François Bourassa Memoir: Part 6 - 1885 in Rolette Co., North Dakota

F.X.A. Bourassa, Omer Charbonneau, Fremance LeBlanc, our forebears' lands upper right, plats drawn after the Great Northern Railway came through, but before 1913 when Omer Charbonneau died. Some Bourassa sons had moved away, although their lands may have been to the right in another section.

MORTALITY IN THE FAMILY: We were preparing to pass New Year’s Day as we had the previous one, but when we sat down for dinner, I was given a letter from my father. I quickly opened it. I had not yet finished reading when my wife realized something would darken our party. Indeed, my father announced the death of one of my sisters, the youngest of the family; she left a family of eight young children. Our party was somber. [However, it appears he has the year wrong.  Helene Bourassa Bouchard (b. 1854, appears to have died a month after childbirth, along with her newborn, but in the following year, 11 Dec 1885) unless the information is wrong on Ancestry, which it certainly could be].

In the last week of January, I went to the Wabith flour mill (in Lac Blanc, Manitoba) with 44 minots (close to 44 bushels) of wheat to grind into flour for our family. This mill was grinding the old-fashioned way and in poor shape.) Nevertheless, we were able to make fair bread, saving ourselves from heavy expenses. I was gone 6 days on this trip and back on a Sunday in heavy weather. Impossible to imagine how long this journey was for me and those of the house, too, my wife especially. This load of wheat also gave us bran to mix with oats and barley for the livestock.

AN EARLY SPRING: It snowed little that winter, not good for the usual winter activities. Both wagons [a larger and a smaller one] were in use all the time, winter and summer, neither more advantageous than the other. Many settlers began working the land in March. We attempted to sow wheat on February 28. What was saved was good, but most perished in bad weather. Seed sown from April 10 to 12, 1885, produced 22 minots of wheat; 30 of oats and 8 of barley. When the sowing was finished, I broke more prairie. The others did what they could. Not everyone had what they needed yet. Occasionally, they would combine teams, and manage to plow a few acres for one another. They always used my oxen, and often my large mare, which had her filly (Fanny) to feed. With these three beasts I was doing very well. I still had my small gray mare, which the family used for short trips.

A TRIP WITH OLD BEAUDOIN: François Beaudoin and his son, Louis, (having arrived in March [1884] and introduced to us by the Rev. Father Malo, spent six weeks with us). In May of that year he requested I accompany him to Clear Waters [Clearwater, Manitoba, a few miles north of the border] to get supplies. We had no pressing needs [for supplies]. However, I agreed. We left on Monday morning with a pair of harnessed oxen he did not know how to drive. [François Bourassa drove a wagon and horses.] We camped 14 or 15 miles from Clear Waters. The next day we arrived at noon. In the afternoon we purchased our goods and loaded flour, potatoes, oats and some other provisions. Our load complete, we covered it with a large tent canvas, and set off. In the evening it started to rain. All night it poured. It was not easy going, for Beaudoin especially, with unshod oxen, and his being a poor driver, never having led oxen. Yet we had to keep going.  He said, "I think I'm going to have 'an uproar' [a nervous breakdown?] on the way." I expressed my intent to go on alone. But when he saw me leaving, he gripped his hat with one hand and pulled his hair with the other, crying out: "Wait for me, I'll go along!" So, I waited for him and we were again under way. Over the next 11 hours we saw where we wanted to camp for dinner, but we had a wide flat plain to cross, flooded by at least a foot of water. I continued straight ahead. When I was on firm ground, I stopped and looked over my shoulder. The old man was standing on the middle of his load, his hat between his knees, both hands in his hair, crying out, "My dear Monsieur Bourassa, you must not leave me here! Please, for the love of the good Virgin, you must not leave me here!" No matter how much I yelled at him, he carried on. I went to the house where we wanted to dine (2 or 3 acres on). I jerked the pin from my wagon hitch, took a hundred feet of inch-wide cable, and returned with my horse team. He was still in the same position, wailing. Before I entered the water, I shouted, "Shut up, or I'll go back." I asked, "Do you have a chain with you?" He said yes. So, I went through the water, took his chain, attached it to the end of his tongue to hang on my horses. The first pull broke the chain. I threw the chain ends at him and splashed out of the water to get my cable. I doubled the cable, attaching it to his axle, passing it through the ring of his hitch and hung it on my horses. This time they pulled it out.

We continued on after dinner, at about two in the afternoon, and paid for a bed at Cartright’s. Thursday morning, about 10, under a beautiful sun, we were back on our way. We had to cross the 'Little Badger', a large coulee, almost retracing our steps to follow the flow of water to cross east of two planted poles, indicators of a deep hole lying west of these poles. I crossed easily, following the route, turning well-short of the ravine west of the poles. Beaudoin came behind me. He wheeled his oxen too fast. Had it not been for the other ox, the ox on the west would have slipped into the ravine. Nevertheless, gravity tipped the wagon and its load into the hole. I thought he was going to drown his beasts. We had to pull his load from the water, piece by piece. The old man was in despair. I'm surprised he still had hair on his head. When everything was unloaded, his wagon lay on its side in the water. I went to my horses for my cable, which I'd left after his flip-flop, and I pulled the wagon from the water. We reloaded and left almost an hour later. In the evening we slept at Grant's house, three or four miles from our house. On Friday morning, we were back on our way. After walking a while, I looked over my shoulder for the old man. There was nothing there. "Devil,” I said to myself, “what happened to him?" I stopped, got up on my load and looked around, looked back, but nothing. Suddenly I saw him at a distance to the east. The old man had recognized where he was and had taken a shortcut for his home. I arrived home early in the morning. They were beginning to find my absence over-long. I said to my boy, "Tonight you will go to Beaudoin's house and bring back the cable I left after his wagon flip-flopped." He went. After listening to the miseries of the trip, he asked him for my cable. He grabbed his hair and exclaimed, "Mon Dieu Seigneur! Holy Virgin!  He broke my chain. It's going to cost me money to fix it.  He’ll never get it back, ever!”  I never got it back. There are men always willing to sell their souls for little money.

[Lest you think our great-great grandfather was overly-critical of François Beaudoin, here is the entry in St. John: City at the End of the Rainbow (1982): [Beaudoin] was employed as a lumberyard operator [in Montreal] before coming to Dakota. In 1884 the father and son Louis, then a lad of eighteen [,] came to the Turtle Mountains, influenced by Father Malo, who had made several trips to Canada to get colonists to settle in his parish. Upon arriving at Devil's Lake [where the railroad was] a yoke of oxen was purchased for $200, a 14-inch breaking plow and a wagon. Mr. Beaudoin had borrowed $350 on his house at home to make the trip and to get established. He traveled overland to St. John . . . Later a daughter of the elder Beaudoin filed on a near-by piece of land which became known as the Green House. There had been an Indian squatter on it called Long John, who sold his rights to the daughter for $35.

On the land that Francois homesteaded there was a two-room log shack, built by a man named Pope, who had given it up. The father and son started in at once to do some breaking on the claim; they did not know how to set the plow, which was a walking breaker, but they did arrange the rolling coulter at the front end of the beam. The father would measure the width and depth of sod, and if he found it to be more than 14 inches deep he would complain, "we are spoiling the land." The men were busy all summer putting up hay with scythes, and wintered on the claim by hauling out logs for sawing at the Hutchinson sawmill. Mr. Beaudoin also split shingles by hand out of logs for the new home. In the fall of 1884 there was a little wheat as well as potatoes; the wheat was frosted but was used for flour, ground in a mill at Wakopa.

The mother came to the Turtle Mountains in the spring of 1885, with six children. Louis Beaudoin [the son] and Omer Charbonneau [our great-grandfather] had gone to Devil's Lake to meet the family [and conduct them] on their three-day journey from Devil's Lake to the homestead near St. John. Upon arriving at the cabin, Mrs. Beaudoin saw a new broom and asked her husband where it came from, to which he replied, "Oh, I bought it last year but have not used it much, as we only sweep the table off after eating!" . . . .]

THE SAINT JOHN FEAST of 1885: On June 23, 1885, Horace, Lindorf, Lumina [our great-grandmother], the Charbonneaus, a dozen in all in a large wagon, left and went to the Bute [Butte] St. Paul [now a state park] for the celebration of St. John the Baptist. They had good weather and a beautiful party. They were four days on their journey. The Rev. Father Malo accompanied them. After the celebration they reorganized the officer corps for the beginning year and fixed the celebration again in St. John's for 1886.

THE REORGANIZATION OF ROLETTE COUNTY:  July 4, 1885 was celebrated with great pomp here in St. John. We were encouraged every day to have an election to reorganize Rolette County and secure the county seat. [The competitor] Donsit [Dunseith, a few miles to the west] had ballot boxes too small [not enough votes], so St. John won all the way. The county seat was set up here, as were all the officers [the county seat was later moved Rolla]. On this July 4^th, les sauvages arrived in ceremonial dress, with musicians playing drums, whistles and flutes (all made of bark), and the rest. When our town musicians played a tune, they quickly responded. At the same time a hundred or so performed a war dance, all running in a large circle, manipulating with skill weapons of war. When their dance was over, we had to light the peace pipe. Often one of them was ordered to speak. I didn't understand what they said, but found them eloquent, with beautiful gestures.

AUTUMN MONTHS: At the end of July we began making hay. I cut it and the boys hauled it. We each stored some. I also cut it for Philias, [Emilien] Lagassé, Joseph Lagain, [Antoine] Paul, Sr., Joseph Lessard. Finally, at the end of July we finished, and the sons prepared to leave for Grafton [for harvesting].

Grafton, Walsh Co., ND. Rolette Co., is 4th county from right at the top.

This time, Horace wanted to take my mares. He would make more, he said. He had a pair of small broncos that were good, but too small. We organized as in the previous year. Matilda [Hector's frail wife, who would die in 1893] moved in with us. I was still raising small crops, which were a little better than the previous ones.  Bruneau [Bruno] Charbonneau cut these crops for us. At the end of August, I began to plow with Alcide and my oxen. It wasn't going fast, but a little better than the previous year. I had [Antoine] Paul, Sr., make me two or three plow heads. They were no better than mine. We finished the first days of September. I received a letter from Horace telling me he was doing little with my mares. He knew I could hardly plow without them, so, if I could bring his broncos straightaway, I could bring back supplies when I returned [with the mares]. That did the trick. But it cost me to go alone on such a long journey, 120 miles, at least half of it across the prairie, not a settler to be seen. However, I wanted to plow. It was a week-long trip. I was hesitant. I got ready and left the following Monday. I arrived on Wednesday a little after dinner at the home of Desautels, Sr., an old acquaintance of Hemmingford [south of Montreal, Quebec, just above New York State; so, he must have lived there at one time]. In the evening, other old friends and former neighbors of Hemmingford came to visit, accompanied by their wives; J. Atcher, T. Dawds, John Danley, Tom Momanue. We had a lovely evening. It had been 26 years since I last saw them. [1859 when he was 26].  All of them had been real friends to us [meaning his wife Marie, whom he married in 1856 in nearby Lacolle, Quebec]. [At some point he exchanged horse teams with his son.] The next day I went to the city [Grafton] to buy what I wanted to bring back - 1200 pounds. I wasn’t looking forward to the long and lonely road back. I left on Friday. I camped one evening at the home of a young Mennonite couple, who knew neither French nor English. They made me understand they had no bed for a stranger and little food. I show them I had groceries and that I would sleep in my wagon box, but that I thought I would not find water farther on. They signed that they agreed, so I spent the night there between their small house site and a beautiful little lake. I camped on Sunday evening at Rocklake N.D.

Rocklake, Towner Co., North Dakota

It was a very dark evening. I placed my wagon in big hay meadow and made my bed under my wagon. When I woke up Monday morning, the weather was clear, but a little sleet had fallen, and it was cooler. After giving my mares time to eat and having my breakfast, I hitched up and set off. I arrived home three hours later. That was around September 15, 1885. As always, the women were happy to see me coming, especially carrying news for them all. For two or three days I worked harvesting our garden. After that I started plowing, just as in the previous year, with horses at strong harness from 7 to 8 in the morning, and in the evening. Beautiful days, Alcide, Lumina, and sometimes even my wife, harvested the garden. I passed the plow over a few potato hills and they picked them up. In the evening I had the ladies to myself.

I wish we had a photo of Lumina when she was a  girl of 17. She was 44 when this photo was taken in 1912. Odd that she didn't have pierced ears.

 The sons, back [home] around October 20, had not done quite as well as the previous year. They averaged around $75.00 each, but were happy anyway.

I’ll go back for some unforgettable facts, not being able to recount every memory in order. Sunday, July 5, 1885, we were at Mass being celebrated by a visiting priest. Father Malo came to me and whispered in my ear, "I want you and Madame Bourassa to stay to dine with us." The Mass over, everyone filed out of the [St. Claude] chapel, which was Father’s residence [see a drawing Lumina did of it from memory in 1942 in the previous blog]. He introduced us to the Curé Pierre Poulin, formerly the parish priest of Ste-Philomene. This good old priest took my hand, saying, "It’s good to see you, Francis." By that I understood that he was acquainted with my family. I said, "If I understand, Rev. Father, you know my father." "Bon Dieu, yes, I know Francis [François’ father, the parliamentarian] and Médard, the parish priest of Montebello [his uncle]; Vital de la Carrière [his aunt], Demmes, Ranger and Demers [aunts] and Napoléon [his artist/architect uncle], so I knew them all intimately and your old grandfather François [1785-1869], too." I had no doubts about his relationship with my family. My children returned in the evening to pick us up. Retired and on a pension, the Curé Poulin was relieved of all official duties. He had come to spend the summer with Father Malo. When we left in the evening, I invited him to come to see us. He said, "I’m eager to do that." In the same week Father Malo went east for a few weeks. On Sunday, July 12^th, we went to Mass with the family in a large double wagon pulled by our oxen. Mass finished, Father came to me and said, "Wait a moment. I'm going with you to the homestead." "Father," I said, "we are harnessed with oxen. I'll return shortly." He replied, "Ta ta, ta, I want to leave now. Your wagon follows your oxen, doesn’t it? That's the main thing.” So, off we went. On the third day he asked me to return him to the chapel. "I can do that, Father, but why not wait until Sunday morning?" "Not this week, but is it possible to erect a small altar on this little table at the foot of my bed?" "Yes, certainly we can do that, but it will block the windowsill. We’ll make it lower." We went in on Sunday the 17th for Mass. Father announced he would be absent during the following week. If any had need him for anything, they would find him at the senior Bourassa ‘out yonder’. We didn't need any more to know he was returning with us at the end of Mass. Indeed, he left with us, carrying his travel bag. The Charbonneaus, the children, and a few others, spent an afternoon of great diversion. Monday morning my wife helped Father erect his little chapel.

Poor Father had very bad sight that caused him distress. Despite that, he wrote memoirs about French Canadians in the United States, groping and guiding his writing with his left index finger. Often, he had us read back to him what he had written during the day, (although not always), and even copy out what had become too confusing (under his dictation). All his time was absorbed in this. Sunday mornings we would return him early, and when necessary during the week. For funerals or weddings, he went the day before and returned with assistance from these ceremonies. Father Malo, before leaving, had asked him to go one Sunday to say Mass at one of his missions, Wakopa, so he asked if I would take him. "Yes, certainly I’ll take you there." On the 12th, he announced to the parishioners that on the 19th he would say Mass in Wakopa. Consequently, there would be no Mass here.

We left Saturday afternoon, arriving early in the evening [a trip of 12 miles across the border]. One of the Labelles saw us pass by. Upon our arrival, La Rivière hastened to send a letter to the settlement, Vandal and to others, saying we were there. The next day, he waited until 11 a.m. to begin Mass, which was said over the store. In the audience, the young Labelle, Benois, Guayrain [Guérin] and his wife, Cantain, La Rivière and Duranseau, in all seven. The Mass was not long. As I descended from the store, Father asked if I was ready to return. "Yes," I said. "Well, let's go." La Rivière said, "You won’t leave without dinner. Come on, I’ll hitch up your mare." Along the way, I asked him for my bill [he owned the hotel]. He asked me, "Do you pay for everything?" I said, "I will pay for my mare and me, don't you think that's enough?" "Yes, for you. But Father won’t have to pay." "How much is it for me?" "A dollar with dinner." "Well, here's your dollar." I said to Father, "It’s better that you take something; it’s a long way back. It will take three hours." He took dinner. I had eaten lunch very late and refused to eat anything. We left. [You can tell by this, and other stories, that our 2nd great-grandfather was a proud man, no doubt descended from a line of proud Bourassas.]

THE THEOLOGY OF BOURASSA, SR.: As soon as we left, I asked Father, "Is it a great sin to miss Mass?" "Certainly, when it’s your fault. But many of these people probably don’t know that." "Yes," I answered, “but I'm told it's always the same small group that attends Mass, never much more. [Difficult to translate, but he convinced the old priest that it was a waste of time to go all the way to Wakopa - 12 miles - to say  Mass for only a few people. He was angry at the treatment he’d received at La Rivière's hands in charging him for a night's stay for conducting Father there for Wakopa's benefit.]

The old priest was with us when the sons left for Grafton for the harvest and when I went there myself to stock up and exchange our horses. On Saturday, October 30th, I took him to Father Malo's house [that Saint Claude Chapel log house shown in the previous blog] for the feast of All Saints' Day, which fell on Sunday. Father Malo had returned the day before.  On November 8th, after Mass, Father Poulin said to me, "I’m coming back with you to say goodbye. I'm going back on Wednesday the 11th." On Monday the 9th he said Mass for us at his little altar for the last time. Most of the family received communion. He took apart his little altar. After dinner he bade us farewell and I, accompanied by my wife, returned him to Father Malo's house. We spent part of the afternoon there. As the lamps were lighted, we said goodbye. This good Father gave us his best wishes with great emotion.

DEATH of ABDALAH’S WIFE: Late in October 1885, our plowing was nearly over. After flailing and winnowing, the yield of wheat from 18 acres was 28 minots [a minot is about a bushel]; oats - 425 minots from 15 acres, yield per acre 35; Barley - 224 minots of 7 acres, yield 32 per acre. The gardening was good. I made three trips with wheat to York [to the flourmill], sold it from 95 cents to $1.10.

York, Benson County, North Dakota, 45 miles from St. John

On the night of November 11-12, 1885, Abdalah came to get his mother for his wife, [Josephine Boutin, 1858-1885], who had been suffering from consumption [tuberculosis] for a long time. Moreover, as she was expecting to give birth.  His mother went with him. I went to get Madame Paul, our old neighbor [she was a Métis], and immediately took her to Abdalah's house. My wife came out, saying, "Quickly, mon vieux [my old man], we have to get Madame Laviolette as soon as possible." I made the trip to the village in an hour. There was still time. An hour later, she [Josephine] was in bed and said she was happy it was over. For a few minutes my wife stared intently, thinking she was weakening quickly. She went out and said to Mrs. Laviolette, "I'm afraid she's going to die." She came home and said, "Mon vieux, go fast to Abdalah's, I think Josephine is dying." I ran over to his house, arriving in time to view her last sigh. She died, leaving this baby that would follow its mother before long. [She had lost two previous babies at birth]. I came home and my wife announced even before I entered, "She's dead, mon vieux." I signaled that she was, and said, "Maman, if you can go back and prepare her for burial, I'm going to get Father Malo to baptize the little one. Take Alcide with you, in case you need anything." "Yes, I'll go back. But I can't stay there for long.” "But you'll have to wait for me to come back." "Yes," she said.

Father John Malo

I left immediately. Father was surprised by this death, while admitting he had suspected she could not bear the ordeal of childbirth. He said, "She did not have time to call for a priest herself." I told him, "Father, she was one of the communicants at Mass that the Rev. Father Poulin said for us at our home last Monday, only three days ago." "What a joy," he exclaimed. After the baptism was done, he invited us to say the rosary with him. After which we took Father home for dinner, and then I took him back. The funeral would take place on Saturday. I brought back from the village what was needed for that occasion. My wife was greatly affected by this death.

François and Marie Bourassa in later years. She died in 1903.

Saturday the 14th, there was a snowstorm one wouldn’t have stuck his nose out the door for. I said to the men [his sons], "We're going to harness a pair of oxen on our big sleigh, and my mares to the little one, and we're going to try." We managed, but not without suffering for men and beasts. Despite the weather, we had assistance. For the return we had the wind at our backs, which was good. Abdalah's position was critical. He stayed with his baby and his first-born, who was only three years old and covered with ‘riffles’. [He must have had scabies, mites that burrowed beneath his skin that caused terrible itching]. He had very little skin all over his body that wasn't bleeding. [This was François Stanislas Bourassa (1882 Quebec -1927 Sask.), so he survived into adulthood.] We couldn’t leave Abdulah alone in his house. We said, "Come with us for the present at least; later we will decide." This he did and spent part of the winter working at La Rivière’s. When he was here, he worked with us. It was a sad winter. He was obliged to take care of his calves at home for we had no place for them. During the winter we kept busy getting lumber, logs for the mill, and a lot of firewood.

INCIDENT WITH THE GRAIN MERCHANT, FACHEUX: About December 14, 1885, I sent Horace with a load of 50 minots of barley for York. I had been promised 50 cents for this beautiful barley, which was first class. The weather was beautiful, too sweet even. Horace went to Tom Cavanah's house, southeast of Marie-Ville because the roads were impassable [melting snow?]. He slept there. The next day, he unloaded and returned. The next few days we had a lot of snow. On the 21st Alfred accompanied me with his oxen and 60 minots (first quality barley) from both of us.

Alfred Bourassa and wife Elizabeth in later years

We batched at Cavanah’s. There we dined (late) and after dinner we paid and left. It was three o'clock, and we had a dozen miles to go before we could camp. A rising wind blew snow on us; the somber weather brought dusk early. Halfway, we came to a fork in the trail and took the western trace. After walking more than an hour, we realized we were too far west and that we should have walked far enough to encounter the house where we wanted to camp. All around us, not a sign of a house. To the east, in the distance, we saw a light. We walked toward this light, sometimes in the snow coming above the knees of our beasts. (A happy man who has strong beasts in these circumstances.) Standing on my load, not losing sight of that light, we were moving in a straight line, but it took a long time. At last, by nine o'clock, we reached the light. It was at the prison at Lick [I can find no place by that name or where an early prison was]. The light was a suspended lantern placed so as to guide the traveler. It was one of the poorest prisons I have ever visited in my life, run by a German. On the 22nd, the weather was worse, blowing snow across the ground. We left, anyway, but didn't go more than 5 to 6 miles and camped at a young couple, who were poorly housed, especially their animals. We left there [two days later] the morning of the 24th and arrived late at night at York. (I had never taken so long to make 45 miles.)

Philias and Georgina (Bourassa) Durocher in later years

We spent a very long Christmas Day there. During the day we went to visit a bull that Mesneur had bought, then returned to our boarding house. My barley buyer acted as though he didn’t care to buy any more. He offered me no more than 40 cents and still wanted me to commit to bringing him at least 200 more minots. [apparently before paying Bourassa.] "I'll bring it if I can," I said. "I need to sell it and do what I can for myself. I can't promise, anymore.” He answered, "I need to have that amount. I need it." I replied, "If you don't designate a place for me put it, I'll throw it in the street." Despite my rights, I'm sure if it hadn’t been for Jos. Lessard, who had dug a well for him, and assured him I was a serious and honest man, that he had known me as his first neighbor, I'm sure he would have caused me misery by refusing to pay me the money first, forcing me to proceed against him. So, he gave in and paid me 40 cents per minot, urging me to return. He told us where to put it. We unloaded and went to the store to purchase provisions. We left for the return on the 27th in the morning, in good weather and that was a Sunday, arriving home on the 30th in the afternoon. This trip earned us our little New Year's Day needs. After paying expenses and making small purchases we had nothing left. It was a dull New Year's Day. However, the children did not fail to enjoy the evening. The Charbonneaus joined us and we spent the evening playing card games and other things.

Philias and Georgina (Bourassa) Durocher farm in later years

Philias and Georgina Durocher family in 1940s. Both died in Kenniwick, WA, Georgina in 1945, and Philias in 1952. I know some Durochers settled in Spokane because there was socializing among Red, Dad, and some Durocher cousins.