THE CHIEF OF THE CASCADES.
Marlowe Mann was a graduate of Harvard in the classic period of the
college. He had many scholarly gifts, and as many noble qualities of soul
as mental endowments. He was used to the oratory of Henry Ware and young
Edward Everett, and had known Charles Sumner and Wendell Phillips at
college, when the Greek mind and models led the young student in his fine
development, and made him a Pericles in his dreams.
But the young student of this heroic training, no matter how well
conditioned his family, usually turned from his graduation to some
especial mission in life. "I must put myself into a cause," said young
Wendell Phillips. Charles Sumner espoused the struggle of the negro for
freedom, and said: "To this cause do I offer all I have." Marlowe Mann was
a member of the historic Old South Church, like Phillips in his early
years. There was an enthusiasm for missions in the churches of Boston
then, and he began to dream of Oregon and the mysterious empire of the
great Northwest, as pictured by the old schoolmaster, Kelley; just at this
time came Dr. Whitman to the East, half frozen from his long ride, and
asked to lead an emigration to Walla Walla, to save the Northern empire to
the territory of the States. He heard the doctor's thrilling story of how
he had unfurled the flag over the open Bible on the crags that looked down
on the valleys of the Oregon, and his resolution was made. He did not
follow Dr. Whitman on the first expedition of colonists, but joined him a
year or two afterward. He built him a log-cabin on the Columbia, and gave
his whole soul to teaching, missionary work among the Indians, and to
bringing emigrants from the East.
The country thrilled him--its magnificent scenery, the grandeur of the
Columbia, the vastness of the territory, and the fertility of the soil.
Here were mountains grander than Olympus, and harbors and water-courses as
wonderful as the Ægean. He was almost afraid to map the truth in his
extensive correspondence with the East, lest it should seem so incredible
as to defeat his purpose.
[Illustration: _The North Puyallup Glacier, Mount Tacoma._]
When the log school-house was building, Mr. Mann had gone to the old
Chief of the Cascades and had invited him to send his Indian boy to the
school. He had shown him what an advantage it would be to the young chief
to understand more thoroughly Chinook and English. He was wise and politic
in the matter as well as large-hearted, for he felt that the school might
need the friendliness of the old chief, and in no way could it be better
secured.
"The world treats you as you treat the world," he said; "and what you are
to the world, the world is to you. Tell me only what kind of a
neighborhood you come from, and I will tell you what kind of a
neighborhood you are going to; we all see the world in ourselves. I will
educate the boy, and his father will protect the school. The Indian heart
is hot and revengeful, but it is honest and true. I intend to be honest
with the Indians in all things, and if there should occur a dance of the
evil spirits at the Potlatch, no harm will ever come to the log
school-house; and I do not believe that such a dance with evil intent to
the settlers will ever take place. Human nature is all one book
everywhere."
As he stood there that morning, with uncovered head, an unexpected event
happened. The children suddenly said:
"Look!" and "Umatilla!"
Out of the forest came an aged Indian, of gigantic stature--Umatilla, one
of the chiefs of the Cascades; and beside him walked his only son, the
Light of the Eagle's Plume, or, as he had been named by the English,
Benjamin.
Umatilla, like Massasoit, of the early colonial history of Plymouth, was a
remarkable person. Surrounded by warlike tribes, he had been a man of
peace. He was a lover of Nature, and every shining cloud to his eye was a
chariot. He personified everything, like the ancient Greeks. He talked in
poetic figures; to him the sky was alive, every event had a soul, and his
mind had dwelt upon the great truths of Nature until he had become more of
a philosopher than a ruler.
He had been the father of a large family, but six of his sons had died of
the plague, or rather of the treatment which the medicine-men had used in
the disease, which was to sweat the victims in hot earthen ovens, and then
plunge them into the Columbia.
His whole heart in his old age was fixed upon his only son, Benjamin. The
two were seldom separated. To make the boy happy was the end of the old
chief's life.
The two approached the courtly schoolmaster.
"White master," said the old chief, "I have brought to you the Light of
the Eagle's Plume. He is my heart, and will be the heart of my people when
my suns are all passed over and my stars gone out. Will you teach him to
be a good chief? I want him to know English, and how to worship the Master
of Life. Will you take him to your school lodge?"
The tall master bowed low, and took the Indian boy by the hand.
The boy was a princely youth. His figure would have held the eye of a
sculptor in long admiration. The chisel of a Phidias could hardly have
exceeded such a form. His features were like the Roman, his eye quick and
lustrous, and his lips noble and kindly. He wore a blanket over his
shoulders, gathered in a long sash, ornamented with shells, about his
loins, and a crest of eagle plumes and shells on his head indicated his
rank and dignity. He could speak some words of Chinook, and English
imperfectly. He had mingled much with the officers of the Hudson Bay
Company, and so had learned many of the customs of civilization.
"I am honored," said the courtly, tall schoolmaster, "in having such a
youth for my pupil. Chief of the Umatillas, I thank thee. All that is good
in me will I give to your noble boy. I live with my eye upon the future;
the work of my life is to lead people to follow their better natures and
to be true to their best selves. There is a good angel in all men
here"--he put his hand on his heart--"it leads men away from evil; it
seeks the way of life; its end is yonder with the Infinite. Chief of the
Umatillas, I will try to teach the young man to follow it. Do you
understand?"
The aged chief bowed. He caught the meaning of the thought, if not of the
rather formal words. He comprehended the idea that the tall schoolmaster
believed goodness to be immortal. The regions of the Cascades were indeed
beautiful with their ancient forests and gleaming mountain walls, but he
had been taught to believe that the great Master of Life had provided
eternal scenes that transcended these for those who were worthy to receive
them.
An unexpected turn came to this stately and pacific interview. Mrs. Woods
was piqued at the deference that the tall schoolmaster had shown to the
chief and his son. She walked about restlessly, cut a rod from one of the
trees with a large knife which she always carried with her, and at last
called the master aside again.
"Say, mister, here. You ain't going to take that young Injun into your
school, are you? There'll be trouble, now, if you do. Know Injuns--you
don't. You are young, but 'tain't best for you to eat all your apples
green. I've always been very particular about the company I keep, if I was
born poor and have had to work hard, and never studied no foreign
languages. I warn you!"
She raised her voice, and Benjamin heard what she had said. He suspected
her ill-will toward him from her manner, but he comprehended the meaning
of her last words.
He at first looked puzzled and grieved, then suddenly his thin lips were
pressed together; the passion of anger was possessing him, soon to be
followed by the purpose of revenge.
Mrs. Woods saw that she had gone too far in the matter, and that her
spirit and meaning had been discovered by the son of the chief. The danger
to which she had exposed herself made her nervous. But she began to act on
her old principle never to show fear in the presence of an Indian.
"Here, mister, I must go now," she said, in a loud voice. "Take this rod,
and govern your school like a man. If I were a teacher, I'd make my
scholars smart in more ways than one." She held out the rod to the master.
There was a movement in the air like a flash. Benjamin, with noiseless
feet, had slipped up behind her. He had conceived the idea that the offer
of the rod somehow meant enmity to him. He seized the rod from behind the
woman, and, sweeping it through the air, with kindled eye and glowing
cheeks, wheeled before the master.
"Boston tilicum, don't you dare!"
"Boston tilicum" was the Chinook for an American, and the Chinook or trade
language had become common to all the tribes on the Columbia. The early
American traders on the Northern Pacific coast were from Boston.
He raised the rod aloft defiantly like a young champion, and presented a
heroic figure, which excited the tremulous admiration and wonder of the
little group. He then pointed it toward Mrs. Woods, and said
contemptuously in Chinook:
"Cloochman!" (woman).
The scene changed to the comical. Mrs. Woods snatched off her broad
sun-bonnet, revealing her gray hair, and assumed an appearance of
defiance, though her heart was really trembling with fear.
"I ain't afraid of no Injuns," she said, "and I don't take any impudence
from anybody. I've had to fight the whole world all my life, and I've
always conquered. There--now--there!"
She whipped the rod out of the young Indian's hand.
Benjamin's eyes blazed.
"Closche nanitch" (look out), he said. "I am an Umatilla. Siwash (Indian)
will remember. There are hawks in the sky."
"Kamooks" (dog), returned Mrs. Woods, defiantly. "Kamooks."
She would have said "cultus" had she dared. "Cultus" is the most insulting
word that can be applied to an Indian, and, when it is used, it invites
the most deadly revenge. The word had come to her lips, but she had not
the courage to invoke the consequences of such a taunt.
But the young Indian further excited her. He shook the rod at her, and her
passion mastered her prudence. She struggled with herself, and was silent
for a few moments. But, suddenly catching the young Indian's eye, which
had in it a savage triumph, she exclaimed:
"Cultus Umatilla--"
The old chief stepped forward and lifted his hands.
"Pil-pil" (blood), said Benjamin. "There are hawks in the air--"
"Be still!" said the chief.
"--they whet their beaks," continued Benjamin. "Potlatch!"
The whole company were filled with excitement or terror. Gretchen
trembled, and began to cry. Three Indians were seen coming down the trail,
and the sight seemed to fill Benjamin with a mysterious delight. Mrs.
Woods saw them with secret fear, and the master with apprehension. Several
of the children began to cry, and there was a look of pain, terror, or
distress on all the faces.
Suddenly Gretchen stepped apart from the group and lifted to her shoulder
her violin.
A hunting strain rose on the bright morning air. It seemed like the flight
of a singing bird.
The chief's arms dropped. The music arose like a sweet memory of all that
is good and beautiful.
The three Indians stopped to listen. The music became more sweet and
entrancing. The anger went out of Benjamin's face, and there came better
feelings into his soul.
The music breathed of the Rhine, of vineyards and festivals, but he
understood it not; to him it recalled the mysterious legends of the
Umatillas, the mysteries of life, and the glory of the heroes who slept
on the island of the dead or amid the sweetly sighing branches of the
trees. The air was the _Traumerei_.
When the music ceased there was a long silence. In it Mrs. Woods turned
away slowly, with a word of advice to Gretchen that under other
circumstances would have appeared amusing:
"Behave yourself like a lady," she said, "and remember your bringing up.
Good-morning to ye all."
The little group watched her as she moved safely away. A little black bear
crossed her path as she was entering the wood, and stopped on the way. But
her steps were growing rapid, and, as she did not seem to regard him as a
matter of any consequence, he turned and ran. The company smiled, and so
the peril of the morning seemed to pass away.
The scene would have been comical but for the painful look in the kindly
face of the old Chief of the Cascades. He had come toward the school-house
with high hopes, and what had happened caused him pain. The word
"Potlatch," spoken by the Indian boy, had caused his brow to cloud and his
face to turn dark.
"We will all go into the house," said the master. "Umatilla, will you not
honor us with a visit this morning?"
"No--me come this afternoon for the boy; me wait for him outside. Boston
tilicum, let me speak to you a little. I am a father."
"Yes, and a good father."
"I am a father--you no understand--Boston tilicum--father. I want you to
teach him like a father--not you understand?"
"Yes, I understand."
"Father--teacher--you, Boston tilicum."
"Yes, I understand, and I will be a father teacher to your Benjamin."
"I die some day. You understand?"
"Yes, I understand."
"You understand, Boston tilicum, you understand. What I want my boy to
become that I am for my boy. That you be."
"Yes, Umatilla, I believe an Indian's word--you may trust mine. I will be
to your boy what you may have him become. The Indian is true to his
friends. I believe in _you_. I will be true."
The old chief drew his blanket round him proudly.
"Boston tilicum," said he, "if ever the day of trouble comes, I will
protect you and the log school-house. You may trust my word. Indian speak
true."
The tall schoolmaster bowed.
"Nika atte cepa" (I like you much), said the chief. "Potlatch shall no
harm you. Klahyam klahhye--am!" (Good-by).
Mrs. Woods hurried homeward and tried to calm her excited mind by singing
a very heroic old hymn:
"Come on, my partners in distress,
My comrades in the wilderness,
Who still your bodies feel."
The blue skies gleamed before her, and overhead wheeled a golden eagle. To
her it was an emblem, a good omen, and her spirit became quiet and happy
amid all the contradictions of her rough life. She sat down at last on the
log before her door, with the somewhat strange remark:
"I do hate Injuns; _nevertheless_--"
Mrs. Woods was accustomed to correct the wrong tendencies of her heart and
tongue by this word "nevertheless," which she used as an incomplete
sentence. This "nevertheless" seemed to express her better self; to
correct the rude tendencies of her nature. Had she been educated in her
early days, this tendency to self-correction would have made her an ideal
woman, but she owed nearly all her intellectual training to the sermons of
the Rev. Jason Lee, which she had heard in some obscure corner of a room,
or in Methodist chapel, or under the trees.
Her early experience with the Indians had not made her a friend to the
native races, notwithstanding the missionary labors of the Rev. Jason Lee.
The first Indian that made her a visit on the donation claim did not leave
a favorable impression on her mind.
This Indian had come to her door while she was engaged in the very hard
work of sawing wood. He had never seen a saw before, and, as it seemed to
him to be a part of the woman herself, he approached her with awe and
wonder. That the saw should eat through the wood appeared to him a
veritable miracle.
Mrs. Woods, unaware of her visitor, paused to take breath, looked up,
beheld the tall form with staring eyes, and started back.
"Medicine-woman--conjure!" said the Indian, in Chinook.
Mrs. Woods was filled with terror, but a moment's thought recalled her
resolution. She lifted her hand, and, pointing to the saw in the wood, she
said, with a commanding tone:
"Saw!"
The Indian obeyed awkwardly, and wondering at the progress of the teeth of
the saw through the wood. It was a hot day; the poor Indian soon became
tired, and stopped work with a beating heart and bursting veins.
"Saw--saw!" said Mrs. Woods, with a sweep of her hands, as though some
mysterious fate depended upon the order.
The saw went very hard now, for he did not know how to use it, and the
wood was hard, and the Indian's only thought seemed to be how to escape.
Mrs. Woods held him in her power by a kind of mental magnetism, like that
which Queen Margaret exercised over the robber.
"Water!" at last gasped the Indian.
"Saw--saw!" said Mrs. Woods; then turned away to bring him water.
When she looked around again, an unexpected sight met her eyes. The Indian
was flying away, taking the saw with him. She never beheld either again,
and it was a long time before any Indian appeared at the clearing after
this odd event, though Mrs. Woods ultimately had many adventures among
the wandering Siwashes.
A saw was no common loss in these times of but few mechanical implements
in Oregon, and Mrs. Woods did not soon forgive the Indian for taking away
what he probably regarded as an instrument of torture.
"I do hate Injuns!" she would often say; but quite likely would soon after
be heard singing one of the hymns of the missionaries at the Dalles:
"O'er Columbia's wide-spread forests
Haste, ye heralds of the Lamb;
Teach the red man, wildly roaming,
Faith in Immanuel's name,"
which, if poor poetry, was very inspiring.