their feet. The air was filled with glad cries, with exultant shouts.
The whole world seemed to ring with the voices of those young men who
called loudly, with glorious courage:
"'Take me, but give me back my old father.'
"'Take me, but spare to my tribe my little sister.'
"'Take me, but release my wife and boy-baby.'
"So the compact was made. Two hundred heroic, magnificent young men
paddled up to the island, broke through the fortifying circle of canoes
and stepped ashore. They flaunted their eagle plumes with the spirit
and boldness of young gods. Their shoulders were erect, their step was
firm, their hearts strong. Into their canoes they crowded the two
hundred captives. Once more their women sobbed, their old men
muttered, their children wailed, but those young copper-colored gods
never flinched, never faltered. Their weak and their feeble were
saved. What mattered to them such a little thing as death?
"The released captives were quickly surrounded by their own people, but
the flower of their splendid nation was in the hands of their enemies,
those valorous young men who thought so little of life that they
willingly, gladly laid it down to serve and to save those they loved
and cared for. Amongst them were war-tried warriors who had fought
fifty battles, and boys not yet full grown, who were drawing a bow
string for the first time, but their hearts, their courage, their
self-sacrifice were as one.
"Out before a long file of southern warriors they stood. Their chins
uplifted, their eyes defiant, their breasts bared. Each leaned forward
and laid his weapons at his feet, then stood erect, with empty hands,
and laughed forth their challenge to death. A thousand arrows ripped
the air, two hundred gallant northern throats flung forth a death cry
exultant, triumphant as conquering kings--then two hundred fearless
northern hearts ceased to beat.
"But in the morning the southern tribes found the spot where they fell
peopled with flaming fire-flowers. Dread terror seized upon them.
They abandoned the island, and when night again shrouded them they
manned their canoes and noiselessly slipped through the Narrows, turned
their bows southward and this coast line knew them no more."
"What glorious men," I half whispered as the chief concluded the
strange legend.
"Yes, men!" he echoed. "The white people call it Deadman's Island.
That is their way; but we of the Squamish call it The Island of Dead
Men."
The clustering pines and the outlines of the island's margin were now
dusky and indistinct. Peace, peace lay over the waters, and the purple
of the summer twilight had turned to grey, but I knew that in the
depths of the undergrowth on Deadman's Island there blossomed a flower
of flaming beauty; its colors were veiled in the coming nightfall, but
somewhere down in the sanctuary of its petals pulsed the heart's blood
of many and valiant men.
[1] Note.--It would almost seem that the chief knew that wonderful poem
of "The Khan's," "The Men of the Northern Zone," wherein he says:
If ever a Northman lost a throne
Did the conqueror come from the South?
Nay, the North shall ever be free ... etc.
[Illustration: Gold panning pan, pick, shovel]
A Squamish Legend of Napoleon
Holding an important place among the majority of curious tales held in
veneration by the coast tribes are those of the sea-serpent. The
monster appears and reappears with almost monotonous frequency in
connection with history, traditions, legends and superstitions; but
perhaps the most wonderful part it ever played was in the great drama
that held the stage of Europe, and incidentally all the world during
the stormy days of the first Napoleon.
Throughout Canada I have never failed to find an amazing knowledge of
Napoleon Bonaparte amongst the very old and "uncivilized" Indians.
Perhaps they may be unfamiliar with every other historical character
from Adam down, but they will all tell you they have heard of the
"Great French Fighter," as they call the wonderful little Corsican.
Whether this knowledge was obtained through the fact that our earliest
settlers and pioneers were French, or whether Napoleon's almost magical
fighting career attracted the Indian mind to the exclusion of lesser
warriors, I have never yet decided. But the fact remains that the
Indians of our generation are not as familiar with Bonaparte's name as
were their fathers and grandfathers, so either the predominance of
English-speaking settlers or the thinning of their ancient war-loving
blood by modern civilization and peaceful times, must one or the other
account for the younger Indian's ignorance of the Emperor of the French.
In telling me the legend of The Lost Talisman, my good tillicum, the
late Chief Capilano, began the story with the almost amazing question,
Had I ever heard of Napoleon Bonaparte? It was some moments before I
just caught the name, for his English, always quaint and beautiful, was
at times a little halting; but when he said by way of explanation, "You
know big fighter, Frenchman. The English they beat him in big battle,"
I grasped immediately of whom he spoke.
"What do you know of him?" I asked.
His voice lowered, almost as if he spoke a state secret. "I know how
it is that English they beat him."
I have read many historians on this event, but to hear the Squamish
version was a novel and absorbing thing. "Yes?" I said--my usual
"leading" word to lure him into channels of tradition.
"Yes," he affirmed. Then, still in a half whisper, he proceeded to
tell me that it all happened through the agency of a single joint from
the vertebra of a sea-serpent.
In telling me the story of Brockton Point and the valiant boy who
killed the monster, he dwelt lightly on the fact that all people who
approach the vicinity of the creature are palsied, both mentally and
physically--bewitched, in fact--so that their bones become disjointed
and their brains incapable; but to-day he elaborated upon this
peculiarity until I harked back to the boy of Brockton Point and asked
how it was that his body and brain escaped this affliction.
"He was all good, and had no greed," he replied. "He proof against all
bad things."
I nodded understandingly, and he proceeded to tell me that all
successful Indian fighters and warriors carried somewhere about their
person a joint of a sea-serpent's vertebra, that the medicine men threw
"the power" about them so that they were not personally affected by
this little "charm," but that immediately they approached an enemy the
"charm" worked disaster, and victory was assured to the fortunate
possessor of the talisman. There was one particularly effective joint
that had been treasured and carried by the warriors of a great Squamish
family for a century. These warriors had conquered every foe they
encountered, until the talisman had become so renowned that the totem
pole of their entire "clan" was remodelled, and the new one crested by
the figure of a single joint of a sea-serpent's vertebra.
About this time stories of Napoleon's first great achievements drifted
across the seas; not across the land--and just here may be a clue to
buried coast-Indian history, which those who are cleverer at research
than I, can puzzle over. The chief was most emphatic about the source
of Indian knowledge of Napoleon.
"I suppose you heard of him from Quebec, through, perhaps, some of the
French priests," I remarked.
"No, no," he contradicted hurriedly. "Not from East; we hear it from
over the Pacific, from the place they call Russia." But who conveyed
the news or by what means it came he could not further enlighten me.
But a strange thing happened to the Squamish family about this time.
There was a large blood connection, but the only male member living was
a very old warrior, the hero of many battles, and the possessor of the
talisman. On his death-bed his women of three generations gathered
about him; his wife, his sisters, his daughters, his granddaughters,
but not one man, nor yet a boy of his own blood stood by to speed his
departing warrior spirit to the land of peace and plenty.
"The charm cannot rest in the hands of women," he murmured almost with
his last breath. "Women may not war and fight other nations or other
tribes; women are for the peaceful lodge and for the leading of little
children. They are for holding baby hands, teaching baby feet to walk.
No, the charm cannot rest with you, women. I have no brother, no
cousin, no son, no grandson, and the charm must not go to a lesser
warrior than I. None of our tribe, nor of any tribe on the coast, ever
conquered me. The charm must go to one as unconquerable as I have
been. When I am dead send it across the great salt chuck, to the
victorious 'Frenchman'; they call him Napoleon Bonaparte." They were
his last words.
The older women wished to bury the charm with him, but the younger
women, inspired with the spirit of their generation, were determined to
send it over seas. "In the grave it will be dead," they argued. "Let
it still live on. Let it help some other fighter to greatness and
victory."
As if to confirm their decision, the next day a small sealing vessel
anchored in the Inlet. All the men aboard spoke Russian, save two
thin, dark, agile sailors, who kept aloof from the crew and conversed
in another language. These two came ashore with part of the crew and
talked in French with a wandering Hudson's Bay trapper, who often
lodged with the Squamish people. Thus the women, who yet mourned over
their dead warrior, knew these two strangers to be from the land where
the great "Frenchman" was fighting against the world.
Here I interrupted the chief. "How came the Frenchmen in a Russian
sealer?" I asked.
"Captives," he replied. "Almost slaves, and hated by their captors, as
the majority always hate the few. So the women drew those two
Frenchmen apart from the rest and told them the story of the bone of
the sea-serpent, urging them to carry it back to their own country and
give it to the great 'Frenchman' who was as courageous and as brave as
their dead leader.
"The Frenchmen hesitated; the talisman might affect them, they said;
might jangle their own brains, so that on their return to Russia they
would not have the sagacity to plan an escape to their own country;
might disjoint their bodies, so that their feet and hands would be
useless, and they would become as weak as children. But the women
assured them that the charm only worked its magical powers over a man's
enemies, that the ancient medicine men had 'bewitched' it with this
quality. So the Frenchmen took it and promised that if it were in the
power of man they would convey it to 'the Emperor.'
"As the crew boarded the sealer, the women watching from the shore
observed strange contortions seize many of the men; some fell on the
deck; some crouched, shaking as with palsy; some writhed for a moment,
then fell limp and seemingly boneless; only the two Frenchmen stood
erect and strong and vital--the Squamish talisman had already overcome
their foes. As the little sealer set sail up the gulf she was
commanded by a crew of two Frenchmen--men who had entered these waters
as captives, who were leaving them as conquerors. The palsied Russians
were worse than useless, and what became of them the chief could not
state; presumably they were flung overboard, and by some trick of a
kindly fate the Frenchmen at last reached the coast of France.
"Tradition is so indefinite about their movements subsequent to sailing
out of the Inlet, that even the ever-romantic and vividly colored
imaginations of the Squamish people have never supplied the details of
this beautifully childish, yet strangely historical fairy tale. But
the voices of the trumpets of war, the beat of drums throughout Europe
heralded back to the wilds of the Pacific Coast forests the
intelligence that the great Squamish 'charm' eventually reached the
person of Napoleon; that from this time onward his career was one vast
victory, that he won battle after battle, conquered nation after
nation, and but for the direst calamity that could befall a warrior
would eventually have been master of the world."
"What was this calamity, Chief?" I asked, amazed at his knowledge of
the great historical soldier and strategist.
The chief's voice again lowered to a whisper--his face was almost rigid
with intentness as he replied:
"He lost the Squamish charm--lost it just before one great fight with
the English people."
I looked at him curiously; he had been telling me the oddest mixture of
history and superstition, of intelligence and ignorance, the most
whimsically absurd, yet impressive, tale I ever heard from Indian lips.
"What was the name of the great fight--did you ever hear it?" I asked,
wondering how much he knew of events which took place at the other side
of the world a century agone.
"Yes," he said, carefully, thoughtfully; "I hear the name sometime in
London when I there. Railroad station there--same name."
"Was it Waterloo?" I asked.
He nodded quickly, without a shadow of hesitation. "That the one," he
replied; "that's it, Waterloo."
[Illustration: Native bowl]
The Lure in Stanley Park
There is a well-known trail in Stanley Park that leads to what I always
love to call the "Cathedral Trees"--that group of some half-dozen
forest giants that arch overhead with such superb loftiness. But in
all the world there is no cathedral whose marble or onyx columns can
vie with those straight, clean, brown tree-boles that teem with the sap
and blood of life. There is no fresco that can rival the delicacy of
lace-work they have festooned between you and the far skies. No tiles,
no mosaic or inlaid marbles, are as fascinating as the bare, russet,
fragrant floor outspreading about their feet. They are the acme of
Nature's architecture, and in building them she has outrivalled all her
erstwhile conceptions. She will never originate a more faultless
design, never erect a more perfect edifice. But the divinely moulded
trees and the man-made cathedral have one exquisite characteristic in
common. It is the atmosphere of holiness. Most of us have better
impulses after viewing a stately cathedral, and none of us can stand
amid that majestic forest group without experiencing some elevating
thoughts, some refinement of our coarser nature. Perhaps those who
read this little legend will never again look at those cathedral trees
without thinking of the glorious souls they contain, for according to
the Coast Indians they do harbor human souls, and the world is better
because they once had the speech and the hearts of mighty men.
My tillicum did not use the word "lure" in telling me this legend.
There is no equivalent for the word in the Chinook tongue, but the
gestures of his voiceful hands so expressed the quality of something
between magnetism and charm that I have selected this word "lure" as
best fitting what he wished to convey. Some few yards beyond the
cathedral trees, an overgrown disused trail turns into the dense
wilderness to the right. Only Indian eyes could discern that trail,
and the Indians do not willingly go to that part of the park to the
right of the great group. Nothing in this, nor yet the next world
would tempt a Coast Indian into the compact centres of the wild
portions of the park, for therein, concealed cunningly, is the "lure"
they all believe in. There is not a tribe in the entire district that
does not know of this strange legend. You will hear the tale from
those that gather at Eagle Harbor for the fishing, from the Fraser
River tribes, from the Squamish at the Narrows, from the Mission, from
up the Inlet, even from the tribes at North Bend, but no one will
volunteer to be your guide, for having once come within the "aura" of
the lure it is a human impossibility to leave it. Your will-power is
dwarfed, your intelligence blighted, your feet will refuse to lead you
out by a straight trail, you will circle, circle for evermore about
this magnet, for if death kindly comes to your aid your immortal spirit
will go on in that endless circling that will bar it from entering the
Happy Hunting Grounds.
And, like the cathedral trees, the lure once lived, a human soul, but
in this instance it was a soul depraved, not sanctified. The Indian
belief is very beautiful concerning the results of good and evil in the
human body. The Sagalie Tyee (God) has His own way of immortalizing
each. People who are wilfully evil, who have no kindness in their
hearts, who are bloodthirsty, cruel, vengeful, unsympathetic, the
Sagalie Tyee turns to solid stone that will harbor no growth, even that
of moss or lichen, for these stones contain no moisture, just as their
wicked hearts lacked the milk of human kindness. The one famed
exception, wherein a good man was transformed into stone, was in the
instance of Siwash Rock, but as the Indian tells you of it he smiles
with gratification as he calls your attention to the tiny tree cresting
that imperial monument. He says the tree was always there to show the
nations that the good in this man's heart kept on growing even when his
body had ceased to be. On the other hand the Sagalie Tyee transforms
the kindly people, the humane, sympathetic, charitable, loving people
into trees, so that after death they may go on forever benefiting all
mankind; they may yield fruit, give shade and shelter, afford unending
service to the living, by their usefulness as building material and as
firewood. Their saps and gums, their fibres, their leaves, their
blossoms, enrich, nourish and sustain the human form; no evil is
produced by trees--all, all is goodness, is hearty, is helpfulness and
growth. They give refuge to the birds, they give music to the winds,
and from them are carved the bows and arrows, the canoes and paddles,
bowls, spoons and baskets. Their service to mankind is priceless; the
Indian that tells you this tale will enumerate all these attributes and
virtues of the trees. No wonder the Sagalie Tyee chose them to be the
abode of souls good and great.
But the lure in Stanley Park is that most dreaded of all things, an
evil soul. It is embodied in a bare, white stone, which is shunned by
moss and vine and lichen, but over which are splashed innumerable
jet-black spots that have eaten into the surface like an acid.
This condemned soul once animated the body of a witch-woman, who went
up and down the coast, over seas and far inland, casting her evil eye
on innocent people, and bringing them untold evils and diseases. About
her person she carried the renowned "Bad Medicine" that every Indian
believes in--medicine that weakened the arm of the warrior in battle,
that caused deformities, that poisoned minds and characters, that
engendered madness, that bred plagues and epidemics; in short, that was
the seed of every evil that could befall mankind. This witch-woman
herself was immune from death; generations were born and grew to old
age, and died, and other generations arose in their stead, but the
witch-woman went about, her heart set against her kind; her acts were
evil, her purposes wicked, she broke hearts and bodies, and souls; she
gloried in tears, and revelled in unhappiness, and sent them broadcast
wherever she wandered. And in His high heaven the Sagalie Tyee wept
with sorrow for His afflicted human children. He dared not let her
die, for her spirit would still go on with its evil doing. In mighty
anger He gave command to His Four Men (always representing the Deity)
that they should turn this witch-woman into a stone and enchain her
spirit in its centre, that the curse of her might be lifted from the
unhappy race.
So the Four Men entered their giant canoe, and headed, as was their
custom, up the Narrows. As they neared what is now known as Prospect
Point they heard from the heights above them a laugh, and looking up
they beheld the witch-woman jeering defiantly at them. They landed
and, scaling the rocks, pursued her as she danced away, eluding them
like a will-o'-the-wisp as she called out to them sneeringly:
"Care for yourselves, oh! men of the Sagalie Tyee, or I shall blight
you with my evil eye. Care for yourselves and do not follow me." On
and on she danced through the thickest of the wilderness, on and on
they followed until they reached the very heart of the seagirt neck of
land we know as Stanley Park. Then the tallest, the mightiest of the
Four Men, lifted his hand and cried out: "Oh! woman of the stony heart,
be stone for evermore, and bear forever a black stain for each one of
your evil deeds." And as he spoke the witch-woman was transformed into
this stone that tradition says is in the centre of the park. Such is
the legend of the Lure. Whether or not this stone is really in
existence--who knows? One thing is positive, however, no Indian will
ever help to discover it.
Three different Indians have told me that fifteen or eighteen years ago
two tourists--a man and a woman--were lost in Stanley Park. When found
a week later, the man was dead, the woman mad, and each of my
informants firmly believed they had, in their wanderings, encountered
"the stone" and were compelled to circle around it, because of its
powerful lure.
But this wild tale fortunately has a most beautiful conclusion. The
Four Men, fearing that the evil heart imprisoned in the stone would
still work destruction, said: "At the end of the trail we must place so
good and great a thing that it will be mightier, stronger, more
powerful than this evil." So they chose from the nations the
kindliest, most benevolent men, men whose hearts were filled with the
love of their fellow-beings, and transformed these merciful souls into
the stately group of "Cathedral Trees."
How well the purpose of the Sagalie Tyee has wrought its effect through
time! The good has predominated as He planned it to, for is not the
stone hidden in some unknown part of the park where eyes do not see it
and feet do not follow--and do not the thousands who come to us from
the uttermost parts of the world seek that wondrous beauty spot, and
stand awed by the majestic silence, the almost holiness of that group
of giants?
More than any other legend that the Indians about Vancouver have told
me does this tale reveal the love of the Coast native for kindness, and
his hatred of cruelty. If these tribes really have ever been a warlike
race I cannot think they pride themselves much on the occupation. If
you talk with any of them and they mention some man they particularly
like or admire, their first qualification of him is: "He's a kind man."
They never say he is brave, or rich, or successful, or even strong,
that characteristic so loved by the red man. To these Coast tribes if
a man is "kind" he is everything. And almost without exception their
legends deal with rewards for tenderness and self-abnegation, and
personal and mental cleanliness.
Call them fairy tales if you wish to, they all have a reasonableness
that must have originated in some mighty mind, and better than that,
they all tell of the Indian's faith in the survival of the best
impulses of the human heart, and the ultimate extinction of the worst.
In talking with my many good tillicums, I find this witch-woman legend
is the most universally known and thoroughly believed in of all
traditions they have honored me by revealing to me.
Deer Lake
Few white men ventured inland, a century ago, in the days of the first
Chief Capilano, when the spoils of the mighty Fraser River poured into
copper-colored hands, but did not find their way to the remotest
corners of the earth, as in our times, when the gold from its sources,
the salmon from its mouth, the timber from its shores are world-known
riches.