_The Visit of the Flathead Indian Chiefs to St. Louis. Was the
Story Authentic? Incidents--the Banquet Speech--Sketches of
Indian Life and Character. Hoo Goo Ahu and Sacajawea._
It was a beautiful morning in the closing days of October, 1831. The
trees about St. Louis were robed in their gorgeous autumnal foliage.
High above came the "honk, honk, honk" of the wild geese, as in long,
straight lines or in letter V's, they winged their way southward,
while the birds were gathering in groups, chattering and arranging
for their winter outing in warmer lands. The residents of the city
were just arousing from their sleep, smoke was beginning to curl
above the chimneys, shutters and doors were being opened for business
activities, when the strange scene was presented of four Flathead
Indian Chiefs, marching solemnly single file down the middle of one
of the principal streets. At that date the now prosperous and great
city of St. Louis was but a "frontier town," mainly noted as a
military station, and Indians were not uncommon, as all the great
and fertile country north and west was occupied by them. But these
were new and unusual in appearance, and attracted attention. Their
bare heads in front were as flat as boards, and their long hair was
interwoven with eagle quills; their dress and dignified bearing all
indicated notable men from some far-distant tribe that the people had
not before seen.
[Illustration: CASCADES OF THE COLUMBIA. (B. H. Gifford, photo)]
General George Rogers Clark, then in command of the department, was
promptly notified of the visit of the strangers, and sent two of his
aids to escort them to the barracks, where they could be comfortably
lodged and fed. It is a singular historical fact that General Clark,
in command at St. Louis in 1831 and 1832, was "the great red-head
chief," as the Indians called him, who, with Captain Lewis, made the
exploration of the Oregon country in 1804-1806, an exploration which
for romance and completeness of its success has never been equaled in
American history. General Clark in that expedition received marked
kindness and aid from the Nez Perces and the Flathead Indians. He
knew them in their homes, in eastern Oregon, and had a keen
remembrance of their savage hospitality to him in his time of need. A
band of the Flatheads also owned a large territory south of the
Columbia and east from Astoria, and not far from the winter camp of
the explorers. The author found them there, and spent a day with
them in one of their villages in 1850.
General Clark had been in many hard Indian fights, and was of a
family of famous Indian fighters, but he learned in that far western
expedition to respect the hospitality, the courage, the heroism, and
manliness of the Indian. He resolved to leave nothing undone to
express his gratitude to his old Oregon friends, and he charged his
young men to see to it personally that they had every comfort. He
knew Indian character and stoicism, and when his aids told him they
"could make nothing out of the Indians, or learn what they wanted,"
he replied, "Don't hurry them, give them time, and they will make
known their mission to this far-away place." General Clark was an
earnest and devoted Catholic, and he ordered that the Indians be
taken to all the services in the cathedral, and also to all places of
amusement likely to entertain them. Week after week passed, and the
Indian stoicism continued; but finally in an audience with the
General they told him all. The Indians all spoke "the Chinook," a
pleasing word language invented by the Hudson Bay Company, and was to
all the Indian tribes, from Hudson's Bay to the Columbia, what the
classic languages are to the learned world. It was their trading
language.
The General had a good interpreter, and knew something of the
Chinook himself, so that he soon fully understood the meaning of
their long journey, and wondered at it. They said, "Our people have
heard of the white man's book of heaven, and we have been sent the
long journey over mountains and wide rivers, and among strange
people, to find it and carry it back with us."
In that far-away period there were few newspapers in the West, to
print the news, and General Clark, with his many duties and cares,
left no written account of these interviews or of his advice to the
Indians, but we can rest assured that, as a soldier, a friend, and
Christian gentleman, it was the most kindly he could give.
During the winter, as it was thought at the time, either from
exposure in the long journey, or from the rich food to which they
were not accustomed, two of the old chiefs died, and were given
honored soldier burials. The first to die was the memorable "Black
Eagle," recalled to-day by the Nez Perces as "Speaking Eagle." He was
an aged man, greatly loved by his people. The records of the old St.
Louis Cathedral have the account of Black Eagle's death and burial.
The second death followed soon after. It proved latterly that this
was the beginning of that terrible scourge, Asiatic cholera, which
spread, in 1832, over a wide section. Mrs. Clark, who kindly
ministered to the Indians with her own hands, was "stricken with a
malady that no physician could master, and died." As the spring
approached, the two surviving chiefs began preparation to return to
their distant homes, and General Clark left nothing undone to outfit
them with every comfort for the journey. The steamer Yellowstone was
just then loading for her first trip up the Missouri River, and he
engaged berths for the two chiefs--the boat was to run as far up the
river as it could go with safety--and would save the Indians many
long, weary marches.
In addition to their necessary outfit, they had received numerous
presents for themselves and friends at home, they greatly prized, to
which Chief Min refers in his banquet speech, in the words, "You make
my feet heavy with gifts." The night before their departure General
Clark gave them a banquet, to which all his officers and many leading
citizens were invited. Upon that occasion Chief H. C. O. Hcotes Min
(no horns on his head), at the request of the General, made a speech
in the Chinook language.
_The Speech_
"I came to you over the trail of many moons, from the setting
sun. You were the friends of my fathers, who have all gone the
long way. I came with an eye partly open for my people who sit in
darkness. I go back with both eyes closed. How can I go back
blind to my blind people? I made my way to you with strong arms
through many enemies and strange lands that I might carry back
much to them. I go back with both arms broken and empty! Two
fathers came with us; they were the braves of many winters and
wars. We leave them asleep here by your great water and wigwams.
They were tired in many moons, and their moccasins wore out.
"My people sent me to get the White Man's Book of Heaven. You
took me to where you allow your women to dance, as we do not
ours; and the book was not there! You took me to where they
worship the Great Spirit with candles, and the Book was not
there! You showed me images of the Great Spirit and pictures of
the Good Land beyond, but the Book was not among them to tell me
the way. I am going back the long trail to my people in the dark
land. You make my feet heavy with gifts, and my moccasins will
grow old in carrying them, and yet the Book is not among them!
When I tell my poor blind people, after one more snow, in the big
Council, that I did not bring the Book, no word will be spoken by
our old men or by our young braves. One by one they will rise up
and go out in silence. My people will die in darkness, and they
will go on a long path to other hunting-grounds. No white man
will go with them, and no White Man's Book to make the way plain.
I have no more words."
Translated into English, doubtless the charm of the speech has been
marred, and loses much of its terse and simple beauty. Those who
doubt and sneer about a savage making such a speech do not know
Indians. I have listened to Indian orators, and been charmed by their
ease, eloquence, and wonderfully electrifying power, amid rugged
surroundings. Indians have their orators and storytellers, and are as
proud of them as ever cultivated people are of their Beechers,
Phillipses, Douglases, and Depews; and their animal stories far excel
those of "Uncle Remus." In long evenings under the summer skies, or
winters by the wigwam fire, they gather, and listen spellbound to the
weird stories--wild, visionary, and superstitious--of the present
life, and of the happy hunting-ground to which all are urged to
aspire.
The Indian is a spiritualist, not an idolater. The medicine man is
the great man of the tribe. When an Indian feels the call of the
Spirit to become a medicine man, he goes off alone to the forest or
to the mountains, or to some noted healing spring, fasts, prays, and
seeks there for his power, through all the agencies of nature that
surround him. Like Joan of Arc, he "hears voices" in the trees and
from the rocks, the winds, the waters, the animals, and the birds.
When he returns to his tribe and convinces the braves that he has
received the Spirit, from that day he is entirely trusted. The
greatest chief must consult him concerning every movement; whether it
be the distant chase, change of location, or of war. He is Sir
Oracle.
[Illustration: STRANGE VISITORS IN OLD ST. LOUIS.]
The writer does not speak at random or by hearsay of Indian life. He
saw and studied something of it, more than half a century ago, before
civilization had wrought the changes now seen. Indians are
profound believers in the immortality of the soul. Some suspend their
dead in the leafy treetops, that they may the more easily ascend to
"the happy hunting-grounds." The custom of many is to kill the
favorite horse and bury it with all accoutrements and implements of
war, as well as their finest garments, believing the spirit will need
them and receive greater honor. The leading thought of the Indian
seems to be that all material things have a spirit that is immortal.
The Indian burying-grounds are sacred spots and seldom if ever are
desecrated in savage life, even by their worst enemies. Some of the
beautiful little islands in the rivers of the Far West have thus been
used, as the many ruins testify. It has long been noted that Indians
in war will risk their own lives to carry off and bury their dead and
prevent mutilation of bodies.
_Is the Story of the Flathead Chiefs of 1831-32 Authentic?_
So strange and so without precedent in savage life was the mission of
the Indians to St. Louis, that many have doubted the truthfulness of
the report, and have called it "visionary." Fortunately the reader
need not be in doubt in regard to the entire truthfulness of the
event as reported. The Christian people of that time believed and
acted upon it in a way to convince every honest mind of their
earnestness. It may be said the incident made a profound impression
in the religious world, and the history we are to recite of the
after-results mark it as one of the providential events guiding the
nation by unseen hands to its destiny.
Had such a notable event occurred in modern days, it would have
entered at once into current literature. That it did not at the time
is no disparagement of its truthfulness. There is one strong chain of
evidence regarding the mission of the Nez Perces chiefs, not easily
broken; that is, the written evidence of George Catlin. Aboard the
steamer Yellowstone, upon which General Clark sent his savage
friends, there happened to be a celebrated artist, George Catlin,
then on one of his visits to the West to paint Indian pictures and
study Indian life. These Nez Perces chiefs at once attracted him, and
they became intimate friends--during the long journey he made
pictures of them. Indians are not great talkers, and he did not learn
much from them as to the object of their long journey. From others
afterward he heard of their strange mission to St. Louis, and
believing he had secured two historic pictures, he first wrote
General Clark, and afterward met him, and was assured by him that
such was the mission of the four Flathead chiefs. Catlin, in his
Smithsonian report for eight years, in 1885, says:
"These two men, when I painted them, were in beautiful Sioux
dresses, which had been presented them in a talk with the Sioux,
who treated them very kindly, while passing through the Sioux
country. These two were part of a delegation that came across the
Rocky Mountains to St. Louis a few years ago to inquire for the
truth of a representation which they said some white man had made
among them, that the white man's religion was better than theirs,
and that they would all be lost if they did not embrace it. Two
of the old and venerable men of the party died in St. Louis, and
I traveled two thousand miles, companions with those two fellows,
toward their own country, and became much pleased with their
manners and dispositions. When I first heard the report of the
object of their mission, I could scarcely believe it, but upon
conversing with General Clark, on a future occasion, I was fully
convinced of the fact."
The two pictures are now numbered 207 and 208 in the Smithsonian
Institution, and highly prized. H. H. Hcotes Min (no horns on his
head), who made the notable banquet speech, died near the Yellowstone
River on the journey home, and but one, the youngest of the four,
Hee-Ah-K. S. Te Kin (the rabbit skin leggins), lived to reach his
tribe beyond the Rockies. As was customary with the Indians, a large
band was sent along the trail far away to the Rocky Mountains to meet
the expected delegation of chiefs with "the book of heaven." Their
legends say, "Rabbit Skin Leggins shouted when far off, 'A man will
be sent with the book.'" The world of to-day may well give thanks,
that both Christian men and women were "sent with the Book" at that
earnest and honest appeal. Christianity is broad, and its command is
to "preach the Gospel to every creature." The Nez Perces Indians,
who, in blind faith, sent for teachers, were blessed in the act above
all Indian tribes in the land, and the blessing has followed them
from that day to this. In another connection in a later chapter will
be read facts in proof of their condition, and showing the effect of
the Gospel verses upon Indians. Indian men, like the whites, are made
up of good and bad. The missionaries were bright, shrewd men and
women, and they easily saw that so fair a land could not much longer
be held by savages in its unfruitful condition. They bent themselves
to the heavy tasks laid upon them, to do the best they could for
their savage wards. The true story for our pages, however, does not
take us into any large study of missionary work, but mainly along the
lines of Christian patriotism.
The author in answer to any critics of the missionaries to the
Indians will relate a simple incident in his own experience, which
dates fourteen years after their advent in Oregon. It shows how the
seeds of Christianity they planted made of savages unselfish and
humane men. It was on a Saturday, after days of weary traveling, we
came to a little valley where we at once resolved to rest for a
couple of days. It was such a little paradise that we named it "The
Valley of Blessing." On Sunday morning, with a single companion, the
writer wandered for miles up the narrow valley, enjoying its
luxurious surroundings. To the right was a mountain whose rugged
sides were covered with dwarf firs and cedars; while rocks were piled
on rocks looking like ancient castles in ruins. Flowering vines
climbed to the tops of the trees, and their fragrance filled the air.
A clear stream divided the valley where flocked myriads of birds from
the mountain, as they drank and bathed, whistled cheerily to their
fellows in the mountain home. As we were admiring all this wilderness
of beauty, on rising a little eminence, we came suddenly in view of
four Indians, digging at a short distance away. We immediately
dropped behind the hill, but not before we had been observed by the
Indians. We were watchful and well armed, but the old Indian gave us
a peace signal, and we approached the spot. The company was made up
of an aged Indian, eighty or more, his grandson, and two half-breeds.
They were digging a grave and were silent as we stood until its
completion. The old Indian then invited us to look at the corpse
under the shade of a near-by tree. We were astonished to find it the
emaciated body of a white man. It was wrapped in a well-tanned
buffalo skin, white and clean. The four Indians took the body and
placed it in the grave, and the old man, removing his cap, to our
astonishment, said, "Now, maybe some white man who knows religion
will make a little prayer over the poor fellow!" The half-breeds,
perhaps not understanding the English the old chief spoke, began
pushing in the sand with their moccasined feet. Thus the Argonaut of
1850 was laid to his final rest, with only the wild birds to sing his
requiem. The old Indian had brought along a smooth board to place at
the head of the grave, and at his request, I wrote:
John Wilson, St. Louis, Mo., 1850.
Left by his company and nursed by Hoo Goo Chee.
He told us Wilson had traveled as long as he was able, and begged his
companions to leave him there alone to die. He told the chief he had
no complaint to make of his fellows. We mention the incident to show
that the beautiful trait of unselfishness has a place even among
Indians. The old chief could easily have buried the body near his
mountain home without bearing it the long distance to be near the
road, where the grave could be seen by his friends. He might have
used an old blanket instead of the costly dressed robe the Indian
prized so highly. Here we found a savage who, like the Flatheads, had
heard of "the white man's book of heaven," had practically caught
its unselfishness and humanity, and its spirit of love.
It is well to remember that the Indian has no literature, and has
ever been dependent upon his enemies to write his history and his
achievements. They have chosen to write only of his savagery. This is
not fair treatment by the United States government, incited by
justice, and the wholesome Christian sentiments of the land has
during the past thirty years done much to correct all abuses of its
savage wards.