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.