The same subject continud.
As Francis passd by his mangled, gasping brother, he stoopd and took the
woollen tippet from the gash in the throat, when John attempted to
speak, but immediately expired. Upon this Francis turnd to his sisters,
and said, “I shall soon follow my brother.”
The children were kept in this indescribably painful attitude for some
time. My daughter Eliza was among them and understood every word of the
Indians, who having finishd their terrible work without, were filling
the room and the doors with their guns pointed at the hearts and heads
of the children, and constantly yelling, “shall we shoot now?”
Eliza says her blood became cold, and she could not stand, but leand
over upon the sink, covering her face with her apron that she might not
see them shoot her.
Oh what pen can depict the feelings of these lambs? From this place,
they were removd out of the door, by the side of the Indian room, just
before Mrs. Whitman was brought out to be shot.
Immediately on breaking into the house, the Indians calld to Mrs.
Whitman and Mr. Rogers to come down, but on reciving no answer, Tamtsaky
started to go up stairs, but discovering the end of an old gun, which
was laid over the head of the stairs, he desisted, and enterd into
conversation with those above. He urgd them to come down, assuring them
that no one should be hurt. Mrs. Whitman told him she was shot—and had
not strength to come down, besides, she feard they would kill her.
Tamtsaky expressd much sorrow that she was wounded, and promisd that no
one should be hurt, if they wo’d come down. Mrs. W. replied, “if you are
my friend, come up and see me.” He objected, saying there were Americans
hid in the chamber, with arms to kill him. Mr. Rogers, standing at the
head of the stairs, assured him there were none, and very soon, he went
up stairs, and remaind some time, apparently sympathizing with the
sufferers, addressing them in the softest words, assuring them that he
was heartily sorry for what had taken place, and advisd and urgd Mrs.
Whitman to go down and be taken over to the other house, where the
families were, and left them by assuring them that they should not be
hurt if they would go down, intimating that the young men would destroy
the house that night. About this time, the cry was heard, “we will now
burn,” “we will now burn.”
There was no alternative. A terrible death by fire, in which all the
children and the sick in the house, would be involvd, or that Mrs.
Whitman and Mr. Rogers should throw themselves upon the promise of
Tamtsaky. They chose the latter, as every one would, and our dear,
devoted sister, leaning upon the arm of our dear brother Rogers, both
faint with the loss of blood, stepd forth from the chamber, to be——!
Oh,—my pen, speak not till forcd to name the awful deed!
Mrs. Hayse followd to assist Mrs. Whitman, who on reaching the lower
room was laid upon a settee close by her yet dying husband. But oh how
changd! that belovd face, the home of her earthly felicity, she had a
short time before washd with her tears, and left it white with the
paleness of death, now horribly cut to pieces, the upper part hanging
over the chin, but gasping for breath. The sight was too much and she
calld for air. Our dear brother was not seen to breathe after this,
altho’ he might have lingerd some time, as darkness soon set in. The
settee was borne by Mr. Rogers and Mrs. Hayse out of the sitting-room,
through the kitchen, over the mangld body of John, through crowds of
Indians and out of the door towards the Indian room where the children
were collected. Just as the settee passd out of the door, the word was
given by the chief not to shoot the children.
At this moment Mr. Rogers, discovering their treachery, had only time to
drop the settee, and raising his hands, exclaimd, “Oh my God,” when a
volley of guns were fird from within and without the house, a part at
sister Whitman and a part at brother Rogers, and he fell upon his face,
piercd with many balls. Sister Whitman was shot in several places, lying
upon the settee. Balls flew in every direction, striking the walls by
the sides of the children. My daughter says the guns were so near her
head that the flashes burnt her hair, and the burning powder mingled
with human gore seemd ready to suffocate them. But there was no escape.
At this moment an Indian seizd Francis by the head, and dragd him a few
steps from the children, where Jo Lewis, drawing a pistol, cried out
“you bad boy,” and dischargd the contents into the lower part of his
throat, and laid him bleeding at the feet of the other children, who
expected every moment to mingle their bodies in the mud and blood with
their groaning, dying mother and brothers.
The scene that follows beggars description and hurls us back amid the
darkest days of Indian atrocity and savage cruelty. A savage seizd the
blanket upon which the suffering Mrs. Whitman lay, and hurld her
groaning and struggling into the mud. The brutal hand that gave her the
first wound through the window, now seizd her by the hair of the head,
crying out “you bad woman,” gave her several blows in the face with his
whip, amid the deafning yells, the shouts and the dancing of crowds of
women and children and men, who seemd to vie with each other in pouring
the greatest possible amount of suffering and pain into the bosoms of
their dying victims. Some attempted to force their horses over the
bodies, while others with whips or clubs seemd to take fiendish delight
in beating their faces every time they struggld or groand.
The night came on and removd the savage demons from this scene of
torturing, to the house where the captive women and children were
collecting to become for weeks the sport of their brutal passions, the
victims of their savage cruelties. But these bleeding, suffering lambs
of Christ, although piercd with many balls and horribly beaten, lingerd
on till in the night. Their dying groans were distinctly heard by Mrs.
Osborn. The voice of Mrs. Whitman and Francis died away about the same
time, soon after dark. But Mr. Rogers continud longer, his voice
becoming fainter. His last words were, “come Lord Jesus, come quickly.”
Soon after this, Mr. Osborn and family left the Indian room, and passd
on partly over the body of Francis which appeard to be lifeless. And it
is hopd that very soon after their voices ceasd, these victims of savage
cruelties found themselves at rest sweetly in the bosom of the Saviour,
their labors, their fears, their pains ended, and their joys, unending
joys, begun.
Mr. Kimble with the three sick children, also Catharine and I believe
Miss Bewley, continud in the chamber through the night. Catharine tore
up a sheet and bound up the broken arm of Mr. Kimble. After Francis was
shot, and while the multitude were engagd in feasting their fiendish
passions on the dying agonies of Mr. Rogers, Mrs. Whitman and Francis,
Ups, Moolpool, (Walla-walla Indians in the employ of the doctor,)
collected the other children in the buttery and attempted to comfort
them. About dark they were taken over to the Mansion.
The first firing commencd at half-past one. Brother Rogers and sister
Whitman left the chamber about sundown.
It appears the attack was simultaneous upon the different points. Mr.
Gillan was shot upon his bench, the ball entering his breast and coming
out at his back. He was assisted by Mrs. Saunders into another room, and
expird about midnight. Mr. Marsh was shot at the mill, ran a little
distance in the direction of the doctor’s house, and fell. Mr. Saunders,
hearing the guns, rushd to the door of the school-room, where he was
seizd by several Indians who threw him upon the ground amid a shower of
balls and tomahawks. Being a very active man, he gaind his feet and ran
in the direction of his house, and although he was thrown down several
times and doubtless receivd many wounds, he gaind the end of the field
near the mansion some twenty rods from the school-room, when overpowerd
by numbers, he fell to rise no more.
Mr. Hall was seen struggling with a single Indian for a gun which had
missd fire—he wrenchd it from the Indian and rushd to the bushes wounded
in the face, and during the afternoon and night found his way to
Walla-walla, 25 miles distant. It appears from Mr. Osborn’s statement,
that Mr. Hall remaind at Walla-walla during Tuesday, determind not to
leave, but hearing the women and children were slaughterd, in despair he
consented to be put over the river at night, and started for the lower
country.
This corresponds with the statement which the Indians said was given to
them at the fort, and reachd my place by a Nez Perce, the next Monday,
the day before I arrivd at home. I know it has been publishd that he
could not be persuaded to remain. But is it natural to suppose a man
would willingly leave a fort well armd and defended, and expose himself
for three hundred miles through a country swarming with savages who
murderd his countrymen, and from whose hands he had barely escapd? Mr.
Hall never reachd the settlements. Indian report says he was murderd by
the Indians in the vicinity of John Day’s river. Another report says he
was drownd in the Columbia river while attempting to pass a rapid in a
canoe. The three men at the beef found themselves suddenly in the midst
of a storm of balls and flaming powder, dischargd from a forest of
muskets and pistols at their very bosoms. All three were wounded, but
neither of them fell. They fled each as he could see an opening through
the crowds. Mr. Kimble with a broken arm rushd into the doctor’s house
and chamber as stated above. Mr. Camfield ran by the blacksmith shop,
seizd his youngest child and calld to his family to follow him. They ran
into the mansion, and he rushd into the chamber, and from a small window
had a clear view of the awful scene without. Mr. Saunders was about
being cut down. Mr. Hoffman was yet falling and rising and struggling
with overpowering numbers, in the midst of clowds of burning powder, the
roar of guns, the clash of war-clubs, and the screams and yells of the
savages. He had first taken the direction of the mill, defending himself
with a single knife. The crowd was now making toward the house and he in
the midst, when two horsemen having finishd their work at some other
point, with tomahawks streaming with blood rushd upon him, and he fell,
literally cut to pieces. He was cut open through the back, and his heart
and liver taken out and found by his side on the ground, by my daughter,
two days after, who replacd them and sewd a sheet around the body before
it was, with the others, taken to the pit.
Neither of the Catholics were in any way molested. Jo Lewis was one with
the murderers. Finley’s lodge was near the mill, where the murderers
held frequent councils during the massacre. Jo Stanfield was told by
Telaukait to put his property by itself, that the Indians might know
what was his and not molest it. He was seen to pass among the Indians as
tho’ nothing was going on. He told three of the women, two of whose
husbands were slain, that he knew the murder was going to take place
before he went after the beef, as appears from their testimony before
Judge Wheeler. He told the widow Hayse that day, if she would become his
wife the Indians would not molest her.
When the massacre commencd, the two sons of Mr. Manson, and David, the
doctor’s half-breed Spanish boy some nine years old, were separated from
the other school children, and taken to Finley’s lodge, whence they were
taken to Fort Walla-walla. The selecting of David from the other
children in the doctor’s family, was a nice distinction, and could not
have happend by chance. Two other half-breed children were left, but
their fathers were Americans. David’s father was a Catholic, but his
mother was an Indian woman, who when her child was young, had cast it
into a pit and left it to die. The doctor learning the fact, went to the
place, took out the child and adopted it as his own, had educated and
bestowd much labor and care upon the child, and he had become a
promising boy. His father before his death had bound him to the doctor.
I am sorry to say the boy is retaind at Walla-walla, probably by the
priests, notwithstanding my remonstrance. As well might any other of the
doctor’s children have been retaind.
Mr. Camfield remaind in the chamber till some time after dark, when the
Indians became quiet. He furnishd himself with a buffalo robe and some
provisions and bid farewell to his family, not daring to hope that they
might ever again meet in this world. He could be of no service to them
by remaining and exposing his life, which would be taken the moment one
of the murderers should discover him.
As yet none of the male children and none of the women but Mrs. Whitman
had been killd, and the chief Telaukaikt had said they should not be
injurd. True there was but a faint hope that Mr. C. could escape from
the Indian country to a place of safety. But the most hazardous
undertaking is cheerfully espousd when life is at stake. Mr. C. took the
direction of my place, although a perfect stranger to the country and
the route. He went some four miles and secreted himself in the brush to
await a horse which Stanfield was to bring to him the next morning if he
could do it unobservd. He remaind secreted most of the day (Tuesday)—saw
Indians pass near and heard several guns in the direction of the
station, and of course had the most intense fears for the women and
children.
As I was expected from the Utilla that day, he supposd that I had very
probably fallen. But the victims were Mr. Kimble and the young Mr.
Young,—the latter had come down from the saw-mill with lumber and was to
return immediately with provisions for the families. He had arrivd
within half a mile of the house, when the Indians met and shot him about
2 P. M.—about the time the priest arrivd in the camp. The team was turnd
loose except one ox which attempted to hook and was shot.
Mr. Kimble remaind in the chamber through the night, suffering the most
excruciating pain from his broken arm, still more distress of soul from
the cries and moaning of the 3 sick children, not having it in his power
to relieve their sufferings.
In the morning he resolvd to procure water for the dying children. He
made his way to the bank of the stream, where he was discoverd by an
Indian and shot at. He fell as if dead, remaind a short time and then
secreted himself in the brush. While lying on the bank, a friendly
Indian made known the fact to his wife, but advisd her not to go to him
as it would discover him to the murderers. How intense must have been
her feelings.
About sundown Mr. Kimble left his retreat with the apparent intention of
going in to his family. He reachd the corner of the garden fence some
five rods from his door, where he was shot by Frank Askaloom, who
afterwards took his daughter, the amiable Miss Kimble, for a wife. He
claimd her as a right for having killd her father, of which he would
often speak, to her with the air and appearance of one who had done her
an invaluable favor.
Who can attempt to measure the deep horror and anguish of soul, of a
young woman in such hands! May kind Heaven prevent a like affliction to
any of his sinful children. Her bitter weeping whenever the Indian spoke
of killing her father had the effect only to induce him to propose to
exchange her to another Indian who held another of the captive young
women as a wife.
Why Mr. Kimble did not attempt to make his escape on Monday night, or
why, after having livd out the day on Tuesday, he did not remain in his
retreat till dark and then escape, is not known. He was heard to say on
Monday night, “It matters but little when we die if we are but prepard.”
Perhaps the pain of his arm took away the strength of resolution.
Perhaps he chose rather to die in the bosom of his family, than to make
the uncertain attempt to save his life, which could only be a living
death while wife and children remaind captives in the hands of the
murderers, the sport of their beastly passions, the victims of their
cruelty. For a stranger to reach my place one hundred and twenty miles,
traveling nights, there was no reasonable hope, and if he could, he
might end the nights of travel and pain and days of watching and hunger
only to mingle his own with the dead bodies of the slain of that
station—for what mind could divine where the work of superstition would
end, which had no power to fear, and many inducements to go forward?
The Dalls were equally hopeless for like reasons.
Fort Walla-walla could afford a safe retreat, but unfortunately it was
in the hands of Papists, for whom Mr. K. had the strongest fears as he
expresd himself to me the week before his death—for no other reason can
we account for his not fleeing to that fort Monday night. Had he done
so, it is not probable the fate of poor Mr. Hall would have stood alone
upon the page of history, to teach our children that Romanism is in
practice what it is in theory, UNCHANGEABLE.
No horse arriving, Mr. Camfield left his hiding-place, and wound his way
up the narrow skirt of brush till he came to what he supposd to be the
trail to my place, about dark. In a country cut up with trails,
Providence directed his feet to the right one, which he pursued that
night and the next day, when Wednesday night found him in the deep
valley of the Taka-nan, where he slept.
Thursday he followd the fresh tracks of cattle, which brought him at
night to the brink of Snake River bluffs, some miles below the regular
route.
Friday morning he came to the river, and having no fear from the Nez
Perces, he calld to their camp on the opposite side and was crossd over.
The Indian driving the cattle conducted Mr. C. to my house upon one of
his horses, for which he requird his buffalo robe. That night they staid
in a camp on the Clear Water, nine miles below my house.
Intelligence of the massacre had not yet reachd the Nez Perces, and Mr.
C. was careful to avoid any intimation. Had it been known in any of
these camps, he would have been killd.
Saturday late in the afternoon, Mr. C. reachd my house and communicated
to Mrs. Spalding the horrible intelligence of the massacre, aggravated
by the probability that the body of her husband had been added to the
slain, as he supposd, from the report of the guns on Tuesday. If not
slain at that time, there was no human probability that I could escape.
Five days had already elapsd and I had not arrivd, which made it quite
certain that I had been killd.
The case, of itself sufficient to overwhelm the stoutest soul, was
greatly aggravated by the fact, that her daughter was a captive in the
hands of the murderers of her husband, who would proceed immediately to
that defenseless station, to add her brother and the other Americans at
the station, to the number of the dead, and herself and remaining
children, to the already long catalogue of living victims of the savage
cruelties.
There was scarcely the shadow of protection in the few Americans at the
place, and she was too well acquainted with the close relationship
existing between the Cayuse and Nez Perces, and the treachery of the
Indian character, to place any confidence in the Indians of the place,
except motives of self-interest should appear.
But she was entirely in their hands. There was no other alternative, and
with the self possession and calmness of mind peculiarly her own, in
moments of imminent peril, she resolvd to make known the awful fact, and
cast herself and children into the hands of the principal men of the
place. Mr. Camfield begd of her not to do so, but evidently it was the
salvation of all at the station. Had the people of the place remaind
ignorant of the awful deed, till the report was brought by
Indians—doubtless the bloody scenes of the Waiilatpu would have been
repeated at Clear Water. The first Indian arrivd with the intelligence
of the massacre, on Monday, a Nez Perces,—doubtless a participator in
the bloody crime. But he was accompanied by a band of Nez Perces from
the camp, at which Mr. Camfield staid Friday night, with the avowd
purpose of plundering the station of all the property, which, of
course,—would have ended in killing the men, and perhaps Mrs. Spalding,
and captivating Miss Johnson and the children. They were prevented by
the chiefs, and their people of the place, to whom Mrs. S. had committed
herself.
On the arrival of Mr. Camfield, Mr. Hart, the brother of Mrs. S. was not
at the house. Providentially Jacob and Shakantai, (Eagle,) two principal
chiefs, were at the house, to whom Mrs. S. communicated the astounding
intelligence. While one communicated the news to the camp, the other
carrid a hasty note to Mr. Craig, living ten miles up the branch. The
Indians immediately flew to the protection of Mr. S. and the house.
Among those who showd themselves friendly were Luke and his two
brothers, members of our church, Jacob, about to be receivd into the
church, James, a Catholic, but particularly friendly to myself and
family, and most of their people. Some of old James’ people, united with
the robbers, and took considerable property.
The Indians decided that Mrs. S. with her effects, must be removd to Mr.
Craig’s, where they were taking up their winter quarters, on account of
wood. They judgd that the Cayuse would be there without delay, and they
could not protect the family, so far from their camp. Mrs. S. proposd to
remain quiet over the Sabbath. James and one or two others remaind as a
guard. The rest retird. Mr. Craig came down late at night. Mrs. S.
endeavord to start an express to Tishimakair, the station of bros.
Walker and Eells, but no Indian could be inducd to go. She next besought
the Indians to send an express for her daughter, if found alive, and to
learn the fate of her husband.—They objected, alleging that the women
and children were without doubt all killd. She finally told them she was
jealous of every one of them, and could not feel that she had a friend
among them. It had the desird effect. The Eagle consented to undertake
it, still others threw difficulties in his way, and it was near night
the next day, before he started.
Mr. Camfield’s wound was much inflamd, by wading the streams, and
traveling. He receivd a shot in his side from a pistol, the ball still
remaining in the flesh.
Mr. Jackson, it will be recollected, accompanied me to Waiilatpu, and
was waiting my return from the Utilla, till Monday forenoon, when a
slight circumstance inducd him to leave for Clear Water, about three
hours before the massacre commencd. He reachd Mr. Craig’s Tuesday night,
ignorant of what had taken place, and of his own narrow escape.
There was another band of Indians encampd in the same valley, some ten
miles from my station, headed by Joseph,—a principal chief, in the
absence of Ellis.
Joseph was one of the first natives who gave evidence of a change of
heart, and united with the church 8 years ago, and had, up to this time,
with the exception of two or three slight deviations, exhibited a good
Christian character.
Many of Joseph’s people were campd with him, and cultivated extensively
in the valley, and had for the last four or five years, constituted a
good portion of the Sabbath congregation—and the school. Seven of them
were members of the church, and had ever appeard friendly to the
mission.
Their present movements however, were very suspicious.—Almost daily,
Joseph with many of his people, had been in the habit of visiting the
house. But after the arrival of the news of the massacre, neither Joseph
nor any of his people showd themselves till Monday morning, when many of
the latter, and among them, Joseph’s brother-in-law, and from the same
fire—showd themselves with the robbers, and were foremost in plundering
the buildings.
Here was an opportunity for religion to show itself, if there was any.
Never before had temptation come to Joseph and his native brethren, in
the ch. in this dress. But now it came, and his fall, as I regard it,
and that of some others, has given to the Christian world a lesson that
should be well studied, before it again places the lives and property of
missionaries at the mercy of lawless savages, without a military force
to keep them in awe.
THINGS IN OREGON.
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