What could I have done? Ignore the muffled cries? Walk from the forest as if I hadn’t heard?
I alone saw them. Four wolves. At a smooth trot along the far side of the river. Silent. Between the trees like shadows. All gray. But the last. It was black. None looked in our direction. Before I could alert the others, they were gone.
The weather is mild, yet does us no good. The illness caused by the rancid salmon is grim. We are all of us weak, at times confused. We need rest, food, but will have neither until we find aid.
We thought we heard voices. Followed the sound, fired our rifles, but heard no more. Our futile stumbling through the woods ended at a cliff face.
Only meal today came when we scraped the last moldy lumps of flour from a sack, mixed into paste with river water.
The child yet lives, though its cries grow weaker. It sucks some of the paste from the flour sack, but will perish soon without food. As will we all.
Godsend! Pruitt shot two rabbits, the first we’ve seen since we began travel up the Trail River. It revives us greatly. We ate the meat raw, still warm with life. It is gruesome indeed, but we dripped rabbit blood into the baby’s mouth, so as to give it some small nourishment. It took to it well, sucked the blood from Tillman’s finger. It is, however, a short remedy.
Pruitt argues to turn back, rejoin the others at the Wolverine. Most likely they killed tebay, as we heard gunshots yesterday. But we are too near starvation to make the journey. Our best hope is to find the village. Increasing signs of the Midnooskies — tracks along the river, smell of wood smoke.
May ?
I have much to write, but lack the strength. They feed us. We eat. We sleep. We eat again. Pruitt is most ill, so is fed with a wooden spoon.
I am unsure of the date. The past days are dim. Our health returns, to Tillman most quickly. He is already up & about. I try to regain my legs but remain weak.
I cannot bring myself to write of the found infant.
May 12, 1885
I have done my best to count backwards the days, determine a correct date. I believe I am within a day or two.
Now that we recover, I can at last record how we came to this village.
Though advised to the contrary, we reached the fork of the Trail River without seeing any sign of the village. Tillman, however, said he spied campfire smoke up the south fork of the river, so our direction was chosen.
We staggered along the shore of the river, too feeble to make real progress, too muddle-brained to search the nearby forest. My scope was reduced to the ground directly in front of me as I aimed with much difficulty to step over the boulders. We did not speak, although now & then Tillman uttered a word to the baby in his coat.
Pruitt stopped walking, held up a hand. He had heard something.
Voices to the north. Pruitt & I fired off several rounds. Samuelson would have advised more, but I loathed to waste the ammunition that serves as our primary currency. The Midnooskies answered us better; a half dozen shots we heard, although from a great distance away. We decided to stay put in hopes the Indians would seek us out. After some time, we shot two more rounds. An hour or so later, two Midnoosky scouts found us at the river.
Both men were dressed in skin tunics & leggings with very little adornment. One held a small-bore shotgun. Both carried birch bows & quivers of arrows upon their backs. When they spoke, I looked to Tillman for translation.
— I can’t understand a word they’re saying, he said.
His voice stirred the baby in his coat, which let out a small whimper. The Indians looked to each other in surprise. The shorter one approached, poked an arrow at the bundle.
Tillman forcefully yanked the arrow away. Their response was quick. The taller Midnoosky brought up his shotgun, aimed it at Tillman’s head. Pruitt moved for his carbine. I put a hand to his arm. For a tense moment, it seemed we were in for a row. Tillman, however, came to his senses. He slowly handed the arrow back to its owner, fletching first, then leaned forwards to show the top of the infant’s head, its small, scrunched face.
Surely it was not what the Indians were expecting to find tucked in the coat of a white soldier. They asked us questions but we could not make out the words.
The one with the shotgun gestured for us to follow them. We could only hope the village was both friendly & near.
The journey was nearly beyond our strength. The Midnooskies led us from river shore to the north, first through shaded woods where the snow has yet to melt, then to the valley wall. The slope that rose before us was so steep as to not allow for anything to grow but shrubs & stunted aspen. Dirt & boulders crumbled down the hillside. It was a climb that in our state would take hours.
— I fear I am too weak for this, Pruitt said.
I ordered him to empty his pack. Tillman & I divided the contents between us. Tillman was disgusted to find several books in the bottom of his pack, including one of poetry.
— You’ve lugged this up half the country?
Tillman tossed them to the ground. Pruitt objected. I was sorry to do it, but I agreed it made no sense to haul such luxuries. I wrapped the books in a piece of oilcloth and lodged them in a tree branch to protect them from the elements. Pruitt conjectured he might retrieve them at some point, but it seems unlikely.
We tried to assist Pruitt in the climb, but ourselves were too feeble. Tillman fought to keep his balance, pulled backwards by his pack, forwards by the baby at his chest.
While the taller of the Midnooskies was impatient, traveled far ahead, the other was more considerate of our state. He climbed back down to us, slung one of Pruitt’s arms over his shoulder, nearly carried him up the hill.
Atop the plateau, the Indians pointed down into the next valley where we could see the huts of their village.
We had chosen the wrong fork of the river.
It took the rest of the afternoon to make it to the village. When we arrived, we were greeted by an Indian, not much more than a boy, who stood in front of the largest of the houses. I introduced myself, then asked if I could meet with the chief.
I gestured towards the skin-covered hut, hoping he would understand.
— Tyone? I asked.
He looked at me in a frowning manner, as if I had mildly amused or annoyed him. He pointed at himself.
I had expected an elderly, hardened man. This one is young, barely a man. His expressions are neutral, but if anything he has a certain mild reserve. There is something in his manner that suggests he is disappointed by our appearance as well. No doubt word of our approach preceded us. Perhaps he imagined something more fierce than the gaunt, unkempt soldiers before him, baby in tow.
We were led into the main hut. Two Indians carried Pruitt, laid him down on one of the benches of spruce poles. In the center of the room, a giant kettle sat in the flames. We collapsed inside, ate all that was brought to us by the Indian women. There was moose meat that came boiled from the kettle, a mush of dried berries fried in animal fat, a wild root akin to parsnip that had been roasted in the flames. They also insisted we eat a broth of rabbit intestines.
Such have been our past two days. We wake only long enough to eat, nurse our battered feet, then sleep again. This is the first moment I have felt well enough to sit up to write for long. A woman cares for Pruitt, propping him up to eat & drink.
May 13
The world comes into sharper focus as my strength returns. All day, all night, all day again I have mostly slept on this bed of hides, but a few times today I have stuck my head out of the skin hut. The sunlight stuns the eyes, has a new heat to it I have not experienced before on this journey.
I cannot imagine how much we have eaten these past days. Tillman is recovered enough to at last notice what they feed us.
— They throw the guts into the pot! he observed.
It is true, the Midnooskies eat every part of an animal — bones, internal organs, skin, & tendons. The varied contents of the cook pot are heated just enough to len
d some warmth to the broth, but not enough to leave the meat anything but raw.
I pointed out that we have eaten such meals for several days, suffered no ill from it.
— I can’t stomach it any longer, Tillman said.
When next the woman brought him a bowl of the half-raw entrails, he objected.
— I would take it gladly if I were you.
— I’d prefer sirloin, & well done at that.
He has not, however, complained since.
I am not bothered by the undercooked food, yet I feel the lack of salt keenly.
As told by the Indians we had encountered along the river, this is a wealthy village. Though I rarely catch sight of them, the children appear nourished. The adults are clothed in well-sewn skins & furs. They have traded with the coastal Indians for a few white man luxuries — the giant kettle, rifles & powder.
Despite his youth & gentle manner, the tyone also has a keen vigor to him. It seems he has at least three wives as well as a number of slaves. He is clearly the leader of these people. Even elderly men obey his commands.
I have much to ask him. When will the salmon come? What is our best route through the mountains? Will he guide us? Tillman’s translation skills have proven nearly useless. He says they speak a different dialect, so that he can only pick up a few words. We communicate mostly with gestures.
As generous as the tyone has been, I suspect it is in part a show of power. We continue to size each other up, endeavor to understand the other’s motivation.
Whether it be for the business man looking for investments, the invalid in search of health, the tourist seeking pleasure or sightseeing, or the sportsman looking for big game, no better opportunity offers than this trip through Southern Alaska.
— From A Guide for Alaska: Miners, Settlers and Tourists, 1902
When I First Saw White Men At Trail River
As told to Mary Eaken by her grandmother, transcribed and edited in 1948.
The one called “Colonel” came first. He and his soldiers.
We saw white men after that. I will tell you about the first time.
They came from down the Wolverine River. The ice was almost gone.
Man Who Flies on Black Wings came to tell us first.
“Some soldiers are looking for you. They bring a baby with them.”
He came ahead with the news first.
“The soldiers are at Otters Den Creek.”
Ceeth Hwya didn’t think it was so. That shaman sometimes puts a hex on us.
“The soldiers will come here next,” said Man Who Flies on Black Wings.
“We should go to see them.” So my father and his uncle went to find the soldiers.
We heard gunshots.
As we came, we saw them. They had red beards. One of them carried an Indian baby in his coat.
My mother said they might want to kill us children. We all ran and hid behind the houses. We watched them.
They were having a hard time. They were sick and hungry. They didn’t understand any words.
Ceeth Hwya told his wives to bring them food.
We saw lots of white people later after that. That was the first time.
Lieut. Col. Allen Forrester
May 14, 1885
I have emerged from the hut, sit outside its door on a stump to write. Dawn came some time ago, but just now I watched the sun clear the tall mountaintop to the east. The men of the village have left on a hunt, Tillman with them. Women & children move among the trees at their chores & play. The tyone has assigned one of his men to stand guard. It seems we are not entirely trusted. Pruitt is still abed. His listlessness does not subside.
These Indians have chosen their site well. The village is on a south-facing slope, looking down on the north fork of the Trail River. A fast, clear creek runs out of the mountains, past the camp. To the north rise the tallest mountains I have ever seen, colossal wedges of snow & ice with ribbons of glaciers. At least one of the peaks appears volcanic, sending up a vapor throughout the day.
Here in the valley, much of the snow has melted except on the north faces & shaded corners. Along the river is a haze of green through the aspen & cottonwoods — leaf buds. Winter leaves us.
I heard the baby somewhere in the camp. Its cry is stronger. How does it fare, I asked Tillman.
— Healthy as an ox.
He says an Indian with a toddler of her own has taken the strange child to breast. With milk in its belly, it grows stronger. For that I am glad. Yet it is a startling thought — a woman nursing the creature.
How do I write of the infant? I have avoided it until now, the memory of its discovery, of crawling beneath the spruce tree, unsheathing my knife.
I had gone in search of firewood. We needed to dry our clothes & warm ourselves but were too weak to chop logs, so I looked for deadfall. It was not yet night. I wish now that it had been. I would have preferred darkness to seeing that unwholesome birth.
I came to a fallen tree with kindle-dry branches that I could break off with ease. As I worked, I heard the men nearby, lighting the fire, gathering other wood.
The cries were muffled so at first I did not distinguish them. It was only when I stopped breaking branches that I took notice. Faint but distinct in the quiet of the river valley, it was the sound of a small creature choked & struggling.
I thought perhaps a rabbit was caught in an Indian snare, or a moose calf injured by wolves.
The sound did not move, but varied in intensity so that at times it was a rhythmic wail, at others a stifled mewl.
I called to the men, asked if they heard the cry — They did not. I said I would investigate.
— Shouldn’t I come with you? Tillman asked.
It wasn’t far, I believed. I had my pistol so could fire a shot if I required assistance.
The cries led me away from the river, first through sparse cottonwood trees, so that I could still see the river & smoke of our fire, then to the dense band of alders that grows along the bank. I looked for another way around but saw no break, so I entered their shadowy tangle. I had to duck, shoulder my way through, until I emerged at the edge of a murky slough that again offered no easy way around. I thought then of turning back, but the cries continued, smothered, quickened. It was a foolish risk in my weakened condition, but I sloshed through the icy water to my waist.
When I reached the far side, the sound was still muffled, but closer. I walked among the trees, taking a step or two, stopping to listen, then a few more steps.
I was led to the largest of the spruces, a majestic, towering tree, with lower boughs that fanned broadly to the ground. The cries came from the base. I tried to peer through the branches, but could see nothing. In order to enter the low canopy, I had to crawl. The ground was wet & spongy beneath my hands & knees, squelched as if saturated. It struck me as odd, as usually such sheltered ground beneath an evergreen is entirely dry.
It was then that I saw — where the tree trunk met the earth, the largest of the roots seemed to writhe & squirm, like a fat snake that has swallowed a living animal whole. I thought it a mad hallucination, surely. But the cry came again, sharper. I crawled closer.
There in the root I spied a small hole, a teardrop rip the size of my hand. I poked a finger into the opening. To my horror, I felt a tiny mouth, opening, closing, crying out. I reached into the root with both hands, tried to rip the opening wider with my fingers, but the skin, the bark, whatever in God’s name that it was, was too tough & thick. I took out my knife, then saw the blood on my hands & pants. Blood! It was bubbling up through the moss & needles all around me.
I feared what my knife would release into the world. Yet I also feared cutting the wailing thing. What could I do? I inserted my knife into the opening, sliced upwards sharply.
It was much like the birth of a foal, slick & bloody & a frightful mess. As I pulled it free of the root, clear fluid gushed from the opening. Trailing from the infant’s belly was a lo
ng umbilical string, blue tinged, throbbing with life. I held the baby with one hand, tugged the cord with the other. As the umbilicus continued to snake out of the ground, I began to dread what I would find at the other end. Gradually the cord turned rough & coarse & coated in dirt. I had pulled several feet when it stopped fast. Here at the end the umbilicus was no longer malleable & fleshy. It was a tree root!
How did I manage? I cannot say. I was sick with it, the smell of warm blood in the moss, the infant slippery & wailing in my hand. As close to the child’s belly as I dared, I slashed the umbilicus with my knife. I cradled the thing in my arms to protect it as I crawled out from under the tree.
Numb with disbelief, I found my way back through slough & alders.
I must have been a sight. Slathered in blood. An infant in my arms. The men were alarmed. — What happened in the woods? Where’s the mother?
I tried my best to tell them. They could not comprehend. Perhaps they thought my mind was unsound. I’ll take you to the place, I said, so you can see for yourself. Pruitt was too weak, Tillman too revolted by it all.
Yet he was the one, the sergeant, who took the baby from me, wiped it down with wet leaves, took off his own undershirt to wrap around its trembling little body. He dabbed the afterbirth away from its eyes & nose. The newborn howled.
Its hair is dark, its skin the warm bronze of the Indians. Yet the infant’s eyes set it apart. They are not the near-black brown of the Midnooskies, but instead a gold-speckled green.
As naked, warm, vulnerable as it seems, can it be human? Born from the earth like a Greek monster?
We were in precarious condition ourselves. It seemed an impossible task, to care for an infant. Without Tillman, I do not know what would have come of the child. I likely would have left it.
The Midnooskies do not seem bothered by my tale. With few words & gestures, I have tried to tell them of the tree, the root, the blood. Perhaps they do not understand.