Paul and some
travelers chartered a little stern wheel steamboat, the Yankee, and
intended to explore the St. Peter River, now the Minnesota, if possible
to its source, Big Stone Lake. We invited the ladies who wished to go,
promising them music and dancing. A merry time was anticipated and we
were eager to see the fertile valley, knowing it was to be purchased of
the Indians and opened for settlement to the frontier settlers. The
passengers were men mostly, but enough women went to form three or four
cotillion sets. The clergy was represented by Rev. Edward Duffield
Neill; the medical fraternity by Dr. Potts; statesmen by one who had
been an Aide to General Harrison and later Ambassador to Russia; another
was a graduate of Yale Law School and of West Point Military Academy;
another, one of the Renvilles, had been interpreter for Nicollet;
another was an Indian Trader, Joe La Framboise, who was returning to his
post at the mouth of Little Cottonwood. He was noted for his linguistic
ability and attainments and could acquire a talking acquaintance with an
Indian language if given a day or two opportunity; another was a noted
Winnebago half breed, Baptiste, whose Indian dress and habits attracted
much attention.

As we entered the sluggish current of the St. Peters at Mendota, the
stream was nearly bank full and it seemed like navigating a crooked
canal. The first stop was at an Indian village, fifteen or twenty miles
from the Mississippi, called Shakopee, or Little Six village. Our boat
attracted a crowd of all kinds and conditions of Indian village
population, not omitting Little Six who claimed toll for permission to
navigate his river. His noisy demand was settled by the trader by some
trifling presents, including some whiskey and we proceeded on our voyage
up the river. The next stop was at Traverse des Sioux. Here there was a
Missionary station in charge of Mr. Hopkins, from whom we bought the
rails of an old fence for fuel. Next we landed at a beautiful level
grassy meadow called Belle Prairie, where we tried to have a dance. The
next landing was at the mouth of the Blue Earth River, called Mankato,
where a tempting grove of young ash trees were cut for fuel. Here the
passengers wandered about the grove while the boat hands were cutting
and carrying the wood. Leaving the Blue Earth we slowly ascended the
stream, hoping to arrive at the Cottonwood where La Framboise promised
some fuel for the boat, but night overtoo