ORATOR AGAINST ORATOR.
The gravity, fixed attention, and decorum of these sons of the
forest was calculated to make for them a most favorable
impression.--GRAY: _History of Oregon_.
The next day all the Indians were gathered around the council grove.
Multnomah presided, and every sachem was in his place.
There was to be a trial of eloquence,--a tourney of orators, to see
which tribe had the best. Only one, the most eloquent of each tribe,
was to speak; and Multnomah was to decide who was victor. The mother
of Wallulah had introduced the custom, and it had become popular among
the Indians.
Cecil was in his place among the chiefs, with worn face and abstracted
air; Snoqualmie was present, with hawk-like glance and imperious mien;
there was Mishlah, with his sullen and brutal features; there, too,
wrapped closely in his robe of fur, sat Tohomish, brooding,
gloomy,--the wild empire's mightiest master of eloquence, and yet the
most repulsive figure of them all.
The Indians were strangely quiet that morning; the hush of a
superstitious awe was upon them. The smoking mountains, Hood and Adams
as the white man calls them, Au-poo-tah and Au-ka-ken in the Indian
tongue, were becoming active of late. The previous night flame had
been seen bursting from the top of Mount Hood and thick black smoke
still puffed upward from it, and on Mount Adams rested a heavy cloud
of volcanic vapors. Were the mountains angry? Aged men told how in the
old time there had been a terrible outburst of flame and ashes from
Mount Hood; a rain of fire and stones had fallen over all the
Willamette valley; the very earth had trembled at the great mountain's
wrath.
As the lower animals feel in the air the signs of a coming storm, so
these savages felt, by some kindred intuition, that a mysterious
convulsion of Nature was at hand. They talked in low tones, they were
subdued in manner; any one coming suddenly upon them would have been
impressed by the air of uneasiness and apprehension that everywhere
prevailed. But the chiefs were stoical, and Multnomah impassive as
ever.
Could it have been that the stormy influences at work in Nature lent
energy to the orators that day? They were unusually animated, at least
for Indians, though a white man would have found them intolerably
bombastic. Each speech was a boastful eulogy of the speaker's tribe,
and an exaggerated account of the wonderful exploits of its warriors.
This was rather dangerous ground; for all the tribes had been at
enmity in days gone by, and some of their most renowned victories had
been won over each other. Every one took it in good part, however,
except Mishlah. When We-math, chief of the Klamaths, recounting the
exploits of his race, told how in ancient times they had lorded it
over the Mollalies, Mishlah glared at him as if tempted to leap upon
him and strike him down. Fortunately the orator passed on to other
things, and the wrath of the Mollalie chief gradually cooled.
Then came Cecil. It was a grand opening. He could speak of his own
people, of their ancient savagery and present splendor, and show how
the gospel of love and justice had been the cause of their elevation.
Then would come the appeal to the Indians to accept this faith as
their own and share in its uplifting power. It was a magnificent
opportunity, the opportunity of a life-time.
But the mental conflict he had just passed through had rent his mind
like a volcanic upheaval. It possessed no longer the intense
concentration which had been the source of its strength. Tenderness,
benevolence, missionary zeal, were still there, but no longer
sovereign. Other passions divided his heart; a hopeless and burning
love consumed his being.
He spoke, but the fire was gone from his delivery and the vividness
from his imagination. His eloquence was not what it had been; his
heart was no longer in his work, and his oration was a failure.
Even the Indians noticed that something was lacking in his oratory,
and it no longer moved them as it had done. Cecil realized it, and
strove to speak with more energy, but in vain; he could not arouse
himself; and it was with a consciousness of failure that he brought
his speech to a close and resumed his seat.
To a man of his morbid conscientiousness only one conclusion was
possible.
"God sent me to proclaim salvation to these children of darkness," he
thought, "and I have turned aside to fill my heart with a woman's
love. His wrath is on me. He has taken his spirit from me. I am a
thing rejected and accursed, and this people will go down to death
because I have failed in my mission."
While he sat absorbed in these bitter, self-accusing thoughts, the
speaking went on. Wau-ca-cus the Klickitat made a strong "talk,"
picturesque in Indian metaphor, full of energy. But the chief that
followed surpassed him. Orator caught fire from orator; thoughts not
unworthy a civilized audience were struck out by the intensity of the
emulation; speakers rose to heights which they had never reached
before, which they were destined never to reach again. In listening to
and admiring their champions, the tribes forgot the smoking mountains
and the feeling of apprehension that had oppressed them. At length
Snoqualmie made a speech breathing his own daring spirit in every
word. It went immeasurably beyond the others; it was the climax of all
the darkly splendid eloquence of the day.
No, not of all. From his place among the chiefs rose a small and
emaciated figure; the blanket that had muffled his face was thrown
aside, and the tribes looked on the mis-shapen and degraded features
of Tohomish the Pine Voice. He stood silent at first, his eyes bent on
the ground, like a man in a trance. For a moment the spectators forgot
the wonderful eloquence of the man in his ignoble appearance. What
could he do against Wau-ca-cus the Klickitat and Snoqualmie the
Cayuse, whose sonorous utterances still rang in their ears, whose
majestic presence still filled their minds!
"The Willamettes are beaten at last,--the Willamette speakers can no
more be called the best," was the one exultant thought of the allies,
and the Willamettes trembled for the fame of their orators. Back in
the shadow of the cottonwoods, an old Willamette warrior put an arrow
on the string and bent his bow unseen on Tohomish.
"He cannot beat them, and it shall never be said that Tohomish
failed," he muttered. At that moment, even as death hung over him, the
orator's voice was heard beginning his "talk;" and the warrior's hand
fell, the bent bow was relaxed, the arrow dropped from the string. For
with the first accents of that soft and lingering voice the tribes
were thrilled as with the beginning of music.
The orator's head was still bent down, his manner abstracted; he spoke
of the legends and the glories of the Willamette tribe, but spoke of
them as if that tribe belonged to the past, as if it had perished from
the earth, and he was telling the tale of a great dead race. His tones
were melodious but indescribably mournful. When at length he lifted
his face, his eyes shone with a misty light, and his brutal features
were illuminated with a weird enthusiasm. A shudder went through the
vast and motley assembly. No boastful rant was this, but a majestic
story of the past, the story of a nation gone forever. It was the
death-song of the Willamettes, solemnly rendered by the last and
greatest orator of the race.
At length he spoke of Multnomah and of the power of the confederacy in
his time, but spoke of it as of old time, seen dimly through the lapse
of years. Then, when as it seemed he was about to go on and tell how
this power came to fall, he hesitated; the words faltered on his lips;
he suddenly broke off, took his seat, and drew his robe again over his
face.
[Illustration: "_It was the Death-song of the Willamettes._"]
The effect was indescribable. The portentous nature of the whole
speech needed only that last touch of mystery. It sent through every
heart a wild and awesome thrill, as at the shadow of approaching
destiny.
The multitude were silent; the spell of the prophet's lofty and
mournful eloquence still lingered over them. Multnomah rose. With him
rested the decision as to who was the greatest orator. But the proud
old war-chief knew that all felt that Tohomish had far surpassed his
competitors, and he was resolved that not his lips but the voice of
the tribes should proclaim their choice.
"Multnomah was to decide who has spoken best, but he leaves the
decision with you. You have heard them all. Declare who is the
greatest, and your word shall be Multnomah's word."
There was an instant's silence; then in a murmur like the rush of the
sea came back the voice of the multitude.
"Tohomish! Tohomish! he is greatest!"
"He is greatest," said Multnomah. But Tohomish, sitting there
dejectedly, seemed neither to see nor hear.
"To-morrow," said the war-chief, "while the sun is new, the chiefs
will meet in council and the great talk shall be ended. And after it
ends, Multnomah's daughter will be given to Snoqualmie, and Multnomah
will bestow a rich _potlatch_ [a giving of gifts] on the people. And
then all will be done."
The gathering broke up. Gradually, as the Indians gazed on the smoking
mountains, the excitement produced by the oratory they had just heard
wore off. Only Tohomish's sombre eloquence, so darkly in unison with
the menacing aspect of Nature, yet lingered in every mind. They were
frightened and startled, apprehensive of something to come. Legends,
superstitious lore of by-gone time connected with the "smoking
mountains," were repeated that afternoon wherever little groups of
Indians had met together. Through all these gathered tribes ran a
dread yet indefinable whisper of apprehension, like the first low
rustle of the leaves that foreruns the coming storm.
Over the valley Mount Adams towered, wrapped in dusky cloud; and from
Mount Hood streamed intermittent bursts of smoke and gleams of fire
that grew plainer as the twilight fell. Louder, as the hush of evening
deepened, came the sullen roar from the crater of Mount Hood. Below
the crater, the ice-fields that had glistened in unbroken whiteness
the previous day were now furrowed with wide black streaks, from which
the vapor of melting snow and burning lava ascended in dense wreaths.
Men wiser than these ignorant savages would have said that some
terrible convulsion was at hand.
Multnomah's announcement in the council was a dreadful blow to Cecil,
though he had expected it. His first thought was of a personal appeal
to the chief, but one glance at the iron features of the autocrat told
him that it would be a hopeless undertaking. No appeal could turn
Multnomah from his purpose. For Cecil, such an undertaking might be
death; it certainly would be contemptuous refusal, and would call down
on Wallulah the terrible wrath before which the bravest sachem
quailed.
Cecil left the grove with the other chiefs and found his way to his
lodge. There he flung himself down on his face upon his couch of furs.
The Indian woman, his old nurse, who still clung to him, was absent,
and for some time he was alone. After a while the flap that hung over
the entrance was lifted, and some one came in with the noiseless tread
of the Indian. Cecil, lying in a maze of bitter thought, became aware
of the presence of another, and raised his head. The Shoshone renegade
stood beside him. His gaze rested compassionately on Cecil's sad, worn
face.
"What is it?" he asked. "Your words were slow and heavy to-day. There
was a weight on your spirit; what is it? You said that we were
friends, so I came to ask if I could help."
"You are good, and like a brother," replied Cecil, gently, "but I
cannot tell you my trouble. Yet this much I can tell,"--and he sat
upon the couch, his whole frame trembling with excitement. "I have
sinned a grievous sin, therefore the Great Spirit took away the words
from my lips to-day. My heart has become evil, and God has punished
me."
It was a relief to his over-burdened conscience to say those harsh
things of himself, yet the relief was bitter. Over the bronzed face of
the Indian came an expression of deep pity.
"The white man tears himself with his own claws like a wounded beast,
but it does not give him peace. Has he done evil? Then let him
remember what he has so often told the Indians: 'Forsake evil, turn
from sin, and the Great Spirit will forgive.' Let my white brother do
this, and it will be well with him."
He gazed at Cecil an instant longer; then, with a forbearance that
more civilized men do not always show, he left the lodge without
another word.
But what he said had its effect. Through Cecil's veins leaped the
impulse of a sudden resolve,--a resolve that was both triumph and
agony. He fell on his knees beside the couch.
"Thou hast shown me my duty by the lips of the Indian, and I will
perform it. I will tear this forbidden love from my heart. Father,
help me. Once before I resolved to do this and failed. Help me that I
fail not now. Give me strength. Give me the mastery over the flesh, O
God! Help me to put this temptation from me. Help me to fulfil my
mission."
The struggle was long and doubtful, but the victory was won at last.
When Cecil arose from his knees, there was the same set and resolute
look upon his face that was there the morning he entered the
wilderness, leaving friends and home behind him forever,--the look
that some martyr of old might have worn, putting from him the clinging
arms of wife or child, going forth to the dungeon and the stake.
"It is done," murmured the white lips. "I have put her from me. My
mission to the Indians alone fills my heart. But God help her! God
help her!"
For the hardest part of it all was that he sacrificed her as well as
himself.
"It must be," he thought; "I must give her up. I will go now and tell
her; then I will never look upon her face again. But oh! what will
become of her?"
And his long fingers were clinched as in acutest pain. But his
sensitive nerves, his intense susceptibilities were held in abeyance
by a will that, once roused, was strong even unto death.
He went out. It was dark. Away to the east Mount Hood lifted its
blazing crater into the heavens like a gigantic torch, and the roar of
the eruption came deep and hoarse through the stillness of night.
Once, twice it seemed to Cecil that the ground trembled slightly under
his feet. The Indians were huddled in groups watching the burning
crest of the volcano. As the far-off flickering light fell on their
faces, it showed them to be full of abject fear.
"It is like the end of the world," thought Cecil. "Would that it were;
then she and I might die together."
He left the camp and took the trail through the wood to the
trysting-place; for, late as it was, he knew that she awaited him.