François Bourassa Memoir, Part 2: 1883 - North Dakota Homestead

North Dakota prairie trail

Below is Part 2 of the memoir written in 1908, likely with the assistance of a pocket journal, by our 2nd great-grandfather François Bourassa, a French-Canadian who settled his large family in what became St. John, North Dakota, which I've translated from the original French.  Part one is HERE. In Part II, Francois and his large family have reached Brandon, Manitoba. The adult males leave the women and an adult son behind and, with two loaded wagons, join other settlers heading south into North Dakota Territory. What struck me throughout the memoir was how innovative François and others were. I have a copy of the centennial history of St. John, North Dakota, and will post photos and information from it within this memoir from time to time.

DEPARTURE FROM BRANDON, MANITOBA [23 April, 1883]: We left, 17 men, 12 pairs of horses, 4 pairs of oxen and 6 milk cows. On the first evening, we settled in for the night about fifteen miles away. Most of us slept in our wagons. We started up again the morning of the 24th, a small caravan. We found snow in places, and sometimes a lot of water, causing long delays. We arrived late in the evening in Souris-City [Manitoba], three or four small houses clustered side by side, but already designated as a "city". That name has always remained there [not recently]. We used this road for 12 to 13 miles in consideration of there being a bridge over the Souris River [called the Mouse River in the U.S.], built during the winter.

Foot bridge, built in 1904, over the Souris River, possibly at the same site where the old ferry was.

Unfortunately, the ice break-up had swept the bridge away the night before.  So, here we lay at anchor. The previous summer, there had been a ferry crossing, but at the end of the previous autumn, the barge being in poor condition and the citizens expecting to have a bridge in the spring, they allowed it to sink to the river bottom. According to them, it was not possible to get it afloat for 8 or 10 days. Meanwhile, a man who wanted to stay at a hotel with his team in Souris-City was charged the ‘trifle’ of $8.00 per 24 hours.

That night we all consulted and, on the morning of the 25th, after having lunch and caring for our cattle and horses, gathered on the banks of the river and went to work! We began by heating the iron cable attached to the ferry in order to slake it [make it more pliable]. At noon, the barge was at the water's edge. In the afternoon we were able to empty it and begin caulking [the holes]. On the 26th, at 10 o'clock, we were ready to begin ferrying our livestock across. What had given us the most trouble was putting the cables, made of iron and an inch and a quarter thick, back in place from one bank to the other, attached to large solid trees, and placing the pulleys properly, with other cables attached to the barge. Done properly, the strong current striking the side of the barge should take us quickly in one direction or the other across the river. We began crossing our livestock a little before noon. At 7 o'clock in the evening, on our last trip, the barge presented broadside to the current, breaking one of the cables (and for the better for, had it resisted, the ferry would have flipped over). In this imminent danger, if not for F. Brassard’s quickness in grasping the other end of the cable and holding it (while taking a deep bath in cold water), we would have gone adrift. With this cable intact, we were able to dock without accident.

The ferry may have resembled this early ferry. Note the cables.

On the 27th, we set out again in a very good weather, all pleased to leave Souris City. At lunchtime we camped on a beautiful elevation, cared for our animals and set our tables, where we ate with great appetite. By 2 o'clock we were back on track. In the evening we camped a few miles from Wakopa. On the 28th, we left early in the morning, eager not to lose any of the day if we could help it. We arrived in Wakopa at 11 o'clock and made camp for dinner. Around one o'clock we were back on our way.

A monument, dedicated on 3 July 1960, is located at the former site of the village of Wakopa. A trading post and junction point on the old Boundary Commission Trail. After the railroad reached Killarney, north of Wakopa in 1886, what village there was faded away.

There we split off.  Messrs. Foussard and Laberge took the Southeast and the others headed east. Over the next 3 hours the weather darkened with heavy weather. Indeed, pouring rain mixed with snow lasted part of the night. At the end of five hours we reached the edge of Turtle Mountain at an old Métis named Brien, and we stayed there until Monday. We made beds on the floor. During the night we realized we were not alone, that we were in grande compagnie, covered in bedbugs. I have never seen so many; they bit me fiercely.

Father John F. Malo, the missionary priest who convinced the Bourassa and Charbonneau families, among others, to settle in North Dakota. He also performed the marriage of our great-grandparents, Lumina Bourassa and Omer Charbonneau in 1887.

On the 29th, Sunday, we attended the Mass [at the St. Cloud chapel, a small log cabin, that was built for Father Malo in 1882] said by the Reverend Father Brunelle, in the absence of the Reverend Father Malo, who had gone with several settlers, who had arrived 4 or 5 days before us.  Some were from New England, among whom were Bruno Charbonneau, his wife, and [brother] Melène.  Omer [Bruno’s brother and our great-grandfather Charbonneau, who later married Lumina Bourassa] came to join them the following year in 1884. On his return, Father Malo strongly censored us for having settled here, east of the Mountain. “The ‘great reserve’ of the Indians will be here and you will be forced to get out, wasting your time and your 'emprouvements',” he admonished. "Father," I replied, "I go no further.  If I can't settle here, we'll go back to Manitoba." Time has shown Providence watches over us, since we have never been disturbed. Some of those Father Malo located [closer to the mountains] have been disturbed and, indeed, have wasted their time and 'emprouvements'.

After Mass we had dinner with him and, after dinner, we walked out on the prairie. At nearly 3 miles, on a rise, I planted a long stick I had used as a walking stick, and said, "This is my homestead." Alfred [son] then said, "Mine is on that elevation we see at 10 or 12 acres from here to the east." Philias [son-in-law] said, "Mine is on that other ridge about half-mile northeast." Hector [son] said, "Well, I'll be on that height that we see about a mile away." So, we had made our choices. Now it became a question of getting logs here the following day to begin a 16’ x 20’ home. A brave Métis man with us [brave because the majority of Métis resented what they considered to be their land opening up for homesteading], Joseph Langan, said, "Tomorrow at 10 o'clock, I can bring you the logs you need and continue to bring what you will need." "How much will you charge me per log of this length and no less than 6 inches at the end?" "Such logs are worth 50 cents each." "That's good," I said, "if you bring me 100 logs, and 10 of oak for footings, I'll give you $50.00." "Tomorrow at 10 o'clock, you'll have about 20 brought."

On Monday morning we had to make our entries on our homesteads. We harnessed our animals and went to customs. [The Federal Government had placed a customs official at a ranch near what would become St. John to handle requests for homesteads, even though no surveying had been done, and to collect tariffs of goods coming in from Canada.] After careful consideration of everything, he informed us, "It is impossible for me to admit you without your paying customs" [on everything they'd brought from Brandon]. He continued, “I don’t believe you are settlers in good faith. I think you’re more merchants than homesteaders - good livestock, no women, no children. I think you’re more speculator than settler." "But," I said, "our wives and children are in Brandon. It was impossible for them to come at the same time as us. I propose to go back to get them as soon as possible. If I must pay customs [on the wagons, livestock, and goods], I prefer to go back to Manitoba." "This is what I will do," he said, "you will deposit the customs amount, and I will give you a receipt, conditioned on giving you a refund when the women and children arrive, if within 15 days." So, I agreed. "How much do I have to deposit?" "You have to deposit $150.00." Which I did. Afterward, we set off for the 'homestead', settled the horses, oxen and men under the great starry vault above. We had what we needed to establish ourselves - logs, axes, and hammers.

The sod house they built might have resembled this one

I helped place the first rows of logs and showed them how high they should go, (about 8 feet); where to cut a door and a window; the way they had to cover everything, first, in poles from top to bottom, then to find old dry meadow grass to cover these poles [on the roof, I assume, but maybe the walls, too, for insulation] 6 to 8 inches thick, and then cover this ‘hay’ with [clay, possibly, which he called ‘terre lousse’ - maybe 'loose soil' or mud] 7 to 8 inches thick. That evening, half an acre from our work, we settled in our wagons and in a small 14-foot lean-to, covered in poles only, (this was the shelter our horses had for several days). On Tuesday, May 1st, Alfred, Philias, Horace and Lindorf continued their work, and I traveled with the Métis to find boards to make a door and some for flooring, if possible, having been informed that most boards were sawed by hand. Indeed, I found enough for our door and a small span [for some flooring] at a construction site. That evening I prepared to leave the next morning for Brandon. Wednesday, May 2nd, I left early with my team of big horses, taking along two young couples with their valises to return them to Brandon, at the rate of $5.00 each head, and they paid my expenses on the way.

North Dakota prairie

I was amazed at the change that had come to the trails and the quickness in travel in just a few days. We arrived from the east in the evening at about 4 o'clock, crossed the Mouse [Souris River] 12 miles west of Souris-City (at Hyslop Crossing) and, 3 miles from the river, camped at a bachelor-homesteader, whose name I never knew.

A crossing on the Souris River used by the Boundary Commission, c. 1870 photograph

The next day at 10 in the morning, we arrived in Brandon. Don’t ask how much the women rejoiced when I arrived. That afternoon, with Hector helping me, we moved what we could not bring with us into the priest’s little shed, and prepared to leave the next day, if possible. It was difficult to bring a lot, for there were 10 of us, small and large, who must be seated in the wagon [François, his wife Marie, elder daughter Georgina and toddler, younger daughter Lumina, son Hector and wife Matilda, youngest son Alcide, Alfred's wife Elizabeth and toddler. We needed a few valises, blankets, some kitchen utensils and food.

How Brandon Mountain, Manitoba, appears now

The morning of May 4^th I relinquished the small house, paying two weeks' rent ($10.00), and in the early afternoon we began the return trip, accompanied by the two Foussard brothers. We camped in the evening at the foot of Brandon Mountain at the home of a very kind young couple. On the 5th, we took to the trail again. The Foussard brothers were ahead in their two wagons. At the Souris River, we descended a steep hill to the river. Emile Foussard was ahead in his small wagon, and everything went well for him through nearly 200 feet of quagmire.

Emile Foussard in 1940. He and his brother Arthur came from France, not Quebec.

Arthur was following him in a larger wagon pulled by a pair of white mules. He was barely 50 feet into this quagmire when his mules and the wagon bogged down.

Another hillside wagon bogged in mud

The more he moved forward, the deeper down he sank. Coming from behind, I stopped in time not to get bogged down. I unharnessed my horses, tied them to the back of the wagon and they pulled it back up the hill. Foussard asked me to do the same for him (if I wanted to).  I came back to him, carrying the long chain I always carried behind my wagon, and attached it to the back of his wagon. I asked, "Did you unharness your mules?" "I can't," he replied. "But," I said, "your harnesses will break or maybe hurt your mules." He shouted at me: "I can't help it! Please try!" I made my horses go (it was hard), but they retreated up through the quagmire and, despite his cries that I was hurting his white mules, I didn't stop them until I was certain they were back on solid ground. (Nom de Dieu! How dirty they were!) So, here we were, out of this quagmire, and yet we had to go down. Next to this steep grade was a beautiful prairie meadow, but the descent to it was so steep, it is impossible to go down with the horses pulling a full wagon. Everyone walked down and out on the prairie, with valises and the rest. And then our wagons descended, and we were saved. The ground here was less thawed, and we had no trouble passing over it, but we had lost a few hours and still had to cross the Souris River. We stayed that night at Hyslop, a few miles from the crossing.

The next day we dined at Professor Martin's house, and then arrived in Wakopa in the evening. We slept at La Rivière's [likely at the small hotel its first inhabitant constructed]. The next day, May 6, we arrived at the Foussard homestead. At their invitation, we spent the night at their house [The brothers' cabin was exactly in the middle of what later became the town of St. John].

On the 7th, I reported to customs. After careful examination, the customs officer granted our homestead admission and returned my deposit. Afterward, we went to the homestead. It was quite a sight, seeing the effect produced on young people, who had always lived in cities or villages, when they saw their new home on this vast prairie, the small house erected in two or three days in order to cram everyone under a little shelter, while awaiting a better one. It was the frailest and the most initially hostile [his wife Marie] who were the bravest. Finally, we were going to settle down.

Maybe the sod house was larger and looked more like this one