The following is a chapter that was cut from the novel Reclaiming Mni Sota: An Alternate History of the U.S. - Dakota War of 1862. It is told from the perspective of Henry H. Sibley, the former governor of Minnesota who was charged with leading a group of volunteer militia against the Dakota during the U.S. - Dakota War of 1862. The novel, which follows the actual history closely, is an alternate view of history, imagining what might have happened if the Dakota allied with the Ojibwe and defeated U.S. forces.

Henry H. Sibley
Mendota, Minnesota
August 1862

Fog lifted off the Mississippi River and crawled slowly up the sloping bank outside of Henry Sibley’s exquisite Mendota home. Inside, the former governor of Minnesota sat at his kitchen table sipping black coffee and unfolding the St. Paul Daily Press newspaper. At fifty-one years of age the small print had become hard to read, and he found himself leaning closer and closer to the paper with each passing year. It would be a long retirement, he thought, if he could no longer read the daily news.

There was a knock at the door. Checking his pocket watch and seeing that it was still just a quarter to seven, he grumbled but remained seated while his house servant answered the door.

“A message from the governor,” the house servant said, entering the kitchen with a folded telegram in her wizened hand.

Sibley nodded politely, grabbed the telegram and quickly unfolded it on the table in front of him. Before turning his head down to read, a few ducks caught his eye on the lawn just outside the kitchen window. He thought of releasing his hunting hounds for a little fun, but immediately repressed the idea and looked down at the telegram.

Hon. Henry H. Sibley,

I have received word from Agent Galbraith and Lieutenants Gere and Cullen of Fort Ridgely, that the Sioux Indians, in considerable numbers, in the vicinity of the Redwood Agency, have taken the lives and property of our citizens. There is also reason to believe the Ojibwe have marched south to join the Sioux forces. Being that you, Henry, are the most capable leader in this region, I implore you to quell this dangerous uprising. Therefore, I insist that you immediately organize, train, and lead an expedition composed of four companies of infantry now at Fort Snelling to move to the scene of the difficulties with the utmost promptitude.

Respectfully Yours,

Alex. Ramsey; Governor of Minnesota

Sibley lowered the paper and rubbed his hand against his ever-lengthening forehead.

“Who was at the door, dear?” he heard his wife Sarah call from the parlor.

Without answering he retreated to his study, coffee in hand, and sat at his desk. He stared out the window at the lush green sycamores and watched as their low hanging branches swayed in the wind. He had done so much already, he thought. Twenty-eight years he had spent in the region, beginning when it was nothing more than Indian territory with one frontier outpost and a few fur-trading stations. He remembered his days as a store sutler and mail carrier. He quickly worked his way into the community of Natives, traders, trappers, and soldiers. He came to understand the business of the frontier and gained the respect and friendship that allowed his business as a fur trader to grow and flourish. More importantly, he recognized the potential of the place the Dakota called Mni Sota Makoce. It was an untapped wilderness abundant in resources and beauty. His success and ambition led him toward politics. It may have been callous to cut ties the way he did with the Dakota and those in the fur trade, but he established new bonds—stronger bonds—with more influential, powerful people. This allowed him to do great things. Things he never imagined possible as a boy in Michigan. He helped establish Minnesota as a territory of the United States. He negotiated the treaty that opened up more than thirty million acres of land to settlement. He was a member of the U.S. House of Representatives, supporting Minnesota in its growth and maturation. He was a founding member of the state university and state historical society. Then, when Minnesota became a state in 1858, he was voted as its first governor. After doing so much to make Minnesota from an unknown country of Indians and trappers to a state in the Union with a burgeoning, modern society, now he was asked to do more.

And yet, he knew this was coming. He had known for a long time. He knew it ever since a Dakota laborer laid the first brick limestone to create the foundation of his house some twenty-seven years earlier. The Indian would not be subjugated forever. His wealth—and the nation’s—would not grow unchecked by those restrained by the infinite weight of progress. He had warned governing officials. He had stood before Congress telling them, “you must very soon suffer the consequences of a bloody and remorseless Indian war,” but had done it only half-heartedly as a matter of perception. A way to keep his wealth and not feel guilty. An illusion of forgiveness. Look what I accomplished, he told himself. Look what I created. There is no going back, is there?  

As he sat alone in his study, he wrestled with the notion of ignoring his civic duty just once. He had earned the right to sit this one out. His mind sought to be occupied by books, not strategy, and his legs sought the comfort of his lounge rather than the march of the drum. He wanted no part in the confrontation between cultures—between a world that once was and a world that was yet to be. But, as he watched the fog give way to the morning sunshine, he released a deep sigh, resigned to accept the call and defend the state he helped create against the people he once loved.

Fort Snelling was practically visible from Sibley’s estate. A keelboat guided by a Dakota-French mixed-blood took him around Pike Island where the Mississippi took a sharp turn to the northwest and the Minnesota began its long journey south. The tepees that once lined the northern side of the confluence were now gone. But on the south side Fort Snelling stood as tall and imposing as ever, high up on the flaxen colored sandstone bluffs like a crown for the state. Like Sibley, the fort had retired a few years earlier, but it was recommissioned with the outset of the War Between the States. It was alive again, as it should be, Sibley thought, made to train and muster in soldiers before sending them to the front lines to put down the silly tantrum thrown by the southern land owners.

Moving gently upriver, the keelboat took a sharp turn toward the docks at Fort Snelling. Sibley craned his neck and admired the American flag that was flapping in the breeze and overlooking the entire valley below it. As the boat came to a stop, a young soldier, brown-eyed and fresh faced came to greet him.

“Colonel,” he said, saluting.

Sibley, having no official military training, mirrored the young man’s gesture and then dropped his hand at his side. “You’re nothing but a child,” he said.

“I am the Assistant Quartermaster, sir,” he answered. “Private Copeland. Thomas Copeland.”

“Never mind the niceties,” Sibley said, stepping off the dock and onto the service road. Behind him, several soldiers rushed to the docked boat to gather the Colonel’s belongings. “Why did they send a boy, anyway?” Sibley looked down while raising his chin, accentuating the height difference between himself and the young quartermaster. “Shouldn’t the commander be here to greet me?”

“Sir, the commander sends his apologies, but he is not feeling well. He will meet you in his quarters once you’ve settled in.”

Sibley groaned. Well, then, give me an update on the situation. How many able-bodied men do we have? Supplies? Communications? Everything.”

The assistant quartermaster appeared stunned for a moment and swallowed hard before answering. “Sir, we are waiting on the steamer Pomeroy to arrive with fixed ammunition and supplies of flour and pork.”

“Good,” Sibley said, taking long strides along the sloping gravel road. “What of tents and camping equipment?”

The young quartermaster struggled to keep pace with the Colonel’s long strides, walking at his side like a dog on a leash. “The tents and camping equipment will not be aboard the steamer, but an order has been placed. They should arrive shortly.”

There was a brief silence as the quartermaster waited for Sibley’s response.

“Continue,” Sibley said bluntly.

“Yes, uh . . .” the quartermaster stuttered, “we currently have one hundred thirty privates and twenty-four officers. Among all soldiers are fifty-six cavalry. The governor has issued an order for volunteers and has also sent word to the Secretary of War, Mr. Stanton, that assistance is necessary.”

Sibley shook his head in dismay. “We’ll need a lot more men, I’m afraid. A few hundred will not do against a large and organized force of Indians. Have you received any word from Major Flandrau?”

“None yet, sir. Panic has overtaken the southern and western portions of the state and it's hard to know for certain what has happened since the initial attack.”

Sibley cursed under his breath then immediately crossed himself and silently asked forgiveness. “I was told to expect a shipment of new modern Springfield rifles. Do you know if the Union army is willing to part with a few hundred to assist with our desperate situation?”

“Sir.” The quartermaster paused and swallowed hard again. “The Springfield’s have arrived, but the bullets are the wrong size. They need to be whittled down.”

Sibley clenched his jaw but withheld any further curses. The two had reached the end of the long curving road and now faced the fort’s impenetrable gate. Sibley turned toward the young quartermaster. With a cold stare he said, “We need everything done with utmost urgency and diligence. No mistakes like that. And I suggest that if there is any red tape in the way of this emergency, that you cut it with the bayonets of a corporal’s guard.”

Feeling the force of the colonel’s reprimand, the quartermaster lowered his head and slumped his shoulders. “Yes, sir.”

Sibley turned on the balls of his feet and proceeded inside the walls of the fort with a long and determined gait.

Looking out over the Mississippi and Minnesota river valleys, the countryside appeared as calm and beautiful as the day Sibley had arrived in the region in 1834. The trees were green, the lakes placid, and the rivers flowed like veins from a strong and healthy heart. But all was not well. Panic engulfed the region, stretching nearly two hundred miles from the place Sibley stood. Tens of thousands had fled their homes and sought refuge in overcrowded and under resourced cities and towns. People mourned the loss of their homes and loved ones. Many of them demanded swift and definitive action. All of them, like one single eye, looked toward Sibley for justice.

Several days had passed since Sibley arrived at Fort Snelling. All the while he watched what appeared to be an endless stream of men being mustered into the Sixth Regiment of Minnesota Volunteers. They were men of all sizes, ages, and backgrounds and had come from places near and far. Some were burly chested farmers with hard hands and spotted, sun-worn skin. Others were thin, city-dwelling shop-owners, laborers, and accountants. All, regardless of training, appeared well-meaning and eager to protect their homes and families from what they considered to be a backward and vile enemy.

“Their good intentions won’t do much to help our cause,” Sibley told the fort commander who was bragging about the growing number of defenders. “What matters is how they respond with bullets and arrows flying past their heads. Will they remain calm under pressure? Will they take orders? Do they even know how to fire a gun?” 

When the time had come, Sibley ordered the bugle sound, calling the rag-tag soldiers to order on the parade ground.

“A-tten-tion!” Captain A.D. Nelson yelled as Sibley stepped before his new army.

The soldiers straightened their backs and lifted their chins, their leather boots and shoes scuffing the dirt as they moved into place.

Peering across his new, untrained soldiers, Sibley frowned. The volunteers, unlike the regulars, had no uniforms. No rifle or haversack. He, on the other hand, wore a blue, double-breasted Union coat with a Colonel’s cap, leather gloves, laced shin-high boots, and a saber.

“Am I to start from scratch?” he whispered to Captain Nelson as he paced back and forth.

Sibley stopped pacing and faced the men. “You have no doubt heard the rumors,” he said, his clear, tenor voice echoing off the stone barracks. “They are true. Sadly. Your countrymen, neighbors, friends, wives, daughters, sons—have been cast from their homes by a violent, angry, and dangerous threat.” Sibley spoke slowly, pausing to allow his words to take effect. “The Indians of Minnesota believe they have been treated unfairly and now wish to take back the land that once belonged to them. In doing so, they wish to punish you and your neighbors showing no mercy and accepting no compromise. Make no mistake, they are a formidable enemy. They have already killed, and they will continue to kill until we stop them. We now have been called upon by our governor and our citizens to defeat this enemy. Even if it costs us our lives.” Sibley paused, thinking of the best way to motivate his untrained soldiers. In truth, he looked down on them, much the same way they must have looked down on the Indians. But it was his job to mold them into something efficient and effective, if not strong and smart.

“I know the Indian like he was my own brother,” Sibley continued, his voice carried by the strong winds of the river valley that rose up over the bluffs. “I have known the Dakota, who many of you call Sioux, as a hunting and trading partner. They call me Wapetonhonska, The Long Trader. They are no different than you and I. They have families, and they long to protect their families: to provide for their families and for their futures. But make no doubt, though I was once a comrade to the Indian—a friend—he is now our enemy, and he has threatened our homes and the security of our just and noble society. My heart is steeled against them,” Sibley said, suppressing the fact that he was kin to the Dakota.

Only once had he publicly acknowledged his Dakota daughter—at her wedding—but even then his name did not appear on the marriage certificate. He hid her from the white world, erased her past and sent her to live with white missionaries. He even changed her name from Wakiye to Helen. Had he made the right choice? It didn’t matter now, he told himself. Helen was dead, but his empire was not.

“If I have the means, and can catch them, I will sweep them with the besom of death. Follow my orders and you will remain safe. Your communities and families will remain safe. Obey my commands and we will defeat this vile enemy that has already destroyed so much. They shall destroy no more.”

The men, uncertain of themselves, offered no reaction. They stared unflinchingly as the colonel surveyed his regiment.

“As you may know, the public would have us depart immediately—to gather our supplies and meet our enemy in the field and punish him swiftly. But we must be patient because we are not prepared for battle. You may think the Indian untutored and backward in his thinking. However, believe me when I tell you, he knows how to fight. They no doubt have captives—some of our very own soldiers are being held at Gull Lake. I will not risk their lives by striking out too soon, or they may retaliate by killing innocent prisoners. First, we must drill. We must drill often, until you think like a soldier, until you act like a soldier, until you are not afraid to stand firm in the line of fire. And believe me, you will be in the line of fire.”

Sibley turned and nodded at the bugle boy who quickly raised the bugle to his lips and began to play, signaling to the officers that they should assemble their companies for drill.

 Within minutes the fort was alive with activity. Some men were led to the stables where they learned and practiced to command the army-trained horses. Others began to march in place to practice discipline. The largest group of men were trained on weaponry and taught how to properly load, aim, and fire various rifles and pistols. Finally, there were men who practiced on the artillery located on the walls and corners of the fort.

The flurry of activity was unlike any the fort had seen in its forty year history. Looking on, Sibley was troubled. He saw men unable to reload a rifle or hit a mark. He saw members of his cavalry with no control over their horses. He saw battle formations that took half a minute to form rather than a few seconds. He saw unfit and unhealthy men who could not march without discomfort or fatigue.

“This is worse than I expected,” Sibley said to Commander Nelson. “The entire state depends on . . . on . . . this!” Sibley threw his hands forward in exasperation.

“We’ll get them trained quickly, sir,” Nelson said. “And with any luck a few companies of regulars will be recalled from the war with the south.”

Just then a messenger came riding up, skillfully halting his horse just a few feet away from the colonel.

“A message from Major Flandrau in New Ulm,” the messenger said, handing Colonel Sibley the folded document.

As Sibley opened the note and began to read, his eyes widened.

“What is it, sir?” Nelson asked.

“New Ulm,” Sibley said without looking up from the note. “New Ulm has been overrun and most of the city has been leveled to the ground.”

“How?” Nelson said. “How could a few angry Indians destroy an entire town?”

“It’s more than a few,” Sibley said.

“What do you mean?”

Sibley finally looked up. His face hardened, caught in a moment of sudden concern. “The rumors were true,” he said. “Little Crow and Hole-in-the-Day joined forces. The Dakota are now allied with the Ojibwe and they are headed north.”