Savages in the Mind in Pioneer Sheboygan

By Greg Minster

“INJUNS! INJUNS! INJUNS!” The man screamed at the top of his lungs. Everyone within earshot suddenly stopped at the news. “Injuns attacking! ATTACKING!! Just north of here!”

It was September 3, 1862, in the bustling pioneer town of Sheboygan, Wisconsin. And it all happened so fast: A beautiful early autumn day was turned upside down by a lone horseback rider kicking up dust and spreading chaos, fear, and panic.

By nightfall the town would be an armed fortress filled with terrified and angry defenders. By morning, the last Indian family still camped in the area would be planning to finally move way.

All by the power of a false rumor. All by an attack of ‘Savages in the Mind in Pioneer Sheboygan’.

Based on a true story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Greg Minster
• Release date: Jul 17, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301150687

Greg Minster

Greg Minster is 59 years old, and lives in Sheboygan, WI with his teenage daughter.

Book preview

Savages in the Mind

In Pioneer Sheboygan

Historic Fiction

By

Greg Minster

© Greg Minster, 2009 All Rights Reserved

Published by Greg Minster at Smashwords

Special thanks to editors Lisa Dobberke and Chuck Minster.

Prologue

Old paintings can live on forever. They often get taken for granted and ignored. They might get wrapped up and put away into storage and forgotten about. But under their thickly brushed yellows, burnt reds, and dark navy blues, and behind the solemn faces so often shown by their subjects, old paintings can live on and on and on.

At the same time, they playfully hide things from the viewer. If you do not know the artist, they keep as secret the imagination, creativity, and passion that inspired the painting. If a portrait, they can disguise the sensitivities the subject may have had about his or her appearance—details quite often brushed over by a sympathetic artist.

Many people own old painted portraits. Quite a few of them depict solemn, unhappy looking ancestors. Others show a favorite pet cat or dog.

I have an old painting myself: a faded water color. It shows a long ago Indian camp.

Possession of the painting, entitled She-Boy-Again, came to me through three generations of family ownership--beginning with my great-grandfather, before it passed through the hands of my grandfather and father to me. Though the exact trail of how my great-grandfather came to possess the painting gets a little bit hazy, it’s believed that he, Nicolas Muenster, got the painting from the artist, Emil Birr.

Birr painted the picture sometime during the 1890’s, and gave it to my great-grandfather during that decade. It’s adorned Minster (we had a name spelling change some generations back) house walls ever since. Making the painting even more special, Emil Birr died while serving the Sheboygan fire department when a team of fire wagon horses panicked, and trampled him to death shortly after completing She-Boy-Again. Either way, Birr’s She-Boy-Again holds a special place on my living room wall, and remains amongst my favorite personal possessions.

Birr and my grandfather both worked as firemen with the Sheboygan City Fire Department, beginning their careers there well over one hundred years ago. Because of the dangerous job they shared, firemen have always been known for developing strong bonds and respect toward each other. With that in mind, it makes good sense that Birr, upon completion of the painting, saw fit to give it to what must have been his good friend and trusted partner in saving both lives and property, Nicholas Muenster.

Today, looking at his work, I can picture the artist carefully dabbing his paint across the canvas mounted on an easel in front of him. For a man who most likely took no formal artistic training, I will say he showed good talent and ability. Looking at the undated but in most likely-hood work from the early 1890s, I see Birr’s talent.

The painting shows its topic proudly and with clarity in the subjects. In the foreground, a white horse holds a statuesque pose, rocked slightly back on its hind legs with one hoof staggered behind the other. Its white body hair contrasts with its abundant, draping, gray colored mane and tail. Three teepees line up in the center of the canvas with one in front, and two behind. The foremost teepee pours a broad plume of gray smoke—matching the horse’s mane and tail--from its opening at the top, where the smoke blows sharply to the side in what the artist must have sensed to be a strong wind. The front teepee also has an animal sketch and a brightly depicted painting of the sun on its side. Two chiefs stand in front of the third teepee; a river curls and runs horizontally across the center of the painting with a canoe manned by two paddlers on its waters. Warring supplies—a peace pipe and a few dance costume parts lie piled in a careless heap in the foreground. Trees and grasses of autumn gold’s and browns complete the setting.

Four main characters tell Mr. Birr’s artistic story. Visible through the opened flap door of the front teepee, a mother, having just given birth, lays naked above the waist—looking out the door from a prone position. Her head rests on her arm, and she looks concerned. Outside the teepee, a slender young Indian woman stands holding a young baby up for the inspection of an Indian chief, who’s mounted high, wise, and regally judgmental on the white horse. The young woman wears what appears to be full ceremonial regalia—a long striped robe, with gold ornamentation hanging over her arms, through her hair, and around her neck. The chief, so proud on the white steed, also wears full ceremonial garb. A long cape falls back over his shoulders, and gold colored chaps cover his legs. In his right hand he holds both the horse reins and his bow. He wears a full headdress of gold feathers, while dark hair gathers down the back of his neck, and a quiver of arrows protrudes from the far side of his left shoulder. He looks agitated. The woman holding the baby looks hopeful but worried, and the poor Indian woman inside the tent, along with appearing concerned, looks drawn, tired, and disgusted.

The painting’s frame, it bears noting, is probably as old as the work itself; It features antique gold coloring, with ornamental deep carving. Tied to the gold colors used in the work, the viewer’s eyes slide from painting to frame with artistically cooperative ease.

In this way, Birr depicted the legendary story of the naming of the City of Sheboygan, Wisconsin. The story:

An Indian chief already had sons. He desperately wanted a daughter. Knowing his wife was expecting another baby as he rode off to war on his white horse, he returned anxiously several months later to hear the gender particulars of his newly born child. He arrived back at the village shortly after the birth, only to learn that he’d had another son. The legend claims the distraught chief said She-Boy-Again, in disappointment. Hence, long faces for all those involved, but at the same time a name for a brand new city in pioneer Wisconsin.

For me, the painting reaches beyond its surface curiosities as the artistic whim of a long ago fireman who happened to know my great grandfather. It strikes me not only in my personal fascination with the painting, but also, as a local history buff, I’ve always seen deeper into the painting, and have asked myself more questions about it than would be normal for most who’ve seen the work. For example: Just where did Emil Birr paint this picture? I’ve always imagined him sitting in front of the fire department itself--working outside at his easel on nice days, with other firemen occasionally disturbing him with casual conversation.

While he actually could have painted She-Boy-Again in front of the station, it hardly seems likely, and certainly would not have been necessary from the subject sense. I’ve never heard of any Indian villages plopped down in front of the downtown Sheboygan fire station--even over one-hundred years ago. Add in the fact that the Chief supposedly posed upon his white horse after returning from battle (Indian wars no-longer took place in Wisconsin in the 1890’s), held his bow and his horse reins in his right hand while defiantly shaking his spear with his left, it would have been an especially unlikely event to take place in front of the Mr. Birr’s fire station.

Now, instead, I picture Emil Birr sitting in the living room of a typical blue-collar home--very similar to the one my great-grandfather (and grandfather) lived in. It would be small, with two stories, and a pointed roof. It would not be too far from the fire station, and feature an outdoor latrine. I assume he painted with his small children distracting him, food cooking in the kitchen in the back of the house, and his wife interrupting him with occasional questions about how things were going at work--or his wife asking him to mind the children so she could get some cooking done. Brushing and stroking away on his painting, I can’t imaging Emil Birr thinking that someday the great-grandson of his co-worker would treasure the work, and take time to analyze just how the picture came about--what inspired it, and how the artist came up with the theme, characters, background, and the name of the painting itself.

Perhaps I’ve looked at it too long. Maybe I’ve overanalyzed things a bit--after all, I‘ve been looking at it in its various locations--my grandfather’s home office, my father’s home office, and now my living room--for my entire life. But a while ago I came to the obvious realization that the painting must have come from Birr’s imagination. As alluded to earlier, based on Indian life around Sheboygan during Birr’s lifetime, the artist quite simply would not have witnessed or even heard about a proud, horse mounted Indian chief shaking his spear angrily at a young Indian woman showing him his newborn child. By that time, there were no more bloodletting wars for Indians to fight. In addition, Indians in the Sheboygan area were of the woods. They usually built their shelters of bark--either cone shaped wigwams or rounded arch topped huts. Though the wigwams took the same basic cone profile of the teepees shown in Birr’s painting, they would not have been stitched together as the shelter depicted in She-Boy-Again.

I do have a few theories. In truth, every culture, in respect to where it stands in time and place, looks at other cultures, extinct, still vibrant, or otherwise, through the prism of their experiences and place in history. That’s why cavemen have often been imagined as having fought with dinosaurs, that the entire western United States was once filled with street fighting cowboys, and that pirates of old always had captains on their ships with peg legs below their knees and parrots on their shoulders.

Artist Emil Birr, even though he lived in an area with woodland Indians removed just a generation or so before, apparently pictured Indians to be of the Great Plaines. His mind’s eye saw Indian chiefs wearing richly plumed headdresses, while in actuality the Indians of Wisconsin tended to wear considerably less feathers. He pictured the primary method of transportation to be on horseback--an often awkward means of traveling in the thick virgin forests still covering the upper Midwest at the time. Had Birr been interested in a true illustration of Indian life in the Sheboygan area, he would have painted housing constructed of bark, placed his chiefs on foot, and put much less flamboyant decoration on the head of the disappointed father of a new baby boy.

However, one never knows. Could the image shown in the painting have somehow appeared in real life form in 1890’s Sheboygan for Birr to witness it as it was? I very much doubt it. Too much would have had to happen by chance: Although, on second thought, anything would have been possible.

Chapter 1

September 3, 1862

Sheboygan, Wisconsin

It all began in late morning with a single horseman riding his hard winded horse into downtown Sheboygan from the north. His face white as a ghost, and sweat dripping from his forehead like a squeezed mop, the man looked to be beside himself in panic and fear. But nobody rode close behind him in wild chase. He didn’t have anything hanging from his saddle that appeared to be stolen--no money bags from a newly held up bank, and no bags bulging with awkwardly shaped jewelry--that would cause him to flee hard and fast. Besides, after robbing a bank, or stealing anything of value, robbers tended to make a beeline for the country, not the town.

The rider yanked back on the reins and skidded to a stop in the middle of the dirt surfaced Main Street. Dust puffing up from the horse’s hooves, the still mounted rider shot rapid fire glances in all four directions. His face showed terror, alarm, and horror.

With his eyes on fire and his frantic movements, he looked to be out of his mind. But at first, no one else on the street paid him much attention. For back in the early 1860s, as a pioneer town still surrounded by a fair amount of wilderness, Sheboygan had all kinds of questionable characters pop into town from the north, south, and west. Lake Michigan prevented any such visitors to stop by, at least on horseback, from the east.

So to those stopped on the street, or in their shops looking through their windows, while this rider did look different, initially, no one gave him or his horse a second look. But the horseman desperately continued to jerk his head and shoulders around looking for an audience, while the horse stood there with dust settling around its hooves, sweat drenching its amber colored hair into dark blotches, and frothy foam clinging to its lips.

Finally a few pedestrians stopped on the sidewalk. A few others stopped midway across the street, both in front of and behind the winded horse and its agitated rider.

Then the rider began shouting, and the chaos began.

INJUNS! INJUNS! INJUNS! The man screamed at the top of his lungs. Everyone within earshot suddenly stopped at the news. Injuns attacking! ATTACKING!! Just north of here!

Chapter 2

Concern by Sheboygan’s white population for Indian violence had for the most part been pushed to ‘out of sight out of mind status’ and faded over the previous few decades. In fact, in the founding and establishment of the town, little, if any Indian violence had ever taken place. Not only that, but the western shore of Lake Michigan had not seen any retaliation or resistance from Indians since the flood of white settlers began arriving in high numbers and taking over the region during the prior thirty to fifty years.

Perhaps some hard feelings had stirred quietly. Many of the Indians felt the lands were within their ancestral rights to live on and use to their own discretion, and private ownership remained a foreign concept to their ways of thinking. Though most Indians ignored treaties set up in the 1830s that ceded the region to whites--documents which directed tribes to move from the lakeshore area and go further westward--their presence among the newly arrived settlers had caused few problems. In addition, while many Indians felt the chiefs representing them at the treaty signings had no business giving away what had been their hunting grounds and fishing waters for thousands of years, such feelings did not lead to violence.

While for those past few decades, tribal populations slowly dwindled as more and more whites moved in, perhaps a thousand or so remained in scattered villages around the county. A few lived in tiny family units. In September of 1862, some of those family sized factions would have been camping at the mouths of several rivers that emptied into Lake Michigan along the Sheboygan area shoreline.

Perhaps a major reason for the lack of Indian violence in the region would have been due to the loosely organized tribes that lived there. No one tribe had dominated the area in hundreds of years. In the mid-nineteenth century, four tribes: Though the Potawatomi, Chippewa, Ottawa, and Winnebago, along with just a few Menominee formed a loose alliance amongst themselves, they would have been far too disorganized, and in truth way too small in number to form up and create a worthwhile fighting unit to conquer and chase away any white incursions. By the 1860’s, whites had simply become too entrenched for any kind of successful Indian uprising to take place.

Nevertheless, the town’s people still had a long running, if unrealistic, latent and easily aroused sense of potential Indian violence planted firmly in the backs of their minds. Vicious and hard fought white against Indian conflicts still took place in the states to the west. News of the fighting reached Sheboyganites through their newspapers and word of mouth from travelers. What if angry tribes secretly gathered together in the less settled parts of the county and planned attacks to simply kill as many whites as possible? The tribes certainly knew of the United States Civil War going on, and its effect of pulling young men of fighting age away from Sheboygan and its surrounding villages and farms to join the Union forces. Might that not give the Indians hope of taking back the lands they once held? Wouldn’t this be an excellent time, and perhaps their only chance to take severe action to reclaim what was once theirs?

So paranoia concerning an Indian attack still had its place in 1860s Sheboygan. Now a frantic man on a hard ridden horse sat in the middle of the town’s dusty Main Street sparking those fears to life.

A man with a derby addressed the horseman from the sidewalk. What did you say?

Before the horseman could answer, another man, from the opposite sidewalk asked: Indians? What do you mean, Indians? There are a few Indians around here, but the last thing they’d do is…

Who are you, stranger? The first man interrupted, sounding skeptical. You need some help with something?

Just what have you seen? A third man demanded, now with a growing group of men and women walking into the street and gathering around the still hard breathing horse and rider. Where’ve you been, mister, to claim that Indians have attacked?

I’ll tell you! I’ll tell you! The horseman finally snapped back, with terror still lighting his eyes, horror coughing up from his throat, and his lips quivering.

He sure looks scared, a woman said, sounding concerned.

Tell us what you saw--quickly! The first man to address the stranger, a successful appearing gentleman wearing a suit and a stove pipe hat demanded. We’ve got a city full of unarmed civilians in town! Women and children! Tell us what you know!!

Yes, several in the rapidly growing group shouted out.

What’s going on? A few newcomers to the conversation asked no one in particular.

The horseman spoke up loud and shaky. There’s fifty of them. Injuns! Red Devils! Fifty of ‘em! I heard it from a farmer just north of town! They’ve burned the small town of Centerville, just a few miles north of here, to the ground! They’re killing everyone in sight. Women, children, everyone they see. It’s a massacre! They’ve finally hit the warpath. They mean to kill us all! They’ll burn this city! They mean to kill every one of us!

No one could speak: their throats frozen by fear.

We can’t take any chances, a man broke the silence, now in the group of about twenty.

We must deal with this! The first man on the sidewalk, clearly a civic leader or sorts, cried out--his voice also now panicked. We can’t assume this man’s making this up for some reason! Spread the word! Quickly! Gather an army! Get ready to fight! All men must grab their guns and get ready. We can’t take chances on any killing Indians coming to Sheboygan. Let’s get going. Spread the word!

From there, voices snapped out questions:

Was this the tribe from the marsh? They’d never do this!

Did one of the tribes from along the river start this?

They must have all banded together! How else could this happen?

They seemed so peaceful!

I’m ready for ‘em!

No ones’ burnin' this town without a fight!

First Injun I see’s gonna wish they’d stayed with their singing, dancing and campfires, that’s what I say!

By this time, the crowed churned into fifty, and was growing fast. Some of those gathered began breaking from the group and running back to their homes to grab weapons and hide their wives, children, and other family members. Others dashed madly--pounding on doors and telling anybody they ran into the shocking news of bloodthirsty Indians burning, pillaging, and attacking just a few miles away. In less than ten minutes, the new and small city of Sheboygan, WI, undoubtedly sifting through a beautiful early fall day less than a half hour before, had turned into a caldron of wild panic and fear--suddenly filled with the hard charging bravado of men bursting with anger, ready to use their guns and any other weapons to protect their families and their city from a life threatening menace.

Then, down that same dusty street from the north, yet another lone horseman appeared--just as panicked and feverish with fear, and his ride equally beaten and winded as the first.

Everyone scurrying up, down, and across the street stopped in their tracks.

Scant seconds whizzed by as the rider, appearing much like the first, charged up to where most of the group stood, before maneuvering his frantic horse as best he could into the center of the crowd--which pulled back from the high stepping, snorting animal. The rider finally stabilized his mount about twenty yards from where the earlier rider still sat mounted and motionless.

This second rider’s face showed the same pale, blood drawn fear, and his eyes flamed with equal fire red terror as the first. His horse also foamed at the mouth, showing large blotches of sweat in its heaving (brown colored) hair, and swelled in and out at the lungs with heavy breath. Both horse and rider gasped amongst the otherwise silent crowd.

A lone, male voice finally shouted out: You seen any Injuns, mister? You were north. Seen any Injuns, like this other rider did?

As if blasting open a bulging dam, torrents of questions suddenly flew at the rider.

You see the smoke of Centerville?

Did you have to make a break for it?

Any arrows fly past your head?

Anything left of Centerville? Do they need reinforcements up there?

How far away are the Injuns from Sheboygan?

The rider caught his breath, and spoke. I can tell--you’ve heard! He caught his breath again. About the Injuns! Well, there’s hundreds of ’em. He explained with a rasping voice, holding his reins and looking back and forth across his questioners. Three hundred of them, and they’re pillaging and burning everything in sight. They’ve decimated the town of Hermansville. Left no one standing, or breathing, either. There’s nothing behind but burnt buildings and dead bodies!

Three hundred, you say? Mr. Schlitz spoke loudly--his voice cutting over the mumbles and murmurs lifting once again over the rest of the group. This other rider, Schlitz nodded to the first horseman, arriving just minutes before you, said there were just fifty! Three hundred you say?

That’s three hundred a ways away, to the north somewhere--leaving nothing standing or living, the second horseman replied. But I must warn you, another five hundred now sneak up on Sheboygan--right as we speak! Moving pretty fast, too!

The murmurs and mumbles turned to shrieks and shouts.

Men! Grab your guns! Schlitz now took control, and barked orders. Grab anything you can--axes, pitchforks, shovels--laundry line sticks for spears! All your wives and children--move them either into basements with hidden trap doors--or, better yet, bring them downtown where we can protect them as a group! Then come back here with your weapons. They won’t attack us if they see how strong we are! We’ll either send those red devils chasing hard in retreat to the north, or we’ll send them rapid delivery to their happy hunting grounds. Let’s go! All of you! Don’t waste any time--move it!

The crowd of people now counted well into the hundreds--and