“I am weary of your quarrels,
Weary of your war and bloodshed,
Weary of your prayers for vengeance,
Of your wrangling and dissensions;
All your strength is in your union,
All your danger is in discord;
Therefore be at peace henceforward,
And as brothers live together.”
--“_Hiawatha._”
The natives of the Pacific Coast are represented by some historians
as a fierce, savage, warlike race. At one time they were a numerous
people, but their own bloody and ferocious wars were the means in years
gone by of greatly reducing their numbers, and the ravages of the white
man’s diseases and fire-water have so far completed the work that some
tribes have become almost extinct.
In very early days the white traders had several encounters with the
natives, and the account is preserved of the Indians of the west coast
of Vancouver Island surrounding and capturing two vessels, one the
_Boston_, at Nootka, and the other the _Tonquin_, at Clayoquot. The
latter was afterwards blown up, it is thought, by some imprisoned
members of the crew, and hundreds of the captors who swarmed her
decks were killed. Another vessel, the _Atahualpa_, was also taken
by the Indians of Millbank Sound, and four of the crew, including
the captain, were killed. The vessel was, however, recaptured by the
remaining members of the crew, who sailed away in safety.
Their tales of war among themselves are thrilling and often very
exciting. They boast of sweeping out whole tribes at once; of wading
ankle deep in blood! of taking many slaves and killing and scalping
the rest. Chiefs from the north would sweep down south in their
great war-canoes and pick a quarrel with a southern tribe over some
trifling matter, then enter into bloody conflict with them, take many
slaves, and hasten back to the far north to sell them, and thus enrich
themselves.
The southern people fought among themselves, or, headed by some vicious
chiefs, would make trips up the Fraser River or into Puget Sound,
returning after a successful foray with the slaves taken in the fight,
or more likely kidnapped at their fishing or berry-picking grounds.
The northerners were not always successful in making the trip home with
their booty. The Cowichans would gather at Dodds’ Narrows and Active
Pass, or at Cowichan Gap, and set upon the victors, often turning their
victory into defeat. If they escaped the Cowichans they still had to
run the gauntlet of the Yu-kwul-toes, the most to be dreaded of the
whole coast tribes, and many a Tsimpshean, Hydah or Kling-get war party
has found its death trap at Seymour Narrows or the Yu-kwul-toe Rapids.
On one occasion a party of northerners, on their way home through
Dodds’ Narrows, about seven miles south of Nanaimo, had a battle with
some Nanaimos, whom they defeated, killing eleven warriors. Striking
off the heads of their slain enemies they took them with them, leaving
the bodies, which were afterwards discovered by their friends. A short
time after, in retaliation for the deed, on the south side of Salt
Spring Island a canoe load of seven northern people were all butchered
in a most shocking manner; stones were tied to their necks and they
were sunk in the sea. Not reaching Victoria at the time expected, their
friends instituted a search along the coast. I was then living at
Nanaimo, and in the course of my work made frequent visits to Chemainus
and Salt Spring Island, Cowichan and Saanich. On my next trip down the
coast I was asked by the authorities to make inquiries regarding the
lost ones.
After preaching to the Indians at Chemainus I referred to the murder,
and warned them, if they knew who the murderers were, not to conceal
them, as sooner or later they would be found out.
Several days after, on returning from Salt Spring Island, I met young
chief Lis-tcheem, of the Chemainus tribe, who had come out some three
or four miles in a canoe to meet me. Approaching in that cautious,
suspicious manner which only an Indian will manifest, he came alongside
and, speaking in an undertone, said: “Missionary, I want to say
something that I don’t want my people to know. You told us the other
day that we must not hide the murderers. Now, a party of our people
have just returned from Victoria with a great deal of new property,
and they seem to have money. We don’t know where they got all this
money. I suspect they are the party who murdered the people you spoke
of. They are now camped on the Chemainus River. But don’t tell the
people that I told you.”
I immediately returned to Nanaimo and acquainted the magistrate with
the facts. A party of ten special constables were sent down to the
river, and the murderers were captured, brought to Nanaimo, given a
preliminary hearing, and sent down to Victoria to stand their trial at
the next assizes.
Some time after, amid the busy rush of the missionary’s life, this
young chief met me at my home in the Nanaimo camp, and said he had been
down to the place where they heard the murder had been committed, some
forty miles away, and had found their goods, clothing of all kinds,
strewn upon the beach, particularly the clothes of a little child
belonging to the party. This was the child of a white man from Nanaimo,
whose Indian wife was on her way to take the steamer at Victoria to
make a visit to her friends in the north. Among the other things he
found a bunch of little papers, rolled up and stuck in the fork of a
tree. This roll, which he handed to me, I found contained eighty-five
dollars in bills.
I took him to the magistrate, to whom he told his story and handed over
the bills. The official praised him for his honesty and faithfulness,
and as a reward gave him a note of recommendation saying what a good,
honest chief he was. This document, signed and sealed with a large red
seal and placed in an official envelope, pleased the chief very much.
Some weeks after he was in Victoria and happened to show this paper, of
which he was very proud, to a police officer, who at once put him in
jail, where he was held as a witness for over two months. During this
time his family were left to starve, and nothing was done to help them.
Is it any wonder that the Indians were enraged at this high-handed
piece of injustice, and that when the young chief finally was released
he declared that if all the Indians and whites in the place were
murdered he would never again tell anything that he had discovered
about the matter.
Speaking of the Indian’s love of “a big paper,” as they called an
official certificate, I recall the amusing circumstance of a chief who
was given “a paper” by a certain sea captain, which, not being able
to read, he supposed was highly complimentary. The Indian went about,
proudly showing to everyone a document which stated, “Look out for this
fellow; he is the greatest old rascal and biggest thief I have ever met
with.”
In those early days, when hundreds and thousands came from the north,
it was not an uncommon thing to see a body floating in the harbor. It
is the nature of an Indian always to keep in mind an old feud. Where
blood has been shed they seek retaliation, and with them it is always
“a life for a life.”
AN AWFUL NIGHT.
Tsil-ka-mut, a chief of the old school of the An-ko-me-nums, nephew of
Squin-es-ton, a chief of the Nanaimos, was the most influential man in
the tribe. Squin-es-ton was recognized as the head, but Tsil-ka-mut,
his nephew, led the way in all matters of business or council with
other tribes.
This younger chief in his youth was a great heathen, having been
trained up in all heathen secrets from a child. He would often go away
up the mountains and bathe in the mountain streams, where he said he
had communion with the spirits and received power.
He was a fine, stalwart, muscular fellow, with a foot very large and
almost as hard and tough as a horse’s hoof. He was a great hunter, and
could fight, too, when it came in his way, and would keep one by the
hour at his camp-fire telling of the bloody wars of former days. But he
used to say that he would rather live in peace at any time than amidst
war and trouble.
Tsil-ka-mut exerted a great and good influence over the people, and
his authority was respected. He seldom made speeches at their heathen
feasts or councils, but when he did speak they would, in the most
trying time, submit to what seemed to be his superior judgment.
He was a man of peace, and tried, in his way, to preserve harmony in
the tribes and encourage the young people to attend church, though he
did not attend very regularly himself.
At one notable Christmas gathering, which, of course, all attended, he
made a speech and said: “I want to say a few words. I am glad, very
glad, that the missionaries are in our land to preach to us. It makes
me feel very solemn to be here to-day. I say to the young people, never
to laugh and play in God’s house; it is not like out-of-doors. Do not
listen to the old people, who are not wise in good things, but hear the
missionary, who is our friend. Young men, it is very good for you to
show an example to the children. You must always go to God’s house and
the children to school. I hope you, my children, will all become very
wise. We older men cannot easily change our ways, we will soon be gone,
but you young men will be with the children who are growing up; to you
God’s word has come. You must believe it and do God’s will; this will
be best for you.”
I shall never forget Tsil-ka-mut and that awful night when, after I
had preached to the white people in town and had returned to my cabin
home in the Indian village, about half past ten o’clock, our native
local preacher, Amos Cushan, came to my door, rapped quickly, and in an
excited tone of voice said, “Did you not hear the war-whoop? I think
there is going to be trouble to-night.”
“I heard a noise. What is it?” I replied.
“I think a big fight to-night, sir!” said he. “Two chiefs with a number
of their men have gone down towards Qual-la-kup’s house, and I think a
big fight, sir!”
These two chiefs had for some time held a grudge against Chief
Qual-la-kup, because of a quarrel between the two factions, which had
resulted to the advantage of Qual-la-kup’s clan.
Immediately I sprang out of my house, and with my friend ran down
through the woods, the shortest way to the house, and rushed in. The
building was all in darkness, except for a few embers of a fire. In
the dim darkness I could see two wild, savage-looking men, mercilessly
assaulting the old man, Qual-la-kup, whom they had dragged out of bed.
A number of others were standing around with clubs, looking wild enough
and ready to knock a man down at any moment.
[Illustration: “I could see two wild, savage-looking men mercilessly
assaulting the old man.” _p. 74_]
I rushed towards the group, and with what seemed to me supernatural
strength I flung myself upon them, sending one one way and another
another. With that the old man seized his advantage, and getting up,
all bruised and bleeding, he hid himself behind me, spreading my
overcoat tails to hide him from his pursuers.
At the same time the old chief stood dancing in front of me with
fiendish yells, his knife in his hand, ready to strike the old man when
the opportunity came.
“Don’t you strike Qual-la-kup,” I said to him. “You have injured him
enough. Strike me if you must strike.”
Now the friends of both parties rushed in from all sides of the
village, and in a few moments the great Indian house, some seventy
feet long by thirty broad, was filled with a quarrelling multitude.
Fortunately some torches were lighted, which enabled us to take in the
scene, and for hours and hours Amos Cushan and I were rushing between
quarrelling parties to stop their fighting. One would be struck with a
club here, another with some sharp instrument there, and blood flowed
freely. Amidst it all continued the awful din of rushing feet and the
howls and screams of hellish rage.
Suddenly Quin-num, the son of old Qual-la-kup, dashed in. He had just
heard of the trouble, away at the other end of the village, and jumping
out of bed and tucking his blanket around him, he seized the first
weapon to hand, a claw-hammer, and hurried to the rescue of his father.
I saw him rush in, trembling with anger, and I said, “Quin-num, be
good! Don’t fight!”
“Oh,” he said, and his voice was wild with rage, “I could listen to
what you say, but look at the blood of my father!”
And with that he let out an awful yell, and wheeling around, struck
with the hammer the old chief who had clubbed his father, cutting his
eye nearly out.
Then the fighting commenced with renewed vigor and continued until four
in the morning. We were nearly exhausted trying to get these savage
men reconciled. It was evident that the old chief and his nephew had
urged on the young men, and perhaps had given them whiskey to get them
to undertake this dark deed. It was an old quarrel, and jealousy and
pride were at the bottom of it. Qual-la-kup was a quiet old man and his
people were generally respected. His son, Quin-num, had married into
Squin-es-ton’s tribe and seemed likely to secure a ruling position,
which moved the other chief and his people to jealousy.
While we were in the midst of this excitement, and hardly knowing who
would be the next to fall, there came a lull in the storm, and we
lifted up our hearts to God for help and direction.
Just then Tsil-ka-mut arrived on the scene from the other end of the
village, all painted and with his blanket tucked around his waist. The
great big fellow did not touch anything or anybody, but just danced
about, up and down, crying out, “My children, my children, don’t be
like little boys!” And you could feel the contempt in his tone. “Our
fathers used to fight, but they would go and fight like men till they
were wading in blood, and take many scalps. They would never go and
take a man out of his bed unexpectedly in the night. Oh, you are like
little boys! like little boys!” And on he danced up and down through
the long house, repeating these simple words, “Like little boys, like
little boys. Oh! you are like little boys!” until these savage men
dropped their clubs, hid their knives behind their blankets, looking
dreadfully ashamed, and one by one walked out.
[Illustration: “The great big fellow just danced up and down, crying,
‘My children, my children, don’t be like little boys!’” _p. 76_]
After we had washed the wounds and dressed some fearful looking
gashes, we offered a prayer of thanks to God and got away to rest, too
much excited to sleep.
Early the next day Tsil-ka-mut and others came to the mission house to
thank me for being there that night, for they said: “O missionary, if
you hadn’t been there perhaps six or twelve men dead this morning. Then
there would be such a savage, angry feeling in all our hearts, which
would not leave us for many moons.”
“Were you not afraid?” “Did you not get hurt?” my friends have asked me.
No, thank God, we were not hurt, and as for fear, we didn’t think of it
until it was all over, when we wondered we hadn’t been knocked down.
Surely “the angel of the Lord encampeth round about them that fear him,
and delivereth them.”
We had the comfort of seeing Qual-la-kup and some of his friends come
into the enjoyment of the blessed light. Qual-la-kup’s brother, the
uncle of David Sallosalton, and many others of his clan, became devoted
Christians.
Alas! for the other poor old chief and his family; some of them did not
live out half their days.
Poor, proud, jealous Quee-es-ton, the man who once knocked the
missionary down and afterwards expressed his sorrow for having done so,
was killed in a quarrel with some white men about whiskey. Whiskey was
his great enemy, as well as that of his wife, Stah-cel-wet. They would
have a supply of fire-water as often as they could get the money. I
have more than once stood between them in their quarrelling, taking
their whiskey away and getting them sobered up. At the time of my
encounter with him, before mentioned, I pointed him to the Saviour of
sinners and urged him to prepare to meet his God. He appeared repentant
and seemed for a time to reform, but alas! for poor, weak human nature,
he fell again. Chief Louis Good and family, of Nanaimo, now attend the
services and profess Christianity. We trust they may lead lives of
usefulness. He is related to the family of chiefs.
As for Tsil-ka-mut, we shall hear of him later.