rhythmic, panting sound. Ian, emerged from the door of the express office with Marguerite's baggage check at the tips of his fingers. Seeing the three women standing together, he joined them, to say, "Your trunk is cleared through to Chicago. It'll be there to be picked up at your leisure." Handing the baggage check to Marguerite, he wrapped his arms around her in a fond embrace to whisper in her ear, "I only met Paul that one time at Christmas, but I really liked him. I know you'll have a good life together."

"Oh, Ian, thank you! I'll bring him back someday to really get acquainted."

Giving her mother and Susan a final hug she boarded the car at the brakeman's warning. Seating herself next to the window she gazed down at her family as they searched for the sight of her. When the train began backing toward the main line she saw her mother wiping tears as she waved. The smile on Susan's face seemed fixed, almost grim. Ian was waving slowly, a worried look on his face.

As they passed from sight she began reviewing her plans. She would arrive in St. Paul the next morning at 9 a.m. then transfer to another railroad for the final trip to Chicago. A sudden dark thought came when she realized she hadn't come around on time this month; she was overdue nearly a week. Could it have been that last Sunday in May when she and Charley picnicked out past the fort? Then she smiled to herself, relieved, remembering the many times she had been late. Things had been so stressful these past days, anxiety was probably the culprit. After all, she and Charley had been intimate before, and nothing had happened. That lack had been frustrating, for she had wanted his child. She realized that during the past weeks Charley seemed no longer close to her. Their lives had seemed not to be blending, more like separating. She knew that a wedding between she and Charley would have been fraught with danger with his mother pulling the strings of dissent. She also realized that even with her stepfather's drinking problem, the affection and love in her family had been constant. Now it was her emotions that were twisting her heart, for Charley's mother had made her feel almost helpless.

As the train cleared the sidetrack and gained speed, she glanced upward through the window, noting the fleecy, snow white cumulus clouds that cast shadowy ocher colors on the terrain. Between their folds she noted the Delft sky that reminded her of a saying she had read, enough blue to make a Dutchman a pair of pants. She found herself suddenly eager to see Paul.

Pembina Chippewa Métis Cemetery

After recently reading about a trip by a teacher and her students to the Pembina Metis Cemetery, I got in touch the instructor, Leslie Peltier.

I asked Leslie if she could share with me about the ties between Turtle Mountain and the Pembina area by answering the following questions:

1. Why is the Pembina Metis Cemetery important?
2. Does anyone have relatives buried there?
3. Does anyone have any biographical information and/or stories of people buried there?
4. I grew up with many Metis families, went to school with them, but didn't know they were Metis never hearing the term until many years later. I seriously doubt many Metis I knew really knew their own history. They were heavily integrated into our communities. Which is ironic, because after studying the history of our area, the Metis were the first and the majority in the Pembina area when it began being a settlement. Most Metis left, for various reasons, but some stayed. How do you see the legacy of the Metis people to the Pembina area?
5. Why did you choose to study about the Pembina Metis and/or the cemetery?

Their answers are below...

Dear Trish,

Thanks (Miigwech) for waiting for answers. The class is now over and the students are dispersed, doing other things this summer, but are still interested in the ongoing struggle to maintain our generational connections by ceremonies and grounds clean up as was done by our group on May 20, 2008 with tribal councilmen and Turtle Mt. Tribal dept. of Natural Resources. I spoke with the students and told them to answer your questions as they want. I will try now to do so.

1. The Pembina Chippewa Métis Cemetery is important as a direct line to our ancestry, as a part of our people’s gynecological history and to our cultural roots.

2. Yes, there are many Chippewa people here at Turtle Mt. Chippewa Reservation that can trace back to Pembina relatives 3-4 generations.

3. Such information would have to come from the elders memories. To do that and record it are another matter. It would be on an individual to individual family basis, family stories.

4. ...Yes it is ironic that the very people who worked so hard to make money for the big fur trade companies all moved on and were left penniless and unwanted, or ashamed to admit to being Indian. That is the one essential element that the faculty and students here at the Turtle Mt. Community College insisted on upholding in our research – that our sense of pride in being Chippewa extends to those ancestors buried there in Pembina and in all the other yet to be discovered places along the Red River cart trails extending from the Red River all the way across the present-day state of North Dakota. Today we teach that we (members of T Mt. Band of Chippewa) should have pride in our people’s knowledge of the land, the methods and techniques of the hunt and in our Indian customs.

5. Because there is so much unfinished and misleading information out there about us as a people. We also felt that a serious injustice has been done to our people that needed to be addressed. We studied it to uncover the truth and to look at the alternatives we have available to make wise decisions in the future if other burial sites are in peril both here on the reservation and off.

Hope this is what you wanted. Miigwech! Leslie

Background:

They are maintaining the cemetery now, showing respect by keeping the grass mowed and fixing the markers as needed. The tribe is also talking about sponsoring an archeological survey to verify grave locations and individuals' indentities in those graves.

Custody of the site was given to the Turtle Mountain Band of Chippewa after an unsuccessful bid to make the area a state park by the Union Nationale Metisse, a Manitoba-based organization founded to preserve Metis culture. Earlier the same year, the group from Canada planted simple, wooden crosses to mark the graves of some of those buried at the site.

Controversy stirred in 2005, when the Union Nationale Metisse said members of Turtle Mountain weren’t taking proper care of the cemetery.

That’s not the case now, according to Brady Grant, the tribe’s natural resources director. For the past three years, he’s made the 300-mile roundtrip about six times a year to mow the grass and re-seed bare spots at the site.

Learning About the past

Leslie Peltier, who teaches Contemporary Indian Issues at the Turtle Mountain Community College, stood for the first time Tuesday at the cemetery’s edge. She offered tobacco — a sign of respect — as she stepped onto the site. It wasn’t until she glimpsed an eagle overhead that she said she felt their visit was the right thing to do, she said.

The visitors prayed and performed ceremonies of respect to honor the dead. A drum group from Turtle Mountain sang and prayed there as well.

Peltier and two of her students, Symone Morin and Alexis Zaste, visited the site as part of a class project.

“Since these are our ancestors, we decided to look into it. We didn’t know the history of it; I didn’t even know this was here,” Zaste said. Her class put together a presentation about the site, titled “Plowed Over,” and presented it to other students from tribal colleges in the state.

There are about 50 markers at the site on about two acres of land, but there’s an additional eight acres preserved. The additional acreage is covered by tall, unkempt grasses and possibly hides the remains of many more unidentified Metis.

Those in attendance talked about ways to improve the site, including adding a place for prayer and possibly planting trees.

Wilkie said the tribal council should fund an archaeological survey on the rest of the site.

“We need to take this back to the council and expand on it. I’m 85 years old, and I want to see the fruit of it come around,” she said.