Chris Wimmer (8:46)

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Historical Figure (10:12)

The dust had barely settled after the surrender at Camp Release when Colonel Henry Sibley's promise was put to the test. He had assured the Dakota that only those guilty of murder would face punishment. But the reality would prove far more complex and controversial. On September 28, 1862, Sibley established a military commission to conduct trials of the Dakota men who had surrendered or been captured. The proceedings would soon become some of the fastest and most contentious legal actions in U.S. history. The Commission was composed of five military officers, none of whom had any formal legal training. Their task was conduct trials of more than 400 Dakota men for their roles in a war. Over the following weeks, the process unfolded with astonishing speed. Trials often lasted a few minutes. The evidence presented was scant and was largely based on hearsay or coerced testimony. By the time the commission concluded its work in November 1862, 392 Dakota men had been tried, and three hundred and three were sentenced to death. For the Dakota, the trials were incomprehensible. Most of the accused did not speak English and had no understanding of the charges against them. Interpreters were scarce, and the cultural and linguistic barriers left the warriors unable to mount a meaningful defense. Many of the men were convicted simply for having participated in battles, regardless of whether they had committed any atrocities. The distinction between warriors who had fought as combatants and those who had committed crimes against civilians was blurred. In the rush to satisfy public demand for retribution, nuance was abandoned. In one particularly egregious case, a Dakota man named Chaska was sentenced to death despite having saved a white woman, Sarah Wakefield, and her children during the conflict. Wakefield testified in Chaska's defense, recounting how he had protected her from harm. But her testimony was ignored, and Chaska was convicted alongside those accused of the most heinous acts. The settlers of Minnesota viewed the trials as a necessary conclusion. Homes had been destroyed, families had been torn apart, and communities had been ravaged. Public sentiment was overwhelmingly in favor of harsh measures. Governor Alexander Ramsey declared the Sioux Indians of Minnesota must be exterminated or driven forever beyond the borders of the state. His words echoed the settlers demands for blood and fueled the hasty nature of the trials. And the military commission was eager to deliver results. The trials became a conveyor belt of convictions where guilt was presumed and evidence was an afterthought. For most of the accused, the outcome was predetermined. Being present at a battle or a raid was often enough to warrant a death sentence. Meanwhile, Colonel Sibley found himself in an impossible position. He was caught between the settlers demands for fast punishment and and his own sense of fairness. The settlers viewed the trials as a way to secure justice and ensure the Dakota could never rise again. But Sibley, who had years of history with Dakota and had witnessed the complexities of the conflict firsthand, knew that not all of those who fought were guilty of atrocities. The Dakota had not gone to war for the fun of it or because they were bored on a Monday morning. They were driven to it by hunger, broken promises and years of suffering. But the commission was under immense pressure to satisfy the white population. When the 303 Dakota men were condemned to death, the number shocked lots of people, including some of Sibley's officers and officials at the highest level of the US Government. As the commission continued its work, President Abraham Lincoln faced the daunting task of reviewing the sentences. Public pressure mounted for the executions to proceed. But Lincoln sought a more measured approach. The Civil War had been spreading across the nation for 19 months in the year 1862. The war's scope, scale and ferocity surpassed even the craziest guesses as to how it might unfold. And by that time it was clear to everyone that it would not end soon. And now on President Lincoln's desk, there was A list of 303 Dakota men who had been sentenced to hang. Lincoln reviewed the list and its scope and scale was also far beyond anything anyone had ever heard of. A military commission wanted to carry out 303 executions as soon as possible. Lincoln knew his decision would have far reaching consequences and he was caught in a tug of war. On one side were the settlers of Minnesota, led by Governor Alexander Ramsey and local officials who demanded punishment for the Dakota. They believed that only mass executions would bring justice for the atrocities committed during the Dakota War of 1862. On the other side were advocates for mercy led by Episcopal Bishop Henry Whipple, who urged Lincoln to show leniency and consider the flawed nature of the trials. Lincoln was no stranger to balancing competing interests, but the task before him was Especially delicate. If he approved the hangings of all 303 Dakota men, he risked being seen as condoning a mass execution that would likely go down in history as an act of cruelty rather than justice. But if he spared all of them, or even too many, he would face the wrath of the settlers, who were a key constituency in the rapidly developing northern frontier. Bishop Henry Whipple, a well respected figure and advocate for Native American rights, sent multiple pleas to Lincoln, which warned the president that the trials were deeply flawed. Whipple pointed out that many of the Dakota men did not understand the charges against them, were denied proper representation, and were sentenced in trials that often lasted only a few minutes. He argued that executing hundreds of men under such circumstances would be an unjust act, and it would only deepen the rift between the U.S. government and Native American societies. Lincoln took Whipple's warnings saying seriously, he knew that appeasing the settlers was important for political stability. But he also knew that an unjust mass execution would stain his presidency and fuel further conflicts. To navigate the treacherous path, Lincoln made a decision that reflected his characteristic pragmatism. He ordered a detailed review of the trial records, and he instructed government officials to carefully examine each case. After the exhaustive review, Lincoln made his decision. He commuted the sentences of 264 Dakota men and spared them from execution. In those cases, the evidence was weak, the charges were vague, or the men had been convicted merely for participating in the conflict rather than committing specific crimes like murder or rape. But Lincoln also allowed the execution of 39 Dakota men who had been found guilty of those crimes. According to the review, those warriors had committed acts that Lincoln believed were beyond the scope of military engagement. Lincoln's decision was a compromise. He knew he could never fully satisfy both sides, and this was the best he could do. For the settlers in Minnesota, it was a disappointment. They wanted all the sentences to remain, and many settlers viewed Lincoln's decision to commute the sentences as a betrayal. On the other side, for Bishop Whipple and advocates for Native American rights, Lincoln's decision was seen as a partial victory, but one that was bittersweet. 264 lives had been spared, but 39 was still a mass execution by any definition. Whipple had hoped for more clemency. He believed that many of the men condemned to die had likely been caught up in the chaos of war rather than actively choosing to commit heinous crimes. But for most observers, that was a serious case of splitting hairs. The 39 condemned Dakota men were rounded up at Camp Release. In their final days, the Men were allowed to spend time in prayer and reflection. Some turned to their traditional spiritual practices. They sang songs of their ancestors and prayed for strength and guidance as they faced their last moments. Others, like Casca, who had embraced Christianity, prayed for their souls and the hope of peace in the afterlife. Casca's case had drawn extra attention. He had protected Sarah Wakefield and her children during the conflict, yet he had been convicted and sentenced to die. Others among the condemned were warriors like Tatemina, who was known for his leadership during the war. Hapinkpa, who had been accused of participating in attacks on settlers, and Tateyaca, who was accused of killing women and children during the conflict. The condemned men were collected and began the trip to the town of Mankato, 120 miles away, where they would be hanged. They had been denied the chance to say goodbye to their families, many of whom were being held in separate camps at the same time. The Dakota who had been spared execution were also awaiting transport. They had escaped the gallows, but they were being sent to a military camp in Iowa. As a practical matter, no one knew what would happen after that. Maybe the prisoners would spend the rest of their lives there and die in a prison camp. Maybe they would be released at some point in the future. If so, what would they come home to? Would they still have homes? Where would those homes be? How many of their friends and family members would still be around? There were no answers. Just confusion, fear, and uncertainty. It was late December 1862, and the town of Mankato was gripped by winter weather and anticipation. Preparations were underway for the largest mass execution in U.S. history. Throughout history, public executions have always been forms of morbid entertainment. In towns all over the American west, people streamed in from miles around to watch an outlaw hang. It was a common occurrence, but this one was different. Hanging 39 people at the same time had never been done before. It was exceptionally rare for a Native American warrior to be hanged in a public execution. And now 39 warriors were about to hang in an event that would make history on multiple levels. It was a spectacle no one wanted to miss, and the town was filled with people. Some were people from the area around Mankato who had been somewhat affected by the war. Others were people who had not been affected at all, but just wanted to watch the show. And others were the settlers who had been right in the center of the uprising and who had experienced trauma which would haunt them for the rest of their lives. As the day of the execution drew closer, an undercurrent, a strange brew of anticipation, grief and unease swirled through Mankato. The 39 Dakota prisoners arrived in town, and their execution date was set for December 26, 1862. Then, in the final hours before Judgment Day, there was a surprise. President Lincoln spared one of the prisoners. Lincoln learned the details of the warrior called Chaska, the man who had saved and protected Sarah Wakefield and her children in the early days of the war. Lincoln removed Chaska from the list of men who would be executed, but that was the final act of clemency. The other 38 men would hang in the center of town. One day after Christmas, on the morning of December 26, 1862, an uneasy silence gripped the town of Mankato, Minnesota. It was a bitterly cold winter's day, and snow covered the ground. Months of tension and bloodshed between the Dakota people and white settlers had culminated in a one of a kind event. Thousands of men, women and children gathered to witness what would become the largest mass execution in American history. The simultaneous hanging of 38 Dakota men. The town square had been transformed into a macabre theater. At its center stood a massive gallows that had been specially constructed for the execution. There are no known photographs of the scene, so future readers and listeners of history would be forced to rely on drawings in newspapers for visual depictions. The two most common drawings show roughly the same thing. A wooden platform, which was either perfectly square or rectangular, stood in an open space in the center of town. Wooden beams were built above each of the four sides and nooses hung at regular intervals from the beams. In essence, it was a four sided execution display. All the prisoners would face out toward the crowd, so no matter where the spectators stood, they were guaranteed to see a grisly show. And finally, the gallows was built to allow all 38 men to drop to their deaths at the same time. If all went according to plan, it would be a short but unforgettable experience for viewers. As the Dakota men climbed the steps to the platform, they were clad in simple clothes. Many were barefoot despite the freezing cold. They walked with their heads held high, and they gave the spectators an unexpected sight that likely stuck with each person for the rest of his or her life. The 38 Dakota men chanted their death songs in unison. The songs were expressions of Dakota spirituality and courage, and they rose above the murmurs of the crowd. Some in the crowd could not help but be affected by the eerie beauty of the chants. Accounts describe a palpable shift in the atmosphere, a sense that something profound was taking place. A mass execution was certain to be profound on its own. But now the event that many had looked forward to as the final moment of reckoning was changing. It was moving beyond simple punishment for bloody battles or crimes. It was transforming into something unexpected and undefinable. When the 38 Dakota men were lined up along the edges of the scaffold, the nooses were placed around their necks. The men remained stoic even as the gravity of the moment settled over the square. Thousands watched in silence, and when the six signal was given, the platform dropped and the 38 bodies fell. @ the same time, a collective gasp rose from the crowd, and for a brief moment, time seemed to stand still. One of the spectators that day was Thomas Ireland, whose wife had been killed on the first day of the war and whose daughters had been held captive for four months. He watched, likely in silence, with everyone else, as officials began to cut down the bodies of the dead warriors. The crowd of thousands dispersed, probably with mixed feelings. Some were undoubtedly delighted. Others were probably conflicted. They believed that justice needed to be done and that some amount of justice had been done, but they weren't prepared for the sight they witnessed. And still others, like Bishop Henry Whipple, believed some of the dead men had been unfairly executed. For the Dakota people, it was the beginning of a long and painful legacy of displacement. In the aftermath of the war, more than 2,000 Dakota were captured and detained in hastily built camps across Minnesota. The 265 Dakota warriors whose death sentences had been commuted to prison sentences by President Lincoln were on their way to Camp McClellan near Davenport, Iowa. Their ultimate fates, like those at the camps in Minnesota, remained uncertain, though everyone knew that whatever happened, it would not end in a happy outcome. Minnesota Governor Alexander Ramsey had declared the Sioux Indians of Minnesota must be exterminated or driven forever beyond the borders of the state. He would get his wish. The second part of it, anyway. As the New Year of 1863 began, the U.S. army was preparing to forcibly move all Dakota men, women and children out of Minnesota. And then it would be time for the army to do what it always did after a Native American uprising. It would send columns of soldiers into the field to find and attack the first available Native American villages. The Dakota War might be done, but the fighting on the northern plains was not. Next time on Legends of the Old West. Dakota leader Little Crow returns to Minnesota. The Dakota prisoners suffer terrible conditions in Iowa. Their friends and families are forced to leave their homeland. The army launches expeditions to punish other members of the wider Sioux nation and ends up tangling with an emerging a warrior chief named Sitting Bull. That's next week on the season finale of the Dakota War here on Legends of the Old West. Members of our Black Barrel program don't have to wait week to week to receive new episodes. They receive the entire season to binge all at once with no commercials. And they also receive exclusive bonus episodes. Sign up now through the link in the show notes or on our website, blackberrymedia. Com. Memberships are just $5 per month. This series was researched and written by Matthew Kearns. Original music by Rob Valliere. I'm your host and producer, Chris Wimmer. Thanks for listening.