I said, "I don't believe it, for he was there when I went down at
recess."
But he took my hand and the rest of the children followed, with the
Indians bringing up the rear. When we went into the kitchen, the dead
body of John laid on the floor and his blood had run and made a stream
of dark, congealed crimson. He laid on his back with one arm thrown up
and back and the other outstretched and the twine still around his
knees. It appeared as if he had been hit and just slipped out of the
chair he was sitting on. We children all sat down on the settle that
was near the stove. A stove was a luxury in those days; there was one
in the living room and in the kitchen, where the children sat in
terror, was a Hudson's Bay cook stove of a very small and primitive
make; the oven was directly over the firebox and two kettles which were
of an oblong shape sat in on the side, something like the drum on the
sides of a stove. The kettle of meat had been put on to cook for dinner
and was still on the stove. Joe Lewis took a piece out and cut it up,
put it on the lid of the kettle and said, "You children haven't had any
dinner," and passed it to us, but none of us could eat.
The room was full of Indians and they would point their guns at us,
saying "Shall we shoot?" and then flourish their tomahawks at our
defenseless heads. One of them had on John's straw hat that he had
braided from straw cut from wild grass one summer when he was working
for the Rev. Spalding. Mrs. Spalding had sewed it for him. The Indian's
name was Klokamus. Later, he was one of five hanged at Oregon City in
the summer of 1850. The pantry was being plundered by the squaws. In
memory, I can hear the rattle of the dried berries on the floor as they
emptied the receptacles of them, in order to get the pans and cans to
carry away. Joe Lewis went into the living room and must have gone into
the parlor where mother had a large wooden chest in which she kept her
choice clothing and keepsakes; he came out with five nice, fancy gauze
kerchiefs of different colors, made to wear with a medium low-necked
dress. He gave them to the Chief and the headmen that were in the room.
In a short time my brother Frank came into the room. He sat down beside
me, saying "I came to find you. John is dead and we don't know what has
become of the rest of the family; the Indians are going to kill me and
what will become of you, my poor, little sister?" Word was finally
passed out not to kill any of the children and we were ordered out of
the house, so we went and stood in a corner where the "Indian room"
made an ell with the main part of the house; the Indians were very
numerous, some of them on horses and most of them armed and painted and
they seemed to be waiting for something. Soon out came the immigrant
women that had all fled to the Mission house for safety upon the
outbreak of the massacre; as they passed us their children went with
their mothers, leaving Frank, Eliza Spalding and myself standing
there. They were followed by Mr. Rogers and Joe Lewis bearing a settee
with the wounded Mrs. Whitman on it, covered up with blankets and
Elizabeth close beside it, her arms laden with clothing. When they had
gotten out of and a short distance from the house in an open space, Joe
Lewis dropped his end of the settee. Mr. Rogers looked up quickly and
must have realized what it meant; but he was shot instantly and fell
and an Indian tried to ride his horse over him. Elizabeth turned about
and ran back into the house. Then an Indian came to Mrs. Whitman and
took his whip and beat her over the face and head and then turned the
settee over in the mud. She was very weak from loss of blood; my sister
Catherine told me and I am convinced that she did not last long after
being beaten and thrown face down in the mud, with the blankets and
settee on top of her.
An Indian came and stood by Frank and another one took up his stand
close by and they talked together earnestly; the first one was a
friendly one and he seemed to be pleading with the other to spare
Frank's life, but finally the ugly one took hold of my brother and
said, "You are a bad boy." Then he shoved him a short distance from my
side and an Indian shot him in the breast; he fell and did not struggle
and I think he died instantly as he made no movement. The Indians all
went away then and the women and children that belonged in the
immigrant house were gone and Eliza and I were alone. We seemed to be
paralyzed and the horrors we had passed through so numbed our thoughts
that we did not seem to think that we could go to the other house, as
we had been taught not to go where we had not had permission. It was
getting quite dark by this time, in the short November day, and we
stood close together, when a friendly Indian came; he was the one that
had pleaded for Frank's life and he took us by the hands and led us
over to Mrs. Sander's door. She took us in and gave us some supper and
one of the other families took Eliza in to give her a place to sleep.
When I had eaten my supper, Miss Bewley asked me if I would go over to
the Whitman house to take food to her brother who was lying terribly
ill in the little room just off the kitchen. He had seen and heard some
of the awful things that had taken place during the day, but had not
been molested, probably because the Indians thought him dying anyway. I
told her I was afraid to go, as I would have to step over the dead
bodies. Mrs. Sanders took me into a bedroom and spread a quilt on the
floor and I laid down, but not to sleep until far into the night. Mr.
Gillam, the tailor, had been wounded while sitting on his table sewing
and had run into this room; he was suffering terribly and begging to
be put out of his misery; along towards morning he was given his
release from suffering.
We got up very early and ate a scant breakfast, as we knew not what
daylight would bring. The Indians would surely ask to be fed as they
were then sitting in the early glimmerings of light on Monument hill,
chanting the Death song. The wind had blown and whistled so mournfully
in the night that it had added to my fear and I never hear the sound of
the wind blowing in the winter, but my mind goes back to that terrible
night; and it has been 72 years since I heard it wail its requium
around desolated Waiilatpu.
My four sisters and the two half-breed girls, with the wounded Mr.
Kimball, were alone in the chamber of the Mission house all night, for
they had made no attempt to leave when the others had gone in the
afternoon. The children were all ill with measles and two were very
ill--sister Louise and Helen Meek. They begged constantly for water,
but there was none upstairs; the pitchers of water that were there on
Monday morning had had cloths dipped in them to put on Mrs. Whitman's
wounds. Mr. Kimball's broken arm pained him excessively and he sat on
the floor with his head against a bed until toward morning, when he
told Catherine to tear up a sheet and bandage his arm and he would go
to the river for water.
Catherine said, "Mother wouldn't want the sheets torn up." "Child, your
mother will never need sheets. She is dead," was his answer. He went
out in the dim morning light and succeeded in reaching the river,
wrapped in the blanket Catherine had put around him, Indian fashion.
Meanwhile the Indians had come to the immigrant house and had told us
to prepare their breakfast. While they were waiting for their meal, an
outcry was made that drew us all to the north door in the Hall's room.
I stepped out on the lower step and an Indian with a gun in his hand
was on the upper step; we saw the figure of a man with a white blanket
around him, walking near the Doctor's house; he was near the corn-crib
about half way to the house, when the Indian on the step above me shot,
and the man fell. It was Mr. Kimball returning with water for the
fevered children. I realize that my statement is different from all the
others of the survivors in regard to the killing of Mr. Kimball, but I
have a clear remembrance of this tragedy, which time has not dimmed or
effaced from my mind. According to some, he hid in the brush till the
next day and in working his way to his family was killed as he was
crossing the fence by the house. I remember the same day, about noon or
later, Joe Stanfield came in and said that a "Boston man" was hiding in
the brush. Some of the women wanted to investigate, but Joe said "No,
don't." We thought it might be Mr. Hall, as he had gone, as I
remember, early in the morning of the massacre to see if he could shoot
some ducks on the river. He was never heard from or his body found, so
no one knows his fate.
The Osborn family hid under the floor in the Indian room and remained
hidden until in the darkness of the night they came out, put a little
food together, wrapped a coverlid about Mrs. Osborn and went out into
the cold. There were Mr. Osborn and three children in the party. Mrs.
Osborn had been confined to the bed and this was the first time she had
been out of doors in some days, though that day she had been able to go
into Mrs. Whitman's part of the house. They climbed the fence and took
the irrigation ditch, as it offered more protection for them, being
quite deep with the wild rye grass and buck brush growing thick and
tall on the banks; then they got into the main road and went on for
some distance, finally hiding for the day; besides Mrs. Osborn was
unable to travel further. Their sufferings were terrible, all being
thinly clad. At last Mr. Osborn concluded to take the oldest boy and go
to the Fort, if possible, leaving his wife and the other children
hidden in the bushes. He made his way to Fort Walla Walla, carrying his
boy on his back; the boy had nothing with which to cover his head. When
Mr. Osborn arrived at the Fort he asked Commander McBaine to take him
in and to furnish him horses and food to use in the rescue of his wife
and the other children. McBaine refused, saying he "Could not do it."
"I will die at the Fort gates, but I must have help," was Osborn's
reply.
In the happy days before these tragic happenings, an artist by the name
of Stanley came to the Mission. He had been sent out by the Government
for the Smithsonian Institute to take pictures. At the time of the
Massacre he was again on his way to visit the Mission. He and his
Indian guide intended to go down into the Willamette valley, near
Oregon City, to winter. Meeting an Indian woman, she told him everyone
was killed at the Mission; he was asked if he was a "Boston man" or a
Frenchman and replying that he was a Frenchman, was allowed to proceed
unmolested. He reached the Fort in safety and when McBaine refused to
let Mr. Osborn have horses, said to the latter, "You can have my horse
and what provisions I have," and he also gave him a silk handkerchief
to tie on the child's head. Stitkus, an Indian, took his own French
chapeau and put it on Mr. Osborn's head. McBaine at last gave an Indian
a blanket if he would go with Mr. Osborn and rescue the family; but he
instructed him not to bring them to the Fort, but to take them to an
Indian village. The mother and children were found with some
difficulty, and as they came to the fork in the road on the return, one
leading to the Umatilla Indian village where their lives would not have
been safe, and the other to the Fort and security, the Indian,
disregarding McBaine's explicit directions, refused to take the one to
the village and insisted that they proceed to the Fort. The little
party did so, and were finally admitted. Their hardships were many,
even there; but they remained until such time as we were all ransomed.
This is as I remember hearing from sister Catherine as she, later,
lived close to the Osborn family in the Willamette valley and she and
Mrs. Osborn were together frequently; also from the account sworn to by
Mr. Osborn in Gray's History.
Tuesday morning, Miss Bewley made some gruel, hoping to be able to send
it over to her sick brother. Chief Tilokaikt came in and she told him
of her brother and he was very sympathetic and took a number of us in
charge to go over to the Mission house. Some of the party went inside
of the fence on the north side, while some took the south side which
was the public road. When we were a few yards from the house, we saw
Mr. Sander's body lying there; then we heard a cry and saw Catherine
and Elizabeth coming, each carrying a sick child in their arms. The
women hastened to meet them and helped them to the house, which had
sheltered us through the night. Poor Mary Ann Bridger was tottering
along by herself. They had to leave Helen Meek alone and we could hear
her screaming and begging to be taken also, disregarding Catherine's
assurance that she would soon return for her. At last all the sick ones
were transferred to the immigrant house, save Mr. Bewley; and Mr.
Sales, who was also very ill in the blacksmith shop. Sister Louise died
five days after this and Helen Meek a few days after her.
This same morning (Tuesday) we were given muslin to make sheets to wrap
the dead in and Wednesday morning Joe Stansfield and the women helped
to cover and sew them in these sheets. He had dug a long trench about
three feet deep and six feet long; then all the bodies were put in a
wagon and hurried to the grave. They were all piled up like dead
animals in the wagon bed. A runaway occurred and scattered some of the
bodies along the road and they had to be picked up. There was a
Catholic father who was visiting the Indians and he went up to the hole
where they were burying them and helped. He would take hold of one end
of a body and Joe Stansfield hold of the other and they would lay them
in this shallow place until all the victims were ranged side by
side--Mr. and Mrs. Whitman, then the two Sager boys and Mr. Rogers, and
so on, then covered with the earth.
There were two families living about twenty miles away at a sawmill
which belonged to Dr. Whitman. Mr. Young had three grown boys and Mr.
Smith also had a family, one of whom, Mary Smith, was attending the
Mission school. The morning after the massacre the oldest son of the
Young family, in entire ignorance of what had occurred, started for the
Mission with a load of lumber and to get provisions for the return
trip. The Indians killed him two miles from the Mission. His family
could not understand why he did not return and became alarmed. They
finally sent another son by another road and he arrived without being
attacked, but was informed by Joe Stansfield that his brother had been
killed by Indians and had been buried where he fell. This young fellow,
finding that we were getting out of flour, remained at Waiilatpu as
there was no man to run the grist mill. Mr. Bewley and Mr. Sales became
better and were able to sit up and get about a bit. One day Mr. Sales
was sitting by the stove and an Indian began talking to him, telling
him he was getting stronger and would soon be able to work for the
Indians; that they were soon to put out all the women and children and
they would all have to work all the time. Mr. Sales replied that he was
a good worker and would labor constantly for them if they would only
spare his life. It was only a day or two after this that the two men
were attacked while on their bed, beaten with clubs and whips and
finally killed and their bodies thrown out of doors. Most of the women
and children started to run out of doors, but an Indian caught and held
me until they had finished the terrible deed.
Miss Bewley was sent for by the chief of the Umatillas and in spite of
heartrending protests was obliged to accompany the messenger sent for
her.
One morning Joe Stansfield saw wolves at the grave and went up there to
find that they were digging into it. He heaped more earth over it, but
later, after we had left the place and had been redeemed, soldiers
going there found that the wolves had succeeded in desecrating the last
resting place of our loved ones. Bones were scattered about and on some
of the bare bushes were strands of Mrs. Whitman's beautiful, long,
golden hair. They collected the bones and again buried them, heaping
the earth high and turning a wagon-box over the grave. For fifty years
nothing more was done to it.
Mr. Spalding came within two miles of the Mission on Wednesday morning,
when he met a Catholic father, his Indian interpreter and another
Indian. Sending the two Indians ahead, the priest told Mr. Spalding of
the massacre, assuring him that all the women, save Mrs. Whitman, and
all the children had been spared; that his daughter was alive and that
now was his time to escape, as the Indian who had joined him and his
interpreter intended to kill him. The father gave him what food he had
and Mr. Spalding turned his horse's head towards the Walla Walla river.
He followed down the bank of the Walla Walla, traveling by night and
hiding by day. For a time he kept his horse, but Indians passed near
his hiding place and he had to rub his mount's nose to keep his from
neighing and thus betraying him. The horse got away from him finally
and he had to travel afoot in the storm. All the subsistence he had was
wild rose-hips. After a week's travel he reached the Clearwater, close
to where his family was, though he did not know this fact, believing
that they also might have been killed. He proceeded very carefully,
thinking the Indians hostile, but knowing that if he could make in
safety the lodge of an Indian by the name of Luke, he would be safe. He
was tired and worn out with travel. At last he was close enough to the
lodge to listen to family worship and assured by the knowledge that
they still acknowledged the white man's God, knew it would be safe for
him to enter; but so exhausted was he that he fell when just inside the
door of the tepee and his cap fell off. At first the Indians thought he
was a ghost, but when they saw his bald head, they realized he was
still in the flesh and then proceeded to feed and care for him. They
told him that his family was at Craig's mountain and later they took
him back up there. Mrs. Spalding, when she heard of the massacre,
called the head men of the tribe and put herself on their mercy and
under their protection. They said they would protect her and suggested
that they start at once for Craig's home. She said that this was the
Sabbath and they must not travel on that day. The Presbyterian Indians
never travel on the Sabbath and the brave little woman, reminding them
of their religion, knowing at the same time that it might lessen her
chances of escape, induced them to postpone starting until the
following day, when they took her to Craig's, where she remained until
rescued from the Indians. She sent two Indians, Timothy and Grey Eagle,
down to the Mission to ask if her captors would not release Eliza
Spalding and let them take her to her mother; but they would not listen
and refused to give her up. These two Indians came when Helen Meek was
dying from the measles. Timothy went in to see her and fell on his
knees by the side of her bed, praying in his own language; when he
arose, he pointed upward, indicating that the spirit had flown.
When the news of the massacre was taken to Fort Vancouver, Peter Skeen
Ogden, the chief factor, declared he must take goods and go to the
rescue of the women and children before the volunteers could go up
there; he believed that if the Indians thought the volunteers were to
attempt a rescue, that they would kill all their prisoners, for they
well knew that they deserved punishment for their dastardly deeds. With
no prisoners to hamper them, they could perhaps elude any pursuing
band of volunteers. Douglass objected, reminding his superior that he
would be obliged to use in barter goods belonging to another government
than the United States, without knowing if the latter government would
reimburse him for them or not. "If the United States will not pay for
them, then I will pay for them out of my own pocket, but those
unfortunate captives must be rescued at once," said this great-hearted
man. He proceeded to Fort Walla Walla and called a council of chiefs
and other Indians and finally after some days of discussion, made this
treaty with them. They were to deliver the prisoners to him, for which
they would receive goods valued at five hundred dollars from the Hudson
Bay people; it was stipulated that Mr. Spalding's family and Miss
Bewley should all be brought in. During the time of the parley small
bands of Indians were constantly passing the Mission, going to and from
the place of treaty-making. One party in passing thought to play a joke
on those who were guarding us and shot off their guns, making quite a
commotion and causing our captors to think that the "Boston men" were
at hand. They began to grab up some of the children to kill them; one
caught me up and started to thrust a tomahawk into my brains. Just then
the Indians outside began laughing and the brutes, on murder bent,
concluded the noise was all a joke and did not hurt any of us.
We were directed to cook a supply of food as provision for the trip.
Fifty Nez Perce warriors escorted the Spalding family through the
hostile country and an Indian brought Miss Bewley to the immigrant
house where the rest of us were. They took us down to Fort Walla Walla
in ox wagons. Among other things which I remember we left behind was a
pair of pigeons the Canfield family had brought with them from Iowa.
The cage was set in the window on leaving, the door knocked off, and
the pigeons were still sitting in their cage--the last glimpse we had
of them. After we had been some time on our way, an Indian woman came
out of her lodge and motioned for us to go fast--and we did! It seemed
that some of the Indians regretted their bargain and wanted to take us
all prisoners again. This woman knew they might soon attempt to do so.
I was in the last wagon to arrive. We could see the wagons ahead of us
going into the Fort gates when they were opened and it seemed as if
ours would never get there; but when the last one came up "pel mel" and
we were safe inside, the Indians concluded it was too late to make an
attack and capture us again. The day they were to receive the goods
promised for our release, we were put into rooms out of sight of the
Indians and told to remain there. Of course the Indians were inside the
fort grounds that day, and McBaine was afraid they might repent the
agreement to give us up and try to take us captive again. Mr. Ogden
made the speech and delivered the goods and as soon as possible they
were gotten away from the Fort. But they would not let the Indian boy
go. The Hudson's Bay men claimed him as belonging rightfully to them.
"He didn't belong to the Doctor," they said, "but had Indian blood in
him." The last I ever saw of him he was standing on the bank of the
river crying as though his heart were breaking as his friends floated
away from him. He was about six years old. There were three boats that
started down the river the day we left the Fort, eight oarsmen to a
boat, and we pulled out into the stream pretty fast once we started.
Indians were along the bank riding and talking, and it was necessary to
travel fast. At night we landed and camped. It was cold, windy and
sandy. Our belongings were left for the settlers to bring down in the
spring, though, of course, we children had little to concern ourselves
about. Before we left the Mission Mrs. Sanders had told one of the
chiefs that the Doctor's children had no clothes--that everything was
gone. "No clothes, no blankets, no nothing," so he went over to the
other house and brought a comfort and gave that to my oldest sister and
gave me a thin quilt and my other sister a blanket or quilt. It was the
custom in those days to quilt so fine; I mean, with the stitching very
close and usually the quilts were made of two pieces of cloth and a
thin layer of cotton batting between. My quilt got afire on our trip
down the river and most of it was burned. The chief also got us a few
undergarments of Mrs. Whitman's.
Mr. Spalding looked after us on the trip and Mr. Stanley, who went
along also, took especial pains to care for us. He would do all he
could to make the hardships a little easier to bear, taking pains to
wrap us up when in the boat and to see that we got to camp and back to
the boat securely. When we got to Vancouver, Mr. Stanley bought some
calico to make each of us a dress. I think my portion was five yards
and they made me a dress and bonnet out of it after I went to Mrs.
Geiger's. I do not know what we would have done without Mr. Stanley. He
was so good and kind to us and Mr. Ogden was very kind, too.
We had to make two portages. Once the men had to take the boats
entirely out of the water and carry them around on their shoulders and
let them down the steep banks with ropes, while we carried the
provisions and such small belongings as we were allowed to take with
us. We finally came to Memmaloo's island, which Mr. Stanley told us was
the Indian burying ground. It took us about eight days to go down the
Columbia river. As we traveled, we came to a place they called St.
Helens, then to another called Linn City and on to Fort Vancouver. We
staid over Sunday there and the Spalding family was entertained at the
Post by Mr. Ogden and James Douglas and finally we were taken to
Portland. Some of the volunteers were on the bank of the Willamette
river and the Governor was also standing there as we rowed up. Mr.
Ogden went to the Governor, shook hands and said to him, "Here are the
prisoners and now I will turn them over to you. I have done all I
could." He also asked that we be taken to Oregon City, which was agreed
upon and later, done. Some of the volunteers were camped across the
river and when they saluted the boats we children thought we were going
to be shot. Captain Gilliam, a brother-in-law of the Captain Shaw who
was our protector on the plains after our own father and mother had
died, rowed across the river and asked which were the Sager children
and on our being pointed out to him, shook hands with us. Some of our
forlorn party had friends to meet them and Governor Abernathy kept the
others until places were found for them.
I remember going to Dr. McLaughlin's house in Oregon City. Mr. Stanley
had a room there and was painting portraits and he came to take us down
to see his pictures. He wanted to paint my picture, but I was entirely
too timid and would not let him. We enjoyed the pictures, however. When
we came down stairs Dr. McLaughlin and his son-in-law, Mr. Ray, were in
the lower room. As we came down stairs the Doctor, thinking to play a
little practical joke, locked the door on us and told us we were
prisoners again and, of course, we were frightened almost to death.
When he found that he had frightened us, he assured us he was just
fooling and let us go. We took everything in earnest and were afraid of
white people as well as the Indians. One can hardly realize at this
day, in what a tortured state our nerves were.