François Bourassa Memoir: Part 3 - April-Dec. 1883 - Rolette Co., North Dakota

François Bourassa top right. Son Horace middle left with wife Delia, their daughter Pomela and baby Evelina. 1906

In April 1883, the François Bourassa family arrived at what would become St. John, North Dakota Territory. While his sons and son-in-law built the first house, François returned to Brandon, Manitoba, with a wagon and a team of horses and brought back an additional 9 family members, son Hector, the women and children. Here is Part 3 - April through December 1883:

We unpacked our bags about our house. A piece of flooring would serve as an armchair, if necessary. We set out cutlery on a table converted from a wooden box. At the eastern end of our house we made shelves similar to those made in our old flour mill for its inhabitants, 4 feet deep along the width of the wall, allowing us platforms for 12 beds, our stove in the center. Now that we were settled, we had to attend to our beasts. In three days we built a large enough stable covered with turf to shelter them comfortably.

Alfred and Elizabeth (Bowen) Bourassa later in life

Alfred and Philias [a married son and the son-in-law] began building small houses on the elevations of their choice, comfortable enough to allow them to spend a few years there, all as 'squatters' because the survey was not done.

Philius and Georgina (Bourassa) Durocher later in life

I was intent on discovering if it was possible for me to sow something. South of my yard, about two and a half acres had been broken by an Englishman [Francois referred to all English-speakers as Englishmen] chased off in October 1882 by les savauges, never to return.  [The Chippewa had assisted the Métis in chasing them off. Francois always referred to Native Americans as 'les savauges'].  I began working this piece of land. Not two hours earlier a Métis had come to me, claiming this plowed area was his, being within the confines of his land. His building site was nearly a mile away. He said, "I'm going to sell it to you." I replied, "Yes? How much do you want for it?" He answered, "Aben, dène moè un bari d’pétak." In this talk, I discovered that a barrel, on its own, was a minot. [A minot is about 8 gallons or a bushel.] "Well! To be quiet, I'll give it to you." [The Métis was demanding in the Michif language, a combination of French and various Native American words, a barrel/bushel of something, possibly oats or wheat or flour. I can't discover what 'pétak' means.] An hour later, another one came to make the same claim. To this one I said, "If I pay you, too, I think I'll be obliged to pay you all." So, I ignored him and continued to prepare this little plot to sow oats. The next few days I continued to break the prairie for potatoes and a minot of peas carried with us from L’Acadie, so we'd have some vegetables and a little barley, if possible. (Indeed, I sowed around three acres.)

We had to see to the provisions, especially the most pressing - flour. W. [William] Brunelle, who arrived from Grafton the same day as the family with 11 double wagons loaded with groceries [Brunelle had earlier carried away wagon loads of furs traded from the Métis, with which to purchase these goods], had opened a store in a large tent. I went to him for flour, despite his high price of $6.00. [Likely for a 100 lb. sack of flour.] We needed it. Unfortunately, he had none and would have it only in 5 or 6 days, which was too long for us.  Fourteen mouths without flour and few other provisions was likely to make us think hard [about staying]. He had a barrel of soda crackers. I asked the price. "They're worth 20 cents a pound." It was steep, but what was I to do? I asked him to weigh them for me. He objected at selling them all to me, but at last my money had worth for someone else. He weighed them, and I carried them off. This wouldn’t be much for the family for two and a half days, maybe three.

Clearwater, Manitoba is northeast of St. John down in the left corner.

I would have to go to Clearwater, Manitoba, 45 to 50 miles away, to find flour and potatoes at a moderate price. I left on May 24th, early in the morning, and approached within a mile of the mill before I could purchase flour and a few bags of oats. I paid $1.60 for the 100 pounds of flour and 18 cents a minot [bushel] for 10 bags of oats. At 10 o'clock on the 25th, I was on my way home, camping for the night 25 or 26 miles from home, where I had made certain, on my way, of the potatoes for which I would pay 25 cents a minot. I took 15 minots. I was happy with my purchases. To this was added customs. On the morning of the 26th, I had a short way to go, but no proper route, and very bad quagmires to pass, so I was forced to camp four miles from home. I arrived on the morning of the 27^th, to the satisfaction of all. No one had fasted.

In the days that followed, I took care to find a cow to buy. I found her [not far] at F.[Francis] St-Germain, a good Canadian cow for which I paid $22.50. Then I got a ton of hay from a man named Dusseaume in Manitoba, to whom I paid $10. This hay had become matted [perhaps damaged by a blizzard] between Christmas and New Year's Day. To compensate me he sold me a hen with 12 chicks for $2.

For a few days we were matching 22-foot logs for the long walls, wanting to get the 2nd larger] house ready by autumn. We were also digging a 20’ x 22’ cellar to receive the house. At the same time, we were digging a well. (The latter gave us trouble, having to refresh it for a few years until we had it drilled and hit water at 43 feet; since then, we have never run out.)

Manitoba wetlands

We had to make seven trips in all to bring the contents from our boxcar at Brandon. I will only refer to one incident. That was at the end of June. I was accompanied on this journey, by Philias [his son-in-law]. We had a heavy load. This June [1883] was one of the wettest we have had. Around 20 to 22 miles north of Wakopa [Manitoba], we had wetlands (quagmires) to cross, one very bad. We got there at 11 in the morning, managed to cross with one of our loads, but the other wagon became stuck in the middle. I quickly decided that the most expeditious result was to unload each item and carry it on our shoulders across the quagmire. So, to work! We had finished except for a bag of salt of 3 minots. (Not a good thing to dabble with such a heavy a load on the shoulders when we already had water over our knees), and it was half past 11. Philias said, "Before taking this one, I think we should have our dinner, then I think I can move it." So, we ate our dinner. After a few minutes of rest, he said, "Now we're going to try." I climbed in the wagon, presented him with the burden, which he shouldered, and in just two or three minutes the sack of salt had made the crossing and was with the rest. We used the long chain [he always carried behind his wagon] to attach the other team to the first. The horses didn't get the wagon out the first time. At last, they managed to pull it out, but they had had enough, and it wasn’t until three o'clock when we left there. It was the end of June, calm and warm, after much rain, and in this swampy area we found ourselves crossing, flies and gnats, mosquitoes and other insects went after our animals, so much so that they often made great efforts to lie down. We had to make a type of broom, more like a mop, to swat them, and worked hard to give them the courage to keep going. In the evening we camped near the house of a bachelor, which allowed us to make smoke [with their pipes perhaps.] to keep these clouds of insects away from our animals, allowing them to rest and eat. We left in the early morning and arrived home late in the evening, without any trouble except we worried whether we could find our place in the great prairie darkness, having nearly three miles to go without seeing anything. Fortunately, we chanced on a neighbor a mile or so from our farmyard, who was kind enough to give us the proper direction to take. When we thought we had gone far enough, we stopped to figure out where we were (it was dark with a thick mist). I began to prowl from side to side. Suddenly I was at my site. We went straight across a couple of acres on the south side of the house. Finally, we were home, all are very happy; our animals too, I think, for their instincts told them they had arrived.

The rest of June and all of July we used to break a small piece of land for each of us for the following year. I had prepared a dozen acres. One couple plowed while the others occupied themselves with construction.

Philias and Alfred entered their small houses around August 1^st . On a Sunday in mid-August, after Mass, the Charbonneau family came to dine with us outside at our construction site. [Bruno Charbonneau (1855 Quebec-1933 Quebec) was an older brother of our great-grandfather Omer. He was listed as a carpenter in the 1883 Lowell, MA directory, so must have been convinced by Father Malo to come out west, although the St. John Centennial history says they were neighbors of Father Malo earlier in Quebec. His wife was Philomene, whom he married the year before. Soon two more Charbonneau brothers would arrive.] During our dinner, a thunderstorm gathered in the northwest. We hurriedly erected a tent above our table, putting weights around the edges. The storm began, accompanied by a strong wind that, despite the weights, played havoc with our canvas. Our hastily improvised cover, not well staked down, was allowing gutters of water to spill in. It was funny to see the crowd around the table, some with umbrellas over their heads. Fortunately, the storm was not long-lasting. The good weather returned and, cheerfully, we resumed our favorite amusements - games of croquet, puck [quoits: tossing rope or rubber rings over an upright peg], irons [horseshoes], and others. Every Sunday, at one place or the other, after Mass, of course, these amusements were renewed. During the week we were so busy that we had, dare I say, not a minute to sacrifice to the memory of the past, which certainly would have caused some of us sadness.

In the course of that same Sunday afternoon in the middle of August 1883, 4 hours after the storm, we had the great and pleasant surprise of Abdalah [their oldest son] arriving from Brandon, although he was alone, as his wife [Josephine Boutin] refused to move away from Uncle Cardinal [she lost both parents by age 5 and was reared by her uncle]. We will see later how things turned out. For the past few days, we had been making hay.  We didn't want to have to buy and pay dearly for bad hay. We gathered a large supply, two parallel stacks 12 feet apart, 14’ x 60’ and very high. Later I put long poles across them, with a cross-sapling overcoat, then covered the whole thing with forage [dried grass]. I masted saplings on each end [? Stood them upright like masts?], rather innovative. [A few sentences were difficult to translate, but apparently, he made a covered tunnel between the two rows of haystacks.] During the winter, I tended these straw-covered saplings. When the ground was well-frozen, it became a most beautiful covered area where, during the winter, I flailed my little harvest [of wheat, barley and oats, separating the kernels of grain]. In the spring, there was no way to sell hay, so we were greatly disappointed, because we were counting on this income to help us, since our finances would be exhausted.

Abdalah took the land south of me, but did nothing on it until the spring of 1884. During the winter he dragged logs for a house and worked at La Rivière's [Bernard La Rivière was the founder of Wakopa, Manitoba, 12 miles away on the NE side of Turtle Mountain], earning himself a pair of oxen. Alfred, Hector and Lindorf worked there as well. My heart swelled when I watched them leave again whenever they visited.

Alcide Bourassa as an adult

I was taking care of my small harvest with little Alcide [the youngest son, age 11]. I made a platform [for cutting the barley] with planks from our boxes and attached the scythe from my mill. I was walking the horses 12 to 15 feet with the front wind - I was only ‘cutting wind in front’, as they say. When I had covered my platform with a big sheaf [of barley], I stopped my horses. Alcide presented me with a 'hart' [a tie for the sheaf? Or Alcide had shaped a heart from the barley straw?] and I tied it on. I was working slowly, but doing good work. In a few days, I had cut my little crop, as well as my peas, which were beautiful and very good.

Barley sheaf

My small harvests completed, I finished my [2nd] house, and entered it as soon as possible, which was October 1st. Only Alfred and J.O.P. [Philius] Durocher settled into their homes for wintering. Hector and his little wife [Matilda, who would die in 1893, age 34] stayed with us for nearly two years, having had the misfortune in the second summer of their small dwelling catching fire with all its contents, clothing and the rest. Hector returned home and began building again, but they spent a second winter with us. He accepted work [away from home] when it came along, as did Horace and Lindorf, and Abdulah, since he was alone.

François' plow might have resembled this one.

In October, I plowed the few acres I had sown in the spring, along with those broken in June and July, making about 20 acres ready for the spring of 1884. One day that October, Brunelle, our grocer, asked me to go with my team to meet 9 teams coming 120 miles from Grafton [which was on a railroad line], loaded with merchandise and groceries.

Grafton, ND is the red spot in Walsh County. Rolette County is the 4th county from the right at the top of ND.

On the second day of their departure, they encountered a prairie fire from the Mountain. The prairie air had been clear and sparkling for at least 80 miles. They left Grafton without taking hay and their horses were exhausted. A courier had arrived, informing the grocer of their situation and position, so, I couldn't deny him this favor; I needed him too much. He had me accompany Arthur Foussard, who also had good horses [Arthur earlier had driven the white mules]. We left early the next day, so we would meet them the second day after our departure. We each carried hay and provisions for half a full trip [to Grafton]. The first day was good; the second we again left early, but in pouring rain, so we were forced to go slowly. Nevertheless, a little over four hours later we saw them from a distance. The rain had stopped at noon, but the weather was raw, and we were suffering. They, too, had seen us before it grew dark and were signaling continuously, so we would reach them as quickly as possible. They had been camped for three days, awaiting the help they knew would come, restricting their horses to a small ration of oats and, during the previous 24 hours to soda-crackers. Finally, they knew they were saved. We all hurried to give the horses moderate feedings, made a good fire, and no one disdained a good bitter [beer]. They always carried a tent and we had a good night after taking care of our animals, which had to be coddled in preparation for the next day - a short journey we hoped. We had no time to waste. After a day like we’d spent, everyone enjoyed a good fire all night, for we’d brought an adequate supply of wood. Finally, on the fifth day, ill-favored with a mix of snow and rain, we arrived back in St. John.

The lime kiln might have looked no different from the remains this one in Utah, but keep the image of rocks in mind for a later episode.

Finally, we finished preparations for an early winter. Having made a lime kiln in September, we cooked up lime from limestone gathered on the prairie, intending to use it to finish off our constructions for the winter [likely as waterproofing]. As I was burning this lime one fine morning at the end of September, I said, "Today we're going to conserve our peas." I headed off to my beautiful sheaves of peas, turning them so they would be dry after dinner, and then went off to my furnace [lime kiln], on a 10-acre parcel to the east. At noon, a strong westerly wind suddenly arose and I saw my peas coming to meet me at high speed.  All we could do was catch some 5 or 6 sheaves in flight. Some were blown beyond 30 miles, which convinced us that peas would not be an advantageous grain to raise in large amounts here, especially since it is toilsome to harvest and flail; so, we gave up that idea. Our small harvest was done, having cost us what it was worth.

François' haystacks might have resembled these until he covered them with poles

We had over 80 tons of beautiful hay. The barley and oats were the best. Vegetables were medium, but of good quality, especially potatoes, carrots and turnips. We’d had to fight small prairie beasts, such as gophers, hares and several species of birds, especially the abundant prairie chickens [now nearly extinct].

Prairie chickens

In addition, we had to fight the unfortunate custom of the Métis of allowing their cattle to roam free 12 months of the year. One day in late August, while working on my house, I saw two of them on horseback chasing a herd of cattle. When they were only a few acres from my field of oats, they turned bridle, abandoning their cattle, which soon ‘surrendered’ themselves to the oats. We all left what we were doing and rounded them up, herded them home and enclosed them, including a few milk cows, with our 16 horses. Two or three hours later, four or five large Métis on horseback arrived to ask for their cattle.  I refused them, saying that to release the cattle without being paid, I would have them back the next day.  I would turn them over for $10, which I would return when I harvested, if the cattle did not return before then; but if they came back, I would keep the money. It was far from their style of business. They said, "You know well that we have no money. Cattle are free to roam here. There is no law here. We will take our cattle." I replied, "Listen well, my friends, if you take them, we will not fight, but tomorrow I will have you all arrested.  If you believe there is no law here, I will show you that there is. As for your money, I will not keep it in my possession. You will find Father Malo and ask him for a $10 voucher, to include a promise of a refund if you let me save my harvest without the cattle coming back." They replied, "It is too late to go find Father and, besides, we want to milk the cows." "Well,” I replied, “take the milk cows and tomorrow morning come back with Father's paper and you can take the rest." Which is what they did. This good old priest sent me a kind little letter telling me he had strongly urged them to take care of their cattle, which I could take and would surely sell. The Métis and I were not so friendly after that.

Flailing wheat, raising the flail and slashing it down on the grain to separate the kernels.

In December, I flailed my little crop, as I wrote above, with my improvised flail. I've never beaten a more comfortable flail in my life. I cleaned 100 and a few minots of beautiful oats. When the wind turned south, I took the opportunity to winnow it, using a hand cart, an old system I made to serve, to finished cleaning it [using the wind to separate the chaff from the grain]. I did the same thing with my small barley crop.

winnowing wheat

Several of us new settlers, all in great need of lumber, subscribed the necessary amount to pay customs for a saw mill [likely a portable steam-run saw mill], belonging to Mr. Atcheson (Ochesson), who wished to settle here and cut every type of wood for our constructions.  Each of our contributions was repaid by having logs we hauled to his mill sawed into lumber, especially cheap for those who contributed in this subscription. Being of this number, and in need of building materials for a few years, since the government allowed any settler to cut wood for his own use, it was important that we profited from this. We were only 3 miles from the edge of [Turtle] Mountain, which was well-wooded at that time. So, every possible day we went there, cut long and short logs of every kind throughout the winter, despite inevitable disturbances. After cutting and hauling logs all day, we returned to our homes with the satisfaction of having done something useful. In the spring, we had an abundance of firewood, poles, framing of all kinds, and planks that cost us but $50 to $100 a thousand feet, similar to those bought from the Métis for my door and first floor of our small living room.

Logging with sledge and horses