Under the settlers’ fear lay a feeling of guilt, more or less conscious; they felt there was an unsettled matter between them and the country’s former owners: The Indians wanted to rid themselves of the whites. This they must count on and fear: One day the redskins would try to exact their revenge on them, and exact it in blood.
That day had come.
Indian panic spread through the St. Croix Valley. The people were drawn from their daily chores by a new urgent concern: their own lives. They knew they were all intended as slaughter-prey for Little Crow and Chief Shakopee’s warriors.
The Sioux war cry, which was aimed at every white inhabitant of Minnesota, echoed over the valley in those days. People feared to repeat five words which were soon known to everyone — the flaming red letters in the sky, as it were:
Every white man must die!
And during these days of panic something strange happened: The tall cliff at Chisago Lake grew in height. The formation assumed greater proportions and threw its shadow ever wider. The stone Indian straightened his rebellious and proud neck and held his green-wreathed head higher in the sky. The unusually brilliant sun gave to the forehead a red glow which no one had seen before.
And people turned to the cliff and said: Look! The Indian is coming to life! He has war paint on his face! Look!
The Indian at Lake Chisago waited in stony immobility. From the west they would come, there behind his mighty back, there they were in motion; his kinfolk were approaching.
The hunter people had arisen to drive out the intruders and take back their own land.
XIII. EVERY WHITE MAN MUST DIE!
— 1—
On the afternoon of Wednesday, August 20, Karl Oskar Nilsson was busy shocking wheat on his last clearing. With an iron bar he made a hole in the ground, pushed a pole into it, and leaned eight sheaves against the pole; then he hung four more crossways on the pole as a “hat.” Each hat-sheaf he bent against his knee before he hung it so that heads and roots of the four top sheaves pointed downward and made a protecting roof in case of rainy weather. The wheat was tall enough to make stately shocks in straight rows, like a long line of soldiers in the field.
In the past wheat had been cheap, as low as forty cents a bushel, but during the war it had constantly risen in price until it now brought a whole dollar a bushel. That was why he had planted three quarters of his field with this grain last spring. And all his wheat had now ripened at one time and must be cut and harvested as soon as possible while the favorable weather lasted. This year they had a great harvest rush at his farm.
But today, as Karl Oskar raised shock after shock, his thoughts were not with the labor of his hands; instead they were inside the house where his wife was lying in bed.
Kristina had taken sick last night. She had been seized with pain in her lower abdomen, and a flow of blood. These were the signs of a miscarriage, and he had sent Johan with the team to Stillwater to fetch Dr. Farnley. If for some reason the doctor was unable to come with him, Johan was to fetch Miss Skalrud, the Norwegian midwife.
In the morning Manda Svensson had come to see Kristina and she had confirmed their suspicion; it was a miscarriage. It happened at the beginning of the fourth month.
Now Marta was at home and looked after her mother, who had a high fever with spells of dizziness and great fatigue. Marta would call her father if he were needed.
Karl Oskar put up one shock-post after another but worked as if he neither heard nor saw anything. He counted the sheaves wrong, he put seven around the pole and five on the hat, one too many on top and one too few at the bottom. At one point he put thirteen sheaves in one shock. It had never happened to him before that he couldn’t count to twelve at shocking time.
Kristina was in bed.
Johan could not be back from Stillwater with Dr. Farnley or Miss Skalrud before evening at the earliest, even if he drove the team at bolting speed. Karl Oskar had urged him to drive as fast as the wagon and harnesses would permit. But even if nothing delayed him, the entire day would be required for the round trip.
Meanwhile, Karl Oskar would shock the wheat they had cut so far. He would work as long as daylight permitted him, as long as his eyes could distinguish between the top and bottom of the sheaves.
The tillers hands picked up the sheaves by the straw bands, one after the other. But today he did not notice how full were the heads, how heavy; nor did it gladden his heart. He was not conscious of what he was handling. Eight sheaves against the post, four to the hat — he was not capable of this simple counting. Instead he was counting a few words, and they were old words: A half year ago he had heard them for the first time, that threatening reminder.
Next. . Next time. . Even if he looked about while working he was not aware of what happened around him.
He had not seen the man down on the road who now came running rapidly across his field. He had not heard the heavy, noisy boot-steps behind him.
“Nilsson!”
Only when his name was called did Karl Oskar turn around.
It was Petrus Olausson. He was no daily caller at this farm. Their neighbor had not come to see them for several years, because they had refused to close their door to the wife of Baptist minister Jackson.
But today he must have an urgent errand, since he came in such a rush. He was a heavy man, yet he was running; he was bareheaded, and he had no time for a greeting. He puffed and sputtered as he blurted out:
“The Indians! They’re coming!”
Olausson had stopped a few paces from Karl Oskar, panting for breath. His face was shiny with perspiration, he dried his forehead with both his hands. You could both see and hear that he had been running a long distance.
The words stuck in his throat:
“A horrible Indian outbreak! They’re murdering the settlers. .!”
At first Karl Oskar was more aware of his neighbor’s behavior than of his words. He knew the church warden as a calm and placid man. Never before had he seen this easygoing farmer run. But here was his neighbor, agitated, distraught, running like one pursued.
“They’ve warned us from Fort Snelling. .! The redskins are after blood. .! They’re killing every settler they get near. .!”
Olausson caught his breath and began to speak more coherently. When he was in Center City this morning, a man rode in from Fort Snelling with the Indian alarm; the Sioux to the west were on the warpath along the Minnesota River and had attacked all the settlements in their path. They had murdered every white and burned down every house. Fort Ridgely and New Ulm, which protected the Minnesota Valley, were surrounded by the red savages. People were fleeing toward St. Peter and Mankato, leaving behind a blood-red sky from burning settlements.
The commander at Fort Snelling had sent couriers in all directions to warn the settlers about the Indian danger.
“I’ve run from house to house. .!”
Petrus Olausson’s shiny, hairless head glittered as wet and red as his face. His eyes were wild, his mouth trembled, his voice was now low and thick, now loud and piping.
Karl Oskar understood that this time it was no false alarm. When the Fort Snelling commandant himself had sent riding messengers to the settlers the information must be correct.
He mumbled: “Indian trouble on top of everything. .?”
The red murderers had used the right moment, said Petrus Olausson. These treacherous savages waited till the whites were busy with their own war. Five thousand Minnesotans were gone, and the redskins must have figured that with all ablebodied men away there were now only children and old men left behind on the farms.