POLICIES ON TRIAL——“ONEATTA.”
In the fall of 1866, the “Oregon Delegation,” in Washington, proposed the
name of the author of this book for appointment as Superintendent of
Indian Affairs in Oregon.
President Johnson, on inquiry, learned that he was not a “Johnson man,”
and, of course, refused to make the nomination.
The recommendation of the author’s name was made without his solicitation
or knowledge. On the accession of President Grant, the recommendation was
renewed, the nomination was made and confirmed by the Senate of the United
States; bonds filed, oaths of office administered, and notice given to my
predecessor; and on the 1st of May, 1869, I assumed the duties of the
office indicated.
The new administration had the Indian question in transit, between three
policies: The old way, “_Civil Service_,” “_The War Department Policy_,”
and General Grant’s “_Quaker Policy_.”
With good intention, doubtless, the several policies were put on trial.
Oregon superintendency and all its agencies were assigned to the tender
care of the War Department policy, and I was ordered to turn over my
office to an officer of the army, even before I had performed an
important official duty. Remonstrance was made by the people of Oregon
against the change.
A compromise was effected. I was retained as Superintendent, and Hon. Ben.
Simpson, Agent at Siletz, and Capt. Charles Lafollette, Agent at Grand
Round also of the civil service policy. The remainder of the agencies were
assigned to officers of the army. This mixing up of elements was somewhat
embarrassing for a time.
I began again my official duties. From the records in the Superintendent’s
Office, Salem, Oregon, I learned the location and something of the
condition of the several agencies under my charge.
“_The Coast Reservation_,” covering three hundred miles of the Pacific
coast, embraced several stations, or agencies, comprising not more than
one-third the territory within its boundaries. It had never been ceded to
the Government, neither acquired by conquest, but was set apart by an act
of Congress for the benefit of the several tribes of the Willamette
valley. It is partly timbered and generally mountainous. It abounds in
resources suitable to Indian savage life.
Once this wild region had been peopled with deer and elk, whose plaintive
call had led the cougar to his feast, or quickened the steps of the
huntsman, whose steady nerves enabled him to glide through the tanglewood,
bearing with him images of his children (who, dependent upon his archery,
awaited his return); and of faithful clutchmen (squaws), whose eyes would
kindle at sight of hunter, laden with fruits of the chase, that were to be
food and clothing for her little ones. These forest trees had stood
sentinels, guarding its people, from the gaze of tamer huntsmen, and from
the rough ocean winds that sweep the coast; or, uttering hoarser sounds,
or sighing songs, warning of coming storms, that sometimes beat the
white-winged ship, laden with merchandise, from foreign lands, against the
rocky shore (whose caverns were the refuge of sea-lions), or, echoing back
Pacific’s roar, were waiting for the debris from wrecks of stately crafts,
or coming of sea-washed mariners.
Then, at such perilous times, the peoples of this wild western verge of
continent would, in pure charity, build warning-fires on higher bluffs, at
nightfall, and thus give signals of danger; or, mayhap, they sometimes
built them to decoy, in order to avenge insult (or wrong, real, or
imaginary) of some former seaman, who had repaid them for good will by
treacherous act of larceny of some dusky maiden, or black-eyed boy, or
stalwart warrior, carried away to other lands.
Tradition’s living tongue has furnished foundation for the pictures I have
made. And many times to listening ears the story has been told, changed
only in the name of maiden, or boy, or braves, as date or location gave
truth to the sorrowing tale.
Living still, on a home set apart by the State, are two chieftains of a
western tribe, whose people tell, in story and in song, how, at a certain
sign of danger to a ship, they went out over the breakers in a hollow-tree
canoe, to meet the white “tyee” of the “great canoe,” and in pity for the
poverty of his knowledge of sea line had proffered him shelter in a quiet
nook of land-locked ocean, until such time as the Great Spirit might give
evidence of anger past, by smiling on the boisterous waves that had made
sport of man’s puny efforts to control his own going.
These chieftains, in dainty craft, had won the captain’s confidence, and,
by consent of favoring winds and rolling seas, with trust he follows past
lone rocks that stand above the sunken reef, and through the foamy
passage, guarded by “headlands” on either side; past bars, unseen, that
break huge rollers into waves of shorter measure; past, still past, the
homes of fishermen on shore, until at last his sails flapped approval on
the mast, the keel complains of unaccustomed touch, and anchors dropped in
fathoms short to the bed of a bay that gives evidence of welcome, by
sending its sands to surface, speckled with mica or sparkling with grains
of gold.
Thus the white man’s big canoe found rest, and sailors crowded the rail to
give signs of gratitude to the strange, strong-armed pilots.
The captain let down his stairs, that they might come on deck and exchange
mutual feelings of each heart. On the one hand, that of thankfulness, that
misfortunes make mankind akin, and used such occasions to teach the lion
that the mouse may be his master when circumstances bring his ability into
demand.
The white man felt gratitude, and made proof of it by loading the red
man’s “hollow tree” with rich stores of choice sugars from the islands,
blankets made in colder zones; with clothing that illy fitted the red
man’s limbs; with lines, and nets, and hooks, and spears of foreign make,
and with weapons of fiery breath and noisy mouth, that poorly mated the
bow and arrow, though mating good by force of execution the loss in
warning talk.
The chieftains, too, gave back, with answering hand and smiling face, the
gladness of their hearts that they had found opportunity to serve the
white man.
When they departed, the “tyee” bade them come _again_. This was a great
day for the chieftain’s _household_, when they landed beneath the willow
trees near their e-li-he (home). The women, with great, wondering eyes at
the sight of so many ic-tas (goods), began to unload the “hollow-tree
canoe,” and, as each article new to them came in sight, they would wonder
and chatter and try them on, until at last they stood clothed in sailor’s
garb, of jacket, pants and shoes. To their camps they came, loaded with
the precious freights, and, coming to their own, the little ones would cry
and run, shouting, “Hal-lu-me, til-li-cum” (strangers); nor would they
trust to their mothers’ voices until they had put aside their costumes.
These chiefs still laugh at the surprise they felt at sight of what they
supposed to be the new-found friends, until the merry cluchmen (women)
shouted, “Cla-hoy-em-six, tyee?” (How do you do, chief?) They quickly rose
from their cougar skin and panther’s pelt, caught the bogus sailors, and
quickly robbed them of their borrowed clothes.
That night, while the sun was going to rest in his bed of flaming billows,
on the ship’s deck and on the sand of the red man’s floor, happy hearts
bade each “Good-night.” The white man was happy now that his home was
gently rocked by flowing tides. The red men, happy with their
til-li-cums, retailing in guttural notes their great adventures, and
dancing the pot-lach dance (giving dance), would stop, and with their
hands divide the prizes won, without thought of shells, or Indian coin, or
white man’s chick-a-mon (money). When “to-morrow’s sun” had climbed over
the craggy ledges of the coast mountain, and sent out his fiery messengers
to announce his coming, they came to the vessel’s deck, and found no
watchman there. They peeped into the forecastle and cabin, and waked the
slumberers up to welcome the new morn begun on the bosom of Ya-quina Bay.
At the Indian lodge, the soft voice of cluchman, mingling with the murmur
of rippling rills, that from snow-banks high on the mountain side came
hurrying down to quench the thirst of sailor or of savage; maybe, the
briny lips of the sea-monster or salmon fish, that come in to rest from
surging waters and bask awhile in the smooth currents of the bay.
The chiefs arose and made breakfast on foreign teas and island sugars, and
when in new attire, with cluchman in beads and fine tattoo (an adornment
of savage tribes), with noses pierced by long polished shells, that made
an uncouth imitation of a dandy’s moustache, with pappoose in basket hung
with bells, or lashed to boards with wild-deer thongs, and slung on
mother’s back, secured with sealskin belts worn on the brow. To make the
whole a complete picture of Indian life, the dogs were taken in, and then
sitting in the prow to give command, the “hollow-tree canoe” was pointed
toward the ship. The loud hurrah of sailors, that was intended to give
welcome, was at first construed to be a warning, and quick the
“hollow-tree canoe” was turned about, each paddle playing in concert to
carry the frightened visitors away, while cluchmen and maidens, with
woman’s privilege, screamed in terror of expected harm.
The chief soothing them, and looking back descried the tyee captain, with
beckoning hand and signs recalling him to fulfil his purpose, and make the
visit. He bade the oarsman cease, and, while his canoe moved on from
acquired motion, though slower going, while he backward gazed, he, with
noiseless paddle, again brought the prow towards the sides of the “big
canoe.”
Slowly and cautiously he, with his precious cargo, floated nearer and
nearer still, with eyes wide open, to detect any sign of treachery,
sometimes half stopping at suggestions of frightened mothers or timid
maidens, and then anon would forward move; still, however, with great
caution, until at last the two canoes were rocking on the gentle tide in
closest friendship.
The seamen who made this welcome port came on deck, with a sailor’s pride
of dress, wide-legged trowsers, and wider collars to their shirts over
their shoulders falling, and with wide-topped, brimless caps. When the
new-comers had passed their fright, and the old chief had climbed on deck
to be sure that all was safe, he called his family, and, though the jolly
tars went down to assist them, they remained waiting for some further
proof of friendship.
While their eyes were upward turned, and Jack’s were downward bent, two
pairs (at least) met midway, and told the old, old tale over again.
On deck, and leaning over the rail, stood a youthful sailor, with deep,
earnest eyes. These had met the gaze of another, the daughter of the pilot
chief. Silently the arrows flew; and, without honeyed word, or war-whoop,
the battle went on, until, by special invitation of looks, Oneatta came
aboard, and stood beside the smiling pale-face; and soon the older women
followed with the baby baskets until all were there except the dogs, who
cried at the partiality shown to the master and his family.
The scene on deck was novel. The tyee captain and the chief were teaching
each other the words with which to give token of hospitality and
gratitude; half-sign, half-word language ’twas, though, in which exchanges
of friendly sentiments were told.
The sailors, with the women and maidens, had organized a school, on a
small scale. Merry laughter often broke at the clumsy efforts of white
man’s tongue to imitate Indian wa-wa (talk). The little ones received the
touch of rough fingers on dimpled chin, and turned like frightened fawns
away to listen to the tinkling of the little bells above their heads.
The chief had brought with him richest offerings of venison and fish; the
women, specimens of handiwork in beads and necklaces, which they offered
in exchange for such articles of bright-hued colors as the sailors might
have bought in other lands.
The bargains were quickly made, each side proud of success in securing
something to remind them of the visit.
The chief signified his intention to return to his home on the beach, when
the good captain, not to be outdone in matters of courtesy, brought fresh
supplies of various kinds, and had them stowed away in the “hollow-tree
canoe.”
When the parting came, to prove his good will, the tyee captain promised
to return the visit. Oneatta had said to Theodore, the sailor, “Come;” and
he, with eyes doing service for his lips, had made promise. The red chief
and his family withdrew, and soon they were riding the laughing waves in
the “hollow-tree canoe.”
Thus the day had passed and joined the happy ones gone before it; and
bells had called the sailors to the deck, and the Indian chief reposed his
limbs on the uncut swath of willow grass, and waited for the approach of
night, that he might, by signal fires, call his kinsmen to the pil-pil
dance; a dance in honor of each Indian maiden when she “comes out.”
Oneatta had demanded of her parents this honor, and, since custom allowed
this privilege, she on that day reached an era in her life, when she chose
to be no longer a child.
Her father, the chief, wondered at this sudden change of manner wrought,
but, yielding to his doating child, gave his assent. The picture I am
making now is true to the life of many a maiden, who may follow Oneatta’s
history, whose faces take their hue of colors that give token of their
race.
Some of them may recall their “coming out” ‘neath dazzling chandeliers, on
carpets of finest grain, in dresses trailing long, in which they stepped
with timid gait to softest music, of silver lyre, or flute, or many-voiced
piano.
But Oneatta’s parlor was lighted up with glittering stars, that had done
service long, and brighter grew to eyes of each new belle, who had, from
time to time, lent first a listening ear to soft-voiced swain.
The carpets were brightest green, and sanded by waves stranded on the
beach at the flowing of the tide.
The music was grandly wild, a combination of the hoarse drum, or angry
roar of sea-lions, mingling with the deep bass voice of waves, breaking on
the rocks, while, soft and low, the human notes came in to make the
harmony complete to ears long trained to nature’s tunes.
The maiden, whose heart was now tumultuous as the scenes around her, had
dressed with greatest care in skirts of scarlet cloth, embroidered with
beads and trimmed with furs of seal and down of swan. Her arms, half
bared, were circled with bands of metals; her neck, with hoofs of fawns,
or talons of the mountain eagle; pendent from her ears, rattles of the
spotted snake; the partition of her nose held fast a beautiful shell of
slender mould; her cheeks, rosy with vermilion paints; while in her raven
hair she wore a gift from her pale-faced lover, brought from some far-off
shore, intended for some other than she who wore it now. It was but a
tinsel, yet it fitted well to crown her whose eyes were dancing long
before her beaded slippers had touched time upon the sanded floor.
The circular altar, built of pebbles of varied colors, was lighted up with
choicest knots of pine from fallen trees.
The watch on board the “big canoe” was set, and down its swinging stairway
the tyee captain, mate, and sailors descended to the waiting boat; then
softly touched the oars to smiling waves, and steady arms kept time to
seamen’s song in stern and bow, guided, meanwhile, by the altar fire. Over
the glassy bridge they flew, and touched the bank beside the “hollow-tree
canoe.”
With hearty hand the chieftains bade them welcome, and gave silent signal
for the dance to begin, while the tyee captain and his men took station at
respectful space. The dancers came, and, forming round the maiden’s altar
fires, awaited still for her to come from lodge.
The pale-faces, lighted up with blaze from knotty wood, with folded arms
and curious wonder stood gazing on the scene.
One among the number had scanned the merry circle of bashful Indian boys
and timid girls; his face bespoke vexation at his disappointment, for he
had failed to catch the eye of Oneatta.
She came, at length, tripping toward the festive throng, and spoke to him
ere the dance began, not by smile, or deed, or word, but in Cupid’s own
appointed way, that never lies. He, as every other swain can do, read it
in her eyes, and made answer in ways that do not make mistake.
When the circle had closed round the altar, the song of gladness broke
forth from the lips of the tattooed and painted red chins, and from the
drum of hoarser sound, and then the happy dancers, without waiting for
partners, went with lithesome step in gay procession round. Louder rang
the music, quicker grew the steps, each time round; the little invisible
arrows flew from sailor-boy to Indian maiden, and from maiden to
sailor-boy; glancing each against the other, would rustle and then go
straight to target sent, until at last the maiden tired grew, her bosom
overladened with the arrows Cupid’s quiver had supplied. She bade the
dancers stop, and with native grace, and stately step, she stood beside
her lover without a thought of wrong; for she was Nature’s child, and had
not felt the thongs of fashion’s code, which forbid her to be honest.
Her tiny hand was pressed between the hard palms of the captive sailor,
for he had been fighting a battle where each is conquered only to be a
conqueror.
Oneatta led the sailor-boy to join those who, with wondering eyes, had
waited for her return. He took his place beside his tutor now, to learn
how a step unused by tamer people might make speech for joy and gladness.
The dance was ended. Pale faces, and red ones, too, had lost sight of the
stars, and were lulled to sleep by the rocking tides or muffled song of
rippling waters, or by the breakers beating the rocky shores of Ya-quina.
Day followed day, and each had a history connecting it with its yesterday
and prophesying for the morrow. The sailor-boy went not on duty now, for
his “chummies” stood his watch. He spent much time at the e-li-he of the
tree chief, or with Oneatta went out in a small canoe to watch the
fishermen spear the fattened salmon.
Sometimes they rambled on the mountain side beneath the mansinetta trees,
and exchanged lessons in worded language. He told her of his home, where
cities and towns were like the forest of her native home; of people who
outnumbered the stars above, and of bright-colored goods, of beautiful
beads and shells; and by degrees he won her consent to go from her native
land, to leave country and kindred, all for the sake of the promised
happiness he could give.
The sailor made confident of his captain, and glowing pictures painted of
his princess, and what he would do with her when to his mother’s home he
came.
The honest captain found objection to the plan of carrying her away, and
sent for “Tyee John” (for so they called the chieftain then), and made him
understand how the young people had become betrothed.
The face of Tyee John grew dark at first, and he was impatient to be gone;
but kindly words and presents hinted at brought him to consider. He
proposed that the sailor-boy should become one of his tribe, and make his
home with them, and then he could be his son.
The conference was transferred to the e-li-he of Tyee John. The sailor
would not consent to remain on this wild shore, and made vows to come
again and bring Oneatta.
At length by rich presents given, and promises of more when he should
come, the compact was made, to the joy of the Indian maiden and her sailor
lover.
The sea gave a favoring breeze. The sails repaired, the tyee captain made
known his will to ride again the bounding waves. Oneatta bade farewell to
sorrowing mothers, sisters, brothers, giving each a token to keep until
her coming. O foolish Oneatta! you know not what you do! You act now from
example of your fairer sisters, who listen to the wooing notes of foreign
lips. We pity you as we do them. You have not thought how strange will be
the customs, manners and life of those with whom you are to mingle. A time
may come when you will long for the caresses of your rude mother, to hear
the merry shouts of brothers, to gaze into the face of your dark-eyed
father; perhaps long to hear love in native accents spoken by the young
brave who has given you choicest gems of ocean’s strand and mountain
cliffs.
We see you yet when your kinsmen tell of you in song, or story, your dark
eyes brimming with tears of hope and sorrow mingled.
You reach the side of the “big canoe.” We see the brave and manly
sailor-boy, who hastened to catch your trembling hand, and help you up the
swinging steps, and when on deck you stand, we see the sailor’s chums,
from the ship-yards above, gaze down on you and him, with glances half of
envy, and half of pleased surprise.
And now we see you startle at the fierce command of the mate, to heave the
anchor up, then their response drawn out in lengthened “Aye-aye, sir,” and
singing, while they work, the seamen’s song; and how wide your dark eyes
open at sight of whitened sails, outspreading like some monster swan, and
the troubled, anxious look you give to the humble e-li-he of childhood, as
it passed away, as if moving in itself, and the headlands that seem
floating towards you, and the great water that came rushing to meet you.
We see, too, your father, Tyee John, in his “hollow-tree canoe,” leading
the way, and pointing to some sunken rock, or shallow bar, or hidden reef,
until he rounds to in proof of danger past to the “big canoe.”
How its huge white wings fold up at a signal from the tyee captain! And
then your father comes board, and stands in mute attention to the
ceremonies of seamen’s marriage law. And you, in innocence, give heed to
word or sign until you are bound in law to the fortunes and freaks of a
roving sailor-boy.
When Tyee John turns away, hiding his tears in his heart, while yours run
down your cheeks, we see him reach his canoe, and you hanging over the
sides of the ship to catch a last glance of his eye.
[Illustration: FAREWELL TO ONEATTA.]
And then the white wings are spread again, and soon he grows so small that
his paddle seems but a dark feather in his hand, and your old home
recedes, and you have caught the last glimpse you ever will, of the
mountain sinking in the sea, and you, _alone_,——no, not alone, for your
sailor-boy is with you, now drying the tears from your dusky cheeks.
Oneatta, we leave you, with a prayer that your life may not be as rough as
the seas that drove the “big canoe” into Quina bay. Whether your hopes
have blossomed into fruition, or have been blasted, we know not, nor if
you still live to be loved or loathed. We only know that your
silver-haired sire sits on the stony cliff, overlooking the mouth of the
harbor, and watches passing sails, or hastens to meet those that anchor,
and repeat the old question over and over, Me-si-ka, is-cum,
ni-ka-hi-ak-close, ten-as-cluchman, Oneatta? (Have you brought back my
beautiful daughter, Oneatta?)
When Cupid comes with pale-faced warrior to the dusky maiden now, they
repeat the warning tale, with Ni-ka-cum-tux Oneatta. (I remember
Oneatta.)