The Indian Outbreak of 1855.
The years of 1853-4 were years of comparative peace, free from actual
Indian wars, and afforded the pioneers an opportunity of improving their
farms, building up more comfortable homes and surrounding their families
with some comforts and conveniences of civilization. Yet even these
years were not free from alarms and stampedes. Time and again swift
riders spread the news that the redskins had dug up the tomahawk and had
gone on the war path. These scares arose from isolated murders by the
Indians, whose cupidity could not withstand the temptations of the white
man's property. It was not, therefore, until midsummer of 1855 that
hostilities began in earnest. A federation had been formed among all the
tribes of Northern California, Southern and Eastern Oregon and
Washington. The great leaders of this insurrection were Tyee John and
his brother "Limpy," Rogue River Indians, and John was one of the
greatest, bravest and most resourceful warriors this continent has
produced. Another was Pe-mox-mox, who ruled over the Cayouses and the
Columbias, and was killed early in the war while attempting to lead the
white troops into ambush.
The outbreak was sudden and fierce, lighting up the frontier with the
burning cabins of the settlers. Travelers were waylaid, prospectors
murdered and in many instances entire families wiped out, their homes
becoming their funeral pyres. Neither age nor sex was spared. Little
children were seized by the heels and their brains dashed out against
the corner of the cabin. One entire family perished amid the flames of
their burning home. Women were butchered under circumstances of peculiar
and diabolical atrocity. A man named Harris, attacked by Indians on the
Rogue River, defended himself until killed. His wife then took up the
defense of her home and little daughter, and with a heroism that has
rendered her name immortal in the annals of Oregon, held the savages at
bay until relief came twenty-four hours later.
Mock sentimentalists and fake humanitarians have walled their eyes to
heaven in holy horror at the "barbarities" practiced by white men upon
the "poor persecuted red man." Yet had they witnessed scenes like those
I have so faintly portrayed, they too, would have preached a war of
extermination. You and I, reader, have an exceedingly thin veneering of
civilization, and in the presence of such scenes of diabolical atrocity
would slip it off as a snake sheds his skin. I have seen men as kind and
gentle,--as humane--as yourself transformed into almost savages in the
presence of such scenes.
For a year previous to the great outbreak, the Indians would leave their
reservations in squads, and after murdering and pillaging the
settlements, would return with their plunder to the protection of the
agencies. Demands made for their surrender by the settlers were answered
by a counter demand for their authority, which required delay and
generally ended with the escape of the murderers. The result was that
squads of Indians off the reservations were attacked and sometimes
exterminated. Thus affairs grew from bad to worse until the final great
outbreak during the summer of 1855.
Geo. L. Curry, Governor of the Territory of Oregon, at once issued a
call to arms and volunteers from every part of the territory instantly
responded. A company of U. S. dragoons under command of Capt. A. J.
Smith, who subsequently achieved fame in the war of the States, was
stationed in Southern Oregon, and rendered all possible aid, but the
slow tactics of the regulars was illy calculated to cope with the
savages. The main reliance, therefore, must be placed in the citizen
soldiery. Every county in the Territory answered the call to arms,
forming one or more companies, the men, as a rule, supplying their own
horses, arms, ammunition, and at the beginning of the outbreak, their
own blankets and provisions. There was no question about pay. The men
simply elected their own officers and without delay moved to the front.
Linn county furnished one company under Capt. Jonathan Keeny and went
south to join Col. Ross' command and was joined by many of our
neighbors. My two brothers also went with this command, one as teamster,
the other shouldering the spare rifle. As previously remarked, age was
not considered, the boy of 14 marching side by side with the gray haired
man, armed with the rifles they brought from the States. The ammunition
consisted of powder, caps and molded bullets, nor was the "patchen" for
the bullet omitted. The powder was carried in a powder horn, the caps in
a tin box, the bullets in a shot pouch and patchen for the bullets was
cut out the proper size and strung on a stout leather thong attached to
and supporting the shot pouch and powder horn.
In the fall after the departure of the first contingent, and at a time
when families were practically defenseless, news reached us by a tired
rider that 700 Indians had crossed the trail over the Cascade mountains
and were burning the homes and butchering the settlers on the Calapooya,
twenty miles away. The news reached us in the night, and one can easily
imagine the confusion and consternation that everywhere prevailed. To
realize our situation one must remember that most of the men and about
all of the guns had gone south. I shall never forget the awful suspense
and dread that prevailed in our home as the family sat in a group
through the long weary hours of that night, anxiously awaiting the
return of the day, yet dreading what the day might bring forth. Horses
were gathered and securely tied about the house, and such arms as we
possessed made ready for instant use. At last day broke, and searching
with the eye the almost boundless prairie, no enemy was in sight.
As the sun rose above the rim of the distant mountains my father
determined to disprove or verify the rumor. Neighbors sought to dissuade
him, but mounting a swift horse he started for Brownsville on the
Calapooya. Meantime everything was in readiness for forting up should it
become necessary. The day wore on, still no news. In vain we gazed from
the house top over the prairie for a sight of a horseman. Doubt and
uncertainty as to the fate of my father and our own fate was almost
worse than death. The day wore on. Would father never return--had he
been killed? were the questions whispered one with another. My mother
alone was confident, relying on father's discretion and the further fact
that he was riding the swiftest horse in the Territory. At last near
sunset we descried him galloping leisurely toward home. When within a
short distance he settled into a walk, and we then knew that the danger,
at least for the present, was not imminent. The only emotion manifested
by my mother was a stray tear that coursed down her pale and
trouble-worn cheek. My father reported a false alarm, originating in the
overwrought imagination of settlers on the exposed margin of the valley.
At other times the alarm came from the west side of the river. Fears
were entertained that the savages from the south would cross over the
Calapooya mountains and attack the settlements in Lane county. One
settler had a large bass drum, and the beating of this, which could be
heard for miles, was the signal of danger. More than once the deep roll
of the drum roused the country, only to discover that it was a false
alarm. But these constant alarms were trying indeed, especially on the
timid and nervous, and women became almost hysterical on the most
trivial occasions.
Time wore on, and at length the news came of the defeat of Col. Ross'
volunteers and Capt. Smith's dragoons. Many were killed with no
compensating advantage to the whites. Among the number killed was one of
our neighbor boys, John Gillispie, son of a minister, and my father and
mother went over to their home to convey the sad news and to render such
poor consolation to the parents as was possible. Every family in the
land had one or more of its members with the troops, and any day might
bring tidings of death or even worse. Hence there was a close bond of
sympathy between all. Happily, the death of young Gillispie was to be
the only one to visit our neighborhood.
The stay-at-homes, those gallant (?) soldiers who fight their battles
with their mouths, were loud in fault finding and severe in censure of
those in command, and would tell how the battle should have been fought
and how not. This was especially true of the one-horse politicians, too
cowardly to go to the front, and of disgruntled politicians. To the
shame of our common humanity be it said, there were not wanting those
who sought to coin the very blood of the brave men at the front, and
these ghouls and vampires talked loudest when the war was at length
brought to a close, to be quoted in after years as history by Bancroft
and others.
Chief John adopted a Fabian policy from the first. He would disappear
with his warriors, hiding away in the deep recesses of the mountains
only to appear again when and where least expected, but towards the
close of 1856 his people grew tired of war. They said the more men they
killed the more came and took their places, and in spite of John and
Limpy they determined to sue for peace. The terms were finally agreed
upon, and John and Limpy, deserted but not conquered, at last
surrendered.
After the surrender, John and son, a lad of 16, were placed on board a
steamer and started to a reservation up the coast. When off the mouth of
Rogue river and beholding the hunting grounds of his people and the
familiar scenes of his youth, he made a desperate attempt to capture the
ship. It was a "Call of the Wild," and snatching a sabre from his guard
he succeeded in driving them below and for a time had possession of the
ship's deck. But firearms were brought into play, one leg of the boy was
shot off and John, badly wounded, was placed in irons. He told his
captors that it was his purpose to capture the ship, run her ashore and
escape into the mountains. On a reservation, John spent the remainder of
his days,--a captive yet unconquered save by death. As previously
stated, in point of courage, cunning, savage ferocity and soldierly
ability and generalship, Tyee John has had few equals and no superiors
on the North American continent.
It was not my purpose to attempt a detailed history of the Rogue River
war as that task were better left to the historian with leisure to delve
into the musty records of the past, but I sincerely hope that when the
true story of that bloody time is written the kernel of truth will be
sifted from the mass of chaff by which it has thus far been obscured. My
purpose is merely to give the facts in a general way as I received them,
and the conditions surrounding the pioneers of which I was one. The true
story of the Rogue River war is but a duplicate of many other Indian
wars. It is a story of incompetent, bigoted, self-opinionated, Indian
agents, wedded to form and red tape, without any of common sense or
"horse sense," required in dealing with conditions such as existed prior
to the breaking out of he war.
The early immigrants to the Oregon, and indeed, to the Pacific coast,
merely sought to better their conditions. They came with their flocks
and herds, their wives and their children, their school books and their
Bibles, seeking not to dispossess or rob the occupants of the land. They
found a vast empire, of which the natives were utilizing but a small
portion. There was room for all and to spare. The natives at first
received the white strangers with kindness and hospitality. There were
exceptions even to this rule, but it was the exception. The white man's
property soon excited the cupidity of the Indian, and knowing no law but
the law of might, he sought to possess himself of the same. And right
here I want to say, that from an experience covering more than half a
century, the only thing an Indian respects on earth, is Power. Courage
he respects for the simple reason that courage is power. And I might
further add, that this rule applies with equal force to the white as
well as to the copper-colored savage.
Treaties had been made with the Rogue Rivers and the Umpquas but in a
true sense were not treaties, but, on the part of the Government, merely
bribes to be good. They moved to reservations, enjoyed the blankets and
other good things provided by the Government so long as it suited them.
Then they would steal out of the reservations, rob, murder and plunder
the settlers, and return to the protection of the agents. Tracked to the
reservations, the agents refused to surrender them. The red tape here
interposed and red handed murderers were saved, that more murders might
be committed. Instead of the Government and the agents being a
protection to the settlers, they were the protectors of the Indians, and
as sometimes happened, troops were called upon to lend a helping hand.
Such conditions could not last--such outrages could not be endured.
Hence when bands were caught off the reservations they were destroyed
like dangerous, noxious beasts.
Apologists of murder and rapine have held up their hands in holy horror
at such acts on the part of the settlers. The "poor, persecuted people,"
according to them, were foully wronged, massacred and exterminated. They
saw but one side, and that was the side of the savages. With the close
of the Rogue River war, the Indian question west of the Cascade
mountains was settled forever. John and Limpy had made a heroic struggle
for the hunting grounds of their fathers and incidentally for the goods
and chattels, and the scalps of the white invaders. But, moralize as you
may, the fiat of God had gone forth; the red man and the white man could
not live peaceably together; one or the other must go. And in obedience
to the law of the survival of the fittest, it was the red man that must
disappear. It was, in my opinion, merely a continuation of the struggle
for existence--a struggle as old as man, which began when "first the
morning stars sang together," and will continue till the end of time.
That law applies to all creatures. Take for instance, the lower order of
animals. In the tropics the deer is small, not much larger than a
coyote. The weakling as well as the strong and vigorous can survive.
Further north, where conditions are harder, the deer is larger.
Continuing on north, where only the strong and vigorous can survive the
rigors of winter, we find the caribou.
It may be pointed out that the largest animals of earth are found in the
tropics, where the struggle for existence is least severe. Yet in the
frozen mud of Siberia and Alaska we find the remains of animals the
elephant and the mastodon--compared to which old Jumbo was but a baby.
And imbedded in the asphalt of Southern California is found the remains
of the sabre toothed, tiger, by the side of which the royal Bengal is
but a tabby cat. But I am getting into deep water, and will leave this
question for the naturalist, the geologist and the theorist. And the
passing of the "noble red man" to the gentleman in silk gown and
slippers--and to the sentimental novelist.
Oregon settlers now had leisure time for building up their homes, so
better houses were erected, fields were fenced and plowed, school houses
and churches built, scythes and axes were wielded in place of the rifle
that now rested in idleness above the cabin door. A new era had dawned
on the Oregon, and gentle peace like a brooding spirit hovered above the
erstwhile desolate land.
During the succeeding years, up to 1861, there was little to distract
the attention of the pioneers. My time was occupied during that period
in assisting on the farm during summer and attending the district school
during the winter. The loop holes in the wall of the old school house
for the rifles had been boarded up, and the larger boys no longer
"toted" their guns, and stacked them in the corner.
On the east side of the Cascade mountains, however, the gentle savage
was lord of all the lands over which he roamed. Here he was yet master,
and thereby hangs a tale. In 1845 an immigrant train attempted to enter
the Oregon by way of the "Meeks cut off." With them were the Durbins,
Simmons, Tetherows, Herrins and many others I cannot now recall. The
history of that journey is one of hardship, starvation, and death. After
enduring sufferings such as sicken one in the bare recital the remnant
staggered into the settlements, more dead than alive. They crossed the
Cascade mountains, coming down the Middle Fork of the Willamette river,
and somewhere west of Harney Valley they stopped on a small stream. An
old Indian trail crossed at that point, and the oxen in sliding down the
bank to water uncovered a bright piece of metal. It was picked up and
taken to camp, where a man who had been in the mines in Georgia
pronounced it gold. He flattened it out with a wagon hammer, and was
quite positive it was the precious metal. But men, women and children
subsisting on grasshoppers and crickets and fighting Indians most of the
day, had something else to think about.
The incident, therefore, was soon forgotten amid the dire stress of
their surroundings. But when gold was discovered at Sutter's Fort in
California, Sol Tetherow called to mind the finding of the piece of
metal on the banks of the stream not far from Harney Valley. He told
about it--told and retold the story, and as the stories from California
grew, so grew the story of the old man, until finally he declared he
could have "picked up a blue bucket full in the bed of the creek." Hence
originated the name, the "Blue Bucket Diggins."
During the years of 1857-58-59-60 and 61, companies were formed in the
valley counties to search for the "Blue Bucket Diggins." The companies
were loosely formed, with little or no discipline, and were, therefore,
predestined to end in disaster. After crossing the mountains and seeing
no sign of Indians, the officers had no power and less inclination to
enforce discipline. There being no signs of Indians, it was useless to
maintain guards; they could whip all the Indians east of the mountains,
and why attempt to put on "military airs?" They were destined to a rude
awakening. Some morning about daylight, twenty or thirty red blanketed
men, with hideous yells would charge the horse herds, while a hundred or
more with equally hideous yells would attack the sleeping men. Then
would result a stampede, those who had talked loudest and talked most
about cowards, being first to lose their heads. The few cool heads would
make a stand, while the savages after getting away with the horses,
would beat a retreat, leaving the gold hunters to straggle afoot back
across the mountains to the settlements.
These expeditions served to work off the surplus energy of the
adventurous and restless, until the news arrived in the spring of 1861
of the discovery of gold in the Nez Perce mountains. The reports, as in
most similar cases, were greatly exaggerated, but it served to create a
genuine stampede, and while yet a boy of 14, I was drawn into that
torrent rushing to the new El Dorado. In justice to the good sound sense
and mature judgment of my parents, I am compelled to say that it was not
with their consent that I was drawn into this wild whirlpool, but, I
argued, was I not a man? Could I not ride and shoot with the best of
them? And, perforce, why should I not go to the mines and make my
fortune?
I went. But by way of parenthesis, will say to my young readers--Don't.