Holding an important place among the majority of curious tales held
in veneration by the coast tribes are those of the sea-serpent. The
monster appears and reappears with almost monotonous frequency in
connection with history, traditions, legends and superstitions; but
perhaps the most wonderful part it ever played was in the great
drama that held the stage of Europe, and incidentally all the world
during the stormy days of the first Napoleon.
Throughout Canada I have never failed to find an amazing knowledge
of Napoleon Bonaparte amongst the very old and "uncivilized"
Indians. Perhaps they may be unfamiliar with every other historical
character from Adam down, but they will all tell you they have heard
of the "Great French Fighter," as they call the wonderful little
Corsican.
Whether this knowledge was obtained through the fact that our
earliest settlers and pioneers were French, or whether Napoleon's
almost magical fighting career attracted the Indian mind to the
exclusion of lesser warriors, I have never yet decided. But the
fact remains that the Indians of our generation are not as familiar
with Bonaparte's name as were their fathers and grandfathers,
so either the predominance of English-speaking settlers or the
thinning of their ancient war-loving blood by modern civilization
and peaceful times must, one or the other, account for the younger
Indian's ignorance of the Emperor of the French.
In telling me the legend of "The Lost Talisman," my good tillicum,
the late Chief Capilano, began the story with the almost amazing
question, Had I ever heard of Napoleon Bonaparte? It was some
moments before I just caught the name, for his English, always
quaint and beautiful, was at times a little halting; but when he
said, by way of explanation, "You know big fighter, Frenchman.
The English they beat him in big battle," I grasped immediately
of whom he spoke.
"What do you know of him?" I asked.
His voice lowered, almost as if he spoke a state secret. "I know
how it is that English they beat him."
I have read many historians on this event, but to hear the Squamish
version was a novel and absorbing thing. "Yes?" I said--my usual
"leading" word to lure him into channels of tradition.
"Yes," he affirmed. Then, still in a half-whisper, he proceeded to
tell me that it all happened through the agency of a single joint
from the vertebra of a sea-serpent.
In telling me the story of Brockton Point and the valiant boy
who killed the monster, he dwelt lightly on the fact that all
people who approach the vicinity of the creature are palsied,
both mentally and physically--bewitched, in fact--so that their
bones become disjointed and their brains incapable; but to-day he
elaborated upon this peculiarity until I harked back to the boy
of Brockton Point and asked how it was that his body and brain
escaped this affliction.
"He was all good, and had no greed," he replied. "He was proof
against all bad things."
I nodded understandingly, and he proceeded to tell me that all
successful Indian fighters and warriors carried somewhere about
their person a joint of a sea-serpent's vertebra; that the
medicine-men threw "the power" about them so that they were not
personally affected by this little "charm," but that immediately
they approached an enemy the "charm" worked disaster, and victory
was assured to the fortunate possessor of the talisman. There was
one particularly effective joint that had been treasured and
carried by the warriors of a great Squamish family for a century.
These warriors had conquered every foe they encountered, until
the talisman had become so renowned that the totem-pole of their
entire "clan" was remodelled, and the new one crested by the
figure of a single joint of a sea-serpent's vertebra.
About this time stories of Napoleon's first great achievements
drifted across the seas; not across the land--and just here may
be a clue to buried Coast-Indian history, which those who are
cleverer at research than I can puzzle over. The chief was most
emphatic about the source of Indian knowledge of Napoleon.
"I suppose you heard of him from Quebec, through, perhaps, some
of the French priests," I remarked.
"No, no," he contradicted hurriedly. "Not from East; we hear it
from over the Pacific from the place they call Russia." But who
conveyed the news or by what means it came he could not further
enlighten me. But a strange thing happened to the Squamish family
about this time. There was a large blood connection, but the only
male member living was a very old warrior, the hero of many battles
and the possessor of the talisman. On his death-bed his women of
three generations gathered about him; his wife, his sisters, his
daughters, his granddaughters, but not one man, nor yet a boy of
his own blood, stood by to speed his departing warrior spirit to
the land of peace and plenty.
"The charm cannot rest in the hands of women," he murmured almost
with his last breath. "Women may not war and fight other nations or
other tribes; women are for the peaceful lodge and for the leading
of little children. They are for holding baby hands, teaching baby
feet to walk. No, the charm cannot rest with you, women. I have
no brother, no cousin, no son, no grandson, and the charm must not
go to a lesser warrior than I. None of our tribe, nor of any tribe
on the coast, ever conquered me. The charm must go to one as
unconquerable as I have been. When I am dead send it across the
great salt chuck, to the victorious 'Frenchman'; they call him
Napoleon Bonaparte." They were his last words.
The older women wished to bury the charm with him, but the younger
women, inspired with the spirit of their generation, were determined
to send it over-seas. "In the grave it will be dead," they argued.
"Let it still live on. Let it help some other fighter to greatness
and victory."
As if to confirm their decision, the next day a small sealing-vessel
anchored in the Inlet. All the men aboard spoke Russian, save
two thin, dark, agile sailors, who kept aloof from the crew and
conversed in another language. These two came ashore with part of
the crew and talked in French with a wandering Hudson's Bay trapper,
who often lodged with the Squamish people. Thus the women, who yet
mourned over their dead warrior, knew these two strangers to be
from the land where the great "Frenchman" was fighting against
the world.
Here I interrupted the chief. "How came the Frenchmen in a Russian
sealer?" I asked.
"Captives," he replied. "Almost slaves, and hated by their captors,
as the majority always hate the few. So the women drew those two
Frenchmen apart from the rest and told them the story of the bone of
the sea-serpent, urging them to carry it back to their own country
and give it to the great 'Frenchman' who was as courageous and as
brave as their dead leader.
"The Frenchmen hesitated; the talisman might affect them, they said;
might jangle their own brains, so that on their return to Russia
they would not have the sagacity to plan an escape to their own
country; might disjoint their bodies, so that their feet and hands
would be useless, and they would become as weak as children. But
the women assured them that the charm only worked its magical powers
over a man's enemies, that the ancient medicine-men had 'bewitched'
it with this quality. So the Frenchmen took it and promised that if
it were in the power of man they would convey it to 'the Emperor.'
"As the crew boarded the sealer, the women watching from the shore
observed strange contortions seize many of the men; some fell on
the deck; some crouched, shaking as with palsy; some writhed for
a moment, then fell limp and seemingly boneless; only the two
Frenchmen stood erect and strong and vital--the Squamish talisman
had already overcome their foes. As the little sealer set sail
up the gulf she was commanded by a crew of two Frenchmen--men who
had entered these waters as captives, who were leaving them as
conquerors. The palsied Russians were worse than useless, and
what became of them the chief could not state; presumably they
were flung overboard, and by some trick of a kindly fate the
Frenchmen at last reached the coast of France.
"Tradition is so indefinite about their movements subsequent to
sailing out of the Inlet that even the ever-romantic and vividly
colored imaginations of the Squamish people have never supplied
the details of this beautifully childish, yet strangely historical
fairy-tale. But the voices of the trumpets of war, the beat of drums
throughout Europe heralded back to the wilds of the Pacific Coast
forests the intelligence that the great Squamish 'charm' eventually
reached the person of Napoleon; that from this time onward his
career was one vast victory, that he won battle after battle,
conquered nation after nation, and, but for the direst calamity
that could befall a warrior, would eventually have been master of
the world."
"What was this calamity, Chief?" I asked, amazed at his knowledge
of the great historical soldier and strategist.
The chief's voice again lowered to a whisper--his face was almost
rigid with intentness as he replied:
"He lost the Squamish charm--lost it just before one great fight
with the English people."
I looked at him curiously; he had been telling me the oddest mixture
of history and superstition, of intelligence and ignorance, the
most whimsically absurd, yet impressive, tale I ever heard from
Indian lips.
"What was the name of the great fight--did you ever hear it?"
I asked, wondering how much he knew of events which took place
at the other side of the world a century agone.
"Yes," he said, carefully, thoughtfully; "I hear the name sometime
in London when I there. Railroad station there--same name."
"Was it Waterloo?" I asked.
He nodded quickly, without a shadow of hesitation. "That the one,"
he replied. "That's it, Waterloo."