Jonas Petter added that he had heard last night that Colonel Sibley, who lived in Mendota, had already on Tuesday sent his family to Fort Snelling. This more than anything else had frightened people in St. Paul.
Now Karl Oskar grew concerned; the former governor did not consider his family safe in Mendota! The officer in charge must know what he was doing.
He made a quick decision: “Yes, the children must get away! You take them with yours, Algot!”
As the men were leaving, Karl Oskar remembered that Danjel Andreasson had gone to see his son in Acton to help him with the harvest. He called after his neighbors: “Are they back at Danjel’s?”
“No, they’re with Sven in Meeker.”
“They must be in the midst of it!”
Jonas Petter stopped still; it struck him that Danjel and his sons and daughter-in-law were indeed in Meeker County, the very place where the Indians had started the uprising.
“You’re right, Karl Oskar. I wonder how they’ll manage. .”
Jonas Petter’s face had stiffened. Slowly he folded his hands: “O Lord God! O Lord, save Danjel and his. .”
Jonas Petter was not a pious man; he seldom prayed. But now he was standing with folded hands. And it was not for himself that he called on the Lord God. He prayed a warm, fervent prayer for some people who had been his neighbors, people whom he had been close to for many years, people he wanted to see live, whom he wanted to be with again.
— 2—
Music from a black organ:
But today was Thursday, August 21, and the people Jonas Petter prayed for were no longer to be found among the living. They were on one of the hundreds of farms where already all life was extinguished.
This Thursday had been preceded by a Sunday. During their dinner rest on the Sabbath they had been caught unaware. While resting in the shade behind the cabin their minutes ran out and they entered another rest which no one could disturb.
Four days had now gone by, and Danjel Andreasson and his eldest son remained in a field, undisturbed in their new rest. It would be another two days before the soldiers found their bodies.
Only a few paces separated the bodies of father and son. The father was running these paces when he fell. He had seen his son fall and was hurrying to his aid. Thus his life was crowned by his death. The God Danjel confessed sacrificed his only son for humanity’s salvation. Danjel sacrificed himself, his own life, for his eldest son.
But he was an earthly being, he was made of earth, he belonged to the soil of the field that was now his bed. His body was rotting on the ground near his son with whom he had shared the moment of death. Under the hot sun baking the field, their bodies soon were transformed and returned to their home in the earth.
Coming from far away they had sought a new home in a new country, and here they had found their permanent home: They had returned to man’s sure and everlasting abode.
Their resting place in the field, from early morning till late night, was marked by a thick swarm of big, black, fat flies. An uncountable number of these winged creatures held a wake over the dead settlers. A black cloud of the air’s buzzing life hovered over their corpses. The flies kept the wake faithfully, untiringly. They gathered and formed their dark cloud around the bier as soon as the sun began to shine over the field in the morning, and they did not part when twilight fell in the evening. During the night the swarm disappeared, it was invisible to the eye, but its sound told of its presence.
Uninterrupted, through day and night, the buzzing, whirring sound of the flies continued. From the black swarm over the field it rose like the surging peal of an organ; a monotonous playing as from eternity’s depth, it strained on through day and night. A buzzing, whirring psalm was sung over the unburied corpses. From the swarm of small, whirring lives organ music was played over humans who had returned to the dust.
Play, black organ, play over this field, and over the other hundreds where the tiller has come home. Play over these dead, sing the whirring psalm for those who here enjoy rest in the earth! Play and whir through day and night, strike up a hymn for a funeral aboveground for these tillers who here have settled for eternity!
On a hundred settlements all life had ceased; this black cloud was the wakers’ organ.
And the black organ hummed, it whirred, it buzzed its psalm over Danjel Andreasson and his son, and for all those who had fallen back upon the earth that owned their bodies.
On this day the black organ played at seven hundred funerals in the settlers’ country. It would play at other places, still waiting.
— 3—
On one of the oldest farms only the husband and wife were left behind. Their children had been evacuated with their neighbors, who had left their homes and sought safety.
The wife lay sick and the husband sat beside her bed. He watched over her through day and night. While she slept he had sent away the children and he worried lest she should ask for them when she woke up. But only once did she wonder why she didn’t see them or hear their voices. He told her the boys were busy with the harvest and the girls were picking berries in the forest. The wife did not seem to suspect the husband was lying to her.
The sick one was not able to take any food, but as she suffered from fever-thirst she drank a great deal of water. From a bottle on the table beside the bed, the husband poured a yellow-brown, syrupy fluid into a spoon and gave it to the wife, who swallowed reluctantly.
On this farm quiet and inactivity reigned. No chores were performed; neither inside nor outside was there any sound of activity. No children ran about and played and laughed. The cattle had been let out into the forest, and in the evening the cows came to the gate and waited for their milkmaid. But she did not come to meet them with her pail and stool, she did not sit down to lean her head against their sides. In her place a man attempted to relieve their swollen udders with his rough, clumsy fingers which squeezed the teats awkwardly. In the fields the crops were left overripe and the heads grew heavier and bent lower each day. No scythe was touched, no straw cut, no sheaves bound, no shocks built, no ricks brought the crops to the barn. No one called any longer from the stoop, announcing mealtime, no one went to and from his work, no one went to rest or rose from his bed.
The place seemed desolate, deserted. But a man and a wife remained. She lay in her bed inside the house and seldom made any sound, he moved cautiously when he approached or left her. He went in and out of the house without her noticing. He answered her when she spoke but did not speak to her if she lay with her eyes closed.
During the last days he had not noticed any change in her. She herself had said she knew she would pull through.
Thus a husband kept watch over his wife. Only for the shortest moments did he leave his chair at her bed and stroll outside. Under the clear sky a serene peace reigned over his land these days. There lay his farm with all the crops, trees, fruit, grass — surrendered to itself. Under the flaming sun the earth enjoyed a long, lazy dinner rest. His claim sloped toward the shore, and it seemed as undisturbed and peaceful as the day he had discovered it, resting here and waiting for him since the day of Creation.
When he stepped outside he looked and always peered in the same direction: to the west, where there rose a sandstone cliff which had the appearance of a man’s head, but a hundred thousand times larger. There rose a high cliff wall, glittering red in the sunshine — a wall of threat and danger. The Indian head!
All his life until now he had followed this command: You must always help yourself! Always use your common sense and your strength! In every situation you must only trust your own ability. Never give up in danger! Never think there is no use going on! Always try once more! Never lose heart and say, there is nothing more I can do.