Carver, Carver County MN. August 20, 1862

It was a scene of utter chaos. Several hundred Refugees were swarming the city of Carver, MN. They were settlers, country folk striving to raise families on the Minnesota frontier – yet, just a day prior, their entire world had blown up. Nearly one-thousand Dakota warriors, angry from their treatment by the United States government, left their reservation in the west and were on a mission to rid their ancestral lands of white settlers.

The attacks were brutal. Entire families, unsuspecting of the warrior’s motives, were killed or taken captive. Some war parties were particularly callous, taking time to torture their victims before killing them. Hearing news of the horrific scenes unfolding to the west, settlers fled in terror, abandoning their homes and leaving their possessions behind. In carts, wagons, or on foot, they made their way east as fast as possible, stopping on for brief periods to rest exhausted oxen or horses – all the white watching nervously to the west for approaching war parties.

In Carver, MN, news of the outbreak reached town the night prior when refugees from nearby Henderson began filtering in. They told of the murders to the west and spread false rumors of Fort Ridgely being wiped out by thousands of blood-thirsty warriors who were rapidly moving east to attack Fort Snelling. It certainly put the town in a state of anxiety, yet nothing could prepare them for what they would witness at sunrise.

On the morning of August 20th, no Indians appeared. What came instead were several hundred refugees from neighboring McLeod County, all crazed with fear and frantically fleeing east. The locals in Carver had never witnessed anything like it before. It seemed the entire population of western Minnesota was now on their doorstep. One onlooker would later recall,

“About the hour of seven in the morning we began to recruit the entire population of McLeod County. On they came, some on foot, some on horseback and some on crutches, sleds, wagons of all shades of manufacture — some with great, big, round wheels; some with low, block wheels; some with only three wheels; some with two only. They brought with them bundles of clothes, axes, spades and shovels; some more, some less of the same; some running with children on their backs, seated upon a ponderous bundle, strapped over the shoulders. Thus matters went on until in came a boy, on a very spirited horse, claiming to be direct from Glencoe, shouting out as he rode at full speed through the streets, that the Indians had burned Glencoe and Young America, and were on a rapid march for Carver! Oh! such a scene I never desire to witness again.” – The Weekly Pioneer and Democrat, Aug. 29, 1862.

At the docks a steamer was boarding refugees to bring them safely to St. Paul. It was chaos from the start. They refugees were panicking, pushing and shoving to get aboard. Mother’s shrieked as children were thrown aside by grown men who raced aboard the steamer. In a matter of minutes, the pilot had to step in and stop people from climbing aboard – the steamer reached its capacity and was showing signs of strain. It didn’t stop the refugees, however, as they jumped from the dock over the steamer’s sides, desperately hanging onto whatever would aid them in their attempt to flee.

The boat was finally able to kick off, yet the scene it left behind was of absolute lunacy. Those on shore screamed with despair for the steamer to return. They quickly found a second, much smaller, craft on shore and stampeded toward it. In a matter of moments, it was full to the brim and heading down stream.

The McLeod County residents had reason for panic. There was little to stand in the way of the attackers sweeping across the county. The army had only a marginal presence on the frontier, and a detachment of troops had already been defeated. Of course, there were some settlers who chose to stay. They built fortifications, raised home guards, and pledged to defend their communities. They were few, however, as most chose to flee, stricken with fear and absent of reason. In the days to follow, some would muster enough courage to return to their communities and aid in its defense. Most would flee to St. Paul; many would never return. Of those who returned, the majority did so long after the troubles were over.

The entire episode of Minnesota History would not last long, yet a multitude of damage was done. When it was all over, anywhere from 450 to 800 civilians perished on the prairies, and apx. 150 Dakota warriors. It stands today as the bloodiest period of state and local history. A time, and a place that put people in a frantic state of mind.

It was a dark, chilly night in September of 1924. It was a quiet in Brownton – still and silent – a silence that was deafening, broken only by the “click-clack” of a pair of shoes as their owner strolled down the quiet street. It was 1am, and while the tiny town slept, Marshal Sanken was making his rounds. He checked the doors on shops in town, making sure they were secure and locked tight. Occasionally he would cup his hands around his eyes to peek inside a darkened shop window, just to make sure everything was in order in the orderly little town. He felt nothing out of order as he came by the powerhouse – the place where electricity was controlled for the town. Suddenly, and seemingly from nowhere, a cold, gloved hand reached out from the little building and enveloped itself around the Marshal’s mouth. A second hand reached for his arm and subdued the marshal. Inside were five men. They were cutting power to the town and were planning to rob the bank.

The men were armed and meant business. They’d scoped out town earlier that day, and felt they had a fool-proof plan. Under cover of darkness, they would sneak, silently, into town, cut the phone and telegraph lines, break into the bank, darken the interior windows, and blow the vault with nitroglycerin.

You could call it bad timing for Marshal Sanken.

The five men were inside the powerhouse cutting the wires when one of them spotted the Marshal walking down the sidewalk. They remained still, waiting in silence until the Marshal was close enough to grab. As he walked by the powerhouse, the men reached out and accosted him, gagged with a rag, and had his hands tied behind his back.

They took the bound Marshal with them as they made their way to the bank. Once inside, they put Marshal Sanken in the basement and went to work darkening the windows. Next, they blew the vault, or tried to at least. The vault was made of thick steel enclosed in brick and mortar. After four attempts to blow their way inside, they had done little but awaken several townspeople.

One man who was alerted by the explosions was H.E. Seeland, a restaurant owner who lived across the street of the bank. Seeland jumped from bed, grabbed a shotgun, and proceeded to a second story window. He saw the commotion at the bank and fired his gun into the air, hoping to scare the bandits off. Instead, his shot drew returning fire. Shooting from a second floor window, Seeland had the upper hand. While the bandits tried to scramble out of the bank, they were under constant fire from Seeland.

The five armed bank robbers had no choice but to abandon their heist and leave town. The gunfight was sure to alarm the town and soon more people would come to the aid of Seeland. They decided to flee the town, without the loot they sought after. They bolted from the bank and ran out of town as fast as they could, shooting out streetlights and returning fire toward Seeland.

The armed bandits were never caught. The attempted bank heist in Brownton was one of four in the region; Cosmos, Svea, and Kandiyohi were all targets of similar bank jobs. Authorities felt all four attempts were made by the same criminals. To this day, their identity remains a mystery.
-Brian Haines-

“History doesn’t repeat itself, but it often rhymes”.  Mark Twain

The world is a curious place.  Everyday we make history by doing the same thing we did yesterday.  We wake in the morning, we go to our jobs, try to make a little money, go home, spend time with loved ones, watch the same old headlines, and go to bed.  The next morning, we wake and to it again.  In the average lifespan we repeat this process 31,390 times, and in that span, we see nations wage war, see people suffer, and hope for change.  It’s as if the world were a movie where the setting and the characters adjust, but the plot always stays the same.

Today, our headlines are filled with covid-19, the coronavirus.  The virus has turned the world on its head.  Schools and businesses are closing, professional sporting leagues have suspended play, and many Americans have chosen to quarantine.  There are travel bans, the U.S. is in a state of emergency, store shelves are emptying, and a faction of the population is ready for an all-out panic.  It’s something the likes of most alive have never witnessed, something that didn’t happen yesterday; however, as history shows, this outbreak both is and isn’t all that different from those in the past.

The world has been shaken by sickness many times in history.  Since the beginning, humankind has had to grapple with disease – most notable the black death that swept Europe and Asia in the 14^th century, killing more than 20 million people.  More recent however were the H1-N1 (swine flu) that killed over 12,000 in the U.S., SARS, and “Bird Flu” epidemics – however, they all pale in comparison to the deadly Spanish Flu of 1918 that killed an estimated 20-50 million people.

It was March of 1918, nearly a century ago today.  America was gearing up for war in Europe, a war so ghastly it was dubbed “the war to end all wars” – no one felt any nation would be willing to fight a war ever again with such deadly weaponry at hand.  All around the nation, young men were being herded into crowded army camps to train for the trenches.  One such camp was Camp Funston in Kansas.  Hordes of young recruits were sent to the camp during the worst winter on record.  Barracks swelled and troops were forced to sleep in tents under think blankets.

Nearby, in Haskell County KS, a little community was just getting over a mysterious sickness that seemed to only affect the farmers of the community.  It was a flu bug that was shockingly contagious and extremely deadly.  A local doctor was so terrified that he alerted the U.S. Public Health Service.  Being that the outbreak was in a small community, however, the USPHS chose to do nothing, feeling that in a small “backwater” community, the sickness would soon run out of people to infect and this run its course.

Meanwhile, back at Camp Funston, a company cook named Private Albert Gitchell reported to sick bay with flu like symptoms.  He was part of a batch of fresh recruits brought to the camp from Haskell County on February 28^th.  Coughing and sneezing, the Haskell Kansas boys crowded into jam packed barracks and spread the disease.  By the end of the month of March, over 1,000 troops were sick with 38 dead.

The first wave of the flu in the United States came on rapidly but left just as fast.  It was March, the end of flu season.  In Europe, however, it took hold and mutated.  Fresh faced American soldiers, with watery eyes and runny noses, walked off the troop ships in France and spread the sickness throughout the country.

By May it had spread across Europe, killing 8,000,000 people in Spain alone where it earned the nickname “Spanish Flu”.  By June it spread through India and China, by July it was sprawling over Africa and South America, and by August it found its way back to the docks on America’s east coast – this time far deadlier than the version that had left so many months earlier.

The infected were suspect to severe nausea, aches, fever, and diarrhea.  Many developed black blotches on their skin and would even turn blue due to a lack of oxygen.  Once a patient turned blue, it was only a matter of hours, or minutes before they would die.  Some became infected only to die as little as 12 hours later, showing no symptoms until the very end.

Troops coming home on boats from Europe were sick, many dying.  Reports were of bodies being stacked like cordwood on the docks.  Masks were handed out, hand sanitation was urged, and large gatherings were banned.  Hospitals could scarcely keep up with the flu and swelled beyond capacity.

In Philadelphia, 200,000 people crammed together on city streets to watch a parade.  Three days later, every sick bed in the city’s 31 hospitals was full of sick and dying patients.  By the end of the week, 4,500 people were dead.  Officials closed the city, all businesses and public services ceased to operate, yet it was too late.  An estimated 12,000 people were killed in Philadelphia alone.

After the deadly second wave of Spanish Flu, the sickness abruptly stopped.  It peaked late in 1918 and diminished to almost nothing.  It simply ran out of victims.  The damage had been done, however, as 500,000,000 people, worldwide, had been infected with the flu, and up to 50,000,000 perished because of it.

Today, as it was in 1918, people are afraid of what tomorrow may bring.  Health officials have yet to get a firm handle on covid-19, there’s no vaccine, and symptoms can be so mild that a person does not know they have it while passing it along to others.  How the coronavirus will unfold is anybody’s guess.  We can hope that it goes to the wayside like so many others, or that a vaccine is developed to eradicate it.  History has proven time and time again that when it’s all over and the dust settles, life will go on.  For now, however, I guess we’ll just have to keep our fingers crossed. – Brian Haines.

It was the roaring 20s, a time of moral decadence.  An era best categorized by bootleggers, booze, flappers, and jazz.  Ladies’ dresses and hairstyles became shorter, music became louder, cars became faster, and liquor, which was now illegal, flowed more freely than ever.  The Great War was over, but the victory party that followed ceased to end.

Rarely was there a place in America that wasn’t touched in some way by the roaring 20s.  Minnesota, a state once thought of as a rural mecca with country values, became the nation’s top producer of illegal moonshine.  The trade was so prevalent across the countryside that it caught the attention of the feds and the likes of Al Capone.  All across the state, ballrooms and dance halls became the centers of 1920’s night life.  What were once quaint venues for weddings and ceremonies, were now filled with jazz music, dancing, and booze.

The Lake Marion Ballroom was a beautiful pavilion style dance hall on the shores of Lake Marion.  Cool breezes floated through the screened pavilion, and the full moon reflecting off the lake made it exquisite.  To the north was a small outcropping of rocks where mist from the waves could wash over those who sat atop them while listening to the music through the screened windows.  To top off the atmosphere was the popcorn stand that stood outside the ballroom entrance and filled the pavilion with the scent of freshly popped corn.  It was indeed a landmark of McLeod County.

To some the ballroom was a place of grandeur, yet to others it was a den of sin and decadence.  At a time when a segment of the population looked to tighten the noose around societal ills, the ballroom was often the sight of moonshine vendors, and it was rumored that “women from disorderly houses from the Cities were brought there for illegal purposes”.  It was also rumored that “the dances have been rough and that some of the dancers of both sexes get drunk; that the rooms of the hotel are all engaged in advance and that the cottages are broken into and the rooms occupied by revelers”.  If such ill repute was indeed prevalent at the pavilion, it is no wonder that such deeds would summon the presence of Satan himself.

It was Sunday, October 30th, 1921, the evening before Halloween.  For years October 30th was known as mischief night, the night when pranksters ran amuck with pleasure.  It was common to wake up on Halloween morning to find outhouses tipped over, unhinged gates, windows soaped, or to see property vandalized.  It was the perfect night for a sinister appearance by Satan himself, and what better place to get a good scare than in a pavilion full of people.

There are many versions of what happened, the following is one of them.

It was intermission at the Lake Marion Ballroom.  The musicians were off stage, taking a break, and the dancers were mingling among themselves.  The weather that night was blustery; it was humid, and a late season thunderstorm was passing through the area.  As the dancers reveled and laughed, a loud clap of thunder shook the pavilion and the rain started coming down.  Another earth shattering thunder, and then a scream from the crowd as a strange apparition appeared next to the mirrored column in the middle of the dance floor, and made its way to the bar.

The lights in the ballroom began to flicker, some claiming they gave off an eerie, un-earthly like color.  Some supposed witnesses recalled that the musicians instruments flew off the stage and splintered as they hit the ground.  Then, from the ceiling, a broomstick began dancing in mid-air and made its way to the stage.

A cry emitted from the crowd “The Devil is here to get his dues.  Repent on your knees.  Pray for forgiveness.”  Then suddenly, in a flash of smoke, fire, and brimstone, Satan himself was said to have appeared.  Some say he came from above, while others maintained he rose from the floor.  He did not speak, but made his way through the crowd.  As he walked by, a section of scaffold resting against a wall crumbled into a heap of iron.

People screamed, people fainted, and people scrambled over the top of one another in a race to the exits.  They jumped in their cars and drove away as fast as their old Model T’s would allow.  Many abandoned their cars and ran headlong into the darkness.  Some were transfixed on the spot, unable to move as the dark prince strolled by.  To those who stayed behind as witness, they say the devil strode out of the ballroom and walked across the water on the lake, disappearing from sight and leaving a scene of chaos in his wake.

The story began to evolve over the next few days, and it gained nationwide attention.  The story was told all over the state, in the Minneapolis paper, as well as a number of smaller publications.  It even hit the papers in Chicago, and some recall that the story was told as far east as New York.

Rumors of the perpetrator’s identity were widespread.  Some claimed it was a prankster, some claimed it was nothing but a ball of lightning and the onlookers were exaggerating the story, yet others maintained that it was the Devil himself, complete with horns, tail, and cloven feet.  Whatever it was, something indeed happened on that October night in 1921.

At a resort in Norwood, just a few days after the episode at Lake Marion, an intense game of poker was being played in a backroom where a well-known gambler was present.  While the players were making bets, tossing chips, and laying down cards, it is said that Satan again appeared.  How he appeared is unknown.  Perhaps it was with a puff of smoke, maybe a ball of brimstone and fire, or perhaps he simply strode through the door.  Whatever his means of appearing, it is said that he accosted the well-known gambler, and in a devilish voice proclaimed, “Now you old rascal.  I’ve got you!”  The events beyond that are a mystery.

Not long after these events, a letter to the editor appeared in the Hutchinson Leader.  Mrs. C.L. Bartlett of Bertha, Minnesota was skeptical, and was inquiring to the facts concerning the events, wanting to know what kind of evidence was available to prove that this was the Devil himself and not some prankster.  A week later a reply to Mrs. Bartlett’s inquiry appeared in the same publication by, of all people, a local Methodist Pastor.

Andrus Richardson was born in Chautauqua, New York in 1869.  Pastor Richardson moved around a lot, and in 1921, found himself in Hutchinson, MN.  On November 16th of that year he wrote a letter to the editor in regards to Mrs. Bartlett’s questioning of the Devil.  Interestingly, the pastor seemed to take offense that anyone would not believe the devil appeared.  He claimed that only a certain “class of people” went to these dances, and went on to list the events that made these dances so “rough”.  He described the scene that night, how the lights became lurid, how the women screamed, and how people left the pavilion stricken with terror; it was almost as if he was there himself.  He ends his letter stating that the hotel is now deserted, and that “dancing among that class of people has ceased”.  Lastly, he proclaims that many who witnessed the spectacle were confined to bed with hysteria, and that those who are hardest to convince it was a hoax were those who were witness to the evil dark prince.  At times while reading through his letter, one could argue that he is saying “job well done”.

To this day the Devil at Lake Marion stands as one of the best known legends in McLeod County.  Nearly a century has passed since the event, yet the story remains strong in the minds of all those who’ve heard the tale.  Who was it?  Was the Devil merely a man in disguise, was the entire episode just an overreaction to natural phenomena, or was it indeed a guest appearance from Satan himself?  Perhaps time will tell.  For now, however, the mystery behind the legend remains just that, a mystery.