The Log School House on the Columbia by Hezekiah Butterworth

H >> Hezekiah Butterworth >> The Log School House on the Columbia

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11

She felt a nervous terror for a moment, but her spiritual sense and faith,
which had come to her like a new-born life, returned to her.

She arose on the platform and took her violin, and looked down upon the
sea of dusky faces in the smoky moonlight. She drew her bow. The music
quivered. There was a lull in the excited voices. She played low, and
there followed a silence.

The old chief came heavily up on the platform with a troubled face and
stood beside her.

"Play the beautiful air." She played the _Traumerei_ again.

The chief arose, as the last strain died away, and said:

"My people, listen."

The plateau was silent. The Columbia could be heard flowing. The trees
seemed listening. Benjamin came upon the platform, reeling, and seemed
about to speak to his father, but the old chief did not heed.

"My people, listen," repeated the chief.

A wild shriek of pain rent the air, and Benjamin dropped at the feet of
his father. It was his voice that uttered the cry of agony and despair as
he fell.

What had happened?

The boy lay on the platform as one dead. The old chief bent over him and
laid his hand on his face. He started back as he did so, for the face was
cold. But the boy's eyes pitifully followed every movement of his father.
Gretchen sunk down beside the body, and drew her hand across his forehead
and asked for water. Benjamin knew her.

Soon his voice came again. He looked wistfully toward Gretchen and said:

"I shall never go to find the Black Eagle's nest again. It is the plague.
My poor father!--my poor father!"

"Send for the medicine-man," said the chief. "Quick!"

Hopping-Bear, the old medicine-man, came, a dreadful figure in eagle's
plumes and bear-skins. To affect the imagination of the people when he was
going to visit the sick, he had been accustomed to walk upon his two hands
and one foot, with the other foot moving up and down in the air. He
believed that sickness was caused by obsession, or the influence of some
evil spirit, and he endeavored, by howlings, jumpings, and rattling of
snake-skins, to drive this imaginary spirit away. But he did not begin his
incantations here; he looked upon Benjamin with staring eyes, and cried
out:

"It is the plague!"

The old chief of the Cascades lifted his helpless face to the sky.

"The stars are gone out!" he said. "I care for nothing more."

The boy at times was convulsed, then lay for a time unconscious after the
convulsions, then consciousness would return. In one of these moments of
consciousness he asked of Gretchen:

"Where is Boston tilicum?"

"He is not here--he does not know that you are sick."

"Run for him; tell him I can't go to the Missouri with him. I can't find
the Black Eagle's nest. Run!"

His mind was dreaming and wandering.

Gretchen sent a runner to bring the schoolmaster to the dreadful scene.

A convulsion passed over the boy, but he revived again.

"Have faith in Heaven," said Gretchen. "There is One above that will save
you."

"One above that will save me! Are you sure?"

"Yes," said Gretchen.

She added:

"Mother is sorry for what she said to you."

"I am sorry," said the boy, pathetically.

He was lost again in spasms of pain. When he revived, Marlowe Mann had
come. The boy lifted his eyes to his beloved teacher vacantly; then the
light of intelligence came back to them, and he knew him.

"I can't go," he said. "We shall never go to the lakes of the honks
together. Boston tilicum, I am going to die; I am going away like my
brothers--where?"

It was near the gray light of the morning, and a flock of wild geese were
heard trumpeting in the air. The boy heard the sound, and started.

"Boston tilicum!"

"What can I do for you?"

"Boston tilicum, listen. Do you hear? What taught the honks where to go?"

"The Great Father of all."

"He leads them?"

"Yes."

"He will lead me?"

"Yes."

"And teach me when I am gone away. I can trust him. But my father--my
father! Boston tilicum, he loves me, and he is old."

Flock after flock of wild geese flew overhead in the dim light. The boy
lay and listened. He seemed to have learned a lesson of faith from the
instincts of these migratory birds. He once turned to the master and said,
almost in Gretchen's words:

"There is One above that will save me."

As the morning drew nearer, the air seemed filled with a long procession
of Canadian geese going toward the sea. The air rang with their calls. The
poor boy seemed to think that somehow they were calling to him.

There was silence at last in the air, and he turned toward Gretchen his
strangely quiet face, and said, "Play."

Gretchen raised her bow. As she did so a sharp spasm came over him. He
lifted his hand and tried to feel of one of the feathers from the Black
Eagle's nest. He was evidently wandering to the Falls of the Missouri. His
hand fell. He passed into a stertorous sleep, and lay there, watched by
the old chief and the silent tribe.

Just as the light of early morn was flaming through the tall, cool, dewy
trees, the breathing became labored, and ceased.

There he lay in the rising sun, silent and dead, with the helpless chief
standing statue-like above him, and the tribe, motionless as a picture,
circled around him, and with Gretchen at his feet.

"Make way!" said the old chief, in a deep voice.

He stepped down from the platform, and walked in a kingly manner, yet with
tottering steps, toward the forest. Gretchen followed him. He heard her
step, but did not look around.

"White girl, go back," he said; "I want to be alone."

He entered the forest slowly and disappeared.

Just at night he was seen coming out of the forest again. He spoke to but
a single warrior, and only said:

"Bury him as the white men bury; open the blanket of the earth; and
command the tribe to be there--to-morrow at sundown. Take them all away--I
will watch. Where is the white girl?"

"She has gone home," said the Indian.

"Then I will watch alone. Take them all away--I want to be alone. It is
the last night of the chief of the Umatillas. It is the last watch of the
stars. My blood is cold, my heart beats slow--it will not be long!"

The chief sat all night by the body. In the morning he went to his lodge,
and the tribe made the preparations for the funeral, and opened a grave in
the earth.

CHAPTER XVI.

A SILENT TRIBE.

It was sunset on the bluffs and valleys of the Columbia. Through the tall,
dark pines and firs the red west glowed like the lights in an oriel or
mullioned window. The air was voiceless. The Columbia rolled silently in
the shadows with a shimmering of crimson on its deep middle tides. The
long, brown boats of the salmon-fishers sat motionless on the tide. Among
the craft of the fishermen glided a long, airy canoe, with swift paddles.
It contained an old Umatilla Indian, his daughter, and a young warrior.
The party were going to the young chief's funeral.

[Illustration: _Multnomah Falls._]

As the canoe glided on amid the still fishermen of other tribes, the
Indian maiden began to sing. It was a strange song, of immortality, and of
spiritual horizons beyond the visible life. The Umatillas have poetic
minds. To them white Tacoma with her gushing streams means a mother's
breast, and the streams themselves, like the Falls of the distant
Shoshone, were "falling splendors."

She sang in Chinook, and the burden of her song was that horizons will
lift forever in the unknown future. The Chinook word _tamala_ means
"to-morrow"; and to-morrow, to the Indian mind, was eternal life.

The young warrior joined in the refrain, and the old Indian listened. The
thought of the song was something as follows:

"Aha! it is ever to-morrow, to-morrow--
Tamala, tamala, sing as we row;
Lift thine eye to the mount; to the wave give thy sorrow;
The river is bright, and the rivulets flow;
Tamala, tamala,
Ever and ever;
The morrows will come and the morrows will go--
Tamala! tamala!

"Happy boat, it is ever to-morrow, to-morrow--
Tamala, whisper the waves as they flow;
The crags of the sunset the smiles of light borrow,
And soft from the ocean the Chinook winds blow:
Tamala, tamala,
Ever and ever;
The morrows will come and the morrows will go--
Tamala! tamala!

"Aha! the night comes, but the light is to-morrow--
Tamala, tamala, sing as we go;
The waves ripple past, like the heart-beats of sorrow,
And the oar beats the wave to our song as we row:
Tamala, tamala,
Ever and ever;
The morrows will come and the morrows will go--
Tamala! tamala!

"For ever and ever horizons are lifting--
Tamala, tamala, sing as we row;
And life toward the stars of the ocean is drifting,
Through death will the morrow all endlessly glow--
Tamala, tamala,
Ever and ever;
The morrows will come and the morrows will go,
Tamala! tamala!"

The paddle dipped in the wave at the word _tamala_, and lifted high to
mark the measure of the song, and strew in the warm, soft air the watery
jewels colored by the far fires of the Sound. So the boat swept on, like a
spirit bark, and the beautiful word of immortality was echoed from the
darkening bluffs and the primitive pine cathedrals.

The place where the grave had been made was on the borders of the Oregon
desert, a wild, open region, walled with tremendous forests, and spreading
out in the red sunset like a sea. It had a scanty vegetation, but a slight
rain would sometimes change it into a billowy plain of flowers.

The tribe had begun to assemble about the grave early in the long
afternoon. They came one by one, solitary and silent, wrapped in blankets
and ornamented with gray plumes. The warriors came in the same solitary
way and met in silence, and stood in a long row like an army of shadows.
Squaws came, leading children by the hand, and seated themselves on the
soft earth in the same stoical silence that had marked the bearing of the
braves.

A circle of lofty firs, some three hundred feet high, threw a slanting
shadow over the open grave, the tops gleaming with sunset fire.

Afar, Mount Hood, the dead volcano, lifted its roof of glaciers twelve
thousand feet high. Silver ice and black carbon it was now, although in
the long ages gone it had had a history written in flame and smoke and
thunder. Tradition says that it sometimes, even now, rumbles and flashes
forth in the darkness of night, then sinks into rest again, under its
lonely ice palaces so splendid in the sunset, so weird under the moon.

Just as the red disk of the sun sunk down behind this stupendous scenery,
a low, guttural sound was uttered by Potlatch Hero, an old Indian brave,
and it passed along the line of the shadowy braves. No one moved, but all
eyes were turned toward the lodge of the old Umatilla chief.

He was coming--slowly, with measured step; naked, except the decent
covering of a blanket and a heroic ornament of eagle-plumes, and all
alone.

The whole tribe had now gathered, and a thousand dusky forms awaited him
in the sunset.

There was another guttural sound. Another remarkable life-picture came
into view. It was the school in a silent procession, following the tall
masks, out of the forest trail on to the glimmering plain, the advent of
that new civilization before which the forest lords, once the poetic bands
of the old Umatillas, were to disappear. Over all a solitary eagle beat
the luminous air, and flocks of wild geese made their way, like V-letters,
toward the Puget Sea.

The school soon joined the dusky company, and the pupils stood with
uncovered heads around their Yankee pedagogue. But the old chief came
slowly. After each few steps he would stop, fold his arms, and seem lost
in contemplation. These pauses were longer as he drew near the silent
company.

Except the honks of the pilots of the flocks of wild geese, there was a
dead silence everywhere. Only eyes moved, and then furtively, toward the
advancing chief.

[Illustration: _The old chief stood stoical and silent._]

He reached the grave at last by these slow movements, and stepped upon the
earth that had been thrown out of it, and folded his arms in view of
all. A golden star, like a lamp in the windows of heaven, hung over Mount
Hood in the fading splendors of the twilight, and the great chief bent his
eye upon it.

Suddenly the air was rent by a wail, and a rattle of shells and drums. The
body of Benjamin was being brought out of the lodge. It was borne on a
bier made of poles, and covered with boughs of pine and fir and red
mountain phlox. It was wrapped in a blanket, and strewn with odorous
ferns. Four young braves bore it, besmeared with war-paint. They were
followed by musicians, who beat their drums, and rattled shell instruments
at irregular times, as they advanced. They came to the grave, lifted the
body on its blanket from the bier of evergreens and flowers, and slowly
lowered it. The old chief stood stoical and silent, his eye fixed on the
star in the darkening shadows.

The face of Benjamin was noble and beautiful in its death-sleep. Over it
were two black eagle's plumes. The deep black hair lay loosely about the
high, bronze forehead; there was an expression of benevolence in the
compressed lips, and the helpless hands seemed like a picture as they lay
crossed on each other.

As soon as the body was laid in the earth, the old chief bent his face on
the people. The mysterious dimness of death was in his features. His eyes
gleamed, and his bronze lips were turning pale.

"My nation, listen; 'tis my last voice. I am a Umatilla. In my youth the
birds in the free lakes of the air were not more free. I spoke, and you
obeyed. I have but one more command to give. Will you obey me?

"You bow, and I am glad.

"Listen!

"My fathers were men of war. They rolled the battle-drums. I taught my
warriors to play the pipes of peace, and sixty years have they played them
under the great moons of the maize-fields. We were happy. I was happy.

"I had seven sons. The white man's plague came; the shadow fell on six of
them, and they went away with the storm-birds. They entered the new canoe,
and sailed beyond us on the sea of life. They came back no more at the
sunrisings and sun settings, at the leaf-gatherings of the spring, or the
leaf-fallings of the autumn. They are beyond.

"One son was left me--Benjamin. He was no common youth; the high spirits
were with him, and he came to be like them, and he has gone to them now. I
loved him. He was my eyes; he was my ears; he was my heart. When I saw his
eyes in death, my eyes were dead; when he could hear me call his name no
longer, my ears lost their hearing; when his young heart ceased to beat,
my own heart was dead. All that I am lies in that grave, beside my dead
boy.

"My nation, you have always obeyed me. I have but one more command to
make. Will you obey me?

"You bow again. My life-blood is growing cold. I am about to go down into
that grave.

"One step! The clouds fly and darken, and you will see them return again,
but not I.

"Two steps! Farewell, sun and light of day. I shall see thee again, but
not as now.

"Three steps! Downward to the grave I descend to meet thee, my own dear
boy. Adieu, my people. Adieu, hearts of faith. Farewell, ye birds of the
air, ye mighty forests, ye sun of night, and ye marches of stars. I am
dying.

"Two steps more I will take. There he lies before me in the unfolded
earth, the life of my life, the heart of my heart.

"You have promised to obey me. I repeat it--you have promised to obey me.
You have always done so. You must do so now. My hands are cold, my feet
are cold, and my heart beats very slow. Three steps more, and I shall lay
myself on the body of my boy. Hear, then, my last command; you have
promised to obey it like brave men.

"When I have taken my last three steps of life, and laid down beside the
uncovered bed of earth beside my boy, fill up the grave forever; my breath
will be gone; Umatilla will be no more. You must obey.

"One step--look! There is fire on the mountain under the curtains of the
night. Look, the peak flashes; it is on fire.--O Spirit of All, I come!
One step more! Farewell, earth. Warriors, fill the grave! The black
eagle's plumes will now rest forever."

There was deep silence, broken only by the sobs of the little school. A
warrior moved and passed round the grave, and uttered the word "Dead!" The
braves followed him, and the whole tribe like shadows. "Dead!" "Dead!"
passed from mouth to mouth. Then a warrior threw a handful of earth into
the grave of the father and son. The braves followed his example, then all
the tribe.

As they were so doing, like phantoms in the dim light, Mount Saint
Helens[D] blazed again--one volcanic flash, then another; then all was
darkness, and the moon arose in a broad sea of light like a spectral sun.

The grave was filled at last. Then they brought the Cayuse pony of
Benjamin toward the grave, and a young brave raised the hatchet to kill
it, that it might bear the dead boy into the unknown land.

There was a cry! It came from Gretchen. The girl rushed forward and stood
before the hatchet. The pony seemed to know her, and he put his head over
her shoulder.

"Spare him!" she said. "Benjamin gave him to me--the soul of Benjamin
would wish it so."

"Let the girl have her way," said the old warriors.

The moon now moved free in the dark-blue sky, and sky, forest, and plain
were a silver sea. The Indians began to move away like shadows, one by
one, silent and slow. Gretchen was the last to go. She followed the
school, leading the pony, her soul filled with that consciousness of a new
life that had so wonderfully come to her. Her way in life now seemed
clear: she must teach the Umatillas.

She left the pony in a grassy clearing, on the trail that led to her home,
and hurried toward the cabin to describe all the events of the day to her
foster-mother.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote D: See Notes.]

CHAPTER XVII.

A DESOLATE HOME AND A DESOLATE PEOPLE.

As Gretchen was hurrying home on the evening after these exciting scenes,
she met Mrs. Woods in the trail, and she saw at a glance that her
foster-mother was in great distress.

"O Gretchen," she said, "I am so glad that you have come--you are all that
is left to me now! I am all alone in the world! Have you heard it,
Gretchen?"

"What, mother?"

"Husband is drowned!"

Mrs. Woods seized the arm of the girl, and the two helpless women hurried
toward their rude home, each to relate to the other a scene of distress,
and each to wonder what the wide future had in store for them.

They held each other by the hand, and talked in the open door of the
cabin. Then they went in and ate a simple meal of milk and berries, and
lay down and slept the sleep of sorrow.

At the early light they awoke. Almost the first words that Gretchen spoke
were: "Let us face life and be fearless. I have faith. My father had
faith, and my mother lived by faith. It was faith that led them across the
sea. Their faith seemed to be unfulfilled, but it will be fulfilled in me.
I feel it. Mother, let trouble pass. We belong to the family of God."

"You are a comfort to me, Gretchen. I can not see my way--it is covered."

"But you can trust your Guide, mother, and the end of trust _is_ peace."

"What are we to do, Gretchen?"

"I will go to Walla Walla and seek the advice of Mrs. Spaulding."

"Gretchen, don't you think that the schoolmaster is a good man?"

"Yes, I am sure that he is."

"I am. Let us go to him and follow his advice. We will go together."

They agreed to make the visit on the following day in the morning, before
school.

Gretchen told her foster-mother the story of the Indian pony.

"Where is he now?" asked Mrs. Woods.

"I left him in the clearing. I will go and find him."

"I will go with you," said Mrs. Woods.

The two went out together. They came to the clearing--a place of waving
grass, surrounded with gigantic trees, in whose tops were great nests of
birds. The pony was not there.

"He has gone to the next clearing," said Gretchen.

They passed through a strip of wood to another clearing. But the pony was
not there.

As they were returning, a little black animal crossed their path.

Mrs. Woods said, "Hold!" then called out in a kindly voice, "Roll over."
The little animal rolled head over heels in a very comical way, then ran
quickly into the thick bushes. It was the last time that Mrs. Woods ever
saw little Roll Over, and Gretchen never saw the pony again. The latter
probably found a herd of horses and wandered away with them. It was a time
of such confusion and distress that the matter did not awaken the interest
of the Indians at that time.

That evening they talked of plans for the future.

"Let us seek work in one of the missionary stations," said Gretchen, "or
let us find a home among the Indians themselves. I want to become a
teacher among them, and I know that they would treat you well."

Mrs. Woods's views on these matters were changing, but something of her
old distrust and prejudice remained despite her good resolutions.

"Foxes and geese were never made to hold conference meetings together. You
can't make one man out of another if you try."

"But, mother, your English ancestors once wandered about in sheep-skins,
and worshiped the oaks; the whole English race, and the German race, were
made what they are by teachers--teachers who gave themselves to a cause
almost two thousand years ago."

"Yes, I suppose that is so. But, Gretchen, I want your heart; I never
thought that you would give it to the Injuns. I ought not to be so ruled
by my affections; but, if I do scold you, there is something in you that
draws my heart toward you all the time. I believe in helping others;
something good in the future always comes of it. If men would be good to
each other, Heaven would be good to the world. It is the things done here
in this world that are out of order, and I never was on very good terms
with myself even, not to say much of the world. But you have helped me,
Gretchen, and hymns have helped me. I want you to be charitable toward my
feelins', Gretchen, when I grow old, and I pray that you will always be
true to me."

"I shall always be true to you, whatever I may be called to do. I shall
not leave you until you give your consent. One day you will wish me to do
as I have planned--I feel it within me; something is leading me, and our
hearts will soon be one in my plan of life."

"It may be so, Gretchen. I have had a hard time, goin' out to service when
I was a girl. My only happy days were during the old Methody preaching of
Jason Lee. I thought I owned the heavens then. It was then I married, and
I said to husband: 'Here we must always be slaves, and life will be master
of us; let us go West, and own a free farm, and be masters of life.' There
is a great deal in being master of life. Well, we have had a hard time,
but husband has been good to me, and you have made me happy, if I have
scolded. Gretchen, some people kiss each other by scoldin'; I do--I scold
to make the world better. I suppose everything is for the best, after
all. There is no experience in life that does not teach us something, and
there is a better world beyond that awaits all who desire a better life.
Our desires are better than ourselves--mine are. Good desires are prayers,
and I think that they will all be answered some day."

She sat in silence, thinking of her lonely situation, of her ignorance and
imperfection, of her often baffled struggles to do well in this world and
to overcome her poor, weak self, and she burst into tears.

"Play," she said. "Music is a kind of prayer." And Gretchen touched the
musical glasses.

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE LIFTED CLOUD--THE INDIANS COME TO THE SCHOOLMASTER.

The next day witnessed a strange scene at the log school-house on the
Columbia. It was a red October morning. Mrs. Woods accompanied Gretchen to
the school, as she wished to have a talk with Mr. Mann.

As the two came in sight of the house, Mrs. Woods caught Gretchen by the
arm and said:

"What's _them_?"

"Where?"

"Sittin' in the school-yard."

"They are Indians."

"Injuns? What are they there for?"

"I don't know, mother."

"Come for advice, like me, may be."

"Perhaps they are come to school. The old chief told them that I would
teach them."

"You?"

"They have no father now."

"No father?"

"No chief."

Mrs. Woods had been so overwhelmed with her own grief that she had given
little thought to the death of Benjamin and the chief of the Cascades. The
unhappy condition of the little tribe now came to her as in a picture;
and, as she saw before her some fifty Indians seated on the ground, her
good heart came back to her, and she said, touched by a sense of her own
widowhood, "Gretchen, I pity 'em."

Mrs. Woods was right. These Indians had come to seek the advice of Mr.
Mann in regard to their tribal affairs. Gretchen also was right. They had
come to ask Mr. Mann to teach their nation.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11