Morning Thanks

Garrison Keillor once said we'd all be better off if we all started the day by giving thanks for just one thing. I'll try.

Tuesday, May 08, 2018

Small Wonder(s)--What happened at Drum Creek

Caroline Fraser says that what Laura Ingalls Wilder wrote down about Kansas, long ago, says a great deal about her, despite the fact that the Kansas prairie was the very first home she knew, home to her very first memories. She wrote those memories down on "Big Chief" tablets and never intended them for publication, like so much else she put to writing. Just for the record, Caroline Fraser's Prairie Fires: The American Dreams of Laura Ingalls Wilder, just won the Pulitzer. It's a great read.

Laura remembered her father's quiet assurances to her family. He'd remind them there was nothing to worry about, even though, late into the night, the dancing and singing of the Osage people not far away created a sound she claimed seemed to her childish imagination worse than howling wolves. Neither did she forget that some noisy nights, Charles, her father, would be awake, his gun at his side.

The Osage weren't homeless, but they were refugees; and, in 1860s, when the Ingalls family arrived, they were very much strangers in a strange land. Their native land was Missouri and Arkansas, but when white folks swarmed in Arkansas and Missouri looked prime. So, like so many others, the Osage were moved farther west. In 1825, some Osage made camps in eastern Kansas, where, some years later, Charles Ingalls determined to live. 

The Osage were--and still are--a proud people, tall and fierce, a formidable bunch. But dislocation and disease wore them down. Already in the 1850s, when Kansas went to war with itself in the opening rounds of the Civil War, the Osage, time and again, found themselves victims of violence all around. As people say, the Osage had no dog in that hunt, the hunt to determine whether Kansas would be "slave or free."

Nor did anyone ask their opinion about the attack on Ft. Sumter. The bloody Civil War subjected them to swarming armies of Yankees and Rebs looking for recruits, mercenaries. For the record, the broad plains of eastern Kansas in the middle decades of the 19th century were not the Elysian Fields. But that's where Charles Ingalls, the dreamer, took his family. And he wasn't alone.

You have to look hard to find the Drum Creek historical marker set up just outside of Independence, Kansas. It's off the road a bit, north. If you stop to find it, you won't fight off a crowd, because the story itself, mean and bloody, is itself a vagrant. You don't know who exactly to celebrate or how. In a way, it's a story without a real home.

It goes like this. Once upon a time a bunch of Rebs were working their way north, under cover, when a band of Osage found them in the neighborhood. Honestly, the Osage were going to meet Father Schoonmaker at the Indian Mission School--I'm not making this up. The Rebs were trespassing, so the Osage simply asked them who they were. "We're from the Fort," they said, an answer that failed miserably because the Osage knew by name the Union soldiers, and these galoots weren't them.

Up went the suspicion. Words were exchanged, then a little gunfire, and a death--one of the Osage went down. 

What started quite peaceably ended nowhere near. Eventually, the rebs--we may just as well call them spies--took refuge where they shouldn't have, in some horrible place, where they were killed, slaughtered, every last one of them. The Osage then punctuated their victory by doing things to the reb bodies that I'd rather not mention. Think the worst.

The story that historical marker tells is that story, the story of the Drum Creek battle, which, believe me, the Osage won, going away. It was a slaughter that somehow wasn't evil but most certainly wasn't good. 

May well be a blessing that historical marker is hard to find. Even a yankee like me doesn't quite know how to cheer what went down at Drum Creek.

Just a few years later, the Ingalls' family moved in, squatters. Charles Ingalls never once questioned whether the government would let him stay on what some worthless treaty claimed was Osage land. He simply assumed that if he built a log cabin on the Verdigris River, Washington would find a way to get those blame Indians the heck out.

And, of course, he was right. The government did just that.

Laura Ingalls Wilder, as a child, remembers wandering through an abandoned Osage camp, picking up beads, multi-colored beads, "a great many red ones," from the ground, things the Osage people left behind when they were pushed on.

That very day, she says, when she came back home to the log house her father had built, she and her sister Mary discovered their mom holding a brand new little baby, another sister, Caroline Celestia. All of that happened close by.

You have to get off Highway 160, and you got to look good to find the marker. But it's there. Just like the story, even if you don't know quite what to make of it.

1 comment:

Jerry27 said...

I was so impressed with Roger McBride's exercising his job an elector and voting for Hospers/Nathan in 1972, that I became interested in Rose Wilder Lane writings.
I recently attended the Laurapaloza in Brookings. It is a good place to buy books.