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| What is she up to now??? |
The band of gold-seeking emigrants, led by Captain James Fisk, knew they were in trouble. The caravan of ninety-seven covered wagons, one hundred and seventy men, women, and children, and 50 escort troops from Fort Rice, were as exposed as ducks on a pond. They had heard the rumors. They spoke of the dangers in quiet whispers so that the children among them wouldn't hear. They had questioned the wisdom of their leader's decision to follow the uncharted route. But they had hoped and prayed that the rumors were unfounded, that the remaining miles of bone-jarring travel across the grassy prairie would be uneventful, and that their leader was wiser than they gave him credit for. Their hearts burned with gold fever and their dreams lead them to risk everything in trade for a better future.
Their commander, Captain Fisk, foolishly chose to lead the train on an uncharted path in the hopes of saving a few miles. He was confident that General Sully's battle with the Sioux further north in what would later be dubbed as the Killdeer Mountain Battle, would assure them that they would be left alone. They were itching to be on their way. Their impatience would prove to be fatal.
The Sioux had only recently been victims themselves of an unprovoked, devastating attack that robbed them of their winter supplies and forced them to move south for the winter. They wanted revenge. This vulnerable wagon train with its crippled soldier escort would suffer the wrath of an enraged people. *
My short-lived career as a paleontologist came to an end but my lust for adventure did not. What to do... what to do...?
I hugged Trevor goodbye and thanked him for his hospitality - and for buying more bath towels my first night there so that I could have one too (goodness gracious, that kid lives sparsely), and headed my hot rod mini van south on highway 85. I had a destination in mind, but wanted to do some photo safari work on the way. My first stop... Amidon, ND.
See the cop in the car? It's a dummy. This car has been parked in the
same spot in the eensy-weensy town of Amidon for as long as I can
remember. It gives me the giggles every time. Now THAT is how speed
traps are done.
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| I wonder if he has a box of fake donuts riding shotgun? |
The southwest corner of our fair state is ruggedly remote. It is one of my husband's favorite spots. Ranches sit miles off the highway and far, far apart from their neighbors - if they have any at all. Buttes rise majestically, antelope run wild, and you can see so far ahead and behind you that you can almost see the curvature of the earth. The terrain out here makes you feel small and bold simultaneously. Each mile was therapeutic and restorative for me.
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| The old face of North Dakota |
So where was I headed?
While a student at the University of Mary, we were required to volunteer at the Heritage Center - our state museum. I set a goal for myself during that very enjoyable experience of one day visiting every site listed on the historical register. Yesterday I crossed another site off my bucket list.
As I wound my way through the southern edge of the North Dakota prairie, I was struck again by the riches of this vast state. Farmers were busy baling hay for long winter months, crops ripening were visible in endless fields, cattle grazed lazily, and oil rigs pumped their black gold - evidence of a new fever that has drastically changed our state. Wind towers are also increasingly common. Well, no wonder. There is no shortage of wind in these here parts. Opinion is divided on their ability to spoil the beauty of the landscape.
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| The new face of the prairie |
The day was epically beautiful. Three days and three gifts of perfect weather. Thank you, my Creator.
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| This is pretty much how it looked when the settlers came through - endless grass and sky |
After I snapped a pic of the fake cop, I eventually turned off of 85 and onto highway 12. There is little traffic down here. It is as stress-free as driving gets. The occasional slow farm implement is about the only thing that might make you take your foot off the accelerator, but only briefly as clear road will soon appear and you can blow his doors off without danger to him or yourself.
I found Fort Dilts road without too much trouble (thank you, Google Maps) and worked my way through a cloud of scoria dust (a redish mineral they use to cover the roads out here) to the Fort.
Dang creek! The air almost crackled with the tension of waiting for an attack. It was quiet out here. Far too quiet for comfort. The emigrants had heard the far off beat of drums the night before and it raised the gooseflesh on their skin. The children were somber and stayed close to the wagons today, instead of skipping off to look at a rock or simply run off energy.
As the nervous party had crossed Deep Creek, a wagon had struggled to cross and now needed a quick fix before moving on. A second wagon with tools stayed behind to assist, along with eight soldiers. The other ninety-five wagons proceeded on, assured the stragglers would catch up.
This was the opportunity the Sioux had been waiting for. A vicious battle ensued. Both wagons were captures, two of the three emigrants were killed, along with six of the soldiers. The other two soldiers were mortally wounded. Others rushed back to assist, one of them the wagon train scout, Jefferson Dilts, and these heroes were either killed or severely wounded as well. When the attack was over, nine members of the wagon train were dead and three more would die of their wounds later. The Sioux lost two dozen warriors.
I drove through four miles of nothingness. No cars, no noise, no houses. Only a dusty road and gently sloping prairie. North Dakota is good about signs. I had no trouble finding the spot in spite of its isolation.
I was pleasantly surprised to find it freshly mowed. I had done my homework and therefore was not dismayed at the lack of tourist touches. In fact, there was nearly nothing to see. An ancient gate and... a mailbox?? It seemed like an odd addition. A flag pole without a flag. Wild mustard, cone flowers, and scrubby sage bush hugged the site protectively.
I read the story posted on the interpretive sign across from the gate/mailbox. As I read the astonishing story again, with more detail this time, I was a little overcome. Maybe it was the perfect stillness of the site. Maybe it was the absolute lack of interruption. Maybe it was the eerie sense that little had seemed to changed out here in the one-hundred and fifty-one years since that fateful day.
I was so curious about that doggone mailbox I had to peek. Inside I found a book wrapped in plastic. Ahhh.... a guest register. Sure enough, a Walmart-worthy, simple spiral-bound notebook held the names of ghosts of visitors past. Nothing leather-bound or flashy here. I was impressed with the guest list. People from literally all over the country had made the same trek I had. Some had added snarky comments about the lack of shiny amenities. They had expected something else and felt cheated after that long drive.
I, on the other hand, felt the rustic simplicity was befitting. The early settlers had endured terrible hardships in a hostile land. This was the perfect memorial to their ordeal.
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| My imagination labels those as original covered wagon tracks |
The wounded, terrified teamsters found a corral and place to spend the night along the creek. The three wounded in the original attack died and were buried in the corral. As the team tried to move forward over the next two days, things got ugly. The Sioux were relentless in tormenting the party. In retaliation, the whites laced bread with strychnine and left a trail behind them. The Sioux were ravenous (they had lost all of their winter supplies in the attack on their village) so they hungrily ate the poisoned bread. Many died a terrible death from this tactic.
The wagon train reached their breaking point. They knew continuing the trek was impossible under these circumstances. They found a high spot overlooking the surrounding hills, put the wagons in a circle, erected a sod berm for protective purposes, and dispatched two horsemen to ride back to Fort Rice for reinforcements. The dead were buried within the walls of the sod embankment.
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| An artist's rendering of the fort based on eye witness accounts |
The very spot where I now stood.
Sure enough, simple grave markers sprouted from ground like white prairie grasses. I read each one. They listed only the names and ranks of the fallen: Thomas Williamson, Marma Betts, William Chase, Augustine Carpenter, Jefferson Dilts, Theodore Rosch, Joseph Delaney, Ernest Hoffinaster, and James Fisk. The original sod embankment was still visible under the soil.
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| They had the misfortune of being wounded in action only to die as escorts because of the impatience of their commander |
For fourteen days, the wagon train party hid within the sketchy confines of the earthen berm. The stench of over two hundred people, plus their livestock in such close confines was nauseating. No leaving the hastily constructed fort for bathroom purposes! The unending fright, the stench, the frustration of halting the expedition, the crude graves as daily reminders of their peril nearly drove the party mad.
This hell was taking its toll. They had not been bothered by the Sioux for eleven days, but were terrified to leave the fort without cavalry support. At last, on the dawn of the fourteenth day, a long line snaked across the prairie and a shout erupted from the camp. As the troops came closer, the teamsters were overjoyed to see over eight hundred uniformed saviors coming to their rescue. They wept with relief. The terror of the last two weeks melted into joy.
The story ends bleakly. No American spirit rising up here. No Rocky Balboa knock-me-down-and-I'll-just-get-back-up ending. What was left of the party went back to Fort Rice (near Bismarck) and then disbanded. They had had enough of thrill-seeking. For many, it cost them everything. It simply was not worth the price.
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| He is buried where I sit, the brave rescue party leader, Corporal Jefferson Dilts |
As I stood quietly reliving this American tale in my mind, a man who had been baling hay in the field across from me, stopped his machinery and walked toward me. "I don't usually see people stay this long," he said without preamble. His name is James Birch and he was eager to share what he knew of the story, filling in spotty details. I was eager to hear them. Understandably, he is a little protective of this outpost. He is happy when visitors gush about it, and hurt when they complain. He's the one that lovingly keeps it mowed and accessible for history hacks like me. He understands better than most what price the early settlers paid.
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| My personal historian, James Birch |
I love the stories that make up America, the greatest nation on earth. I do not care if people think it gauche to make such a boast. It is time to get some national pride back. The lavish blessings you and I enjoy everyday came at the cost of people like Corporal Jefferson Dilts and his ill-fated companions. I thank them one-hundred and fifty-one years too late.
God bless America...
*
The account of the siege is in my own words - a little historical fiction added - no charge...
