Nancy McClure

My name is Nancy McClure and I have a story to tell.  Perhaps you’ve never heard of me since my life has lain hidden away on dusty bookshelves for years. But if you’re interested and want to hear more, relax and walk with me into the world where I lived.  It’s not far away, in fact you walk on its ground every day.

The reason I speak now through the mind of one who imagines my life and times is that he gives me a voice.  I never wanted to be unregarded.  I lived in two different worlds, that of the Dakota and that of white people. I learned to unravel the differences between the two and got along well in either.

In the weeks to come, I’ll tell you my story in chapters, but for now you might like to read a brief overview of this life I want to share.  I was born in Mendota, Minnesota in 1836 to a white father, Lieutenant James McClure and a Dakota mother, Winona.  When the army sent my father to serve in Florida, he abandoned me and my mother, only to die shortly thereafter.  Poetic justice?  My mother’s new husband moved us to Lac qui Parle where I learned the ways of the Dakota and attended a mission school.  Mother died in 1850 and David Faribault entered my life whom I married a year later.

The circumstances of our marriage placed us right in the middle of the Minnesota Uprising of 1862, a struggle where we faced constant danger. My husband and I did not support the violent ways of the insurgents, even though their grievances did beg attention.  For instance, one storekeeper would not extend credit to the Dakota and said something like, “They can eat grass.”  Well, when they found his mutilated body, they also discovered his mouth stuffed with grass.  I saw much of this killing and brutality while we lived there, and it still pains me to think back on it, but I will steel myself enough to include it in my story.

The government began building forts for protection of the crews who were constructing the railroad as well protection for the growing westward flow of settlers.  A scout brigade made up of Dakota men who did not participate in the uprising was established for a two-fold purpose: to act as outriders to spot trouble and to reward those Dakota men with paying jobs.   My husband David was hired for one of these scouting jobs at the newly built Fort Ransom, and that is where we made our home for awhile.  We lived in the scout camp located about a mile from the fort.  It was there that my eyes witnessed more death and heartache when a prairie fire swept through the camp of mixed-blood Metis who had stopped to trade with the sutler.

Fort Ransom obtained its goods and supplies from Fort Abercrombie, and the arrival of those long wagon trains carrying freight was an exciting time with lots of activity.  Those rough cut teamsters really livened things up.  While I wasn’t there for those three long days when an empty train returning to Fort Abercrombie stalled in a blizzard, I’ve heard enough first person stories of it to pass some along.  

We didn’t stay long at Fort Ransom since we had the chance to operate an overnight inn on the Sheyenne River between the two forts.  I couldn’t escape life threatening troubles with Dakota raiders here either and once found myself fleeing with neighbors to safety.  I loved the beauty of the area with all its wildlife, but it was here I endured the breakup of our marriage and a consequent move to Flandreau with my new husband.

Everyone in our community talked with pride about my daughter’s brother-in-law, Dr. Charles Eastman, one of the first Indian doctors in the country.  He was there at Wounded Knee when the U. S. army began firing on the Indians who had gathered there and offered medical aid to the wounded and the dying.

In my new home, I lived quietly and safely while the years passed, but later I was asked to do one more thing.  One of the battle chiefs during the uprising wanted to tell his story to a St. Paul newspaper, but he spoke no English and nobody at the paper could speak Dakota.  My daughter’s husband, the Rev. John Eastman, and I were asked to translate.

So you see, I have all these stories and others to share and will begin, chapter by chapter, next week.