The morning of the 29th of November, 1847, was a dark, dreary day. When I came downstairs I went into the kitchen where Dr. Whitman was sitting by the cookstove broiling steak for breakfast. I went and put my arms around his neck and kissed him and said, "Good morning, father," as we were taught to greet older persons with all politeness; also to say "Good night" to all as we retired. I continued, "I have had such a bad dream and I woke frightened."

He said, "What was it?"

"I dreamed that the Indians killed you and a lot of others."

He replied, "That was a bad dream, but I hope it will not occur."

The rest of the family who were able came to the table and we had breakfast; there was to be an Indian funeral later and the Doctor was to conduct it; so we separated and went to our various employments. Many of our family were sick. Those able to attend school were my brother Frank and myself, the two sons of Mr. Manson, a Hudson's Bay man, who were boarding with the Whitmans for the winter in order to attend the Mission school; Eliza Spalding, daughter of the Rev. H. H. Spalding, having arrived with her father a few days before; David Malin, a half breed. 'Liza was to remain for the winter. There were eight members of our family not well enough to attend school that morning, and most of the children of the immigrant families wintering there were unable to attend. I can recall only a few of these children besides those of our own family that were at school that morning, it being Monday and the first day of the term. School had not been in session before that, on account of so much sickness.

At nine o'clock we went to the schoolroom. Mr. Sanders was the teacher. Joe Stansfield went out that morning to drive in a beef animal from the range to be killed and brother Frank was the one to shoot it down. That made him late for school and when he came in school had been in session perhaps half an hour. When the hour for the forenoon recess had come, the girls had theirs first and we went over to the Doctor's kitchen. My brother John, who was just recovering from a severe case of measles, was sitting there with a skein of brown twine around his knees, winding it into a ball for there were brooms to be made soon. We all got a drink of water. John asked me to bring him some and after he had drank, said, "Won't you hold the twine for me?"

I replied, "'Tis only recess, but I will hold it at noon." The bell called us then, so we returned to the schoolroom and the boys were given their recess. The beef was being dressed in the meadow grass, northeast and not far from the school house. Three or four white men were at work and a lot of Indians were gathered around with their blankets closely wrapped about them and it is supposed that they had their guns and tomahawks under them. The boys went to where the beef was being dressed; in a short time we heard guns and the boys came running in and said the Indians were killing the men at the beef. Mr. Sanders opened the door and we looked out. We saw Mr. Rogers run from the river to the Mission house and Mr. Kimball running with his sleeves rolled up and his arms all bloody; he ran around the end of the house to the east door and Mrs. Whitman let him in. Mr. Hoffman was fighting with an Indian, swinging an ax; he was at the beef. Mr. Sanders ran down the steps, probably thinking of his family, but was seized by two Indians; he broke away from them and started for the immigrant house where his family were. One Indian on horseback and two on foot ran after him and overtook him just as he reached the fence to cross it; they killed him and cut his head off and the next day I saw him lying there with his head severed. Mrs. Whitman stood at a door which had a sash window, looking at the attack on Mr. Sanders. Mr. Rogers came to the door and she let him in; his arm was broken at the wrist.

Mary Ann Bridger was the only eye-witness of the attack on Dr. Whitman and John Sager, which had occurred just before the attack on the men at the beef. She ran out of the kitchen door and around the house and got into the room where Mrs. Whitman and the rest of the family were and cried, "Oh, the Indians are killing father and John!" It seems that after attending the Indian funeral, the Doctor returned to his home, where, soon after, some Indians came into the kitchen and as Dr. Whitman started to go from the living room to the kitchen he said to his wife, "Lock the door after me," which she did. In the course of conversation regarding the condition of the sick Indian, one of those in the kitchen slipped up behind the good man, drew a tomahawk from under his blanket and sank it into the Doctor's skull. Others attacked John Sager. Their dastardly deed accomplished, they left the room, not paying any attention to the fact that the little half-breed girl had run out; then they joined those around the beef and the general attack immediately began. The Doctor was not instantly killed. Mrs. Hays, Mrs. Hall and Mrs. Sanders came running to the Mission house for protection and Mrs. Whitman and Mrs. Hall unbolted the door, went into the kitchen and brought the wounded man into the living room and laid him on the floor, putting a pillow under his head. Mrs. Whitman got a towel and some ashes from the stove and tried to staunch the blood. He lingered but a short time, for the blow of his treacherous adversary had been sure and deadly. Mrs. Whitman went to the sash door and looked out to see what had become of those around the beef. She stood there watching, when Frank Iskalome, a full blooded Indian, shot her in the left breast, through the glass. Sister Elizabeth was standing beside her and heard her exclaim, "I am wounded; hold me tight." The women took hold of her and placed her in a chair; then she began to pray that "God would save her children that soon were to be orphaned and that her dear mother would be given strength to bear the news of her death."

Finally Mr. Rogers suggested that they all go up stairs for safety. The only weapon of defense they had was an old, broken gun; but when the Indians would start to come up, as they did after a time, some one of them would point it over the stairs, and the Indians were afraid to face it. Miss Bewley and her brother had staid behind their family, to winter at the Mission. She was sick and the Doctor thought he could treat and help her; she would not consent to remain unless her brother staid also; he was lying in bed in a little room off the kitchen, very sick with measles, during the attack upon the Doctor and John, but the Indians paid no attention to him at that time. Miss Bewley was supposed to assist with the housework and to teach the girls some fancy work—knitting, tatting, etc.—the few kinds of such work as was done in that day. The Doctor had been asked to go up to see her that morning, as she was reported to be in a very excited state. He found her weeping bitterly, but she would give him no reason as to why she cried so hard. He came down and asked Mrs. Whitman to go up and see if she could not comfort her. This was early Monday morning. Another incident that fixes the day and time as the Monday forenoon recess is this. One of the fixed rules of the Doctor's was the hour of the day we took our baths, both summer and winter—eleven o'clock in the morning; and as we did not get our usual baths on the Saturday previous on account of the sickness of so many of the children, Mrs. Whitman was bathing a part of them this Monday morning. Some were out of the tub and dressed; one was in the tub and some were dressing. Elizabeth said that mother came and told them, in a calm tone of voice, to dress quickly and then she helped the one who was in the tub to get out and assisted her to dress. This is the hour that is fixed in my mind beyond a doubt, as the hour of the massacre, regardless of the statement of others that it was two or three o'clock in the afternoon.

Now to return to the schoolroom. My brother Frank came in with the other boys and shut the door, saying, "We must hide." So we climbed to a loft that was above a part of the schoolroom and was sometimes used as the teacher's bedroom. It did not extend to the ceiling, but was so arranged that it left a hall on the south side of the building where there were two windows giving light to the main room. There was a fireplace in the schoolroom. In order to get up to the loft, we had to set a table under the opening and pile books on it; one of the boys got up first and then we girls stepped on the books and the boy above managed to pull us up, until finally all were up and hidden among the rubbish that had accumulated there. Frank told us all to ask God to save us and I can see him now, after all the years that have passed, as he kneeled and prayed for God to spare us. It seemed as though we had been there a long time, when the door was opened and Joe Lewis and several Indians came into the schoolroom and called "Frank." As they got no answer, he called the Manson boys and they answered. Lewis then said for all to come down and the two Mansons, about 16 and 17 years of age, and David Malin, 6 or 7 years, went among the first; then the girls. I was afraid to try to jump to the floor, but Lewis said, "Put your feet over the edge and let go and I will catch you." He failed to do this and I struck the floor hard, hurting my head. When he helped me up I was dazed and when he asked me "Where is Frank?" I replied, "I don't know." Frank remained quiet and it evidently did not occur to any one to search for him in the loft.

They sent the Hudson Bay boys and the half-breed Indian boy in charge of an Indian to Finlay's lodge and from there they were sent the next day to Fort Walla Walla and were safe there. Later, after the rescue of the survivors, the two Manson boys went down the river from the fort with us; but they would not let the boy David go, claiming him as a Canadian. His father was a Spaniard and his mother a squaw. The last look I had of him was when we rowed away from Fort Walla Walla, leaving him standing on the bank of the river crying as though his heart were breaking.

Lewis said to me, "Where do you want to go?"

I said, "I want to go to the kitchen where John is."

He replied, "John is dead and the rest of them."

I said, "I don't believe it, for he was there when I went down at recess."

But he took my hand and the rest of the children followed, with the Indians bringing up the rear. When we went into the kitchen, the dead body of John laid on the floor and his blood had run and made a stream of dark, congealed crimson. He laid on his back with one arm thrown up and back and the other outstretched and the twine still around his knees. It appeared as if he had been hit and just slipped out of the chair he was sitting on. We children all sat down on the settle that was near the stove. A stove was a luxury in those days; there was one in the living room and in the kitchen, where the children sat in terror, was a Hudson's Bay cook stove of a very small and primitive make; the oven was directly over the firebox and two kettles which were of an oblong shape sat in on the side, something like the drum on the sides of a stove. The kettle of meat had been put on to cook for dinner and was still on the stove. Joe Lewis took a piece out and cut it up, put it on the lid of the kettle and said, "You children haven't had any dinner," and passed it to us, but none of us could eat.

The room was full of Indians and they would point their guns at us, saying "Shall we shoot?" and then flourish their tomahawks at our defenseless heads. One of them had on John's straw hat that he had braided from straw cut from wild grass one summer when he was working for the Rev. Spalding. Mrs. Spalding had sewed it for him. The Indian's name was Klokamus. Later, he was one of five hanged at Oregon City in the summer of 1850. The pantry was being plundered by the squaws. In memory, I can hear the rattle of the dried berries on the floor as they emptied the receptacles of them, in order to get the pans and cans to carry away. Joe Lewis went into the living room and must have gone into the parlor where mother had a large wooden chest in which she kept her choice clothing and keepsakes; he came out with five nice, fancy gauze kerchiefs of different colors, made to wear with a medium low-necked dress. He gave them to the Chief and the headmen that were in the room.

In a short time my brother Frank came into the room. He sat down beside me, saying "I came to find you. John is dead and we don't know what has become of the rest of the family; the Indians are going to kill me and what will become of you, my poor, little sister?" Word was finally passed out not to kill any of the children and we were ordered out of the house, so we went and stood in a corner where the "Indian room" made an ell with the main part of the house; the Indians were very numerous, some of them on horses and most of them armed and painted and they seemed to be waiting for something. Soon out came the immigrant women that had all fled to the Mission house for safety upon the outbreak of the massacre; as they passed us their children went with their mothers, leaving Frank, Eliza Spalding and myself standing there. They were followed by Mr. Rogers and Joe Lewis bearing a settee with the wounded Mrs. Whitman on it, covered up with blankets and Elizabeth close beside it, her arms laden with clothing. When they had gotten out of and a short distance from the house in an open space, Joe Lewis dropped his end of the settee. Mr. Rogers looked up quickly and must have realized what it meant; but he was shot instantly and fell and an Indian tried to ride his horse over him. Elizabeth turned about and ran back into the house. Then an Indian came to Mrs. Whitman and took his whip and beat her over the face and head and then turned the settee over in the mud. She was very weak from loss of blood; my sister Catherine told me and I am convinced that she did not last long after being beaten and thrown face down in the mud, with the blankets and settee on top of her.

An Indian came and stood by Frank and another one took up his stand close by and they talked together earnestly; the first one was a friendly one and he seemed to be pleading with the other to spare Frank's life, but finally the ugly one took hold of my brother and said, "You are a bad boy." Then he shoved him a short distance from my side and an Indian shot him in the breast; he fell and did not struggle and I think he died instantly as he made no movement. The Indians all went away then and the women and children that belonged in the immigrant house were gone and Eliza and I were alone. We seemed to be paralyzed and the horrors we had passed through so numbed our thoughts that we did not seem to think that we could go to the other house, as we had been taught not to go where we had not had permission. It was getting quite dark by this time, in the short November day, and we stood close together, when a friendly Indian came; he was the one that had pleaded for Frank's life and he took us by the hands and led us over to Mrs. Sander's door. She took us in and gave us some supper and one of the other families took Eliza in to give her a place to sleep.

When I had eaten my supper, Miss Bewley asked me if I would go over to the Whitman house to take food to her brother who was lying terribly ill in the little room just off the kitchen. He had seen and heard some of the awful things that had taken place during the day, but had not been molested, probably because the Indians thought him dying anyway. I told her I was afraid to go, as I would have to step over the dead bodies. Mrs. Sanders took me into a bedroom and spread a quilt on the floor and I laid down, but not to sleep until far into the night. Mr. Gillam, the tailor, had been wounded while sitting on his table sewing and had run into this room; he was suffering terribly and begging to be put out of his misery; along towards morning he was given his release from suffering.

We got up very early and ate a scant breakfast, as we knew not what daylight would bring. The Indians would surely ask to be fed as they were then sitting in the early glimmerings of light on Monument hill, chanting the Death song. The wind had blown and whistled so mournfully in the night that it had added to my fear and I never hear the sound of the wind blowing in the winter, but my mind goes back to that terrible night; and it has been 72 years since I heard it wail its requium around desolated Waiilatpu.

My four sisters and the two half-breed girls, with the wounded Mr. Kimball, were alone in the chamber of the Mission house all night, for they had made no attempt to leave when the others had gone in the afternoon. The children were all ill with measles and two were very ill—sister Louise and Helen Meek. They begged constantly for water, but there was none upstairs; the pitchers of water that were there on Monday morning had had cloths dipped in them to put on Mrs. Whitman's wounds. Mr. Kimball's broken arm pained him excessively and he sat on the floor with his head against a bed until toward morning, when he told Catherine to tear up a sheet and bandage his arm and he would go to the river for water.

Catherine said, "Mother wouldn't want the sheets torn up." "Child, your mother will never need sheets. She is dead," was his answer. He went out in the dim morning light and succeeded in reaching the river, wrapped in the blanket Catherine had put around him, Indian fashion. Meanwhile the Indians had come to the immigrant house and had told us to prepare their breakfast. While they were waiting for their meal, an outcry was made that drew us all to the north door in the Hall's room. I stepped out on the lower step and an Indian with a gun in his hand was on the upper step; we saw the figure of a man with a white blanket around him, walking near the Doctor's house; he was near the corn-crib about half way to the house, when the Indian on the step above me shot, and the man fell. It was Mr. Kimball returning with water for the fevered children. I realize that my statement is different from all the others of the survivors in regard to the killing of Mr. Kimball, but I have a clear remembrance of this tragedy, which time has not dimmed or effaced from my mind. According to some, he hid in the brush till the next day and in working his way to his family was killed as he was crossing the fence by the house. I remember the same day, about noon or later, Joe Stanfield came in and said that a "Boston man" was hiding in the brush. Some of the women wanted to investigate, but Joe said "No, don't." We thought it might be Mr. Hall, as he had gone, as I remember, early in the morning of the massacre to see if he could shoot some ducks on the river. He was never heard from or his body found, so no one knows his fate.

The Osborn family hid under the floor in the Indian room and remained hidden until in the darkness of the night they came out, put a little food together, wrapped a coverlid about Mrs. Osborn and went out into the cold. There were Mr. Osborn and three children in the party. Mrs. Osborn had been confined to the bed and this was the first time she had been out of doors in some days, though that day she had been able to go into Mrs. Whitman's part of the house. They climbed the fence and took the irrigation ditch, as it offered more protection for them, being quite deep with the wild rye grass and buck brush growing thick and tall on the banks; then they got into the main road and went on for some distance, finally hiding for the day; besides Mrs. Osborn was unable to travel further. Their sufferings were terrible, all being thinly clad. At last Mr. Osborn concluded to take the oldest boy and go to the Fort, if possible, leaving his wife and the other children hidden in the bushes. He made his way to Fort Walla Walla, carrying his boy on his back; the boy had nothing with which to cover his head. When Mr. Osborn arrived at the Fort he asked Commander McBaine to take him in and to furnish him horses and food to use in the rescue of his wife and the other children. McBaine refused, saying he "Could not do it."

"I will die at the Fort gates, but I must have help," was Osborn's reply.

In the happy days before these tragic happenings, an artist by the name of Stanley came to the Mission. He had been sent out by the Government for the Smithsonian Institute to take pictures. At the time of the Massacre he was again on his way to visit the Mission. He and his Indian guide intended to go down into the Willamette valley, near Oregon City, to winter. Meeting an Indian woman, she told him everyone was killed at the Mission; he was asked if he was a "Boston man" or a Frenchman and replying that he was a Frenchman, was allowed to proceed unmolested. He reached the Fort in safety and when McBaine refused to let Mr. Osborn have horses, said to the latter, "You can have my horse and what provisions I have," and he also gave him a silk handkerchief to tie on the child's head. Stitkus, an Indian, took his own French chapeau and put it on Mr. Osborn's head. McBaine at last gave an Indian a blanket if he would go with Mr. Osborn and rescue the family; but he instructed him not to bring them to the Fort, but to take them to an Indian village. The mother and children were found with some difficulty, and as they came to the fork in the road on the return, one leading to the Umatilla Indian village where their lives would not have been safe, and the other to the Fort and security, the Indian, disregarding McBaine's explicit directions, refused to take the one to the village and insisted that they proceed to the Fort. The little party did so, and were finally admitted. Their hardships were many, even there; but they remained until such time as we were all ransomed. This is as I remember hearing from sister Catherine as she, later, lived close to the Osborn family in the Willamette valley and she and Mrs. Osborn were together frequently; also from the account sworn to by Mr. Osborn in Gray's History.

Tuesday morning, Miss Bewley made some gruel, hoping to be able to send it over to her sick brother. Chief Tilokaikt came in and she told him of her brother and he was very sympathetic and took a number of us in charge to go over to the Mission house. Some of the party went inside of the fence on the north side, while some took the south side which was the public road. When we were a few yards from the house, we saw Mr. Sander's body lying there; then we heard a cry and saw Catherine and Elizabeth coming, each carrying a sick child in their arms. The women hastened to meet them and helped them to the house, which had sheltered us through the night. Poor Mary Ann Bridger was tottering along by herself. They had to leave Helen Meek alone and we could hear her screaming and begging to be taken also, disregarding Catherine's assurance that she would soon return for her. At last all the sick ones were transferred to the immigrant house, save Mr. Bewley; and Mr. Sales, who was also very ill in the blacksmith shop. Sister Louise died five days after this and Helen Meek a few days after her.

This same morning (Tuesday) we were given muslin to make sheets to wrap the dead in and Wednesday morning Joe Stansfield and the women helped to cover and sew them in these sheets. He had dug a long trench about three feet deep and six feet long; then all the bodies were put in a wagon and hurried to the grave. They were all piled up like dead animals in the wagon bed. A runaway occurred and scattered some of the bodies along the road and they had to be picked up. There was a Catholic father who was visiting the Indians and he went up to the hole where they were burying them and helped. He would take hold of one end of a body and Joe Stansfield hold of the other and they would lay them in this shallow place until all the victims were ranged side by side—Mr. and Mrs. Whitman, then the two Sager boys and Mr. Rogers, and so on, then covered with the earth.

There were two families living about twenty miles away at a sawmill which belonged to Dr. Whitman. Mr. Young hadTwenty-Three three grown boys and Mr. Smith also had a family, one of whom, Mary Smith, was attending the Mission school. The morning after the massacre the oldest son of the Young family, in entire ignorance of what had occurred, started for the Mission with a load of lumber and to get provisions for the return trip. The Indians killed him two miles from the Mission. His family could not understand why he did not return and became alarmed. They finally sent another son by another road and he arrived without being attacked, but was informed by Joe Stansfield that his brother had been killed by Indians and had been buried where he fell. This young fellow, finding that we were getting out of flour, remained at Waiilatpu as there was no man to run the grist mill. Mr. Bewley and Mr. Sales became better and were able to sit up and get about a bit. One day Mr. Sales was sitting by the stove and an Indian began talking to him, telling him he was getting stronger and would soon be able to work for the Indians; that they were soon to put out all the women and children and they would all have to work all the time. Mr. Sales replied that he was a good worker and would labor constantly for them if they would only spare his life. It was only a day or two after this that the two men were attacked while on their bed, beaten with clubs and whips and finally killed and their bodies thrown out of doors. Most of the women and children started to run out of doors, but an Indian caught and held me until they had finished the terrible deed.

Miss Bewley was sent for by the chief of the Umatillas and in spite of heartrending protests was obliged to accompany the messenger sent for her.

One morning Joe Stansfield saw wolves at the grave and went up there to find that they were digging into it. He heaped more earth over it, but later, after we had left the place and had been redeemed, soldiers going there found that the wolves had succeeded in desecrating the last resting place of our loved ones. Bones were scattered about and on some of the bare bushes were strands of Mrs. Whitman's beautiful, long, golden hair. They collected the bones and again buried them, heaping the earth high and turning a wagon-box over the grave. For fifty years nothing more was done to it.

Mr. Spalding came within two miles of the Mission on Wednesday morning, when he met a Catholic father, his Indian interpreter and another Indian. Sending the two Indians ahead, the priest told Mr. Spalding of the massacre, assuring him that all the women, save Mrs. Whitman, and all the children had been spared; that his daughter was alive and that now was his time to escape, as the Indian who had joined him and his interpreter intended to kill him. The father gave him what food he hadTwenty-Four and Mr. Spalding turned his horse's head towards the Walla Walla river. He followed down the bank of the Walla Walla, traveling by night and hiding by day. For a time he kept his horse, but Indians passed near his hiding place and he had to rub his mount's nose to keep his from neighing and thus betraying him. The horse got away from him finally and he had to travel afoot in the storm. All the subsistence he had was wild rose-hips. After a week's travel he reached the Clearwater, close to where his family was, though he did not know this fact, believing that they also might have been killed. He proceeded very carefully, thinking the Indians hostile, but knowing that if he could make in safety the lodge of an Indian by the name of Luke, he would be safe. He was tired and worn out with travel. At last he was close enough to the lodge to listen to family worship and assured by the knowledge that they still acknowledged the white man's God, knew it would be safe for him to enter; but so exhausted was he that he fell when just inside the door of the tepee and his cap fell off. At first the Indians thought he was a ghost, but when they saw his bald head, they realized he was still in the flesh and then proceeded to feed and care for him. They told him that his family was at Craig's mountain and later they took him back up there. Mrs. Spalding, when she heard of the massacre, called the head men of the tribe and put herself on their mercy and under their protection. They said they would protect her and suggested that they start at once for Craig's home. She said that this was the Sabbath and they must not travel on that day. The Presbyterian Indians never travel on the Sabbath and the brave little woman, reminding them of their religion, knowing at the same time that it might lessen her chances of escape, induced them to postpone starting until the following day, when they took her to Craig's, where she remained until rescued from the Indians. She sent two Indians, Timothy and Grey Eagle, down to the Mission to ask if her captors would not release Eliza Spalding and let them take her to her mother; but they would not listen and refused to give her up. These two Indians came when Helen Meek was dying from the measles. Timothy went in to see her and fell on his knees by the side of her bed, praying in his own language; when he arose, he pointed upward, indicating that the spirit had flown.

When the news of the massacre was taken to Fort Vancouver, Peter Skeen Ogden, the chief factor, declared he must take goods and go to the rescue of the women and children before the volunteers could go up there; he believed that if the Indians thought the volunteers were to attempt a rescue, that they would kill all their prisoners, for they well knew that they deserved punishment for their dastardly deeds. With no prisoners toTwenty-Five hamper them, they could perhaps elude any pursuing band of volunteers. Douglass objected, reminding his superior that he would be obliged to use in barter goods belonging to another government than the United States, without knowing if the latter government would reimburse him for them or not. "If the United States will not pay for them, then I will pay for them out of my own pocket, but those unfortunate captives must be rescued at once," said this great-hearted man. He proceeded to Fort Walla Walla and called a council of chiefs and other Indians and finally after some days of discussion, made this treaty with them. They were to deliver the prisoners to him, for which they would receive goods valued at five hundred dollars from the Hudson Bay people; it was stipulated that Mr. Spalding's family and Miss Bewley should all be brought in. During the time of the parley small bands of Indians were constantly passing the Mission, going to and from the place of treaty-making. One party in passing thought to play a joke on those who were guarding us and shot off their guns, making quite a commotion and causing our captors to think that the "Boston men" were at hand. They began to grab up some of the children to kill them; one caught me up and started to thrust a tomahawk into my brains. Just then the Indians outside began laughing and the brutes, on murder bent, concluded the noise was all a joke and did not hurt any of us.

We were directed to cook a supply of food as provision for the trip. Fifty Nez Perce warriors escorted the Spalding family through the hostile country and an Indian brought Miss Bewley to the immigrant house where the rest of us were. They took us down to Fort Walla Walla in ox wagons. Among other things which I remember we left behind was a pair of pigeons the Canfield family had brought with them from Iowa. The cage was set in the window on leaving, the door knocked off, and the pigeons were still sitting in their cage—the last glimpse we had of them. After we had been some time on our way, an Indian woman came out of her lodge and motioned for us to go fast—and we did! It seemed that some of the Indians regretted their bargain and wanted to take us all prisoners again. This woman knew they might soon attempt to do so. I was in the last wagon to arrive. We could see the wagons ahead of us going into the Fort gates when they were opened and it seemed as if ours would never get there; but when the last one came up "pel mel" and we were safe inside, the Indians concluded it was too late to make an attack and capture us again. The day they were to receive the goods promised for our release, we were put into rooms out of sight of the Indians and told to remain there. Of course the Indians were inside the fort grounds that day, and McBaine was afraid they might repent the agreement to give us up and try to take us captive again. Mr. Ogden made the speech and delivered the goods and as soon as possible they were gotten away from the Fort. But they would not let the Indian boy go. The Hudson's Bay men claimed him as belonging rightfully to them. "He didn't belong to the Doctor," they said, "but had Indian blood in him." The last I ever saw of him he was standing on the bank of the river crying as though his heart were breaking as his friends floated away from him. He was about six years old. There were three boats that started down the river the day we left the Fort, eight oarsmen to a boat, and we pulled out into the stream pretty fast once we started. Indians were along the bank riding and talking, and it was necessary to travel fast. At night we landed and camped. It was cold, windy and sandy. Our belongings were left for the settlers to bring down in the spring, though, of course, we children had little to concern ourselves about. Before we left the Mission Mrs. Sanders had told one of the chiefs that the Doctor's children had no clothes—that everything was gone. "No clothes, no blankets, no nothing," so he went over to the other house and brought a comfort and gave that to my oldest sister and gave me a thin quilt and my other sister a blanket or quilt. It was the custom in those days to quilt so fine; I mean, with the stitching very close and usually the quilts were made of two pieces of cloth and a thin layer of cotton batting between. My quilt got afire on our trip down the river and most of it was burned. The chief also got us a few undergarments of Mrs. Whitman's.

Mr. Spalding looked after us on the trip and Mr. Stanley, who went along also, took especial pains to care for us. He would do all he could to make the hardships a little easier to bear, taking pains to wrap us up when in the boat and to see that we got to camp and back to the boat securely. When we got to Vancouver, Mr. Stanley bought some calico to make each of us a dress. I think my portion was five yards and they made me a dress and bonnet out of it after I went to Mrs. Geiger's. I do not know what we would have done without Mr. Stanley. He was so good and kind to us and Mr. Ogden was very kind, too.

We had to make two portages. Once the men had to take the boats entirely out of the water and carry them around on their shoulders and let them down the steep banks with ropes, while we carried the provisions and such small belongings as we were allowed to take with us. We finally came to Memmaloo's island, which Mr. Stanley told us was the Indian burying ground. It took us about eight days to go down the Columbia river. As we traveled, we came to a place they called St. Helens, then to another called Linn City and on to Fort Vancouver. We staid over Sunday there and the Spalding family was entertained at the Post by Mr. Ogden and James Douglas and finally we were taken to Portland. Some of the volunteers were on the bankTwenty-Seven of the Willamette river and the Governor was also standing there as we rowed up. Mr. Ogden went to the Governor, shook hands and said to him, "Here are the prisoners and now I will turn them over to you. I have done all I could." He also asked that we be taken to Oregon City, which was agreed upon and later, done. Some of the volunteers were camped across the river and when they saluted the boats we children thought we were going to be shot. Captain Gilliam, a brother-in-law of the Captain Shaw who was our protector on the plains after our own father and mother had died, rowed across the river and asked which were the Sager children and on our being pointed out to him, shook hands with us. Some of our forlorn party had friends to meet them and Governor Abernathy kept the others until places were found for them.

I remember going to Dr. McLaughlin's house in Oregon City. Mr. Stanley had a room there and was painting portraits and he came to take us down to see his pictures. He wanted to paint my picture, but I was entirely too timid and would not let him. We enjoyed the pictures, however. When we came down stairs Dr. McLaughlin and his son-in-law, Mr. Ray, were in the lower room. As we came down stairs the Doctor, thinking to play a little practical joke, locked the door on us and told us we were prisoners again and, of course, we were frightened almost to death. When he found that he had frightened us, he assured us he was just fooling and let us go. We took everything in earnest and were afraid of white people as well as the Indians. One can hardly realize at this day, in what a tortured state our nerves were.