ON N the third day of April, 1840, David Lawrence and his son, John, found themselves floating down the wide Columbia in a canoe, guided by Tamahas, a faithful old Indian, on their way home to the Mission at Tum Water, the Indian name for the Willamette Falls. Tamahas had warned them against the dangers of the return trip. "No take," he had said, but since they had persisted, he decided to accompany them. So on the previous day John and his father had left Fort Vancouver, that great trading mart of the Hudson's Bay Company in the Oregon territory. Thither an occasional ship from the States brought provisions and crude necessities for which it received furs from the pioneers and trappers of this vast region; thither must the members of the different mission settlements in Oregon journey to get food and mail, and thither must they repair silently and in haste for shelter and protection when the red man suspected the gods of the white man of working him evil. The fort stood in a beautiful plain on the north bank of the Columbia, ninety miles from the sea. It was well fortified with a strong palisade of fir posts sharpened at the top, thick, riveted gates in front and rear with brass padlocks and heavy keys, and a dark forbidding three-story log tower forming a support at the northwest corner and well supplied with portholes and cannon. Within the fort were two courts, around which were arranged the officers' dwellings, apartments for clerks, storehouses, and workshops. Near the rear gate stood the school-house, and opposite the main entrance was the chief factor's or governor's home, a white, twostory building. Several hundred yards below the fort on the bank of the river in a small village of wooden huts, lived the Hudson's Bay Company's servants. Now as the three glided on, either side of the river presenting a rough, wild, and mountainous aspect, their thoughts turned to the possible danger before them. "Last year Indian fight over there" Dr. Lawrence followed the gaze of Tamahas. "Big battle between Chinook and Tillamook warriors." "Yes, I remember." The missionary shuddered. After several hours, the canoe turned into the turbid waters of the By PHOEBE FINLEY Willamette. The river was high and "Father, you said as soon as we got John had decided to become a minister like his father, but he had found that at least two years' schooling in the East was necessary. The captain of the May D'acre had promised him passage to Boston for certain odd jobs about the boat, plus twenty-five beaver pelts. John was elated at this offer, and even more so at going off alone in the woods with the Indian guide. Suddenly it began to rain and hail. With flint, steel, and powder, they He was After supper they managed to partially dry their blankets and skins, and spreading them on the wet ground, lay down to rest. The cracking of twigs, the howling of wolves, and the hoot of a big owl disturbed their sleep. The discussion of the previous day had sunk deeply into John's mind. He was soon caught in the toils of a hideous dream. Indians circled stealthily about him, tomahawks raised. The stillness petrified him. He tried to scream for help, but no sound came forth. He must certainly burst a blood-vessel in his effort to make his father hear him. Then suddenly he lay quiet, sweat trickling from his brow. Gradually he realized he was no longer dreaming but was wide awake and still shaking with fear as he opened his eyes. For several moments he lay very still trying to collect his thoughts. Then from near by came a throaty whisper, and a dark form stood looking down upon him. "Me kill?" The gutteral growl could come from none but an Indian. Was John still dreaming? Before he could answer this, another form crept up and gazed down at him, hatred and contempt in his glance. Then John knew this was no dream. Would they kill him and his father and even Tamahas? He opened his mouth to warn his father, but the words of the second Indian stopped him. "No kill this time. Next time scalp." John closed his eyes because he thought he was going to faint, and upon opening them found no one in sight; all he could hear was his father's breathing. For a long time he was afraid to move, but nothing happened. When morning came, he decided not to mention the incident of the night. It would only worry his father. The canoe reached the Willamette Falls late in the afternoon of the next day. As John sprang ashore, he gazed at the sight before him. Little bow-legged Chinook children, with wedge-shaped heads and goggle-eyes, rolled in the sand. Could any one look upon these elfish little creatures, with their distorted faces, and not shudder? "Why are their heads so flat?" asked John. "New pappooses wrapped in moss. Heads pressed down with cedar bark and tightly tied to boards," replied Tamahas. John made no reply. He realized the uselessness of arguing against the cruelty of such a custom. The next morning he persisted in making preparations for his beaver hunt. His experience of the night made him somewhat reluctant to leave the safety of the mission, but ambition for an education was strong and he was not afraid. Although warned the woods about Tum Water were alive with treacherous savages, he and the Indian guide started into the wilderness with packs on their backs. His father stood in the doorway, a worried expression darkening his face. ing. Fifteen feet behind them stood six Indians, of whom John judged the leading one to be the chief. His fantastic dress was composed of skin breeches, a striped shirt, and scarlet coat. His head-dress was a cotton handkerchief thrown loosely over his head, a cap of otter skin over the handkerchief, and a long plume of white horse tail fastened with savage taste on top of the cap. The other savages were without noteworthy peculiarities. For several minutes the silence remained unbroken, as red man studied white man and white man studied red man. Then the chief began to talk slowly and distinctly, but John could not understand a word. Tamahas came to the boy's rescue. "He says, "Those beavers no belong to you. You trap on red man's hunting-ground, and take red man's beavers."" A sickening sensation seized John. So they wanted his skins, did they? He turned angrily to the chief. "But I caught those beavers! They're mine. This is a free country.' Tamahas translated to the chief, his face retaining its stolid expression. The chief turned and with his arm, made a sweeping gesture. Again Tamahas conveyed the meaning to John. "He says, 'No free land. Land all belong to Chief Camaspelo. Beaver belong to Camaspelo. Many white men come in and drive out Indians and use their hunting-grounds. Camaspelo hate white man."" "But I've got to have these! They mean my education." John was becoming desperate. He stepped in front of the skins, but the chief perceived his intention and motioned to two of his followers. They moved toward the skins, while John backed up and protected the pelts with his arms. His mouth became a straight, grim line. Lose those skins when he was ready to start home? Never! Instantly a cruel gleam flashed from the chief's eyes, otherwise he stood calmly with an immobile face. From his lips issued a gutteral command and two Indians stepped quickly around John to pin his arms behind him. John drew back and made a sudden movement to strike the chief but Tamahas was quicker in preventing him. He shoved John into the lean-to, knocking him over. The two Indians stared a moment at him and then took the skins from the racks. The chief moved slowly toward John with a menacing air and for half a minute looked at him; then muttering something, with an ugly grin, he turned, and led the way into the woods. When John looked up, Tamahas Then the fisherman resumed his statuwas standing over him. "You heap big fool. Chief kill quick. Much mad. We go home. Not safe to trap more beaver." The Indian moved away, but John's thoughts were on his lost pelts. Where was his trip back to the States now? This loss would put it off for another year. Tamahas was already taking down the lean-to, and John got up dumbly and began to help him. With their packs on their backs, they reached the mission at the Falls after dark that night. Dr. Lawrence Dr. Lawrence heard the story of John's ill luck with concern. John courageously went to work at odd jobs around the mission, even though he had given up the hope of sailing down the Columbia on this year's boat for the States. Soon the Indian tribes from all the surrounding country came straggling in to fish: Cayuses, Flatheads, Klikitats, Wascos, Molales, Calapooyas, Tillamooks, Chinooks, and Clatsops. Groups of tepees appeared here and there among the trees on the riverbanks and squaws worked busily carrying great bundles on their bent backs. They set up the tall poles, fastened together in a point at the top. Around these, they deftly stretched the great hides they had been sewing together for many moons. By the latter part of April, the Indian encampment on the banks numbered perhaps a thousand, ready for the run of Chinook salmon that the first of May always brought. The river pulsed with the silver horde as the salmon pushed their way up and up to the spawning beds at the heads of the inland streams. Coming to the great falls of the Willamette, the fish fought and leaped from one pool to another till they ascended the barrier and made their way beyond. These fish furnished the winter foodsupply of dried salmon for many tribes. It was a peaceful evening scene while John stood on the bank looking across. From the picturesque tepees the smoke curled lazily up through the trees, for it was supper time. The contented children and dogs played here and there. On the opposite side of the river, silhouetted against the red glow of the setting sun, stood the motionless form of an Indian. Six or seven feet below the rock on which he stood a milky whirlpool churned. His hands grasped a long pole that extended down into the water and as a fish swam against his pole, the Indian jerked quickly, catching it with the sharp hook which detached itself from the pole, but was held by a cord higher up. Thus the salmon was played and finally pulled out of the water. esque pose. Several minutes passed. Again the action was repeated, but this time John could see that the red man was having a hard time to pull in his salmon. As the fish was drawn above the surface of the water, John gasped. By its size he judged the monster to weigh fifty or sixty pounds. Suddenly in mid-air the huge salmon made a last desperate flop, and losing his precarious footing on the slippery rock, the Indian was jerked outward, his pole flying from his hands. hands. In a moment he sank beneath the hissing waters of the eddy. Knowing that all savages were good swimmers, yet perceiving that the red man had struck the rocks when he fell, John waited breathlessly for his head to appear. In a moment it came up out toward the middle of the river. But what was the matter with him? In spite of his heroic efforts, he was making no headway toward shore and looked as though he were fast sinking. Something was wrong. John turned to look for some way to aid the drowning Indian. A canoe lay on the beach, and seizing this, he dragged it down to the edge and leaped in. Realizing that the current would soon carry the Indian past him, John paddled rapidly down the river and then swung out toward the middle. Soon the struggling form whirled close to the canoe. John yelled to the Indian as he leaned over the side of the canoe to snatch at his clothes, while a long, brown arm appeared and a convulsive hand clutched the canoe. As the Indian's weight centered on the edge of the light craft, it turned turtle and John found himself struggling in the water beside him. Instantly he threw one arm across the overturned canoe and with the other, grabbed the Indian by the collar. Down stream they went, borne along by the swirling water. John could not swim nor help himself, burdened as he was with the helpless Indian. The canoe and the current must bear him where they would. He glanced across the surface of the water at either bank. Not a boat nor a human being was in sight to help, and they were fast approaching some rapids where the current pulled fiercely around a bend and jagged rocks projected straight into their path. Horrified by the danger ahead and hampered as he was by the Indian, John could do nothing. He was fast becoming exhausted and his grip on the Indian was growing weaker. He glanced hurriedly at the red man. Something held his gaze. "Where have I seen that face?" thought John. (Continued on page 500) NEW YORK HARBOR on almost ant, gay, and happy at the thought ster craft any Saturday morning is a sight well worth seeing. For it is then that most of the great steamers cast away from their piers and plow ruggedly down the harbor on their way to sea and thence to foreign ports. Let us, before we look at the harbor, visit a pier of a great steamship that sails at ten o'clock. As we near the pier on West Street we see the huge funnels and masts shoving their heads above the surrounding buildings on the docks, and as we go up in the elevator to an upper deck of the pier we get a glance at the knife-like prow of the ship itself, which rises perpendicularly from the water to a height of thirty or forty feet. "How," we ask ourselves, "could a wave mount that bow and crash on the deck above?" Surely a natural question. But there are many travelers who have seen that the North Atlantic, when it gets seriously down to business in a winter storm, can produce waves big enough to mount almost anything. As we leave the elevator and walk out on the dock, we see countless people wandering toward the gangplanks: passengers themselves, buoy Slowly, her berth. The promenade-deck comes to view lined with waving passengers. A last-minute messenger arrives with a huge bouquet just as she is clear of the dock. With her rudder hard to port, the great ship backs upstream while three or four busy, puffing little tugs, with their noses against the bow, try to push her around. She is straight at last; the tugs retire and she stops backing. Her screws churn the water into foam, and then, getting steerageway slowly, she heads down the bay to the sea. of the trip before them, friends to see then more rapidly, she backs out from At last, a man who has been standing on a pier-head with a red flag, changes it for a white one and signals to an officer on the after bridge of the ship. The river is clear. Then the air is torn by the deep, bass, vibrant steam-whistle. Again it blows and again, stirring something within us that makes our spines tingle. Then, scarcely apparent at first, the mon A wonderful sight; but it happens a score of times every Saturday and often throughout the week. As we watch our ship sail, there are others getting ready to cast away from their piers up and down the river. Now that we have seen what happens at sailing-time, let us make a quick trip to the Battery and board a boat of the Municipal Ferry for Staten Island. It is about eleven o'clock, so we should see some of the greatest liners. On the trip down the bay we see "our ship" passing through the Narrows in the distance. |