The year 1845 will be a memorable epoch in the sad annals of the Black-Feet nation. It has been a year of disasters. In two skirmishes with the Flat-heads and Kalispels, they lost twenty-one warriors. The Crees have carried off a great number of their horses, and twenty-seven scalps. The Crows have struck them a mortal blow—fifty families, the entire band of the petite Robe, were lately massacred, and one hundred and sixty women and children have been led into captivity.[245]
What a dreadful state for these unfortunate beings. In the first excitement, numbers of the captives were sacrificed by the Crow squaws to the manes of their husbands, brothers, fathers, or children. The survivors were condemned to slavery. The smallpox shortly after made its appearance in the conquerors’ camp, and spread {178} rapidly from lodge to lodge. The Black-Feet had suffered from this scourge a few years previous, and thousands had fallen victims to it.
The Crows, therefore, interrogated their captives to know by what means they had escaped death. A dark spirit of vengeance seized the latter; they counselled cold baths as the only efficacious remedy, to stop the progress of the disease. The sick immediately plunged into the water, and mothers went to the river to bathe their little children. Some plunged into their graves; others gave up their last sigh while endeavoring to reach the shore—and disconsolate mothers returned to their cabins with dead or expiring infants in their arms. Cries of despair succeeded to the shouts of victory—desolation and mourning replaced the fanatic, barbarous joy of the Crows. Death visited every tent of the victorious camp!
The tradition of man’s creation and future immortality exists among most of the Indian tribes; I have had the opportunity of visiting and questioning them on the subject. Those who live by fishery, suppose their Heaven to be full of lakes and rivers, abounding in fish, whose enchanted shores and verdant islands produce fruits of every kind.
{179} I encamped on the banks of two lakes to the east of the Rocky Mountains, which the Black-Feet call the lake of men and the lake of women. According to their traditions, from the first of these issued a band of young men, handsome and vigorous, but poor and naked. From the second an equal number of ingenious and industrious young women, who constructed and made themselves clothing. They lived a long time separate and unknown to each other, until the great Manitou Wizakeschak, or the old man, (still invoked by the Black-Feet,) visited them; he taught them to slay animals in the chase, but they were yet ignorant of the art of dressing skins. Wizakeschak conducted them to the dwelling of the young women, who received their guests with dances and cries of joy. Shoes, leggins, shirts, and robes, garnished with porcupine quills, were presented them. Each young woman selected her guest, and presented him with a dish of seeds and roots; the men, desiring to contribute to the entertainment, sought the chase, and returned loaded with game. The women liked the meat, and admired the strength, skill, and bravery of the hunters. The men were equally delighted with the beauty of their trappings, and admired the industry of the women. {180} Both parties began to think they were necessary to each other, and Wizakeschak presided at the solemn compact in which it was agreed that the men should become the protectors of the women, and provide all necessaries for their support: whilst all other family cares should devolve upon the women.
The Black-Feet squaws often bitterly complain of the astonishing folly of their mothers in accepting such a proposition; declaring, if the compact were yet to be made, they would arrange it in a very different manner.
The Black-Foot heaven is a country composed of sandy hills, which they call Espatchekie, whither the soul goes after death, and where they will find again all the animals they have killed, and all the horses they have stolen. The buffalo, hind, and stag, abound there. In speaking of the departed, a Black-Foot never says, such a one is dead, but Espatchekie etape—to the Sand hills he is gone.
Fort Auguste, on the Saschatshawin, December 31st, 1846.
Monseigneur,—I arranged with the thirteen Black-Feet of whom I spoke in my last, that {181} they should precede me among their people, to pave the way, as it were, and prepare their minds to receive me.—Everything seemed propitious, and accordingly, on the 31st of October, I took leave of the friendly Mr. Harriot. I was accompanied by my interpreter, a young Metif of the Cree nation, who had charge of the horses. Notwithstanding his good resolutions, my interpreter did not long leave me in doubt of his true character. The wolf cannot remain concealed beneath the sheep’s clothing. He became sullen and peevish, always choosing to halt in those places where the poor beasts of burden could find nothing to eat, after their long day’s journey. The farther we penetrated into the desert, the more and more sulky he became. It was impossible to draw from him a single pleasant word, and his incoherent mutterings and allusions became subjects of serious apprehension. Thus passed ten sorrowful days; my last two nights had been nights of anxiety and watching; when fortunately, I encountered a Canadian, on whom I prevailed to remain with me some time. The following day my interpreter disappeared. Although my situation was extremely precarious in this dangerous desert, without interpreter, without guide, {182} yet I could not but feel relieved of a heavy burden by the departure of this sullen and gloomy fellow. Had it not been for my opportune meeting with the Canadian, it is probable I should not have escaped his deep laid scheme against me.
Friends and travellers in the desert, beware of choosing for your guide, or placing your dependence on a morose Metif, especially if he has been for some time a resident among the savages; for such men usually possess all the faults of the white man joined to the cunning of the Indian. I determined to continue my route in search of a Canadian interpreter, whom we understood was some distance in advance of us on the same road. For eight successive days we wandered on in that labyrinth of valleys, but in vain; although in the heart of their territory, neither the Canadian nor the Black-Feet were to be found. Large marauding parties of the Crees were beating the country at that time, and it appeared evident from the tracks, that they had carried everything before them. It snowed without intermission during four days;—our poor horses were nearly exhausted—my wallet contained nothing but crumbs—the passage from the east to the western {183} side of the mountains was become impracticable, and I had no alternative, but to repair to one of the forts of the Hudson Bay Company, and beg hospitality during the inclement season.