1847. When Dr. Whitman reached home on that Sunday night, after parting
with Mr. Spalding at the Umatilla, it was already about midnight; yet he
visited the sick before retiring to rest; and early in the morning
resumed his duties among them. An Indian died that morning. At his
burial, which the Doctor attended, he observed that but few of the
friends and relatives of the deceased were present but attributed it to
the fear which the Indians have of disease.
Everything about the mission was going on as usual. Quite a number of
Indians were gathered about the place; but as an ox was being butchered,
the crowd was easily accounted for. Three men were dressing the beef in
the yard. The afternoon session of the mission school had just
commenced. The mechanics belonging to the station were about their
various avocations. Young Bulee was sick in the Doctor's house. Three of
the orphan children who were recovering from the measles, were with the
Doctor and Mrs. Whitman in the sitting-room; and also a Mrs. Osborne,
one of the emigrants who had just got up from a sick bed, and who had a
sick child in her arms.
[Illustration: _MASSACRE OF REV. DR. WHITMAN OF THE PRESBYTERIAN
MISSION._]
The Doctor had just come in, wearied, and dejected as it was possible
for his resolute spirit to be, and had seated himself, bible in hand,
when several Indians came to a side door, asking permission to come in
and get some medicine. The Doctor rose, got his medicines, gave them
out, and sat down again. At that moment Mrs. Whitman was in an
adjoining room and did not see what followed. _Tam-a-has_, a chief
called "the murderer," came behind the Doctor's chair, and raising his
tomahawk, struck the Doctor in the back of the head, stunning but not
killing him.
Instantly there was a violent commotion. John Sager, one of the adopted
children, sprang up with his pistol in his hand, but before he could
fire it, he too was struck down, and cut and hacked shockingly. In the
meantime Dr. Whitman had received a second blow upon the head, and now
laid lifeless on the floor. Cries and confusion filled the house.
At the first sound, Mrs. Whitman, in whose ears that whisper in the air
had so long sounded, began in agony to stamp upon the floor, and wring
her hands, crying out, "Oh, the Indians, the Indians!" At that moment
one of the women from an adjoining building came running in, gasping
with terror, for the butchery was going on outside as well, and
_Tam-a-has_ and his associates were now assisting at it. Going to the
room where the Doctor lay insensible, Mrs. Whitman and her terrified
neighbor dragged him to the sofa and laid him upon it, doing all they
could to revive him. To all their inquiries he answered by a whispered
"no," probably not conscious what was said.
While this was being done, the people from every quarter began to crowd
into the Doctor's house, many of them wounded. Outside were heard the
shrieks of women, the yells of the Indians, the roar of musketry, the
noise of furious riding, of meeting war-clubs, groans, and every
frightful combination of sound, such as only could be heard at such a
carnival of blood. Still Mrs. Whitman sat by her husband's side, intent
on trying to rouse him to say one coherent word.
Nearer and nearer came the struggle, and she heard some one exclaim
that two of her friends were being murdered beneath the window. Starting
up, she approached the casement to get a view, as if by looking she
could save; but that moment she encountered the fiendish gaze of Jo
Lewis the half-breed, and comprehended his guilt. "Is it _you_, Jo, who
are doing this?" she cried. Before the expression of horror had left her
lips, a young Indian who had been a special favorite about the mission,
drew up his gun and fired, the ball entering her right breast, when she
fell without a groan.
When the people had at first rushed in, Mrs. Whitman had ordered the
doors fastened and the sick children removed to a room up stairs.
Thither now she was herself conveyed, having first recovered
sufficiently to stagger to the sofa where lay her dying husband. Those
who witnessed this strange scene, say that she knelt and prayed--prayed
for the orphan children she was leaving, and for her aged parents. The
only expression of personal regret she was heard to utter, was sorrow
that her father and mother should live to know she had perished in such
a manner.
In the chamber were now gathered Mrs. Whitman, Mrs. Hayes, Miss Bulee,
Catharine Sager, thirteen years of age, and three of the sick children,
besides Mr. Rogers and Mr. Kimble. Scarcely had they gained this retreat
when the crashing of windows and doors was heard below, and with whoops
and yells the savages dashed into the sitting-room where Doctor Whitman
still lay dying. While some busied themselves removing from the house
the goods and furniture, a chief named _Te-lau-ka-ikt_, a favorite at
the mission, and on probation for admission into the church,
deliberately chopped and mangled the face of his still breathing teacher
and friend with his tomahawk, until every feature was rendered
unrecognizable.
The children from the school-house were brought into the kitchen of the
Doctor's house about this time, by Jo Lewis, where, he told them, they
were going to be shot. Mr. Spalding's little girl Eliza, was among them.
Understanding the native language, she was fully aware of the terrible
import of what was being said by their tormentors. While the Indians
talked of shooting the children huddled together in the kitchen,
pointing their guns, and yelling, Eliza covered her face with her apron,
and leaned over upon the sink, that she might not see them shoot her.
After being tortured in this manner for some time, the children were
finally ordered out of doors.
While this was going on, a chief called _Tamt-sak-y_, was trying to
induce Mrs. Whitman to come down into the sitting-room.
She replied that she was wounded and could not do so, upon which he
professed much sorrow, and still desired her to be brought down, "If you
are my friend _Tamt-sak-y_, come up and see me," was her reply to his
professions, but he objected, saying there were Americans concealed in
the chamber, whom he feared might kill him. Mr. Rogers then went to the
head of the stairs and endeavored to have the chief come up, hoping
there might be some friendly ones, who would aid them in escaping from
the murderers. _Tamt-sak-y_, however, would not come up the stairs,
although he persisted in saying that Mrs. Whitman should not be harmed,
and that if all would come down and go over to the other house where the
families were collected, they might do so in safety.
The Indians below now began to call out that they were going to burn the
Doctor's house. Then no alternative remained but to descend and trust to
the mercy of the savages. As Mrs. Whitman entered the sitting-room,
leaning on one arm of Mr. Rogers, who also was wounded in the head, and
had a broken arm, she caught a view of the shockingly mutilated face of
her husband and fell fainting upon the sofa, just as Doctor Whitman gave
a dying gasp.
Mr. Rogers and Mrs. Hayes now attempted to get the sofa, or settee, out
of the house, and had succeeded in moving it through the kitchen to the
door. No sooner did they appear in the open door-way than a volley of
balls assailed them. Mr. Rogers fell at once, but did not die
immediately, for one of the most horrid features in this horrid butchery
was, that the victims were murdered by torturing degrees. Mrs. Whitman
also received several gunshot wounds, lying on the settee. Francis
Sager, the oldest of her adopted boys, was dragged into the group of
dying ones and shot down.
The children, who had been turned out of the kitchen were still huddled
together about the kitchen door, so near to this awful scene that every
incident was known to them, so near that the flashes from the guns of
the Indians burnt their hair, and the odor of the blood and the burning
powder almost suffocated them.
At two o'clock in the afternoon the massacre had commenced. It was now
growing dusk, and the demons were eager to finish their work. Seeing
that life still lingered in the mangled bodies of their victims, they
finished their atrocities by hurling them in the mud and gore which
filled the yard, and beating them upon their faces with whips and clubs,
while the air was filled with the noise of their shouting, singing, and
dancing--the Indian women and children assisting at these orgies, as if
the Bible had never been preached to them. And thus, after eleven years
of patient endeavor to save some heathen souls alive, perished Doctor
and Mrs. Whitman.
In all that number of Indians who had received daily kindnesses at the
hands of the missionaries, only two showed any compassion. These two,
_Ups_ and _Madpool_, Walla-Wallas, who were employed by the Doctor, took
the children away from the sickening sights that surrounded them, into
the kitchen pantry, and there in secret tried to comfort them.
When night set in the children and families were all removed to the
building called the mansion-house, where they spent a night of horror;
all, except those who were left in Mrs. Whitman's chamber, from which
they dared not descend, and the family of Mr. Osborne, who escaped.
On the first assault Mr. and Mrs. Osborne ran into their bedroom which
adjoined the sitting-room, taking with them their three small children.
Raising a plank in the floor, Mr. O. quickly thrust his wife and
children into the space beneath, and then following, let the plank down
to its place. Here they remained until darkness set in, able to hear all
that was passing about them, and fearing to stir. When all was quiet at
the Doctor's house, they stole out under cover of darkness and succeeded
in reaching Fort Walla-Walla, after a painful journey of several days,
or rather nights, for they dared not travel by day.
Another person who escaped was a Mr. Hall, carpenter, who in a hand to
hand contest with an Indian, received a wound in the face, but finally
reached the cover of some bushes where he remained until dark, and then
fled in the direction of Fort Walla-Walla. Mr. Hall was the first to
arrive at the fort, where, contrary to his expectations, and to all
humanity, he was but coldly received by the gentleman in charge, Mr.
McBean.
Whether it was from cowardice or cruelty as some alleged, that Mr.
McBean rejoiced in the slaughter of the Protestant missionaries, himself
being a Catholic, can never be known. Had that been true, one might have
supposed that their death would have been enough, and that he might
have sheltered a wounded man fleeing for his life, without grudging him
this atom of comfort. Unfortunately for Mr. McBean's reputation, he
declined to grant such shelter willingly. Mr. Hall remained, however,
twelve hours, until he heard a report that the women and children were
murdered, when, knowing how unwelcome he was, and being in a half
distracted state, he consented to be set across the Columbia to make his
way as best he could to the Wallamet. From this hour he was never seen
or heard from, the manner of his death remaining a mystery to his wife
and their family of five children, who were among the prisoners at
Waiilatpu.
When Mr. Osborne left the mission in the darkness, he was able only to
proceed about two miles, before Mrs. Osborne's strength gave way, she
lately having been confined by an untimely birth; and he was compelled
to stop, secreting himself and family in some bushes. Here they
remained, suffering with cold, and insufficient food, having only a
little bread and cold mush which they had found in the pantry of the
Doctor's house, before leaving it. On Tuesday night, Mrs. O. was able to
move about three miles more: and again they were compelled to stop. In
this way to proceed, they must all perish of starvation; therefore on
Wednesday night Mr. O. took the second child and started with it for the
fort, where he arrived before noon on Thursday.
Although Mr. McBean received him with friendliness of manner, he refused
him horses to go for Mrs. Osborne and his other children, and even
refused to furnish food to relieve their hunger, telling him to go to
the Umatilla, and forbidding his return to the fort. A little food was
given to himself and child, who had been fasting since Monday night.
Whether Mr. McBean would have allowed this man to perish is uncertain:
but certain it is that some base or cowardly motive made him
exceedingly cruel to both Hall and Osborne.
While Mr. Osborne was partaking of his tea and crackers, there arrived
at the fort Mr. Stanley, the artist, whom the reader will remember
having met in the mountains several years before. When the case became
known to him, he offered his horses immediately to go for Mrs. Osborne.
Shamed into an appearance of humanity, Mr. McBean then furnished an
Indian guide to accompany Mr. O. to the Umatilla, where he still
insisted the fugitives should go, though this was in the murderer's
country.
A little meat and a few crackers were furnished for the supper of the
travelers; and with a handkerchief for his hatless head and a pair of
socks for his child's naked feet, all furnished by Mr. Stanley, Mr.
Osborne set out to return to his suffering wife and children. He and his
guide traveled rapidly, arriving in good time near the spot where he
believed his family to be concealed. But the darkness had confused his
recollection, and after beating the bushes until daylight, the unhappy
husband and father was about to give up the search in despair, when his
guide at length discovered their retreat.
The poor mother and children were barely alive, having suffered much
from famine and exposure, to say nothing of their fears. Mrs. Osborne
was compelled to be tied to the Indian in order to sit her horse. In
this condition the miserable fugitives turned toward the Umatilla, in
obedience to the command of McBean, and were only saved from being
murdered by a Cayuse by the scornful words of the guide, who shamed the
murderer from his purpose of slaughtering a sick and defenceless family.
At a Canadian farm-house, where they stopped to change horses, they were
but roughly received; and learning here that _Tamt-sak-y's_ lodge was
near by, Mrs. Osborne refused to proceed any farther toward the
Umatilla. She said, "I doubt if I can live to reach the Umatilla; and if
I must die, I may as well die at the gates of the Fort. Let us, then,
turn back to the Fort."
To this the guide assented, saying it was not safe going among the
Cayuses. The little party, quite exhausted, reached Walla-Walla about
ten o'clock at night, and were at once admitted. Contrary to his former
course, Mr. McBean now ordered a fire made to warm the benumbed
travelers, who, after being made tolerably comfortable, were placed in a
secret room of the fort. Again Mr. Osborne was importuned to go away,
down to the Wallamet, Mr. McBean promising to take care of his family
and furnish him an outfit if he would do so. Upon being asked to furnish
a boat, and Indians to man it, in order that the family might accompany
him, he replied that his Indians refused to go.
From all this reluctance, not only on the part of McBean, but of the
Indians also, to do any act which appeared like befriending the
Americans, it would appear that there was a very general fear of the
Cayuse Indians, and a belief that they were about to inaugurate a
general war upon the Americans, and their friends and allies. Mr.
Osborne, however, refused to leave his family behind, and Mr. McBean was
forced to let him remain until relief came. When it did come at last, in
the shape of Mr. Ogden's party, _Stickas_, the chief who had warned Mr.
Spalding, showed his kind feeling for the sufferers by removing his own
cap and placing it on Mr. Osborne's head, and by tying a handkerchief
over the ears of Mr. Osborne's little son, as he said, "to keep him
warm, going down the river." Sadly indeed, did the little ones who
suffered by the massacre at Waiilatpu, stand in need of any Christian
kindness.