In March, 1886, I chartered the steamer
_State of Nebraska_, loaded my Indians, cowboys, horses, and
stage-coaches on board, and set sail for another continent.
It was a strange voyage. The Indians had never been to sea before, and
had never dreamed that such an expanse of water existed on the planet.
They would stand at the rail, after the first days of seasickness were
over, gazing out across the waves, and trying to descry something that
looked like land, or a tree, or anything that seemed familiar and like
home. Then they would shake their heads disconsolately and go below, to
brood and muse and be an extremely unhappy and forlorn lot of savages.
The joy that seized them when at last they came in sight of land, and
were assured that we did not intend to keep on sailing till we fell
over the edge of the earth, was something worth looking at.
At Gravesend we sighted a tug flying the American colors, and when the
band on board responded to our cheers with "The Star-Spangled Banner"
even the Indians tried to sing. Our band replied with "Yankee Doodle,"
and as we moved toward port there was more noise on board than I had
ever heard in any battle on the Plains.
When the landing was made the members of the party were sent in special
coaches to London. Crowds stared at us from every station. The guards
on the train were a little afraid of the solemn and surly-looking
Indians, but they were a friendly and jovial crowd, and when they had
recovered from their own fright at the strange surroundings they were
soon on good terms with the Britishers.
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