Dahcotah - Mary Eastman
While the wife of Red Face lived from day to day in suspense as to her
fate, her husband made every effort for her recovery. Knowing that she
was still alive, he could not give up the hope of seeing her again.
Accordingly, the facts were made known at Fort Snelling, and the
Chippeway interpreter was sent up to Hole-in-the-Day's village, with an
order from the government to bring her down.
She had been expected for some time, when an excitement among a number
of old squaws, who were standing outside of the gate of the fort, showed
that something unusual was occasioning expressions of pleasure; and as
the wife of Red Face advanced towards the house of the interpreter,
their gratification was raised to the utmost.
Red Face and some of the Dahcotah warriors were soon there too--and the
long separated husband and wife were again united.
But whatever they might have felt on the occasion of meeting again, they
showed but little joy. Red Face entered the room where were assembled
the Indians and the officers of the garrison. He shook hands with the
officers and with the interpreter, and, without looking at his wife,
took his seat with the other Dahcotahs.
But her composure soon left her. When she saw him enter, the blood
mantled in her pale cheek--pale with long anxiety and recent fatigue.
She listened while the Dahcotahs talked with the agent and the
commanding officer; and at last, as if her feelings could not longer be
restrained, she arose, crossed the room, and took her seat at his feet!
The chief Hole-in-the-Day has been dead some years, and, in one of the
public prints, it was stated that he was thrown from his carriage and
killed. This was a genteel mode of dying, which cannot, with truth, be
attributed to him.
He always deplored the habit of drinking, to which the Indians are so
much addicted. In his latter years, however, he could not withstand the
temptation; and, on one occasion, being exceedingly drunk, he was put
into an ox-cart, and being rather restive, was thrown out, and the cart
wheel went over him.
Thus died Hole-in-the-Day-one of the most noted Indians of the present
day; and his eldest son reigns in his stead.
[Illustration: HAOKAH THE ANTI-NATURAL GOD; ONE OF THE GIANTS OF THE
DAHCOTAHS. Drawn by White Deer, a Sioux Warrior who lives near Fort
Snelling.]
EXPLANATION OF THE DRAWING.
1. The giant.
2. A frog that the giant uses for an arrow-point.
3. A large bird that that the giant keeps in his court.
4. Another bird.
5. An ornament over the door leading into the court.
6. An ornament over a door.
7. Part of court ornamented with down.
8. Part of do. do. with red down.
9. A bear; 10. a deer; 11. an elk; 12. a buffalo.
13, 14. Incense-offering.
15. A rattle of deer's claws, used when singing.
16. A long flute or whistle.
17, 18, 19, 20. Are meteors that the giant sends out for his defence,
or to protect him from invasion.
21, 22, 23, 24. The giant surrounded with lightnings, with which he
kills all kinds of animals that molest him.
25. Red down in small bunches fastened to the railing of the court.
26. The same. One of these bunches of red down disappears every time
an animal is found dead inside the court.
27, 28. Touchwood, and a large fungus that grows on trees.--These are
eaten by any animal that enters the court, and this food causes
their death.
29. A streak of lightning going from the giant's hat.
30. Giant's head and hat. 31. His bow and arrow.
WAH-ZEE-YAH
ANOTHER OF THE GIANT GODS OF THE DAHCOTAHS.
Wah-Zee-Yah had a son who was killed by Etokah Wachastah, Man of the
South. Wah-zee-yah is the god of the winter, and Etokah Wachastah is the
god of the summer. When there is a cold spell early in the warm weather,
the Dahcotahs say Wah-zee-yah is looking back. When the son of
Wah-zee-yah was killed, there were six on each side; the Beings of the
south were too strong for those of the north, and conquered them. When
the battle was over, a fox was seen running off with one of the Beings
of the north.
These gods of the Dahcotahs are said to be inferior to the Great Spirit;
but if an Indian wants to perform a deed of valor, he prays to Haokah
the Giant. When they are in trouble, or in fear of anything, they pray
to the Great Spirit. You frequently see a pole with a deer-skin, or a
blanket hung to it; these are offerings made to the Great Spirit, to
propitiate him. White Dog, who lives near Fort Snelling, says he has
often prayed to the Great Spirit to keep him from sin, and to enable him
and his family to do right. When he wishes to make an offering to the
Great Spirit, he takes a scarlet blanket, and paints a circle of blue
in the centre, (blue is an emblem of peace,) and puts ten bells, or
silver brooches to it. This offering costs him $20. Christians are too
apt to give less liberally to the true God. When White Dog goes to war,
he makes this offering.
White Dog says he never saw the giant, but that "Iron Members," who died
last summer, saw one of the giants several years ago.
Iron Members was going hunting, and when he was near Shah-co-pee's
village, he met the Giant. He wore a three-cornered hat, and one side
was bright as the sun; so bright one could not look upon it; and he had
a crooked thing upon his shoulder.
Iron Members was on a hill; near which was a deep ravine, when suddenly
his eye rested upon something so bright that it pained him to look at
it. He looked down the ravine and there stood the Giant. Notwithstanding
his position, his head reached to the top of the trees. The Giant was
going northwards, and did not notice the Indian or stop; he says he
watched the Giant; and, as he went forward, the trees and bushes seemed
to make way for him. The visit was one of good luck, the Indians say,
for there was excellent hunting that season.
The Dahcotahs believe firmly the story of Iron Members. He was one of
their wisest men. He was a great warrior and knew how to kill his
enemies. White Dog says that at night, when they were on a war party,
Iron Members would extinguish all the fires of the Dahcotahs, and then
direct his men where to find the Chippeways. He would take a spoonful of
sugar, and the same quantity of whiskey, and make an offering to the
spirits of their enemies; he would sing to them, and charm them so that
they would come up so close to him that he would knock them on the head
with his rattle, and kill them. These spirits approach in the form of a
bear. After this is done, they soon find their enemies and conquer them.
The Dahcotahs think their medicine possesses supernatural powers; they
burn incense,--leaves of the white cedar tree,--in order to destroy the
supernatural powers of a person who dislikes them. They consider the
burning of incense a preventive of evil, and believe it wards off danger
from lightning. They say that the cedar tree is wahkun (spiritual) and
on that account they burn its leaves to ward off danger. The temple of
Solomon was built of cedar.
Unktahe, the god of the waters, is much reverenced by the Dahcotahs.
Morgan's bluff, near Fort Snelling, is called "God's house" by the
Dahcotahs; they say it is the residence of Unktahe, and under the hill
is a subterranean passage, through which they say the water-god passes
when he enters the St. Peter's. He is said to be as large as a white
man's house.
Near Lac qui parle is a hill called "the Giant's house." On one occasion
the Rev. Mr. ---- was walking with a Dahcotah, and as they approached
this hill the Dahcotah exclaimed, "Do you not see him, there he is." And
although no one else saw the Giant, he persisted in watching him for a
few moments as he passed over the hill.
Near Lac qui parle, is living an old Dahcotah woman of a singular
appearance. Her face is very black, and her hair singed and
faded-looking. She was asked by a stranger to account for her singular
appearance. "I dreamed of the Giant," she said; "and I was frightened
when I woke; and I told my husband that I would give a dance to the
Giant to propitiate him; but my husband said that I was not able to go
through the Giant's dance; that I would only fail, and bring disgrace
upon him and all my family. The Giant was very angry with me, and
punished me by burning my face black, and my hair as you see it." Her
husband might well fear that she would not be able to perform
this dance.
It would be impossible to give any idea of the number of the gods of the
Dahcotahs. All nature is animated with them; every mountain, every tree,
is worshipped, as among the Greeks of old, and again, like the
Egyptians, the commonest animals are the objects of their adoration.
May the time soon come when they will acknowledge but one God, the
Creator of the Earth and Heaven, the Sovereign of the universe!
STORMS IN LIFE AND NATURE;
OR,
UNKTAHE AND THE THUNDER BIRD
"Ever," says Checkered Cloud, "will Unktahe, the god of the waters, and
Wahkeon, (Thunder,) do battle against each other. Sometimes the thunder
birds are conquerors--often the god of the waters chases his enemies
back to the distant clouds."
Many times, too, will the daughters of the nation go into the pathless
prairies to weep; it is their custom; and while there is sickness, and
want, and death, so long will they leave the haunts of men to weep where
none but the Great Spirit may witness their tears. It is only, they
believe, in the City of spirits, that the sorrows of Dahcotah women will
cease--there, will their tears be dried forever.
Many winters have passed away since Harpstenah brought the dead body of
her husband to his native village to be buried; my authority is the
"medicine woman," whose lodge, for many years, was to be seen on the
banks of Lake Calhoun.
This village is now deserted. The remains of a few houses are to be
seen, and the broken ground in which were planted the poles of their
teepees. Silence reigns where the merry laugh of the villagers often
met in chorus. The scene of the feast and dance is now covered with long
grass, but "desolation saddens all its green."
CHAPTER I.
Dark and heavy clouds hung over the village of "Sleepy Eyes," one of the
chiefs of the Sioux. The thunder birds flapped their wings angrily as
they flew along, and where they hovered over the "Father of many
waters," the waves rose up, and heaved to and fro. Unktahe was eager to
fight against his ancient enemies; for as the storm spirits shrieked
wildly, the waters tossed above each other; the large forest trees were
uptorn from their roots, and fell over into the turbid waters, where
they lay powerless amid the scene of strife; and while the vivid
lightning pierced the darkness, peal after peal was echoed by the
neighboring hills.
One human figure was seen outside the many teepees that rose side by
side in the village. Sleepy Eyes alone dared to stand and gaze upon the
tempest which was triumphing over all the powers of nature. As the
lightning fell upon the tall form of the chief, he turned his keen
glance from the swift-flying clouds to the waters, where dwelt the god
whose anger he had ever been taught to fear. He longed, though
trembling, to see the countenance of the being whose appearance is the
sure warning of calamity. His superstitious fears told him to turn, lest
the deity should rise before him; while his native courage, and love of
the marvellous, chained him to the spot.
The storm raged wilder and louder--the driving wind scattered the hail
around him, and at length the chief raised the door of his teepee, and
joined his frightened household. Trembling and crouching to the ground
were the mothers and children, as the teepee shook from the force of the
wind. The young children hid their faces close against their mothers'
breasts. Every head was covered, to avoid the streaked lightning as it
glanced over the bent and terrified forms, that seemed to cling to the
earth for protection.
At the end of the village, almost on the edge of the high bluff that
towered above the river, rose a teepee, smaller than the rest. The open
door revealed the wasted form of Harpstenah, an aged woman.
Aged, but not with years! Evil had been the days of her pilgrimage.
The fire that had burned in the wigwam was all gone out, the dead ashes
lay in the centre, ever and anon scattered by the wind over the wretched
household articles that lay around. Gone out, too, were the flames that
once lighted with happiness the heart of Harpstenah.
The sorrows of earth, more pitiless than the winds of heaven, had
scattered forever the hopes that had made her a being of light and life.
The head that lies on the earth was once pillowed on the breast of the
lover of her youth. The arm that is heavily thrown from her once clasped
his children to her heart.
What if the rain pours in upon her, or the driving wind and hail scatter
her wild locks? She feels it not. Life is there, but the consciousness
of life is gone forever.
A heavier cloud hangs about her heart than that which darkens nature.
She fears not the thunder, nor sees the angry lightning. She has laid
upon the scaffold her youngest son, the last of the many ties that bound
her to earth.
One week before, her son entered the wigwam. He was not alone; his
comrade, "The Hail that Strikes," accompanied him.
Harpstenah had been tanning deer-skin near her door. She had planted two
poles firmly in the ground, and on them she had stretched the deer-skin.
With an iron instrument she constantly scraped the skin, throwing water
upon it. She had smoked it too, and now it was ready to make into
mocassins or leggins. She had determined, while she was tanning the
deer-skin, how she would embroider them. They should be richer and
handsomer even than those of their chief's son; nay, gayer than those
worn by the chief himself. She had beads and stained porcupine quills;
all were ready for her to sew.
The venison for the evening meal was cooked and placed in a wooden bowl
before the fire, when the two young men entered.
The son hardly noticed his mother's greeting, as he invited his friend
to partake of the venison. After eating, he filled his pipe, smoked, and
offered it to the other. They seemed inclined to waste but little time
in talking, for the pipe was put by, and they were about to leave the
teepee, when the son's steps were arrested by his mother's asking him if
he were going out again on a hunt. "There is food enough," she added,
"and I thought you would remain at home and prepare to join in the dance
of the sun, which will be celebrated to-morrow. You promised me to do
so, and a Dahcotah values his word."
The young man hesitated, for he loved his mother, and he knew it would
grieve her to be told the expedition upon which he was going.
The eyes of his comrade flashed fire, and his lip curled scornfully, as
he turned towards the son of Harpstenah. "Are you afraid to tell your
mother the truth," he said, "or do you fear the 'long knives' [Footnote:
Officers and soldiers are called long knives among the Sioux, from their
wearing swords.] will carry you a prisoner to their fort? _I_ will tell
you where we are going," he added. "The Dahcotahs have bought us
whiskey, and we are going to meet them and help bring it up. And now
cry--you are a woman--but it is time for us to be gone."
The son lingered--he could not bear to see his mother's tears. He knew
the sorrows she had endured, he knew too (for she had often assured him)
that should harm come to him she would not survive it. The knife she
carried in her belt was ready to do its deadly work. She implored him to
stay, calling to his mind the deaths of his father and of his murdered
brothers; she bade him remember the tears they had shed together, and
the promises he had often made, never to add to the trials she
had endured.
It was all in vain; for his friend, impatient to be gone, laughed at him
for listening to the words of his mother. "Is not a woman a dog?" he
said. "Do you intend to stay all night to hear your mother talk? If so,
tell me, that I may seek another comrade--one who fears neither a white
man nor a woman."
This appeal had its effect, for the young men left the teepee together.
They were soon out of sight, while Harpstenah sat weeping, and swaying
her body to and fro, lamenting the hour she was born. "There is no
sorrow in the land of spirits," she cried; "oh! that I were dead!"
The party left the village that night to procure the whiskey. They were
careful to keep watch for the Chippeways, so easy would it be for their
enemies to spring up from behind a tree, or to be concealed among the
bushes and long grass that skirted the open prairies. Day and night they
were on their guard; the chirping of the small bird by day, as well as
the hooting of an owl by night--either might be the feigned voice of a
tomahawked enemy. And as they approached St. Anthony's Falls, they had
still another cause for caution. Here their friends were to meet them
with the fire water. Here, too, they might see the soldiers from Fort
Snelling, who would snatch the untasted prize from their lips, and carry
them prisoners to the fort--a disgrace that would cling to them forever.
Concealed under a rock, they found the kegs of liquor, and, while
placing them in their canoes, they were joined by the Indians who had
been keeping guard over it, and at the same time watching for
the soldiers.
In a few hours they were relieved of their fears. The flag that waved
from the tower at Fort Snelling, had been long out of sight. They kept
their canoes side by side, passing away the time in conversation.
The women who were paddling felt no fatigue. They knew that at night
they were to have a feast. Already the fires of the maddening drink had
made the blood in their dull veins course quickly. They anticipated the
excitement that would make them forget they had ever been cold or
hungry; and bring to them bright dreams of that world where sorrow
is unknown.
"We must be far on our journey to-night," said the Rattler; "the long
knives are ever on the watch for Dahcotahs with whiskey."
"The laws of the white people are very just," said an old man of the
party; "they let their people live near us and sell us whiskey, they
take our furs from us, and get much money. _They_ have the right to
bring their liquor near us, and sell it, but if _we_ buy it we are
punished. When I was young," he added, bitterly, "the Dahcotahs were
free; they went and came as they chose. There were no soldiers sent to
our villages to frighten our women and children, and to take our young
men prisoners. The Dahcotahs are all women now--there are no warriors
among them, or they would not submit to the power of the long knives."
"We must submit to them," said the Rattler; "it would be in vain to
attempt to contend with them. We have learned that the long knives _can
work in the night_. A few nights ago, some young men belonging to the
village of Marpuah Wechastah, had been drinking. They knew that the
Chippeway interpreter was away, and that his wife was alone. They went,
like cowards as they were, to frighten a woman. They yelled and sung,
they beat against her door, shouting and laughing when they found she
was afraid to come out. When they returned home it was just day; they
drank and slept till night, and then they assembled, four young men in
one teepee, to pass the night in drinking.
"The father of White Deer came to the teepee. 'My son,' said he, 'it is
better for you to stop drinking and go away. You have an uncle among the
Tetons, go and visit him. You brought the fire water here, you
frightened the wife of the Interpreter, and for this trouble you will be
punished. Your father is old, save him the disgrace of seeing his son a
prisoner at the Fort.'
"'Fear not, my father,' said the young man, 'your Son will never be a
prisoner. I wear a charm over my heart, which will ever make me free as
the wind. The _white men cannot work in the night;_ they are sleeping
even now. We will have a merry night, and when the sun is high, and the
long knives come to seek me, you may laugh at them, and tell them to
follow me to the country of the Tetons.' The father left the teepee, and
White Deer struck the keg with his tomahawk. The fire water dulled their
senses, for they heard not their enemies until they were upon them.
"It was in the dead of night--all but the revellers slept--when the
soldiers from the fort surrounded the village.
"The mother of White Deer heard the barking of her dog. She looked out
of the door of her teepee. She saw nothing, for it was dark; but she
knew there was danger near.
"Our warriors, roused from their sleep, determined to find out the cause
of the alarm; they were thrust back into their teepees by the bayonets
of the long knives, and the voice of the Interpreter was heard, crying,
'The first Dahcotah that leaves his lodge shall be shot.'
"The soldiers found out from the old chief the teepee of the revellers.
The young men did not hear them as they approached; they were drinking
and shouting. White Deer had raised the cup to his lips, when the
soldier's grasp was upon him. It was too late for him to fly.
"There was an unopened keg of liquor in the teepee. The soldiers struck
it to pieces, and the fire water covered the ground.
"The hands of White Deer were bound with an iron chain; he threw from
him his clothes and his blanket. He was a prisoner, and needed not the
clothing of a Dahcotah, born free.
"The grey morning dawned as they entered the large door of the fort. His
old father soon followed him; he offered to stay, himself, as a
prisoner, if his young son could be set free.
"It is in vain, then, that we would contend with the white man; they
keep a watch over all our actions. They _work in the night_."
"The long knives will ever triumph, when the medicine men of our nation
speak as you do," said Two Stars. "I have lived near them always, and
have never been their prisoner. I have suffered from cold in the winter,
and have never asked clothing, and from hunger, and have never asked
food. My wife has never stood at the gate to ask bread, nor have my
daughters adorned themselves to attract the eyes of their young men. I
will live and die on the land of my forefathers, without asking a favor
of an enemy. They call themselves the friends of the Dahcotahs. They are
our friends when they want our lands or our furs.
"They are our worst enemies; they have trampled us under foot. We do not
chase the deer on the prairies as eagerly as they have hunted us down.
They steal from us our rights, and then gain us over by fair words. I
hate them; and had not our warriors turned women, and learned to fear
them, I would gladly climb their walls, and shout the war-cry in their
ears. The Great Spirit has indeed forsaken his children, when their
warriors and wise men talk of submission to their foes."
CHAPTER II.
Well might Harpstenah sit in her lodge and weep. The sorrows of her life
passed in review before her. Yet she was once the belle of an Indian
village; no step so light, no laugh so merry as hers. She possessed too,
a spirit and a firmness not often found among women.
She was by birth the third daughter, who is always called Harpstenah
among the Sioux. Her sisters were married, and she had seen but fourteen
summers when old Cloudy Sky, the medicine man, came to her parents to
buy her for his wife.
They dared not refuse him, for they were afraid to offend a medicine
man, and a war chief besides. Cloudy Sky was willing to pay them well
for their child. So she was told that her fate for life was determined
upon. Her promised bridegroom had seen the snows of eighty winters.
It was a bright night in the "moon for strawberries." [Footnote: The
month of June.] Harpstenah had wept herself to sleep, and she had reason
too, for her young companions had laughed at her, and told her that she
was to have for a husband an old man without a nose. And it was true,
though Cloudy Sky could once have boasted of a fine aquiline. He had
been drinking freely, and picked a quarrel with one of his sworn
friends. After some preliminary blows, Cloudy Sky seized his antagonist
and cut his ear sadly, but in return he had his nose bitten off.
She had wept the more when her mother told her that in four days she was
to go to the teepee of her husband. It was in vain to contend. She lay
down beside the fire; deep sleep came upon her; she forgot the events of
the past day; for a time she ceased to think of the young man she loved,
and the old one she hated. In her dreams she had travelled a long
journey, and was seated on the river shore, to rest her tired limbs. The
red light of the dying sun illumined the prairies, she could not have
endured its scorching rays, were it not for the sheltering branches of
the tree under which she had found a resting-place.
The waters of the river beat against her feet. She would fain move, but
something chained her to the spot. She tried to call her mother, but her
lips were sealed, and her voice powerless. She would have turned her
face from the waters, but even this was impossible. Stronger and
stronger beat the waves, and then parted, revealing the dreaded form of
the fairy of the waters.