Francisco goes over the River, and spends the Night--Persuades
some of the Sub-Chiefs to apply again for Permission to let
Olive go free--His Threats--The Chiefs return with him--Secret
Council--Another General Council--Danger of a Fight among
themselves--Francisco has a Letter from the Whites--Olive
present--Francisco gains Permission to give her the Letter--Its
Contents--Much alarmed--Speeches of the Indians--Advice to kill
their Captive--Determine to release her--Daughter of the Chief goes
with them--Their Journey--At Fort Yuma.
For a long time Olive had been apprised of the fact that intercourse
had been kept up between the Mohaves and the whites, as articles had
been brought in, from time to time, that she knew must have been
obtained from white settlements, either by plunder or purchase. These
were brought in by small parties, one of whom would frequently be
absent several days or weeks at a time.
She saw in these the evidences that she was within reach still of the
race to which she belonged; and often would gaze with interest and
curiosity upon some old tattered garment that had been brought in,
until the remembrances and associations it would awaken would bring
tears and sighs to end the bitter meditations upon that brighter and
happier people, now no longer hers. She ventured to ask questions
concerning these trips, and the place where they found the whites; but
all her anxious queries were met by threats and taunts, or a long,
gibberish dissertation upon the perfidy of the whites, india-rubber
stories upon the long distance of the whites away, or a restatement
of their malignant hate toward them, and of their purpose to use the
knowledge they might gain by these professed friendly visits to their
ultimate overthrow, by treachery and deceit. They even professed to
disbelieve the statements that had so long deceived them concerning
the numerical strength of the whites, and to believe that the few of
them yet remaining could and would be overcome and extinguished by the
combined power of the Indian tribes, that at no distant day would be
directed against them.
The chief’s daughter, however, ventured to tell Olive, under injunction
of secrecy, that some of their number knew well and had frequently
traversed the road leading to white settlements; but that it was an
immense distance, and that none but Indians could find it; besides that
it was guarded by vigilant spies against the incoming of any but their
own race.
It should be kept in mind that as yet Olive had been forbidden a word
with Francisco. We left the narrative of Olive, in another chapter,
involved in the heated and angry debates of a long and tedious council.
Upon that wild council she had been waiting in dreadful suspense, not
a little mingled with terrible forebodings of her own personal safety.
This convention came to a conclusion with a positive and peremptory
refusal to liberate the captive; and a resolution to send Francisco
away, under injunction not again, under penalty of torture, to revisit
their camp. Francisco, on the same night, departed to the other side of
the river; the chiefs and sub-chiefs dispersed, and Olive was left to
her own melancholy musings over the probable result.
She now began to regret that anything had been said or done about
her rescue. She was in darkness as to the effect that all this new
excitement upon her stay among them might have, after it should become
a matter of sober deliberation by the Mohaves alone. She saw and heard
enough, directly and indirectly, to know that they were set upon not
letting her go free. She began to fear for her life, especially as she
saw the marked changes in the conduct of the Indians toward her. The
wife of the chief seemed to feel kind still toward her; but yet she
plainly evinced that the doings of the last few days had compelled her
to disguise her real feelings. The chief was changed from a pleasant
don’t-care spectator of Olive’s situation, to a sullen, haughty,
overbearing tyrant and oppressor.
Olive was now shut up to a newly enkindled hate, which sought
opportunities to fume its wrath against her. She now regarded all
efforts for her rescue as having reached a final and abrupt close. But
still she could not be ignorant, concealed and reserved as they were
in all their mutual consultations, of the fact that some dreadful fear
for themselves was galling and tormenting them. Expressions that she
well understood, and conveying their dread of the whites, and fear that
they might execute the threats brought by Francisco, constantly escaped
them, and came to the ears of the agitated subject and victim of their
new rage.
Francisco spent the night upon which the council closed across the
river. He there plied every argument and stratagem that his cunning
mind could devise to persuade the principal men on that side of the
Colorado to recede from the resolution they had that day reached. He
employed the whole night in setting before them troubles that these
rash resolutions would bring upon them, and to convince them that it
was for their sakes alone that he desired to bear the captive to the
fort with him.
He had resolved in his own mind not to leave without her, as she
afterward learned; and, on the failure of all other means, to risk his
life in a bold attempt to steal her away under darkness of night. But
in the morning he made preparations for leaving, (he really intended to
go back to the village,) when the magnates and councilmen, among whom
he had tarried for the night, came to him, and prevailed upon him to go
back with them, promising him that they had _now_ determined to do all
in their power to persuade the chief and tribe to yield to his demand,
and to let the captive go; fearing for the result to themselves of the
contrary determination already reached.
About noon of the next day Olive saw Francisco, with a large number of
Mohaves, come into the village. It was not without much fear and alarm
that she saw this, though such had been the intense anxiety about her
situation, and the possibility of escape that the last few days had
enkindled, she felt willing to have a final conclusion now formed,
whether it should be her death or release.
To live much longer there, she now thought she plainly saw would
be impossible; as she could only expect to be sold or barbarously
dispatched, after all that had passed upon the question of her release.
Besides this she felt that with the knowledge she had now gained of
the nearness and feeling of the whites, it would be worse than death
to be doomed to the miseries of her captivity, almost in sight of the
privileges of her native land. And hence, though the reappearance
of Francisco was an occasion for new tumult, and her own agitation
intense, she felt comforted in the prospect it opened of ending the
period of her present living death.
“When Francisco returned I was out gathering ottileka, (a small
ground-nut of the size of the hazel-nut,) and had utterly abandoned the
hope of being released, as the council had broken up with an utter
refusal to let me go. Had I known all that had transpired I should have
felt much worse than as it was. I learned from Francisco since, that
the Indians had resolved (those who were friendly to my going) that for
fear that the whites would come to rescue me, they would kill me as
soon as it was decided I should not go.
“I had not as yet seen the letter that Francisco brought to me. I
plainly saw a change in the conduct of the Indians to me since the
close of the recent agitation. What it foretold I could not even
conjecture. But I saw enough before swinging my basket that morning
upon my back to go out digging ottileka, to convince me that the wrath
of many of them was aroused. I struggled to suppress any emotion I
felt, while my anxious heart was beating over possible dreaded results
of this kind attempt to rescue me, which I thought I saw were to be of
a very different character from those intended.”
The returning company came immediately to the house of the chief. At
first the chief refused to receive them. After a short secret council
with some members of his cabinet, he yielded; the other chiefs were
called, and with Francisco they were again packed in council. The
criers were again hurried forth, and the tribe was again convened.
[Illustration: OLIVE BEFORE THE INDIAN COUNCIL.]
At this council Olive was permitted to remain. The speaking was
conducted with a great deal of confusion, which the chief found it
difficult to prevent; speakers were frequently interrupted, and at
times there was a wild, uproarious tumult, and a heated temper and
heated speech were the order of the day. Says Olive:
“It did seem during that night, at several stages of the debate, that
there was no way of preventing a general fight among them. Speeches
were made, which, judging from their gestures and motions, as well as
from what I could understand in their heat and rapidity, were full of
the most impassioned eloquence.
“I found that they had told Francisco that I was not an American, that
I was from a race of people much like the Indians, living away to the
setting sun. They had painted my face, and feet, and hands of a dun,
dingy color, unlike that of any race I ever saw. This they told me they
did to deceive Francisco; and that I must not talk to him in American.
They told me to talk to him in another language, and to tell him that
I was not an American. They then waited to hear the result, expecting
to hear my gibberish nonsense, and to witness the convincing effect
upon Francisco. But I spoke to him in broken English, and told him the
truth, and also what they had enjoined me to do. He started from his
seat in a perfect rage, vowing that he would be imposed upon no longer.
He then broke forth upon them with one of the most vehement addresses I
ever heard. I felt and still feel an anxiety to know the full contents
of that speech. Part of it he gave me on the way to the fort. It was
full of eloquence, and was an exhibition of talent rarely found among
his race.
“The Mohave warriors threatened to take my life for disobeying their
orders. They were doubly chagrined that their scheme had failed, and
also that their dishonest pretensions of my unwillingness to go with
him, and of my not being an American, had been found out. Some of
them persisted still in the falsehood, saying that I had learned some
American from living among them, but that I had told them that I was
not of that race. All this transpired after Francisco’s return, and
during his second and last effort for my rescue.
“I narrowly looked at Francisco, and soon found he was one whom I had
seen there before, and who had tarried with the chief about three
months previously. I saw he held a letter in his hand and asked to
let me see it. Toward morning it was handed me, and Francisco told me
it was from the Americans. I took it, and after a little made out the
writing on the outside.
“‘FRANCISCO, A YUMA INDIAN, GOING TO THE MOHAVES.’
“I opened it with much agitation. All was quiet as the grave around me.
I examined it for a long time ere I could get the sense, having seen no
writing for five years. It was as follows:
“‘FRANCISCO, Yuma Indian, bearer of this, goes to the Mohave Nation to
obtain a white woman there, named OLIVIA. It is desirable she should
come to this post, or send her reasons why she does not wish to come.
MARTIN BURKE.
Lieut. Col., Commanding.
HEAD-QUARTERS, FORT YUMA, CAL.,
_27th January, 1856_.’
“They now began to importune and threaten me to give them the contents
of the letter. I waited and meditated for some time. I did not know
whether it was best to give it to them just as it was. Up to this
time I had striven to manifest no anxiety about the matter. They had
questioned and teased with every art, from little children up to men,
to know my feelings, though they should have known them well by this
time. I dared not in the excitement express a wish. Francisco had told
them that the whites knew where I was, and that they were about arming
a sufficient number to surround the whole Indian nations, and that they
thus intended to destroy them all unless they gave up the last captive
among them. He told them that the men at the fort would kill himself
and all they could find of them with the Yumas, if he should not bring
her back. He said it was out of mercy to his own tribe, and to them
that he had come.
“They were still pressing me to read them the letter. I then told them
what was in it, and also that the Americans would send a large army and
destroy the Yumas and Mohaves, with all the Indians they could find,
unless I should return with Francisco. I never expect to address so
attentive an audience again as I did then.
“I found that they had been representing to Francisco that I did not
wish to go to the whites. As soon as they thought they had the contents
of the letter, there was the breaking out of scores of voices at once,
and our chief found it a troublesome meeting to preside over. Some
advised that I should be killed, and that Francisco should report that
I was dead. Others that they at once refuse to let me go, and that the
whites could not hurt them. Others were in favor of letting me go at
once. And it was not until daylight that one could judge which counsel
would prevail.
“In all this Francisco seemed bold, calm, and determined. He would
answer their questions and objections with the tact and cunning of a
pure Indian.
“It would be impossible to describe my own feelings on reading that
letter, and during the remainder of the pow-wow. I saw now a reality
in all that was said and done. There was the handwriting of one of my
own people, and the whole showed plainly that my situation was known,
and that there was a purpose to secure my return. I sought to keep my
emotions to myself, for fear of the effect it might have upon my doom,
to express a wish or desire.”
During this time the captive girl could only remain in the profoundest
and most painful silence, though _the one_ of all the agitated crowd
most interested in the matter and result of the debate. Daylight came
slowly up the east, finding the assembly still discussing the life and
death question (for such it really was) that had called them together.
Some time after sunrise, and after Francisco and the captive had been
bid retire, the chief called them again in, and told them, with much
reluctance, that the decision had been to let the captive go.
“At this,” says Olive, “and while yet in their presence, I found I
could no longer control my feelings, and I burst into tears, no longer
able to deny myself the pleasure of thus expressing the weight of
feeling that struggled for relief and utterance within me.
“I found that it had been pleaded against my being given up, that
Francisco was suspected of simply coming to get me away from the
Mohaves that I might be retained by the Yumas. The chief accused him
of this, and said he believed it. This excited the anger of Francisco,
and he boldly told them what he thought of them, and told them to go
with their captive; that they would sorrow for it in the end. When it
was determined that I might go, the chief said that his daughter should
go and see that I was carried to the whites. We ate our breakfast,
supplied ourselves with mushed musquite, and started. Three Yuma
Indians had come with Francisco, to accompany him to and from the
Mohaves; his brother and two cousins.
“I now began to think of really leaving my Indian home. Involuntarily
my eye strayed over that valley. I gazed on every familiar object.
The mountains that stood about our valley home, like sentinels tall
and bold, their every shape, color, and height, as familiar as the
door-yard about the dwelling in which I had been reared.
“Again my emotions were distrusted, and I could hardly believe that
what was passing was reality. ‘Is it true,’ I asked, ‘that they have
concluded to let me escape? I fear they will change their mind. Can
it be that I am to look upon the white face again?’ I then felt like
hastening as for my life, ere they could revoke their decision. Their
looks, their motions, their flashing eyes reminded me that I was not
out of danger. Some of them came to me and sillily laughed, as much
as to say: ‘O, you feel very finely now, don’t you?’ Others stood and
gazed upon me with a steady, serious look, as if taking more interest
in my welfare than ever before. More than this I seemed to read in
their singular appearance; they seemed to stand in wonder as to where I
could be going. Some of them seemed to feel a true joy that I was made
so happy, and they would speak to me to that effect.
“One little incident took place on the morning of my departure, that
clearly reflects the littleness and meanness that inheres in the
general character of the Indian. I had several small strings of beads;
most of them had been given me for singing to them when requested,
when they had visitors from other tribes. I purposed at once that I
would take these beads, together with some small pieces of blankets
that I had obtained at different times, and was wearing upon my person
at this time, to the whites as remembrancers of the past; but when I
was about ready to start, the son of the chief came and took all my
beads, with every woolen shred he could find about me, and quietly told
me that I could not take them with me. This, though a comparatively
trifling matter, afflicted me. I found that I prized those beads beyond
their real value; especially one string that had been worn by Mary. I
had hoped to retain them while I might live. I then gathered up a few
small ground-nuts, which I had dug with my own hands, and concealed
them; and some of them I still keep.”
That same kind daughter of the chief who had so often in suppressed and
shy utterances spoken the word of condolence, and the wish to see Olive
sent to her native land, and had given every possible evidence of a
true and unaffected desire for her welfare, she was not sorry to learn
was to attend her upon the long and tedious trip by which her reunion
with the whites was hoped to be reached.
But there was one spot in that valley of captivity that possessed a
mournful attraction for the emancipated captive. Near the wigwam where
she had spent many hours in loneliness, and Indian converse with her
captors, was a mound that marked the final resting-place of her last
deceased sister. Gladly would she, if it had been in her power, have
gathered the few moldering remains of that loved and cherished form,
and borne them away to a resting-place on some shaded retreat in the
soil of her own countrymen. But this privilege was denied her, and that
too while she knew that immediately upon her exit they would probably
carry their already made threats of burning them into execution. And
who would have left such a place, so enshrined in the heart as that
must have been, without a struggle, though her way from it lay toward
the home of the white man? That grave upon which she had so often
knelt, and upon which she had so often shed the bitter tear, the only
place around which affection lingered, must now be abandoned; not to
remain a place for the undisturbed repose of her sister’s remains, but
to disgorge its precious trust in obedience to the rude, barbarous
superstition that had waved its custom at the time of her death. No
wonder that she says: “I went to the grave of Mary Ann, and took a last
look of the little mound marking the resting-place of my sister who had
come with me to that lonely exile; and now I felt what it was to know
she could not go with me from it.”
There had been in the employ of government at Fort Yuma, since 1853, a
Mr. Grinell, known, from his occupation, by the name of Carpentero. He
was a man of a large heart, and of many excellent qualities. He was
a man who never aimed to put on an exterior to his conduct that could
give any deceptive impression of heart and character. Indeed he often
presented a roughness and uncouthness which, however repulsive to the
stranger, was found nevertheless, on an acquaintance, to cover a noble
nature of large and generous impulses. A man of diligence and fidelity,
he merited and won the confidence of all who knew him. He possessed a
heart that could enter into sympathy with the subjects of suffering
wherever he found them. Soon after coming to Fort Yuma, he had learned
of the fate of the Oatman family, and of the certainty of the captivity
of two of the girls. With all the eagerness and solicitude that could
be expected of a kinsman, he inquired diligently into the particulars,
and also the reliability of the current statements concerning these
unfortunate captives. Nor did these cease in a moment or a day. He kept
up a vigilant outsight, searching to glean, if possible, something by
which to reach definite knowledge of them.
He was friendly to the Yumas, numbers of whom were constantly about
the fort. Of them he inquired frequently and closely. Among those with
whom he was most familiar, and who was in most favor among the officers
at the fort, was Francisco. Carpentero had about given up the hope of
accomplishing what he desired, when one night Francisco crept by some
means through the guard, and found his way into the tent of his friend,
long after he had retired.
Grinell awoke, and in alarm drew his pistol and demanded who was
there. Francisco spoke, and his voice was known. Grinell asked him
what he could be there for at that hour of the night. With an air of
indifference he said he had only come in to talk a little. After a
long silence and some suspicious movements, he broke out and said:
“Carpentero, what is this you say so much about two Americanos among
the Indians?”
“Said,” replied Grinell; “I said that there are two girls among the
Mohaves or Apaches, and you know it, and we know that you know it.”
Grinell then took up a copy of the Los Angeles _Star_, and told
Francisco to listen, and he would read him what the Americans were
saying and thinking about it. He then reads, giving the interpretation
in Mexican, (which language Francisco could speak fluently,) an article
that had been gotten up and published at the instance of Lorenzo,
containing the report brought in by Mr. Rowlit, calling for help. The
article also stated that a large number of men were ready to undertake
to rescue the captives at once, if means could be furnished.
But the quick and eager mind of Carpentero did not suffer the article
to stop with what he could find in the _Star_; keeping his eye still
upon the paper, he continued to read, that if the captives were not
delivered in so many days, there would be five millions of men thrown
around the mountains inhabited by the Indians, and that they would
annihilate the last one of them, if they did not give up all the white
captives.
Many other things did that _Star_ tell at that time, of a like import,
but the which had got into the paper (if there at all) without editor,
type, or ink.
Francisco listened with mouth, and ears, and eyes. After a short
silence, he said, (in Mexican,) “I know where there is one white girl
among the Mohaves; there were two, but one is dead.”
At this the generous heart of Carpentero began to swell, and the object
of his anxious, disinterested sympathy for the first time began to
present itself as a bright reality.
“When did you find out she was there?” said Carpentero.
F. “I have just found it out to-night.”
C. “Did you not know it before?”
F. “Well, not long; me just come in, you know. Me know now she is there
among the Mohaves.”
Carpentero was not yet fully satisfied that all was right. There had
been, and still was, apprehension of some trouble at the fort, from the
Yumas; and Carpentero did not know but that some murderous scheme was
concocted, and all this was a ruse to beguile and deceive them.
Carpentero then told Francisco to stay in his tent for the night.
Francisco then told Carpentero that if Commander Burke would give
him authority, he would go and bring the girl into the fort. That
night Carpentero slept awake. Early in the morning they went to the
commander. For some time Commander Burke was disposed to regard it as
something originated by the cunning of Francisco, and did not believe
he would bring the girl in. Said Francisco: “You give me four blankets
and some beads, and I will bring her in just twenty days, when the sun
be right over here,” pointing to about forty-five degrees above the
western horizon.
Carpentero begged the captain to place all that it would cost for the
outfit to his own account, and let him go. The captain consented,
a letter was written, and the Yuma, with a brother and two others,
started. This was about the eighth of February, 1856.
Several days passed, and the men about the fort thought they had
Carpentero in a place where it would do to remind him of “_his trusty
Francisco_.” And thus they did, asking him if he “did not think his
blankets and beads had sold cheap?” if he “had not better send another
Indian after the blankets?” etc., with other questions indicating their
own distrust of the whole movement.
On the twentieth day, about noon, three Yuma Indians, living some
distance from the fort, came to the fort and asked permission to see “a
man by the name of Carpentero.” They were shown his tent, and went in
and made themselves known, saying, “Carpentero, Francisco is coming.”
“Has he the girl with him?” quickly asked the agitated Carpentero,
bounding to his feet.
They laughed sillily, saying, “Francisco will come here when the sun be
right over there,” pointing in the direction marked by Francisco.
With eager eyes Carpentero stood gazing for some time, when three
Indians and two females, dressed in closely woven bark skirts, came
down to the ferry on the opposite side of the river. At that he bounded
toward them, crying at the top of his voice, “They have come; _the
captive girl is here_!” All about the fort were soon apprised that it
was even so, and soon they were either running to meet and welcome the
captive, or were gazing with eagerness to know if this strange report
could be true.
Olive, with her characteristic modesty, was unwilling to appear in her
bark attire and her poor shabby dress among the whites, eager as she
was to catch again a glimpse of their countenances, one of whom she had
not seen for years. As soon as this was made known, a noble-hearted
woman, the wife of one of the officers and the lady to whose kind
hospitalities she was afterward indebted for every kindness that could
minister to her comfort the few weeks she tarried there, sent her a
dress and clothing of the best she had.
Amid long enthusiastic cheering and the booming of cannon, Miss Olive
was presented to the commander of the fort by Francisco. Every one
seemed to partake of the joy and enthusiasm that prevailed. Those
who had been the most skeptical of the intentions of Francisco, were
glad to find their distrust rebuked in so agreeable a manner. The
Yumas gathered in large numbers, and seemed to partake in the general
rejoicing, joining their heavy shrill voices in the shout, and fairly
making the earth tremble beneath the thunder of their cheering.
Francisco told the captain he had been compelled to give more for the
captive than what he had obtained of him; that he had promised the
Mohave chief a horse, and that his daughter was now present to see that
this promise was fulfilled. Also, that a son of the chief would be in
within a few days to receive the horse. A good horse was given him,
and each of the kind officers at the fort testified their gratitude to
him, as well as their hearty sympathy with the long separated brother
and sister, by donating freely and liberally of their money to make up
a horse for Francisco; and he was told there, in the presence of the
rest of his tribe, that he had not only performed an act for which the
gratitude of the whites would follow him, but one that might probably
save his tribe and the Mohaves much trouble and many lives.
[Illustration: ARRIVAL OF OLIVE AT FORT YUMA.]
From this Francisco was promoted and became a “Tie” of his tribe, and
with characteristic pride and haughtiness of bearing, showed the
capabilities of the Indian to appreciate honors and preferment, by
looking with disdain and contempt upon his peers, and treating them
thus in the presence of the whites.
Miss Olive was taken in by a very excellent family residing at the
fort at the time, and every kindness and tender regard bestowed upon
her that her generous host and hostess could make minister to her
contentment and comfort. She had come over three hundred and fifty
miles during the last ten days; frequently (as many as ten times) she
and her guides were compelled to swim the swollen streams, running and
rushing to the top of their banks with ice-water. The kind daughter of
the chief, with an affection that had increased with every month and
year of their association, showed more concern and eagerness for the
wellbeing of “Olivia” than her own. She would carry, through the long
and toilsome day, the roll of blankets that they shared together during
the night, and seemed very much concerned and anxious lest something
might yet prevent her safe arrival at the place of destination.
Olive was soon apprised of the place of residence of her brother, whom
she had so long regarded as dead, and also of his untiring efforts,
during the last few years, for the rescue of his sister.
“It was some time,” she says, “before I could realize that he was yet
alive. The last time I saw him he was dragged in his own blood to
the rocks upon the brow of that precipice; I thought I knew him to
be dead.” And it was not until all the circumstances of his escape
were detailed to her that she could fully credit his rescue and
preservation. Lorenzo and his trading companion, Mr. Low, were about
ten days in reaching the fort; each step and hour of that long and
dangerous journey his mind was haunted by the fear that the rescued
girl might not be his sister. But he had not been long at the fort ere
his trembling heart was made glad by the attestation of his own eyes to
the reality. He saw that it was his own sister (the same, though now
grown and much changed) who, with Mary Ann, had poured their bitter
cries upon his bewildered senses five years before, as they were
hurried away by the unheeding Apaches, leaving him for dead with the
rest of the family.
Language was not made to give utterance to the feelings that rise,
and swell, and throb through the human bosom upon such a meeting as
this. For five years they had not looked in each other’s eyes; the
last image of that brother pressed upon the eye and memory of his
affectionate sister, was one that could only make any reference to it
in her mind one of painful, torturing horror. She had seen him when (as
she supposed) life had departed, dragged in the most inhuman manner
to one side; one of a whole family who had been butchered before her
eyes. The last remembrance of that sister by her brother, was of her
wailings and heart-rending sighs over the massacre of the rest of her
family, and her consignment to a barbarous captivity or torturing
death. She was grown to womanhood; she was changed, but despite the
written traces of her outdoor life and barbarous treatment left upon
her appearance and person, he could read the assuring evidences of her
family identity. They met, they wept, they embraced each other in the
tenderest manner; heart throbbed to heart, and pulse beat to pulse; but
for nearly one hour not one word could either speak!
The past! the checkered past! with its bright and its dark, its sorrow
and its joy, rested upon that hour of speechless joy. The season of
bright childhood, their mutual toils and anxieties of nearly one year,
while traveling over that gloomy way; that horrid night of massacre,
with its wailing and praying, mingled with fiendish whooping and
yelling, remembered in connection with its rude separation; the five
years of tears, loneliness, and captivity among savages, through which
she had grown up to womanhood; the same period of his captivity to the
dominion of a harassing anxiety and solicitude, through which he had
grown up to manhood, all pressed upon the time of that meeting, to
choke utterance, and stir the soul with emotions that could only pour
themselves out in tears and sighs.
A large company of Americans, Indians, and Mexicans, were present and
witnessed the meeting of Lorenzo and his sister. Some of them are now
in the city of San Francisco, to testify that not an unmoved heart nor
a dry eye witnessed it. Even the rude and untutored Indian, raised his
brawny hand to wipe away the unbidden tear that stole upon his cheek
as he stood speechless and wonder-struck! When the feelings became
controllable, and words came to their relief, they dwelt and discoursed
for hours upon the gloomy and pain-written past. In a few days they
were safe at the Monté, and were there met by a cousin from Rogue River
Valley, Oregon, who had heard of the rescue of Olive, and had come to
take her to his own home.
At the Monté they were visited during a stay of two weeks, in waiting
for the steamer, by large numbers of people, who bestowed upon the
rescued captive all possible manifestations of interest in her welfare,
and hearty rejoicing at her escape from the night of prison-life and
suffering so long endured.
She was taken to Jackson County, Oregon, where she has been since, and
is still residing there.
* * * * *
* Since writing the above Miss Oatman, with her brother, have spent
about six months at school in Santa Clara Valley, California. On the
fifth day of March, 1858, they left San Francisco, in company with the
writer and his family, on the steamship Golden Age, for New-York, where
they arrived on the 26th of the same month.
[Illustration: LORENZO OATMAN.]
CONCLUSION.
How strange the life of these savages. Of their past history how little
is known; and there is an utter destitution of any reliable data upon
which to conjecture even concerning it. By some they are considered
the descendants of a people who were refined and enlightened. That a
period of civilization, and of some progress in the arts, preceded the
discovery of this continent by Columbus, there can be but little doubt.
The evidences of this are to be seen in the relics of buried cities and
towns, that have been found deep under ground in numerous places.
But whether the people of whom we have these traces extended to the
Pacific slope, and to the southwest, we know not. This much we do know:
there are large tracts of country now occupied by large and numerous
tribes of the red race, living in all the filth and degradation of
an unmitigated heathenism, and without any settled system of laws or
social regulations.
If they have any system of government, it is that of an absolute
monarchy. The chief of each tribe is the sole head and sovereign in all
matters that affect the wellbeing of the same, even to the life and
death of its members.
They are human, but live like brutes. They seem totally destitute of
all those noble and generous traits of life which distinguish and
honor civilized people. In indolence and supineness they seem content
to pass their days, without ambition, save of war and conquest; they
live the mere creatures of passion, blind and callous to all those
ennobling aims and purposes that are the true and pleasing inspiration
of rational existence. In their social state, the more they are studied
the more do they become an object of disgust and loathing.
They manifest but little affection for one another, only when death
has separated them, and then they show the deep inhumanity and abject
heathenism to which they have sunk by the horrid rites that prevail in
the disposing of their infirm kindred and their dead. They burn the one
and the other with equal impunity and satisfaction.
The marriage relation among them is not honored, scarcely observed. The
least affront justifies the husband in casting off his chosen wife, and
even in taking her life. Rapine and lust prey upon them at home; and
war is fast wasting them abroad. They regard the whites as enemies from
all antiquity, and any real injury they can do them is considered a
virtue, while the taking of their lives (especially of males) is an act
which is sure to crown the name of the perpetrator with eternal honors.
With all their boasting and professed contempt for the whites, and with
all their bright traditions and prophecies, according to which their
day of triumph and power is near at hand, yet they are not without
premonitions of a sad and fatal destiny. They are generally dejected
and cast down; the tone of their every-day life, as well as sometimes
actual sayings, indicating a pressing fear and harassing foreboding.
Some of the females would, after hours of conversation with Olive, upon
the character, customs, and prosperity of the whites, plainly, but with
injunctions of secrecy, tell her that they lived in constant fear; and
it was not unfrequent that some disaffected member of the tribe would
threaten to leave his mountain home and go to live with the whites. It
is not to be understood that this was the prevailing state of feeling
among them.
Most of them are sunk in an ignorance that forbids any aspiration or
ambition to reach or fire their natures; an ignorance that knows no
higher mode of life than theirs, and that looks with jealousy upon
every nation and people, save the burrowing tribes that skulk and crawl
among these mountains and ravines.
But fate seems descending upon them, if not in “sudden,” yet in
certain night. They are waning. Remnants of them will no doubt long
survive; but the masses of them seem fated to a speedy decay. Since
this narrative was first written, a very severe battle, lasting several
weeks, has taken place between the allied Mohaves and Yumas on the
one side, and the Cochopas on the other. The former lost over three
hundred warriors; the latter but few, less than threescore. Among the
slain was the noble Francisco. It is rumored at Fort Yuma, that during
the engagement the allied tribes were informed by their oracles that
their ill-success was owing to Francisco; that he must be slain for his
friendship to the whites; then victory would crown their struggles; and
that, in obedience to this superstition, he was slain by the hands of
his own tribe.
Had Olive been among them during this unsuccessful war, her life would
have been offered up on the return of the defeated warriors; and no
doubt there were then many among them who attributed their defeat to
the conciliation on their part by which she was surrendered to her own
people. Such is the Indian of the South and Southwest.
We have tried to give the reader a correct, though brief history of
the singular and strange fate of that unfortunate family. If there is
one who shall be disposed to regard the reality as overdrawn, we have
only to say that every fact has been dictated by word of mouth from the
surviving members of that once happy family, who have, by a mysterious
Providence, after suffering a prolonged and unrelieved woe of five
years, been rescued and again restored to the blessings of a civilized
and sympathizing society.
Most of the preceding pages have been written in the first person. This
method was adopted for the sake of brevity, as also to give, as near as
language may do it, a faithful record of the _feelings_ and _spirit_
with which the distresses and cruel treatment of the few years over
which these pages run, was met, braved, endured, and triumphed over.
The record of the five years of captivity entered upon by a timid,
inexperienced girl of fourteen years, and during which, associated
with naught but savage life, she grew up to womanhood, presents one of
heroism, self-possession, and patience, that might do honor to one of
maturity and years. Much of that dreadful period is unwritten, and will
remain forever unwritten.
We have confidence that every reader will share with us the feelings
of gratitude to Almighty God for the blessings of civilization, and a
superior social life, with which we cease to pen this record of the
degradation, the barbarity, the superstition, the squalidness, that
curse the uncounted thousands who people the caverns and wilds that
divide the Eastern from the Western inheritance of our mother republic.
But the unpierced heathenism that thus stretches its wing of night
upon these swarming mountains and vales, is not long to have a dominion
so wild, nor possess victims so numerous. Its territory is already
begirt with the light of a higher life; and now the foot-fall of the
pioneering, brave Anglo-Saxon is heard upon the heel of the savage, and
breaks the silence along his winding trail. Already the song and shout
of civilization wakes echoes long and prophetic upon those mountain
rocks, that have for centuries hemmed in an unvisited savageness.
Until his death Francisco, by whose vigilance the place of Olive’s
captivity and suffering was ascertained, and who dared to bargain for
her release and restoration ere he had changed a word with her captors
about it, was hunted by his own and other tribes for guiding the white
man to the hiding-places of those whose ignorance will not suffer
them to let go their filth and superstition, and who regard the whole
transaction as the opening of the door to the greedy, aggressive, white
race. The cry of gold, like that which formed and matured a state upon
this far-off coast in a few years, is heard along ravines that have
been so long exclusively theirs, and companies of gold hunters, led on
by faint but unerring “prospects,” are confidently seeking rich leads
of the precious ore near their long isolated wigwams.
The march of American civilization, if unhampered by the weakness
and corruption of its own happy subjects, will yet, and soon, break
upon the barbarity of these numerous tribes, and either elevate them
to the unappreciated blessings of a superior state, or wipe them into
oblivion, and give their long-undeveloped territory to another.
Perhaps when the intricate and complicated events that mark and pave
the way to this state of things, shall be pondered by the curious
and retrospective eye of those who shall rejoice in its possession,
these comparatively insignificant ones spread out for the reader
upon these pages, will be found to form a part. May Heaven guide the
anxious-freighted future to the greatest good of the abject heathen,
and save those into whose hands are committed such openings and
privileges for beneficent doing, from the perversion of their blessings
and mission.
“Honor to whom honor is due.” With all the degradation in which these
untamed hordes are steeped, there are--strange as it may seem--some
traits and phases in their conduct which, on comparison with those
of some who call themselves civilized, ought to crimson their cheeks
with a blush. While feuds have been kindled, and lives have been
lost--innocent lives--by the intrusion of the white man upon the
domestic relations of Indian families; while decency and chastity have
been outraged, and the Indian female, in some instances, stolen from
her spouse and husband that she really loved; let it be written,
written if possible so as to be read when an inscrutable but unerring
Providence shall exact “to the uttermost farthing” for every deed of
cruelty and lust perpetrated by a superior race upon an inferior one;
_written_ to stand out before those whose duty and position it shall
be, within a few years, in the American Council of State, to deliberate
and legislate upon the best method to dispose of these fast waning
tribes; that _one of our own race, in tender years, committed wholly to
their power, passed a five-years’ captivity among these savages without
falling under those baser propensities which rave, and rage, and
consume, with the fury and fatality of a pestilence, among themselves_.
It is true that their uncultivated and untempered traditional
superstitions allow them to mark in the white man an enemy that has
preyed upon their rights from antiquity, and to exact of him, when
thrown into their power, cruelties that kindle just horror in the
breast of the refined and the civilized. It is true that the more
intelligent, and the large majority, deplore the poor representation
of our people that has been given to these wild men by certain “lewd
fellows of the baser sort,” who are undistinguished by them from
our race as a whole. But they are set down to our account in a more
infallible record than any of mere human writ; and delicate and
terrible is the responsibility with which they have clothed the action
of the American race amid the startling and important exigences that
must roll upon its pathway for the next few years.
Who that looks at the superstition, the mangled, fragmentary, and
distorted traditions that form the only tribunal of appeal for the
little _wreck of moral sense_ they have left them--superstitions that
hold them as with the grasp of omnipotence; who that looks upon the
self-consuming workings of the corruptions that breed in the hotbed of
ignorance, can be so hardened that his heart has no _sigh to heave, no
groan to utter_ over a social, moral, and political desolation that
ought to appeal to our commiseration rather than put a torch to our
slumbering vengeance.
It is true that this coast and the Eastern states have now their scores
of lonely wanderers, mournful and sorrow-stricken mourners, over whose
sky has been cast a mantle of gloom that will stretch to their tombs
for the loss of those of their kindred who sleep in the dust, or bleach
upon the sand-plots trodden by these roaming heathen; kindred who have
in their innocence fallen by cruelty. But there is a voice coming up
from these scattered, unmonumented resting-places of their dead; and
it pleads, pleads with the potency and unerringness of those pleadings
from “_under the ground_” of ancient date, and of the fact and effect
of which we have a guiding record.
Who that casts his eye over the vast territory that lies between the
Columbia River and Acapulco, with the Rocky Range for its eastern
bulwark, a territory abounding with rich verdure-clad vales and
pasturage hill-sides, and looks to the time, not distant, when over
it all shall be spread the wing of the eagle, when the music of
civilization, of the arts, of the sciences, of the mechanism, of the
religion of our favored race, shall roll along its winding rivers and
over its beautiful slopes, but has one prayer to offer to the God of
his fathers, that the same wisdom craved and received by them to plant
his civil light-house on a wilderness shore, may still guide us on to a
glorious, a happy, and a useful destiny.
* * * * *
The following lines were written by some person, unknown to the author,
residing in Marysville, California. They were first published in a
daily paper, soon after the first edition was issued. They are here
inserted as expressing, not what _one_ merely, but what _many_ felt
who read this narrative in that state, and who have become personally
acquainted with Miss Oatman. Many have been the assurances of sympathy
and affection that, by letter and in person, have been in kindred and
equally fervent strains poured upon the ear and heart of the once
suffering subject of this narrative.
STANZAS TO OLIVE OATMAN.
Fair Olive! thy historian’s pen declines
Portraying what thy feelings once have been,
Because the language of the world confines
Expression, giving only half we mean;
No reaching from what we have felt or seen:
And it is well. How useless ’tis to gild
Refined gold, or paint the lily’s sheen!
But we can weep when all the heart is fill’d
And feel in thought, beyond where pen or words are skill’d.
In moonlight we can fancy that one grave,
Resting amid the mountains bleak and bare,
Although no willow’s swinging pendants wave
Above the little captive sleeping there,
With thee beside her wrapp’d in voiceless prayer;
We guess thy anguish, feel thy heart’s deep woe,
And list for moans upon the midnight air,
As tears of sympathy in silence flow
For her whose unmark’d head is lying calm and low.
For in the bosom of the wilderness
Imagination paints a fearful wild
With two young children bow’d in deep distress,
A simple maiden and a little child,
Begirt with savages in circles fill’d,
Who round them shout in triumph o’er the deed
That laid their kindred on the desert piled
An undistinguished mass, in death to bleed,
And left them without hope in their despairing need.
In captive chains whole races have been led,
But never yet upon one heart did fall
Misfortune’s hand so heavy. Thy young head
Has born a nation’s griefs, its woes, and all
The serried sorrows which earth’s histories call
The hand of God. Then, Olive, bend thy knee,
Morning and night, until the funeral pall
Hides thy fair face to Him who watches thee,
Whose power once made thee bond, whose power once set thee free.
MONTBAR.
MARYSVILLE, _April 27, 1857_.
THE END.
NOTICES OF THE PRESS.
[The following notices of this work are selected from among a large
number, all of which speak in commendation of it as a tale of thrilling
interest.]
AN INTERESTING BOOK.--Our friend, Mr. L. D. Oatman, has laid upon
our table a thrilling narrative of the captivity of his sisters, and
of his own escape from the dreadful massacre of his family. The work
is compiled by the Rev. R. B. Stratton, and in forcible description,
purity of style, and deep interest, surpasses any production of
romance. It will be read with pleasure by many in our valley to whom
the interesting subjects of the narrative, Miss Olive and her brother,
are personally known.--_Table Rock Sentinel._
* * * * *
CAPTIVITY OF THE OATMAN GIRLS.--“We are under obligations to Randall &
Co. for a copy of this little work by R. B. Stratton.
“Have you read,” says a correspondent, “the deeply pathetic narrative
of the captivity of the Oatman girls, the miraculous escapes of a
little brother, and the massacre of the rest of the family? If not, do
so at once, and extend its circulation by noticing it in your paper.
The work, which is no fiction, will be profitably perused as a matter
of curiosity and information; but in opening up the closed fountains
in the hardened hearts of our callous-grown people, it is calculated
to have a most happy effect. Who, unless the last spark of generous
sentiment and tender emotion be extinct in their natures, can get
through that little book without feeling their eyes moisten and their
bosoms swell.” Randall & Co. have the work for sale; also G. & O.
Amy.--_Marysville Herald._
* * * * *
MISS OLIVE OATMAN.--The interesting narrative of the captivity of
this young lady by the Apache Indians, and her long residence among
them and the Mohaves, so long looked for by the public, has made its
appearance. The book will have an extensive sale, being written in an
attractive style, and disclosing many interesting traits of character
in savage life along our southern border.--_San Jose Telegraph._
* * * * *
CAPTIVITY OF THE OATMAN GIRLS--LIFE AMONG THE INDIANS.--This is the
subject of a volume of two hundred and ninety pages, recently issued
from the press of this city by Rev. R. B. Stratton, to whom the facts
were communicated by Olive and Lorenzo D. Oatman, the surviving members
of the family. The Oatman family, it will be recollected, were attacked
by the Apaches in 1850, and the two girls, Olive and Mary, were carried
into captivity. Mary died, but Olive was released about a year since.
The author claims for the work no great literary excellence, but rests
its merits solely upon the highly interesting nature of the facts
presented, and a strict adherence to truth throughout the narrative.
A solid cord of romance might be built upon it.--_Golden Era, San
Francisco._
* * * * *
CAPTIVITY OF THE OATMAN GIRLS.--The above is the partial title of a
new California book just issued from the press of San Francisco. It
is a neat volume of two hundred and ninety pages, and is a graphic
description of one of the most horrid tales of massacre, captivity, and
death we have read for years. The public have been anxiously waiting
for this book since the announcement a few months since that it was
in preparation. The author, Rev. R. B. Stratton, has presented the
facts as he received them from Miss Oatman, in a clear, attractive
style. Of the particular circumstances of the fate of the Oatman family
most in this state are apprised. The book will have a wide sale. Read
it.--_Sacramento Union._
* * * * *
A NEW BOOK.--We have just received the book of the “Captivity of the
Oatman Girls,” for which the people have been looking anxiously for
several weeks. It is a tale of horrors, and well told. The reader will
rise from its perusal with a feeling prompting him to seize the musket
and go at once and chastise those inhuman wretches among whom Olive
has spent five years. The American people ought to go and give them a
whipping. Read the book. Though it is one of horrors, its style and
truthfulness attract to a thorough reading.--_Democratic State Journal._
SEVEN YEARS’
Street Preaching in San Francisco,
EMBRACING
INCIDENTS AND TRIUMPHANT DEATH SCENES.
TESTIMONY OF THE PRESS.
“Among the first of our noble army of occupation in California was
the Rev. William Taylor. In labors he has been more abundant, and
as fearless as laborious. His book, as a book of mere incident and
adventure, possesses uncommon interest; but as a record of missionary
toil and success its interest is immensely increased. The sketches
of personal character and death-bed scenes are thrilling.”--_Ladies’
Repository._
“The observation and experience recorded abounds with the most pleasing
interest, and the scenes are described with much graphic power and
felicity.”--_Baltimore Sun._
“This is a graphic description of the labors of a missionary among the
most complex, and perhaps most wicked, and at the same time excited and
active population in the world. It is a very rich book, and deserves a
large sale.”--_Zion’s Herald._
“As a religious history, it occupies a new department in Californian
literature; and its incidents and triumphant death scenes are of the
most interesting character.”--_The American Spectator._
“It is a very entertaining volume, full of adventure, grave and gay,
in the streets of a new city, and among a peculiar people.”--_New-York
Observer._
“This work is valuable, not merely from its very sincere and sound
religious spirit, but from the curious popular traits which it
imbodies, and the remarkable insight it affords into the striking and
highly attractive peculiarities of the Methodist denomination. We defy
any student of human nature, any man gifted with a keen appreciation of
remarkable development of character, to read this book without a keen
relish. He will find in it many singular developments of the action of
religious belief allied to manners, customs, and habits all eminently
worthy of study. The straightforward common sense of the author, allied
to his faith, has resulted in a shrewd enthusiasm, whose workings
are continually manifest, and which enforces our respect for his
earnestness and piety, as well as affording rare materials for analysis
and reflection. The _naïveté_ of the author is often pleasant enough;
in some instances we find it truly touching.”--_Philadelphia Bulletin._
“We like the spirit and daring of the author of this book. But few
like him live among men. With an undoubted piety, and courage like
a lion, he preached Christ at a time, in San Francisco, when Satan
reigned about as triumphant as he ever has on any other spot of the
cursed earth. The book will be read, and it will do good wherever it is
read.”--_Buffalo Chr. Advocate._
“This book is a real contribution to the religious history of that
country. For raciness of style it is one of the most readable books
that has fallen into our hands.”--_Pittsburgh Chr. Adv._
“The state of society which Mr. Taylor describes is almost anomalous,
and his pictures are boldly and clearly drawn”--_New York Evening Post._
Similar opinions to the foregoing have been given by the Western,
Southern, and Richmond Christian Advocates, Christian Advocate and
Journal, National Magazine, Methodist Quarterly Review, Harper’s
Magazine, and many others.
The London Review for April, 1858, devotes nearly four pages to
“_Seven Years’ Street Preaching in San Francisco_,” from which the
following is an extract: “The appearance of Mr. Taylor’s work on street
preaching, at a time when so much attention is turned to this subject,
when parochial clergymen, and even bishops, have caught the mantle
of Whitefield and the Wesleys, is singularly opportune. And the book
itself is so thoroughly good, so deeply interesting, and so replete
with wise counsels and examples of what street preaching ought to be,
that we cannot but wish for it a wide circulation. The writer tells his
story with the simplicity and directness of a child; and the incidents
related are of a most unusual and romantic kind. Too much cannot be
said in praise of the nervous, plain, vigorous style of the author’s
preaching. For clearness, directness, and force, the specimens given in
this book have never been surpassed.”--Pp. 99, 100.
California Life Illustrated.
“Mr. Taylor, as our readers may see by consulting our synopsis of the
Quarterlies, is accepted on both sides of the Atlantic, as well as on
the shores of the Pacific, as a regular ‘pioneer.’ The readers of his
former work will find the interest aroused by its pages amply sustained
in this. Its pictorial illustrations aid in bringing California before
us.”--_Methodist Quarterly Review._
“For stirring incidents in missionary life and labors, it is equal
to his former work, while a wider field of observation furnishes a
still more varied store of useful and curious information in regard
to California. It will well repay the reader for the time he may
spend on its bright pages. The publishers have done their part well.
The book is 12mo., in good style of binding, and printed on fair
paper.”--_Pittsburgh Advocate._
“It is a work of more general interest than the author’s ‘Seven Years’
Street Preaching in San Francisco.’ It enters more largely into
domestic matters, manners, and modes of living. Life in the city, the
country, ‘the diggings,’ mining operations, the success and failures,
trials, temptations, and crimes, and all that, fill the book, and
attract the reader along its pages with an increasing interest. It is
at once instructive and entertaining.”--_Richmond Christian Advocate._
Rev. DR. CROOKS, of New-York, after a careful reading of California
Life Illustrated, recorded his judgment as follows: “This is not a
volume of mere statistics, but a series of pictures of the many colored
life of the Golden State. The author was for seven years engaged as
a missionary in San Francisco, and in the discharge of his duties
was brought into contact with persons of every class and shade of
character. We know of no work which gives so clear an impression of a
state of society which is already passing away, but must constitute one
of the most remarkable chapters in our nation’s history. The narrative
is life-like, and incident and sketch follow in such rapid succession,
that it is impossible for the reader to feel weary. This book, and the
author’s ‘_Young America_,’ and ‘_Seven Years’ Street Preaching in San
Francisco_,’ would make highly entertaining and instructive volumes for
Sunday-school libraries. Their graphically described scenes, and fine
moral tone, fit them admirably for the minds of youth.”
“Full of interesting and instructive information, abounding in striking
incident, this is a book that everybody will be interested in reading.
Indeed scarcely anything can be found that will give a more picturesque
and striking view of life in California.”--_New-York Observer._
“Mr. Taylor has recently published a work entitled _California Life
Illustrated_, which is one of the most interesting books we ever
read--full of stirring incident. Those who wish to see California
life, without the trouble of going thither, can get a better idea,
especially of its religious aspects, from this and the former book of
Mr. Taylor on the subject, than from any other source conveniently
accessible.”--_Editor of Christian Advocate and Journal, N. Y._
“The influx of nations into California, in response to the startling
intelligence that its mountains were full of solid gold, opened up
a chapter in human history that had never before been witnessed. At
first it seemed as if ‘the root of all evil,’ did indeed shoot into
a baneful shade, under which none of the virtues could breathe; but
soon Christianity and Gospel missionaries begun to be seen. Among the
most active of them was William Taylor, who now, on a return to the
Atlantic States, gives to the world a description of what he saw. It is
an original, instructive book, full of facts and good food for thought,
and as such we heartily commend it.”--_Zion’s Herald._
“It is a series of sketches, abounding in interesting and touching
incidents of missionary life, dating with the early history of the
country, and the great gold excitement of 1849, and up, for several
years, illustrating, as with the pencil of a master in his art, the
early phases of civil and social life, as they presented themselves,
struggling for being and influence amid the conflicting elements of
gold mania, fostered by licentiousness and unchecked by the sacred
influence of religion, family, and home; containing a striking
demonstration of the refining, purifying tendencies of female
influence, rendered sanctifying, when pervaded by religion; giving such
an insight into the secret workings of the human heart and mind as will
be in vain sought for in the books called mental and moral philosophy;
withdrawing the vail which ordinarily screens the emotions of the soul,
leaving the patient student to look calmly at the very life pulsations
of humanity, and grow wise. Statistically the work is of great value
to those seeking information concerning the country, with a view to
investment or settlement.”--_Texas Advocate._
“The author of this volume is favorably known to many readers by his
previous work, in which he relates the experience of seven years’
street preaching in San Francisco. He here continues the inartificial
but graphic sketches which compose the substance of this volume, and,
by his simple narratives, gives a lively illustration of the social
condition of California. During his residence in that state he was
devoted exclusively to his work as a missionary of the Methodist
Church, and, by his fearlessness, zeal, and self-denial, won the
confidence of the whole population. He was frequently thrown in contact
with gamblers, _chevaliers d’industrie_, and adventurers of every
description, but he never shrunk from the administration of faithful
rebuke, and in so doing often won the hearts of the most abandoned.
His visits to the sick in the hospitals were productive of great good.
Unwearied in his exertions, he had succeeded in establishing a system
of wholesome religious influences when the great financial crash in
San Francisco interrupted his labors, and made it expedient for him
to return to this region in order to obtain resources for future
action. His book was, accordingly, written in the interests of a good
cause, which will commend it to the friends of religious culture in
California, while its own intrinsic vivacity and naturalness will well
reward the general reader for its perusal.”--_Harper’s New Monthly
Magazine._
For sale by CARLTON & PORTER, 200 Mulberry-st., N. Y.
CARLTON & PORTER’S
BOOK-LIST.
GENERAL CATALOGUE.
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* * * * *
Transcriber’s Note
Minor punctuation errors (i.e. missing periods) have been corrected.
Variations in hyphenation (i.e. daybreak and day-break) and accented
letters (i.e. Santa Fe and Santa Fé) have been retained.
Original spellings have been retained except for these apparent
typographical errors:
Page 11, “avowel” changed to “avowal.” (a construing of the frank
avowal)
Page 21, “Allottment” changed to “Allotment.” (Their checkered
Allotment up to the Time)
Page 54, “Tracts” changed to “Tracks.” (Tracks of a large number of
Indians)
Page 66, “chapparel” changed to “chaparral.” (wide sage-fields and
chaparral)
Page 81, “firmamet” changed to “firmament.” (they seem to lean against
the firmament)
Page 85, “defeaning” changed to “deafening.” (a deafening yell broke
upon us)
Page 150, “villianous” changed to “villainous.” (from their villainous
propensities)
Page 175, “Cceareke” changed to “Ccearekae.” (Ccearekae. “We have
enough to satisfy us)
Page 182, “tatoo” changed to “tattoo.” (they were going to tattoo our
faces)
Page 288, “Maysville” changed to “Marysville.” (residing in Marysville,
California)
Book-List Section:
Page 3, “insiduous” changed to “insidious.” (youthful mind against the
insidious)
Page 4, “dayly” changed to “daily.” (acquainted with the daily
experience)
Page 12, “possiblity” changed to “possibility.” (possibility of giving
an outline)
End of Project Gutenberg's Captivity of the Oatman Girls, by Royal B. Stratton