THE PONCAS.
In 1803 Captain Lewis and Lieutenant Clarke, of the First United States
Infantry, were commissioned by Congress to explore the river Missouri
from its mouth to its source, to "seek the best water communication from
thence to the Pacific Ocean," and to enter into conference with all the
Indian tribes on their route, with a view to the establishment of
commerce with them. They report the "Poncars" as "the remnant of a
nation once respectable in point of numbers; they formerly resided on a
branch of the Red River of Lake Winnipeg; being oppressed by Sioux, they
removed to the west side of the Missouri, on Poncar River, where they
built and fortified a village, and remained some years; but, being
pursued by their ancient enemies, the Sioux, and reduced by continual
wars, they have joined and now live with the Mahas (Omahas), whose
language they speak." Their numbers are estimated by Lewis and Clarke as
being only about two hundred, all told; but this small estimate is
probably to be explained by the fact that at this time the tribe was
away on its annual buffalo-hunt, and their village had been so long
empty and quiet that a buffalo was found grazing there. A few years
later the tribe is reckoned at four hundred: in a census of the Indian
tribes, taken by General Porter in 1829, they are set down at six
hundred. The artist Catlin, who visited them a few years later, rated
them a little less. He gives an interesting account of the chief of the
tribe, named Shoo-de-ga-cha (Smoke), and his young and pretty wife,
Hee-la'h-dee (the Pure Fountain), whose portraits he painted. He says:
"The chief, who was wrapped in a buffalo-robe, is a noble specimen of
native dignity and philosophy. I conversed much with him, and from his
dignified manners, as well as from the soundness of his reasoning; I
became fully convinced that he deserved to be the sachem of a more
numerous and prosperous tribe. He related to me with great coolness and
frankness the poverty and distress of his nation—and with the method of
a philosopher predicted the certain and rapid extinction of his tribe,
which he had not the power to avert. Poor, noble chief, who was equal to
and worthy of a greater empire! He sat on the deck of the steamer,
overlooking the little cluster of his wigwams mingled among the trees,
and, like Caius Marius weeping over the ruins of Carthage, shed tears as
he was descanting on the poverty of his ill-fated little community,
which he told me had 'once been powerful and happy; that the buffaloes
which the Great Spirit had given them for food, and which formerly
spread all over their green prairies, had all been killed or driven out
by the approach of white men, who wanted their skins; that their country
was now entirely destitute of game, and even of roots for food, as it
was one continuous prairie; and that his young men, penetrating the
countries of their enemies for buffaloes, which they were obliged to do,
were cut to pieces and destroyed in great numbers. That his people had
foolishly become fond of fire-water, and had given away everything in
their country for it; that it had destroyed many of his warriors, and
would soon destroy the rest; that his tribe was too small and his
warriors too few to go to war with the tribes around them; that they
were met and killed by the Sioux on the north, by the Pawnees on the
west, by the Osages and Konzas on the south, and still more alarmed from
the constant advance of the pale faces—their enemies from the east—with
whiskey and small-pox, which already had destroyed four-fifths of his
tribe, and would soon impoverish and at last destroy the remainder of
them.' In this way did this shrewd philosopher lament over the unlucky
destiny of his tribe, and I pitied him with all my heart."
The day before Catlin arrived at this village this old chief's son—the
young Hongs-kay-de—had created a great sensation in the community by
accomplishing a most startling amount of bigamy in a single day. Being
the chief's son, and having just been presented by his father with a
handsome wigwam and nine horses, he had no difficulty whatever in
ingratiating himself with the fathers of marriageable daughters, and
had, with ingenious slyness, offered himself to and been accepted by
four successive fathers-in-law, promising to each of them two
horses—enjoining on them profound secrecy until a certain hour, when he
would announce to the whole tribe that he was to be married. At the time
appointed he appeared, followed by some of his young friends leading
eight horses. Addressing the prospective father-in-law who stood nearest
him, with his daughter by his side, he said, "You promised me your
daughter: here are the two horses." A great hubbub immediately arose;
the three others all springing forward, angry and perplexed, claiming
his promises made to them. The triumphant young Turk exclaimed, "You
have all now acknowledged your engagements to me, and must fulfil them.
Here are your horses." There was nothing more to be said. The horses
were delivered, and Hongs-kay-de, leading two brides in each hand,
walked off with great dignity to his wigwam.
This was an affair totally unprecedented in the annals of the tribe, and
produced an impression as profound as it could have done in a civilized
community, though of a different character—redounding to the young
prince's credit rather than to his shame—marking him out as one daring
and original enough to be a "Big Medicine." Mr. Catlin says that he
visited the bridal wigwam soon afterward, and saw the "four modest
little wives seated around the fire, seeming to harmonize very well." Of
the prettiest one—"Mong-shong-shaw" (the Bending Willow)—he took a
portrait, and a very sweet-faced young woman she is too, wrapped in a
beautifully ornamented fur robe, much handsomer and more graceful than
the fur-lined circulars worn by civilized women.
The United States' first treaty with this handful of gentle and
peaceable Indians was made in 1817. It was simply a treaty of peace and
friendship.
In 1825 another was made, in which the Poncas admit that "they reside
within the territorial limits of the United States, acknowledge their
supremacy, and claim their protection." They also admit "the right of
the United States to regulate all trade and intercourse with them." The
United States, on their part, "agree to receive the Poncar tribe of
Indians into their friendship and under their protection, and to extend
to them from time to time such benefits and acts of kindness as may be
convenient, and seem just and proper to the President of the United
States."
After this there is little mention, in the official records of the
Government, of the Poncas for some thirty years. Other tribes in the
Upper Missouri region were so troublesome and aggressive that the
peaceable Poncas were left to shift for themselves as they best could
amidst all the warring and warring interests by which they were
surrounded. In 1856 the agent of the Upper Platte mentions incidentally
that their lands were being fast intruded upon by squatters; and in 1857
another agent reports having met on the banks of the Missouri a large
band of Poncas, who made complaint that all the Indians on the river
were receiving presents and they were overlooked; that the men from the
steamboats cut their trees down, and that white settlers were taking
away all their land. In 1858 the Commissioner for Indian Affairs writes:
"Treaties were entered into in March and April last with the Poncas and
Yankton Sioux, who reside west of Iowa, for the purpose of extinguishing
their title to all the lands occupied and claimed by them, except small
portions on which to colonize and domesticate them. This proceeding was
deemed necessary in order to obtain such control over these Indians as
to prevent their interference with our settlements, which are rapidly
extending in that direction. These treaties were duly laid before the
Senate at its last regular session, but were not, it is understood,
finally acted on by that body.
"Relying on the ratification of their treaty, and the adoption of timely
measures to carry out its provisions in their favor the Poncas proceeded
in good faith to comply with its stipulations by abandoning their
settlements and hunting-grounds, and withdrawing to the small tract
reserved for their future home. Being without a crop to rely upon, and
having been unsuccessful in their usual summer hunt, they were reduced
to a state of desperation and destitution. As nothing had been done for
them under the treaty, they concluded it was void, and threatened to
fall back upon their former settlements, some of the most important of
which had, in the mean time, been taken possession of by numerous white
persons."
The Poncas never heard of Grotius or Vattel; but, in assuming that the
treaty was void because it was not fulfilled, they only acted on the
natural principles of the law of nations and of treaties, as laid down
by all authorities. Thucydides said: "They are not the first breakers of
a league who, being deserted, seek for aid to others, but they that
perform not by their deeds what they have promised to do upon their
oaths."
In consequence of this delay to fulfil the treaty provisions, the
Government was forced to step in at the last moment and "incur a heavy
expense" in furnishing the Poncas with food enough to keep them from
starving; and in 1859, under this pressure, the Senate ratified the
treaty. By it the Poncas ceded and relinquished to the United States all
the lands they had ever owned or claimed, "wherever situate," except a
small tract between the Ponca and Niobrara rivers. In consideration of
this cession, the United States Government agreed "to protect the Poncas
in the possession of this tract of land, and their persons and property
thereon, during good behavior on their part; to pay them annuities
annually for thirty years—$12,000 for the first five years, then $10,000
for ten years, then $8000 for fifteen years; to expend $20,000 for their
subsistence during the first year, for building houses, etc.; to
establish schools, and to build mills, mechanics' shops, etc.; to give
$20,000 for the payment of the existing obligations of the tribe."
Two years later the agent newly appointed to take charge of the Poncas
reports to the Department the amount of improvements made on the
reservation: "One saw and grist-mill; two agency houses—story and a half
houses—without inside lining or plastering, 16 by 26 and 18 by 32 feet
in size; six small round log-houses (three with a small shed for a
stable), a light log-corral for cattle, and a canvas shed for storing
under; and about sixty acres of ground, broken, comprised all the
improvements."
Evidently a very small part of the $20,000 had been spent as yet. He did
not find an Indian on the reservation. From fear of the Sioux (who in
1860 had stolen from them more than half the horses they owned) they had
moved down the Niobrara River, some twenty miles nearer the Missouri. It
was with the greatest difficulty that the agent induced them to return;
and after they did so, they huddled their tents close about the agency
buildings, and could not be induced to go half a mile away unless
accompanied by some of the white employés.
As the agent had no food to feed them with, and no money to buy any
(spite of the appropriation of $20,000 for subsistence and
house-building), he induced them to go off on a hunt; but in less than a
month they came straggling back, "begging for provisions for their women
and children, whom they had left on the plains half-starved, having been
unable to find any game, or any food except wild-turnips. Some of them
went to visit the Omahas, others the Pawnees, where they remained until
the little corn they had planted produced roasting-ears. In the mean
time those who were here subsisted mainly on wild-cherries and plums and
the wild-turnip, and traded away most of their blankets and annuity
goods for provisions."
In 1863 the reports are still more pitiful. "They started on their
summer hunt toward the last of May, immediately after the first hoeing
of their corn. At first they were successful and found buffaloes; but
afterward, the ground being occupied by the Yanktons, who were sent
south of the Niobrara by the general commanding the district, and who
were about double the number, and with four times as many horses, they
soon consumed what meat they had cured, and were compelled to abandon
the chase. They commenced to return in the latter part of July. They
went away with very high hopes, and reasonably so, of a large crop, but
returned to see it all withered and dried up. In the mean time the
plains had been burnt over, so that they could not discover the roots
they are in the habit of digging. Even the wild-plums, which grow on
bushes down in ravines and gullies, are withered and dried on the limbs.
The building I occupy was constantly surrounded by a hungry crowd
begging for food. *** I am warned by military authority to keep the
Poncas within the limits of the reservation; but this is an
impossibility. There is nothing within its limits, nor can anything be
obtained in sufficient quantity, or brought here soon enough to keep
them from starving. *** The Poncas have behaved well—quite as well, if
not better than, under like circumstances, the same number of whites
would have done. I have known whole families to live for days together
on nothing but half-dried corn-stalks, and this when there were cattle
and sheep in their sight."
At this time martial law was in force on many of the Indian
reservations, owing to the presence of roving bands of hostile Sioux,
driven from Minnesota after their outbreak there.
The Poncas through all these troubles remained loyal and peaceable, and
were "unwavering in their fidelity to their treaty," says the Indian
Commissioner.
In December of this year what the governmental reports call "a very
unfortunate occurrence" took place in Nebraska. A party of Poncas,
consisting of four men, six women, three boys, and two girls, returning
from a visit to the Omahas, had camped for the night about twelve miles
from their own reservation. In the night a party of soldiers from a
military post on the Niobrara River came to their camp, and began to
insult the squaws, "offering money with one hand, and presenting a
revolver with the other." The Indians, alarmed, pulled up their lodge,
and escaped to a copse of willows near by. The soldiers fired at them as
they ran away, and then proceeded to destroy all their effects. They cut
the lodge covers to pieces, burnt the saddles and blankets, cut open
sacks of beans, corn, and dried pumpkin, and strewed their contents on
the ground, and went away, taking with them a skin lodge-covering,
beaver-skins, buffalo-robes, blankets, guns, and all the small articles.
The Indians' ponies were hid in the willows. Early in the morning they
returned with these, picked up all the corn which had not been
destroyed, and such other articles as they could find, packed their
ponies as best they might, and set off barefooted for home. After they
had gone a few miles they stopped and built a fire to parch some corn to
eat. Some of the women and children went to look for wild-beans, leaving
three women and a child at the camp. Here the soldiers came on them
again. As soon as the Indians saw them coming they fled. The soldiers
fired on them, wounding one woman by a ball through her thigh; another,
with a child on her back, by two balls through the child's thighs, one
of which passed through the mother's side. These women were fired on as
they were crossing the river on the ice. The soldiers then took
possession of the six ponies and all the articles at the camp, and left.
The squaws and children who were looking for beans were half a mile
below; a little dog belonging to them barked and revealed their
hiding-place in the willows. The soldiers immediately turned on them,
dismounted, and, making up to them, deliberately shot them dead as they
huddled helplessly together—three women and a little girl!
One of the boys, a youth, ran for the river, pursued by the soldiers. On
reaching the river he dived into the water through a hole in the ice; as
often as he lifted his head they fired at him. After they went away he
crawled out and escaped to the agency. One of the murdered women, the
mother of this boy, had three balls in her head and cheek, her throat
cut, and her head half-severed by a sabre-thrust; another, the youngest
woman, had her cloth skirt taken off and carried away, and all her other
clothes torn from her body, leaving it naked!
The men who did this deed belonged to Company B of the Seventh Iowa
Cavalry.
The outrage was promptly reported to the Department, and the general
commanding the Nebraska District detailed an officer to examine into it.
There was some correspondence between the military authorities relative
to it, but with no result; and in the report of the next year the Indian
Commissioner says: "Attention was called last year to the fact that the
murderers of several of this loyal and friendly tribe had not been
discovered and punished. I trust that, as there seems to be no
probability that this will be done, a special appropriation may be made
for presents to the relatives of the deceased."
In 1865 a supplementary treaty was made with the Poncas, extending their
reservation down the Niobrara to the Missouri River; and the Government
agreed to pay them $15,000, for the purpose of indemnifying them for the
loss they had sustained in this outrage and in others. For the
ratification of this treaty also they waited two years; and in 1867 the
Superintendent of the Dakota Territory says: "Schools would have been in
operation at the Ponca Agency before this time but for the long delay in
ratifying the supplementary treaty of 1865; and now that this measure
has fortunately been accomplished, there can be no further necessity for
delay, and it is confidently believed another year will witness the
foundation and rapid progress of an English school at this agency."
This superintendent, having been in office only one year, was probably
not familiar with the provisions of the treaty of 1859 with the Poncas,
in which, by Article three, the United States Government had promised
"to establish and maintain for ten years, at an annual expense not to
exceed $5,000, one or more manual labor schools for the education and
training of the Ponca youth in letters, agriculture, mechanics, and
housewifery."
This educational annuity has but one more year to run, whatever may have
been done with it up to this time, it really is now being spent on
schools, and it seems a great pity that it should soon cease. The
Governor of Dakota, in 1868, evidently thinks so too, for he writes to
the Department, in the autumn of 1868: "A school has been in successful
operation at this agency (the Ponca) for the past nine months, with an
average attendance of about fifty scholars, and with every evidence of
advancement in the primary department of an English education. But just
at this interesting period of its existence we are notified by the agent
that with this fiscal year all funds for school as well as for
agricultural purposes cease, agreeably to the terms and conditions of
their original treaty. This will be a serious and irreparable calamity
if not remedied by the most generous action of the Government. If funds
for this purpose cannot be otherwise procured, the Poncas are willing
and anxious to transfer their old reservation to the Government for a
moderate extension of these important and indispensable benefits."
The governor also says that in the past year the Poncas have paid out of
their annuity money for all the improvements which had been made on
lands occupied by certain white settlers, who were ejected from their
new reservation by the terms of the last treaty.
In the report for 1869 we read that the Ponca school has been
"discontinued for want of funds." The Department earnestly recommends an
appropriation of $25,000 to put it in operation again. The new Governor
of Dakota seconds the recommendation, and regrets to say that, "for the
enlightenment of the 35,000 Indians embraced in the Dakota
Superintendency, there is not one school in operation."
In 1870 an appropriation of $5,000 was made by the Department from a
general educational fund, for the purpose of resuming this school. The
condition of the Poncas now is, on the whole, encouraging; they are "not
only willing, but extremely anxious to learn the arts by which they may
become self-supporting, and conform to the usages of white men. With the
comparatively small advantages that have been afforded them, their
advancement has been very great."
In the summer of 1869 they built for themselves sixteen very comfortable
log-houses; in the summer of 1870 they built forty-four more; with their
annuity money they bought cookstoves, cows, and useful implements of
labor. They worked most assiduously in putting in their crops, but lost
them all by drought, and are in real danger of starvation if the
Government does not assist them. All this while they see herds of cattle
driven across their reservation to feed the lately hostile Sioux—flour,
coffee, sugar, tobacco, by the wagon-load, distributed to them—while
their own always peaceable, always loyal, long-suffering tribe is
digging wild roots to eat, and in actual danger of starvation.
Nevertheless they are not discouraged, knowing that but for the drought
they would have had ample food from their farms, and they make no
attempts to retaliate on the Sioux for raiding off their horses and
stock, because they hope "that the Government will keep its faith with
them," and that suitable remuneration for these losses will be made
them, according to the treaty stipulations.
For the next two years they worked industriously and well; three schools
were established; a chapel was built by the Episcopal mission; the
village began to assume the appearance of permanence and thrift; but
misfortune had not yet parted company with the Poncas. In the summer of
1873 the Missouri River suddenly overflowed, washed away its banks
hundreds of yards back, and entirely ruined the Ponca village. By
working night and day for two weeks the Indians saved most of the
buildings, carrying them half a mile inland to be sure of safety. The
site of their village became the bed of the main channel of the river;
their cornfields were ruined, and the lands for miles in every direction
washed and torn up by the floods.
"For nearly two weeks," the agent writes, "the work of salvage from the
ever-threatening destruction occupied our whole available force night
and day. We succeeded in carrying from the river bank to near half a
mile inland the whole of the agency buildings, mechanics' houses,
stabling, and sheds—more than twenty houses—nearly every panel of
fencing. The Poncas worked well and long, often through the night; and
the fact that the disaster did not cost us ten dollars of actual loss is
to be attributed to their labor, continuous and persevering—working
sometimes over the swiftly-flowing waters, terrible and turbid, on the
edge of the newly-formed current but a few inches below them, and into
which a fall would have been certain death, even for an Indian."
In one year after this disaster they had recovered themselves
marvellously; built twenty new houses; owned over a hundred head of
cattle and fifty wagons, and put three hundred acres of land under
cultivation (about three acres to each male in the tribe). But this year
was not to close without a disaster. First came a drought; then three
visitations of locusts, one after the other, which so completely
stripped the fields that "nothing was left but a few prematurely dry
stalks and straw." One hundred young trees which had been set
out—box-elder, soft maple, and others—withered and died.
In 1875 the locusts came again, destroyed the corn and oats, but left
the wheat. Much of this crop, however, was lost, as there was only one
reaping-machine on the agency, and it could not do all of the work. Many
of the Indians saved a part of their crop by cutting it with large
butcher-knives; but this was slow, and much of the wheat dried up and
perished before it could be harvested by this tedious process.
This year was also marked by a flagrant instance of the helplessness of
Indians in the courts. Two Poncas were waylaid by a party of Santees,
one of the Poncas murdered, and the other seriously wounded. This
occurred at the Yankton Agency, where both parties were visiting. When
the case was brought up before the courts, a motion was made to quash
the indictment for want of jurisdiction, and the judge was obliged to
sustain the motion, there being under the present laws no jurisdiction
whatever "over crimes committed by one Indian on the person or property
of another Indian in the Indian country."
In 1876 the project of consolidating all the Indians in the United
States upon a few reservations began to be discussed and urged. If this
plan were carried out, it would be the destiny of the Poncas to go to
the Indian Territory. It was very gratuitously assumed that, as they had
been anxious to be allowed to remove to Nebraska and join the Omahas,
they would be equally ready to remove to Indian Territory—a process of
reasoning whose absurdity would be very plainly seen if it were
attempted to apply it in the case of white men.
After a series of negotiations, protestations, delays, and
bewilderments, the tribe at last gave what the United States Government
chose to call a "consent" to the removal. The story of the influences,
deceits, coercions brought to bear on these unfortunate creatures before
this was brought about, is one of the most harrowing among the harrowing
records of our dealings with the Indians. A party of chiefs were
induced, in the first place, to go, in company with a United States
inspector—Kemble by name—to the Indian Territory, to see whether the
country would suit them. It was distinctly promised to them that, if it
did not suit them, they should then be permitted to go to Washington and
consult with the President as to some further plan for their
establishment.
The story of this journey and of its results is best told in the words
of one of the Ponca chiefs, Standing Bear. No official document, no
other man's narrative—no, not if a second Homer should arise to sing
it—could tell the story so well as he tells it:
"We lived on our land as long as we can remember. No one knows how long
ago we came there. The land was owned by our tribe as far back as memory
of men goes.
"We were living quietly on our farms. All of a sudden one white man
came. We had no idea what for. This was the inspector. He came to our
tribe with Rev. Mr. Hinman. These two, with the agent, James Lawrence,
they made our trouble.
"They said the President told us to pack up—that we must move to the
Indian Territory.
"The inspector said to us: 'The President says you must sell this land.
He will buy it and pay you the money, and give you new land in the
Indian Territory.'
"We said to him: 'We do not know your authority. You have no right to
move us till we have had council with the President.'
"We said to him: 'When two persons wish to make a bargain, they can talk
together and find out what each wants, and then make their agreement.'
"We said to him: 'We do not wish to go. When a man owns anything, he
does not let it go till he has received payment for it.'
"We said to him: 'We will see the President first.'
"He said to us: 'I will take you to see the new land. If you like it,
then you can see the President, and tell him so. If not, then you can
see him and tell him so.' And he took all ten of our chiefs down. I
went, and Bright Eyes' uncle went. He took us to look at three different
pieces of land. He said we must take one of the three pieces, so the
President said. After he took us down there he said: 'No pay for the
land you left.'
"We said to him: 'You have forgotten what you said before we started.
You said we should have pay for our land. Now you say not. You told us
then you were speaking truth.' All these three men took us down there.
The man got very angry. He tried to compel us to take one of the three
pieces of land. He told us to be brave. He said to us: 'If you do not
accept these, I will leave you here alone. You are one thousand miles
from home. You have no money. You have no interpreter, and you cannot
speak the language.' And he went out and slammed the door. The man
talked to us from long before sundown till it was nine o'clock at night.
"We said to him: 'We do not like this land. We could not support
ourselves. The water is bad. How send us to Washington, to tell the
President, as you promised.'
"He said to us: 'The President did not tell me to take you to
Washington; neither did he tell me to take you home.'
"We said to him: 'You have the Indian money you took to bring us down
here. That money belongs to us. We would like to have some of it. People
do not give away food for nothing. We must have money to buy food on the
road.'
"He said to us: 'I will not give you a cent.'
"We said to him: 'We are in a strange country. We cannot find our way
home. Give us a pass, that people may show us our way.'
"He said: 'I will not give you any.'
"We said to him: 'This interpreter is ours. We pay him. Let him go with
us.'
"He said: 'You shall not have the interpreter. He is mine, and not
yours.'
"We said to him: 'Take us at least to the railroad; show us the way to
that.'
"And he would not. He left us right there. It was winter. We started for
home on foot. At night we slept in hay-stacks. We barely lived till
morning, it was so cold. We had nothing but our blankets. We took the
ears of corn that had dried in the fields; we ate it raw. The soles of
our moccasins wore out. We were barefoot in the snow. We were nearly
dead when we reached the Otoe Reserve. It had been fifty days. We stayed
there ten days to strengthen up, and the Otoes gave each of us a pony.
The agent of the Otoes told us he had received a telegram from the
inspector, saying that the Indian chiefs had run away; not to give us
food or shelter, or help in any way. The agent said: 'I would like to
understand. Tell me all that has happened. Tell me the truth.'"
(This Otoe agent afterward said that when the chiefs entered his room
they left the prints of their feet in blood on the floor as they came
in.)
"Then we told our story to the agent and to the Otoe chiefs—how we had
been left down there to find our way.
"The agent said: 'I can hardly believe it possible that any one could
have treated you so. That inspector was a poor man to have done this. If
I had taken chiefs in this way, I would have brought them home; I could
not have left them there.'
"In seven days we reached the Omaha Reservation. Then we sent a telegram
to the President: asked him if he had authorized this thing. We waited
three days for the answer. No answer came.
"In four days we reached our own home. We found the inspector there.
While we were gone, he had come to our people and told them to move.
"Our people said: 'Where are our chiefs? What have you done with them?
Why have you not brought them back? We will not move till our chiefs
come back.'
"Then the inspector told them: 'To-morrow you must be ready to move. If
you are not ready you will be shot.' Then the soldiers came to the doors
with their bayonets, and ten families were frightened. The soldiers
brought wagons; they put their things in and were carried away. The rest
of the tribe would not move.
"When we got there, we asked the inspector why he had done this thing,
and he got very angry.
"Then we said to him: 'We did not think we would see your face again,
after what has passed. We thought never to see your face any more. But
here you are.'
"We said to him: 'This land is ours. It belongs to us. You have no right
to take it from us. The land is crowded with people, and only this is
left to us.'
"We said to him: 'Let us alone. Go away from us. If you want money, take
all the money which the President is to pay us for twelve years to come.
You may have it all, if you will go and leave us our lands.'
"Then, when he found that we would not go, he wrote for more soldiers to
come.
"Then the soldiers came, and we locked our doors, and the women and
children hid in the woods. Then the soldiers drove all the people the
other side of the river, all but my brother Big Snake and I. We did not
go; and the soldiers took us and carried us away to a fort and put us in
jail. There were eight officers who held council with us after we got
there. The commanding officer said: 'I have received four messages
telling me to send my soldiers after you. Now, what have you done?'
"Then we told him the whole story. Then the officer said: 'You have done
no wrong. The land is yours; they had no right to take it from you. Your
title is good. I am here to protect the weak, and I have no right to
take you; but I am a soldier, and I have to obey orders.'
"He said: 'I will telegraph to the President, and ask him what I shall
do. We do not think these three men had any authority to treat you as
they have done. When we own a piece of land, it belongs to us till we
sell it and pocket the money.'
"Then he brought a telegram, and said he had received answer from the
President. The President said he knew nothing about it.
"They kept us in jail ten days. Then they carried us back to our home.
The soldiers collected all the women and children together; then they
called all the chiefs together in council; and then they took wagons and
went round and broke open the houses. When we came back from the council
we found the women and children surrounded by a guard of soldiers.
"They took our reapers, mowers, hay-rakes, spades, ploughs, bedsteads,
stoves, cupboards, everything we had on our farms, and put them in one
large building. Then they put into the wagons such things as they could
carry. We told them that we would rather die than leave our lands; but
we could not help ourselves. They took us down. Many died on the road.
Two of my children died. After we reached the new land, all my horses
died. The water was very bad. All our cattle died; not one was left. I
stayed till one hundred and fifty-eight of my people had died. Then I
ran away with thirty of my people, men and women and children. Some of
the children were orphans. We were three months on the road. We were
weak and sick and starved. When we reached the Omaha Reserve the Omahas
gave us a piece of land, and we were in a hurry to plough it and put in
wheat. While we were working the soldiers came and arrested us. Half of
us were sick. We would rather have died than have been carried back; but
we could not help ourselves."
Nevertheless they were helped. The news of their arrest, and the
intention of the Government to take them back by force to Indian
Territory, roused excitement in Omaha. An Omaha editor and two Omaha
lawyers determined to test the question whether the Government had a
legal right to do it. It seemed a bold thing, almost a hopeless thing,
to undertake. It has passed into a proverb that Providence is on the
side of the heaviest battalions: the oppressed and enslaved in all ages
have felt this. But there are times when a simple writ of habeas corpus
is stronger than cannon or blood-hounds; and this was one of these
times. Brought into the District Court of the United States for the
District of Nebraska, these Poncas were set free by the judge of that
court. Will not the name of Judge Dundy stand side by side with that of
Abraham Lincoln in the matter of Emancipation Acts?
The Government attorney, the Hon. G. M. Lambertson, made an argument
five hours long, said to have been both "ingenious and eloquent," to
prove that an Indian was not entitled to the protection of the writ of
habeas corpus, "_not_ being a person or citizen under the law."
Judge Dundy took several days to consider the case, and gave a decision
which strikes straight to the root of the whole matter—a decision which,
when it is enforced throughout our land, will take the ground out from
under the feet of the horde of unscrupulous thieves who have been
robbing, oppressing, and maddening the Indians for so long, that to try
to unmask and expose their processes, or to make clean their methods, is
a task before which hundreds of good men—nay, whole denominations of
good men—disheartened, baffled, and worn-out, have given up.
When Standing Bear found that by the decision of Judge Dundy he was
really a free man, and could go where he pleased, he made a speech which
should never be forgotten or left out in the history of the dealings of
the United States Government with the Indians.
After a touching expression of gratitude to the lawyers who had pleaded
his cause, he said: "Hitherto, when we have been wronged, we went to war
to assert our rights and avenge our wrongs. We took the tomahawk. We had
no law to punish those who did wrong, so we took our tomahawks and went
to kill. If they had guns and could kill us first, it was the fate of
war. But you have found a better way. You have gone into the court for
us, and I find that our wrongs can be righted there. Now I have no more
use for the tomahawk. I want to lay it down forever."
Uttering these words with eloquent impressiveness, the old chief,
stooping down, placed the tomahawk on the floor at his feet; then,
standing erect, he folded his arms with native dignity, and continued:
"I lay it down. I have no more use for it. I have found a better way."
Stooping again and taking up the weapon, he placed it in Mr. Webster's
hands, and said: "I present it to you as a token of my gratitude. I want
you to keep it in remembrance of this great victory which you have
gained. I have no further use for it. I can now seek the ways of peace."
The first use that Standing Bear made of his freedom was to endeavor to
procure the freedom of his tribe, and establish their legal right to
their old home in Dakota. Accompanied by a young and well-educated Omaha
girl and her brother as interpreters, and by Mr. Tibbles, the champion
and friend to whom he owed his freedom, he went to the Eastern States,
and told the story of the sufferings and wrongs of his tribe to large
audiences in many of the larger cities and towns. Money was generously
subscribed everywhere for the purpose of bringing suits to test the
question of the Poncas' legal right to the lands which the United States
Government had by treaty ceded to them in specified "townships," thus
giving to them the same sort of title which would be given to any
corporation or individual.
Very soon this movement of Standing Bear and his companions began to
produce on the community a strong effect, shown by the interest in their
public meetings, and by expressions of strong feeling in the newspapers.
This attracted the attention of the authorities at Washington. Letters
were published contradicting many of Standing Bear's assertions;
statements were circulated injurious to the reputation of all members of
the party. A careful observer of the whole course of the Department of
the Interior in this matter could not fail to come to the conclusion
that for some mysterious, unexplained, and unexplainable reason the
Department did not wish—in fact, was unwilling—that the Ponca tribe
should be reinstated on its lands. Discussions on the matter grew warm.
The inspector who had been concerned in their removal published long
letters reflecting equally on the veracity of Standing Bear and of the
Secretary of the Interior. Standing Bear replied in a few pithy words,
which were conclusive in their proving of the falsity of some of the
inspector's statements. The Secretary, also, did not think it beneath
his dignity to reply in successive newspaper articles to the inspector's
reflections upon him; but the only thing that was made clear by this
means was that either the Secretary or the inspector, or both, said what
was not true.
In Boston the interest in the Ponca case reached such a height that a
committee was appointed to represent the case in Washington, and to
secure legislation upon it. Standing Bear and his party went to
Washington, and, in spite of the secret hostility of the Interior
Department, produced a powerful impression upon Congress. Senator Dawes,
of Massachusetts, and Senator Morgan, of Alabama, both became warm
advocates of their cause. The subject once started, case after case came
up for investigation; and the Congressional committees called for
evidence in regard to several of the more striking instances of
injustice to Indians.
White Eagle, one of the Ponca chiefs, who had lost his wife and four
children, and who was himself fast sinking under disease developed by
the malarial Indian Territory, came to Washington and gave eloquent
testimony in behalf of his tribe. The physicians there predicted that he
had not three months to live. A bill was introduced into Congress for
restoring to the Poncas their old reservation in Dakota, and putting
their houses, farms, etc., in the same good condition they were at the
time of their removal.
The story of that removal was written out in full at the time by the
agent who superintended it. That he should forward this report to the
Department of the Interior was natural; but that the Department of the
Interior should have been willing to publish it to the country, to have
it on the official record of its management of Indian affairs for the
year 1877, is strange. It will make a fitting conclusion to this sketch
of the history of the Ponca tribe. The name of this agent was E. A.
Howard. He calls the report "Journal of the March."
"_May 21st._ Broke camp at seven o'clock and marched to Crayton, a
distance of thirteen miles. Roads very heavy. The child that died
yesterday was here buried by the Indians, they preferring to bury it
than to have it buried by the white people.
"_May 22d._ Broke camp at seven o'clock and marched to Neligh, a
distance of about twenty-five miles. The day was cool, and, the road
being high and comparatively good, the travel was made without much
inconvenience.
"_May 23d._ The morning opened with light rain; but at eight o'clock a
terrific thunder-storm occurred of two hours' duration, which was
followed by steady rain throughout the day, in consequence of which we
remained in camp. During the day a child died, and several women and
children were reported sick, and medical attendance and medicine were
procured for them.
"_May 24th._ Buried the child that died yesterday in the cemetery at
Neligh, giving it a Christian burial. Broke camp at ten o'clock and
marched about eight miles, crossing the Elk-horn River about two miles
below Oakdale Village. Were unable to cross at Neligh, the road being
about two feet under water and the bridges being washed away. The road
was fearfully bad, and much time and labor were expended in making the
road and bridges at all passable over the Elk-horn flats, where the
crossing was effected.
"_May 25th._ Broke camp at six o'clock and marched twenty miles, to a
point on Shell Creek. No wood at this place, and none to be had except
what little had been picked up and brought in by the trains. Weather
cold, damp, and dreary. The Indians during the day behaved well, and
marched splendidly.
"_May 26th._ The morning opened with a heavy continuous rain, which
prevailed until ten o'clock. Broke camp at eleven o'clock and marched
eight miles farther down Shell Creek, when it again commenced raining,
and we went into camp. The evening set in cold and rainy, and no wood to
be had except what was purchased of a settler.
"_May 27th._ The morning opened cold, with a misty rain. Rain ceased at
half-past seven o'clock, and we broke camp at eight and marched eight
miles farther down Shell Creek, when, a heavy thunder-storm coming on,
we again went into camp. Several of the Indians were here found to be
quite sick, and having no physician, and none being attainable, they
gave us much anxiety and no little trouble. The daughter of Standing
Bear, one of the chiefs, was very low of consumption, and moving her
with any degree of comfort was almost impossible, and the same trouble
existed in transporting all the sick.
"_May 28th._ Last evening I gave orders to break camp at five o'clock
this morning, intending, if practicable, to reach Columbus before night;
but a heavy thunder-storm prevailed at that time. Broke camp at seven
o'clock. Marched seven miles, when we came to a slough confluent to
Shell Creek, which was only made passable after two hours of active work
in cutting willow-brush and bringing a large quantity of wheat straw
from a distance of thirty rods, with which we covered the road thickly.
After crossing the slough we marched to a point on Shell Creek and
camped, having made about fourteen miles during the day.
"_May 29th._ Broke camp at seven o'clock and crossed Shell Creek. For
about five miles the road led over a divide, and was quite good; but in
coming down on the flats, which extended for five miles between the
Bluffs and Columbus, we found the roads for the entire distance almost
impassable, owing to the many deep, miry sloughs which cross the road,
and the generally flooded and yielding condition of the soil aside from
the sloughs. Teams had to be frequently doubled, in order to get the
wagons through. The difficulties were finally overcome, and the train
marched into Columbus at two o'clock, and went into camp at Soap Fork,
having made a march of about ten miles, the march of five miles across
the flats occupying about seven hours. Major Walker, who had accompanied
us from the Niobrara River to this place with twenty-five soldiers,
under orders from the War Department, took leave of us, and returned to
Dakota."
It was asserted again and again by the Secretary of the Interior, and by
the inspector, E. C. Kemble, that these Indians were not removed by
force—that they consented to go.
In another part of this same report this agent says:
"On the 15th" (six days before the "march" began) "I held another
council, which was largely attended by the chiefs, headmen, and soldiers
of the tribe, and which was of more than four hours' duration. At this
council the Indians maintained that the Government had no right to move
them from the reservation, and demanded, as an inducement or equivalent
for them to give up the reservation and move to the Indian
Territory—first, the payment to them by the Government of the sum of
$3,000,000; and, second, that, before starting, I should show to them
the sum of $40,000 which they had been told had been appropriated by the
Government for their removal. To all of which I replied positively in
the negative, telling them that I would not accede to nor consider any
demands that they might make; but that I would take under my
consideration reasonable requests that they might submit touching their
removal, and, as their agent, do what I could for them in promoting
their welfare; that I demanded that they should at all times listen to
my words; that they should go with me to their new home; and that _they
should without delay give me their final answer whether they would go
peaceably or by force_. The Indians refused to give answer at this time;
the council closed without definite results; and the Indians dispersed
with a sullen look and determined expression."
This evidently was not the "consent" of which we have heard. We come to
it presently.
"On the following morning, however, May 16th, they sent word to me, at
an early hour, that they had considered my words, and had concluded to
go with me, and that they wanted assistance in getting the old and
infirm, together with their property, over the Niobrara River, which was
much swollen by the rains and at a low temperature."
What a night must these helpless creatures have passed before this
"consent" was given! Seven hundred people, _more than half of them women
and children_; a farming people, not armed with rifles, as the Ogallalla
Sioux were, when, one year later, on this same ground, the Chief Spotted
Tail told Commissioner Hayt that, if he did not give an order to have
his tribe on the way back to White Clay Creek in ten days, his young men
would go on the war-path at once; and the much-terrified commissioner
wrote the order then and there, and the Sioux were allowed to go where
they had chosen to go. Behold the difference between the way our
Government treats the powerful and treats the weak! What could these
Ponca farmers do? They must, "without delay," give their "final answer
whether they would go peaceably or _by force_." What did "_by force_"
mean? It was "_by force_" that the Government undertook to compel the
Cheyennes to go to Indian Territory; and in that Cheyenne massacre the
Cheyenne men, women, children, and babies were all shot down together!
What could these Ponca farmers do? What would any father, brother,
husband have done under the circumstances? He would have "consented" to
go.
The agent, as was wise, took them at their word, quickly, and that very
day, "at five o'clock P.M., had the entire tribe, with their effects,
across the river, off the reservation, and in camp in Nebraska."
The agent should have said, "with part of their effects," for it was
only a part, and a very small part, that this helpless _consenting_
party were allowed to take with them. All their agricultural implements
and most of their furniture were left behind.
"It was a hard day's work," the getting the tribe and their "effects"
across the river, the agent says; "the river being about forty rods
wide, and the current so swift that it was found impossible to move the
goods across in any other way than by packing them on the shoulders of
the men, the quicksand bottom rendering it unsafe to trust them on the
backs of animals; even the wagons having to be drawn across by hand."
Let us dwell for a moment on this picture. Seven hundred helpless,
heart-broken people beginning their sad journey by having to ford this
icy stream with quicksands at bottom. The infirm, the sick, the old, the
infants, all carried "by packing them on the shoulders of the men!" What
a scene! The Honorable Secretary of the Interior said, in one of the
letters in his newspaper controversy with the inspector in regard to the
accounts of this removal, that "the highly-colored stories which are
told about the brutal military force employed in compelling their [the
Poncas'] removal from Dakota to the Indian Territory are sensational
fabrications; at least, the official record, which is very full, and
goes into minute details, does not in the least bear them out."
There was never any accusation brought against the "military force" of
"brutality" in this removal. The brutality was on the part of the
Government. The simple presence of the "military force" was brutal. It
meant but one thing. The Indians understood it, and the Government
intended that they should understand it; and when the agent of the
Government said to these Indians that they must give him their "final
answer whether they would go peaceably or by force," he intended that
they should understand it. Has anybody any doubt what were the orders
under which that "military force" was there? any doubt what it would
have been the military duty of Major Walker to have done in case the
Poncas had refused to "consent" to go?
And now let us return to the "Official Record," which is, indeed, as the
Honorable Secretary of the Interior says, "very full,"and" goes into
minute details," and let us see in how much it will "bear us out;" and
when we have done with this "Official Record," let us ask ourselves if
any imagination could have invented so "highly-colored" a "story" as it
tells.
"_June 2d._ Broke camp at seven o'clock and marched seventeen miles,
going into camp near Ulysses. Roads in bad condition.
"_June 3d._ Had some trouble in getting started. Broke camp at eleven
o'clock and marched eight miles. Went into camp on Blue River. Many
people sick, one of whom was reported in a dying condition. Had bad
roads. Rained during afternoon.
"_June 4th._ Broke camp at six o'clock. Marched fifteen miles, and went
into camp on Lincoln Creek, near Seward.
"_June 5th._ Broke camp at seven o'clock. Marched fourteen miles, and
went into camp near Milford. Daughter of Standing Bear, Ponca chief,
died at two o'clock, of consumption.
"_June 6th._ Remained in camp all day, for the purpose of obtaining
supplies. Prairie Flower, wife of Shines White and daughter of Standing
Bear, who died yesterday, was here given Christian burial, her remains
being deposited in the cemetery at Milford, Nebraska, a small village on
Blue River.
"In this connection I wish to take official knowledge and recognition of
the noble action performed by the ladies of Milford, in preparing and
decorating the body of the deceased Indian woman for burial in a style
becoming the highest civilization. In this act of Christian kindness
they did more to ameliorate the grief of the husband and father than
they could have done by adopting the usual course of this untutored
people and presenting to each a dozen ponies. It was here that, looking
on the form of his dead daughter thus arrayed for the tomb, Standing
Bear was led to forget the burial-service of his tribe, and say to those
around him that he was desirous of leaving off the ways of the Indian
and adopting those of the white men.
"_June 7th._ Quite a heavy rain during the afternoon. The storm, most
disastrous of any that occurred during the removal of the Poncas under
my charge, came suddenly upon us while in camp on the evening of this
day. It was a storm such as I never before experienced, and of which I
am unable to give an adequate description. The wind blew a fearful
tornado, demolishing every tent in camp, and rending many of them into
shreds, overturning wagons, and hurling wagon-boxes, camp-equipages,
etc., through the air in every direction like straws. Some of the people
were taken up by the wind and carried as much as three hundred yards.
Several of the Indians were quite seriously hurt, and one child died the
next day from injuries received, and was given Christian burial. The
storm caused a delay until the 8th for repairs, and for medical
attendance upon the injured.
"_June 8th._ Broke camp at Milford and marched seven miles. Roads very
bad. Child died during the day.
"_June 9th._ Put the child that died yesterday in the coffin and sent it
back to Milford, to be buried in the same grave with its aunt, Prairie
Flower. Broke camp at seven o'clock and marched to within three miles of
Crete.
"_June 10th._ Broke camp at seven o'clock and marched one mile beyond De
Witt, where I employed a physician to visit camp and prescribe for the
sick. A woman had a thumb accidentally cut off, which caused further
commotion in the camp.
"_June 12th._ Broke camp at seven o'clock and marched to within two
miles of Otoe Agency. Crossed Wolf Creek with a part of the train, the
crossing being very difficult; but the Indians worked splendidly."
"The Indians worked splendidly!" Is not this a well-nigh incredible
record of patience and long-suffering? These poor creatures, marching
from ten to twenty-five miles a day, for twenty-two days, through muddy
sloughs, swollen rivers, in tempests and floods and dreary cold, leaving
their wives and their children dead by the way—dead of the sufferings of
the march—are yet docile, obedient, and "work splendidly!"
"_June 13th._ After considerable time we succeeded in building a bridge
over Wolf Creek out of drift-timber, and succeeded in crossing the
balance of the train. Broke camp and marched three miles, and went into
camp again near Otoe Agency.
"_June 14th._ Water-bound, and had to remain in camp all day waiting for
creek to run down. The Otoe Indians came out to see the Poncas, and gave
them ten ponies.
"_June 15th._ Still water-bound. Remained in camp all day.
"_June 16th._ Broke camp at seven o'clock and reached Marysville,
Kansas, where we went into camp. During the march a wagon tipped over,
injuring a woman quite severely. Indians out of rations, and feeling
hostile."
What wonder that the Indians felt hostile? Hunger added to all the rest
of their direful misery!
"_June 18th._ Broke camp at seven o'clock. Marched nine miles and went
into camp at Elm Creek. Little Cottonwood died. Four families determined
to return to Dakota. I was obliged to ride nine miles on horseback to
overtake them, to restore harmony, and settle difficulty in camp. Had
coffin made for dead Indian, which was brought to camp at twelve o'clock
at night from Blue Rapids. A fearful thunder-storm during the night,
flooding the camp-equipage."
This is a "highly-colored" story, indeed! The darkness; the camp flooded
by the driving rain; thunder and lightning; a messenger arriving at
midnight with a coffin; the four families of desperate fugitives setting
out to flee back to their homes! What "sensational fabrication" could
compete with this?
"_June 19th._ The storm of last night left the roads in an impassable
condition, and, in consequence, was obliged to remain in camp all day.
Buried Little Cottonwood in a cemetery about five miles from camp. ***
"_June 25th._ Broke camp at six o'clock. Marched to a point about
fifteen miles farther up Deep Creek. Two old women died during the day.
***
"_June 30th._ Broke camp at six o'clock. Passed through Hartford, and
camped about six miles above Burlington. A child of Buffalo Chief died
during the day. ***
"_July 2d._ Broke camp at six o'clock. Made a long march of fifteen
miles for Noon Camp, for reason that no water could be got nearer. An
Indian became hostile, and made a desperate attempt to kill White Eagle,
head chief of the tribe. For a time every male in camp was on the
war-path, and for about two hours the most intense excitement prevailed,
heightened by continued loud crying by all the women and children."
This Indian, who is reported here as having "become hostile," no doubt,
tried to kill White Eagle for having allowed the tribe to be brought
into all this trouble. It is the general feeling among the less
intelligent members of a tribe that their chiefs are bound, under all
circumstances, to see that they come to no harm.
"_July 9th._ Broke camp at six o'clock, passing through Baxter Springs
at about one o'clock. Just after passing Baxter Springs a terrible
thunder-storm struck us. The wind blew a heavy gale and the rain fell in
torrents, so that it was impossible to see more than four or five rods
distant, thoroughly drenching every person and every article in the
train, making a fitting end to a journey commenced by wading a river and
thereafter encountering innumerable storms.
"During the last few days of the journey the weather was exceedingly
hot, and the teams terribly annoyed and bitten by green-head flies,
which attacked them in great numbers. Many of the teams were nearly
exhausted, and, had the distance been but little farther, they must have
given out. The people were all nearly worn out from the fatigue of the
march, and were heartily glad that the long, tedious journey was at an
end, that they might take that rest so much required for the
recuperation of their physical natures." Now let us see what provision
the Government had made for that "rest" and "recuperation," surely "much
required" and fairly earned. Not one dollar had been appropriated for
establishing them in their new home; not one building had been put up.
This people was set down in a wilderness without one provision of any
kind for their shelter.
"It is a matter of astonishment to me," says Agent Howard (p. 100 of
this "Report"), "that the Government should have ordered the removal of
the Ponca Indians from Dakota to the Indian Territory without having
first made some provision for their settlement and comfort. Before their
removal was carried into effect an appropriation should have been made
by Congress sufficient to have located them in their new home, by
building a comfortable home for the occupancy of every family of the
tribe. As the case now is, no appropriation has been made by Congress
except of a sum little more than sufficient to remove them; and the
result is that these people have been placed on an uncultivated
reservation, to live in their tents as best they may, and await further
legislative action."
This journal of Mr. Howard's is the best record that can ever be written
of the sufferings of the Poncas in their removal from their homes. It is
"highly colored;" but no one, however much it may be for his interest to
do so, can call it "a sensational fabrication," or can discredit it in
the smallest particular, for it is an "official record," authorized and
endorsed by being published in the "Annual Report" of the Secretary of
the Interior.
The remainder of the Ponca tribe is still in Indian Territory, awaiting
anxiously the result of the efforts to restore to them their old homes,
and to establish the fact of their indisputable legal right to them.[27]
Footnote 27:
See Appendix, Art. II., for later facts in the history of the Poncas.