Such was the power of the old chief's oration, that, at the close of this speech, he was almost unanimously reelected to the position of Chief Sachem, a position which he had held for many years, and which he was now to hold until his death.
Shortly after this affair the great orator's second wife joined the Christian Church, to which he, himself, was opposed. Consequently Red Jacket immediately left her and went to live in another Seneca reservation. But he was far from happy when separated from those whom he loved, and those whom he left behind were far from happy without him. The old chief was devoted to his little daughter, and he missed her caresses and love. At length, he could stand the separation no longer, and, through the agency of this little girl, a reconciliation was effected with his excellent squaw. Red Jacket promised that he would not again interfere with his wife's religious privileges, and to his credit be it said he never again objected to her religion or belief.
There he was living quietly and happily when suddenly taken ill in the council house, where he had gone one day, dressed with more than usual care and ornamented with all his best finery. When he returned to his tepee, he said to his wife. "I am ill. I could not stay until the council had finished. I shall never recover." So saying, he took off his rich dress, laid it carefully away, lay down upon his couch and did not rise again until morning. His wife then prepared some medicine for him, which he patiently took, saying: "It will do me no good. I shall die."
He then requested his faithful squaw to send his little girl to him, and when she had come near he bade her sit beside him and listen to his parting words. "My good wife," said he, "I am going to die. Never again shall I leave my home alive. I wish to thank you for your kindness to me. You have loved me. You have always prepared my food and taken care of my clothes, and been patient with me. I am sorry that I ever treated you unkindly. I am sorry that I left you because of your new religion, and I am convinced that it is a good religion and has made you a better woman, and I wish you to persevere in it. I should like to have lived a little longer for your sake. I meant to build you a new house and make you more comfortable, but it is now too late. But I hope my daughter will remember what I have often told her, not to go in the streets with strangers or improper persons. She must stay at home with her mother.
"When I am dead, it will be noised abroad through all the world; they will hear of it across the great waters, and will say: 'Red Jacket, the great orator, is dead.' And white men will come and ask you for my body. They will wish to bury me. But do not let them take me. Clothe me in my simplest dress, put on my leggins and my moccasins, and hang the cross which I have worn so long around my neck, and let it lie upon my bosom. Then bury me among my people. Neither do I wish to be buried with Pagan rites. I wish the ceremonies to be as you like, according to the customs of your new religion, if you choose. Your minister says that the dead will rise. Perhaps they will. If they do, I wish to rise with my old comrades. I do not wish to rise among palefaces. I wish to be surrounded by red men. Do not make a feast according to the custom of the Indians. Whenever my friends chose they could come and feast with me when I was well, and I do not wish those who have eaten with me in my cabin to surfeit at my funeral feast."
When the great Chief had finished, he laid himself upon his couch, took his little daughter fondly by the hand, and did not rise again. A few days later death overtook him, and at his funeral many parties of his own tribe were present. His body was removed from his cabin into the mission house, where religious services were performed—services in which the visiting Indians took little interest. Wrapped in profound and solemn thought, they waited until the minister had concluded, and then some arose to address their own countrymen in their own language. Several orators recounted the virtues and exploits of the dead Chief, and of the deeds of their Great Nation, and, as they looked about them, tears trickled down the cheeks of the last of the Senecas, for there around them was only the miserable remnant of a once glorious nation.
Red Jacket was buried in the little mission burying ground, at the gateway of what once had been an American fortification. A simple shaft of granite was erected to mark his grave, and the spot became a resort for travellers from far and near. Upon the tombstone was cut the following inscription:
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Sa-Go-Ye-Wat-Ha The Keeper Awake Red Jacket Chief of the Wolf Tribe of the Senecas. Died Jan. 20, 1830 Age, 78 years. |
This headstone was desecrated by relic hunters until the name disappeared from the marble. The famous chieftain's body was afterwards removed to Buffalo, where, at the home of his own people, it remained unburied for many years, as they—knowing that his last wish was not to rise among the palefaces—did not care to allow him to lie among the members of a race which he disliked.
Recently a splendid monument has been erected to the great Seneca at Buffalo. A statue on top of the shaft is a fitting tribute to this great orator of the redskins, this man of masterful speech and noble form, who—like Daniel Webster—could sway the thoughts of his hearers by the magic of his utterance and the fascination of his thought. His body now rests among those of a different race, but his name still lives in the annals of American history as the one Chief whose logic and reasoning was, in a measure, equal to that of the all-conquering Anglo-Saxons.