Blazing the Way; Or, True Stories, Songs and Sketches of Puget Sound
by Emily Inez Denny · English · Gutenberg #39334 · 687,954 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Blazing the Way; Or, True Stories, Songs and Sketches of Puget Sound
Author: Emily Inez Denny
Release date: April 1, 2012 [eBook #39334]
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/39334
Credits: Produced by Mark C. Orton, Pat McCoy, Bruce Jones and the
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BLAZING THE WAY; OR, TRUE STORIES, SONGS AND SKETCHES OF PUGET SOUND ***
Produced by Mark C. Orton, Pat McCoy, Bruce Jones and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
[Illustration: FORT DECATUR, JANUARY 26, 1856]
BLAZING THE WAY
OR
TRUE STORIES, SONGS AND SKETCHES
OF PUGET SOUND AND OTHER
PIONEERS
BY
EMILY INEZ DENNY
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY THE AUTHOR AND
FROM AUTHENTIC PHOTOGRAPHS
SEATTLE:
RAINIER PRINTING COMPANY, Inc.
1909
Copyright 1899
By
EMILY INEZ DENNY
Published 1909
To My Dear Father and Mother,
Faithful Friends and Counselors,
Whose pioneer life I shared,
This book is affectionately dedicated
By THE AUTHOR
A star stood large and white awest,
Then Time uprose and testified;
They push'd the mailed wood aside,
They toss'd the forest like a toy,
That great forgotten race of men,
The boldest band that yet has been
Together since the siege of Troy,
And followed it and found their rest.
--Miller
PREFACE
BLAZING THE WAY.
In the early days when a hunter, explorer or settler essayed to tread
the mysterious depths of the unknown forest of Puget Sound, he took care
to "blaze the way." At brief intervals he stopped to cut with his sharp
woodman's ax a generous chip from the rough bark of fir, hemlock or
cedar tree, leaving the yellow inner bark or wood exposed, thereby
providing a perfect guide by which he retraced his steps to the canoe or
cabin. As the initial stroke it may well be emblematical of the
beginnings of things in the great Northwest.
I do not feel moved to apologize for this book; I have gathered the
fragments within my reach; such or similar works are needed to set forth
the life, character and movement of the early days on Puget Sound. The
importance of the service of the Pioneers is as yet dimly perceived;
what the Pilgrim Fathers were to New England, the Pioneers were to the
Pacific Coast, to the "nations yet to be," who, following in their
footsteps, shall people the wilds with teeming cities, a "human sea,"
bearing on its bosom argosies of priceless worth.
It does contain some items and incidents not generally known or
heretofore published. I hope others may be provoked to record their
pioneer experiences.
I have had exceptional opportunities in listening to the thrice-told
tales of parents and friends who had crossed the plains, as well as
personal recollections of experiences and observation during a residence
of over fifty years in the Northwest, acknowledging also the good
fortune of having been one of the first white children born on Puget
Sound.
Every old pioneer has a store of memories of adventures and narrow
escapes, hardships bravely endured, fresh pleasures enjoyed, rude but
genial merrymakings, of all the fascinating incidents that made up the
wonder-life of long ago.
Chronology is only a row of hooks to hang the garments of the past upon,
else they may fall together in a confused heap.
Not having a full line of such supports on which to hang the weaving of
my thoughts--I simply overturn my Indian basket of chips picked up after
"Blazing the Way," they being merely bits of beginnings in the
Northwest.
E. I. DENNY.
* * * * *
NOTE--The poem referred to on page 144 will appear in another
work.--AUTHOR.
INDEX
PART I--THE GREAT MARCH
CHAPTER PAGE
I. CROSSING THE PLAINS 17
II. DOWN THE COLUMBIA IN '51 34
III. THE SETTLEMENT AT ALKI 41
IV. FOUNDING OF SEATTLE AND INDIAN WAR 63
V. THE MURDER OF McCORMICK 96
VI. KILLING COUGARS 105
VII. PIONEER CHILD LIFE 113
VIII. MARCHING EXPERIENCES OF ESTHER
CHAMBERS 151
IX. AN OLYMPIA WOMAN'S TRIP ACROSS THE
PLAINS IN 1851 168
X. CAPTAIN HENRY ROEDER ON THE TRAIL 177
PART II--MEN, WOMEN AND ADVENTURES
I. SONG OF THE PIONEERS 182
II. BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES AND SKETCHES,
JOHN DENNY, SARAH LATIMER DENNY 186
III. DAVID THOMAS DENNY 203
IV. THE FIRST WEDDING ON ELLIOT BAY 257
V. LOUISA BOREN DENNY 272
V_a_ MADGE DECATUR DENNY 288
V_b_ ANNA LOUISA DENNY 294
V_c_ WILLIAM RICHARD BOREN 300
VI. ARTHUR A. DENNY, MARY A. DENNY 305
VII. HENRY VAN ASSELT OF DUWAMISH 320
VIII. THOMAS MERCER 329
IX. DR. HENRY A. SMITH, THE BRILLIANT
WRITER 344
X. FAMOUS INDIAN CHIEFS 358
PART III--INDIAN LIFE AND SETTLERS'
BEGINNINGS
I. SAVAGE DEEDS OF SAVAGE MEN 391
II. PIONEER JOKES AND ANECDOTES 415
III. TRAILS OF COMMERCE 436
IV. BUILDING OF THE TERRITORIAL UNIVERSITY 452
V. A CHEHALIS LETTER, PENNED IN '52 467
VI. SOME PIONEERS OF PORT TOWNSEND 479
VII. PERSONNEL OF THE PIONEER ARMY 489
SYNOPSIS OF INCIDENTS.
Part I.
Page
Chapter I--Crossing the Plains--Names of the Denny Company 20
Attacked by Indians at American Falls 27
Chapter II--A Narrow Escape from Going Over the Cascades 36
About to Sink in the Cold Waters of the Columbia 38
Chapter III--Tramping a Long Trail 42
Landing of J. N. Low, D. T. Denny and Lee
Terry at Sgwudux (West Seattle) 43
Exploring the Duwampsh River 44
Names of Party from "Exact" 50
Chapter IV--A Visit from Wolves 66
A Flight to Fort Decatur 76
Battle of Seattle 80
Story of John I. King's Capture 91
Chapter V--A Tragedy of the Trail 98
Chapter VI--A Hair-raising Hunt for a Cougar 107
Chapter VII--Seeking the Dead Among the Living 121
The Strawberry of Memory 126
Three Little Girls and a Pioneer "Fourth" 131
A Rescue from Drowning 138
Chapter VIII--Frontier Experiences 151
Chapter IX--Placating Indians on the Plains 171
Chapter X--Capt. Roeder's Meeting with the Bandit Joaquin 180
Part II.
Chapter I--Poem--Song of the Pioneers 182
Chapter II--A Notable Pioneer Reformer, John Denny 188
Chapter III--A Tireless Foundation Builder, David
Thomas Denny 203
Threats from Anti-Chinese Agitators 211
His Own Account of Arrival on Elliott Bay 214
Surrounded by Indians 243
Trials and Triumph 256
Chapter IV--A Lively Celebration of the First Wedding
on Elliott Bay 258
Story of a Bear Hunt 268
Chapter V--Indian Courtship 275
On the Day of Battle 276
Chapter VI--Discovery of Shilshole or Salmon Bay 310
An Escape from Murderous Savages 313
Defense with a Hatchet 316
Chapter VII--Immune Because of Indian Superstition 323
Chapter VIII--Saving an Auburn-haired Girl 341
Chapter IX--A Grand Description of a Vast Forest Fire 350
Poem--"The Mortgage" 352
Poem--"Pacific's Pioneers" 354
Chapter X--Hanging of Leschi 370
Poem--"The Chief's Reply" 388
Part III.
Chapter I--Shooting of Lachuse 392
The Fight at Fort Nesqually 395
Abbie Casto's Fate 409
Chapter II--How the Old Shell Blew Up a Stump
and Cautioned Mr. Horton 423
Mr. Beaty and the Cheese 425
Chapter III--Poem--"The Beaver's Requiem" 436
Chapter IV--Poem--"The Voice of the Old University Bell" 459
Chapter V--Charming Description of Early Days on
the Chehalis 467
Chapter VI--Founding of Port Townsend 481
Chapter VII--A Number of Noted Names 489
Poem--"Hail, and Farewell" 503
ILLUSTRATIONS
I Fort Decatur, Jan. 26, 1856 Frontispiece
II Chips Picked Up Facing page 17
III Bargaining with Indians at Alki " " 49
IV Indian Canoes Sailing with North
Wind " " 81
V Log Cabin in the Swale " " 105
VI Where We Wandered Long Ago " " 113
VII A Visit from Our Tillicum " " 145
VIII Sarah, John and Loretta Denny " " 193
IX David Thomas Denny " " 209
X Sons of L. B. and D. T. Denny " " 241
XI Louisa B. Denny " " 257
XII A Flower Garden Planted by L.
B. Denny " " 273
XIII Daughters of D. T. and L. B.
Denny " " 289
XIV Erythronium of Lake Union " " 337
XV Types of Indian Houses " " 369
XVI Last Voyage of the Lumei " " 385
XVII A Few Artifacts of P. S. Indians " " 401
XVIII Ship Belle Isle " " 481
XIX Rev. Blaine, C. D. and Wm. R.
Boren " " 489
XX Mrs. L. C. Low " " 493
BLAZING THE WAY
PART I.--THE GREAT MARCH
CHAPTER I
CROSSING THE PLAINS.
With Faith's clear eye we saw afar
In western sky our empire's star,
And strong of heart and brave of soul,
We marched and marched to reach the goal.
Unrolled a scroll, the great, gray plains,
And traced thereon our wagon trains;
Our blazing campfires marked the road
As night succeeding night they glowed.
--Song of the Pioneers.
The noble army of courageous, enduring, persistent, progressive pioneers
who from time to time were found threading their way across the
illimitable wilderness, forty or fifty years ago, in detached companies,
often unknown and unknowing each other, have proved conclusively that an
age of marvelous heroism is but recently past.
[Illustration: "CHIPS PICKED UP AFTER BLAZING THE WAY"]
The knowledge, foresight, faith and force exhibited by many of these
daring men and women proclaimed them endowed with the genius of
conquerors.
The merely physical aspect of the undertaking is overpowering. To
transport themselves and their effects in slow and toilsome ways,
through hundreds of miles of weary wilderness, uninhabited except by
foes, over beetling mountain ranges, across swift and dangerous rivers,
through waterless deserts, in the shadow of continual dread, required a
fortitude and staying power seldom equaled in the history of human
effort.
But above and beyond all this, they carried the profound convictions of
Christian men and women, of patriots and martyrs. They battled with the
forces of Nature and implacable enemies; they found, too, that their
moral battles must be openly fought year after year, often in the face
of riotous disregard of the laws of God and man. Arrived at their
journey's end, they planted the youngest scions of the Tree of Liberty;
they founded churches and schools, carefully keeping the traditions of
civilization, yet in many things finding greater and truer freedom than
they had left behind.
The noblest of epics, masterpieces of painting, stupendous operas or the
grandest spectacular drama could but meagerly or feebly express the
characters, experiences and environment of those who crossed the plains
for the Pacific slope in the midst of the nineteenth century.
"A mighty nation moving west,
With all its steely sinews set
Against the living forests. Hear
The shouts, the shots of pioneers!
The rended forests, rolling wheels,
As if some half-checked army reels,
Recoils, redoubles, comes again,
Loud-sounding like a hurricane."
--Joaquin Miller.
It is my intention to speak more especially of one little company who
were destined to take a prominent part in the laying of foundations in
the State of Washington.
Previous to 1850, glowing accounts of the fertility, mildness, beauty
and general desirability of Oregon Territory, which then included
Washington, reached the former friends and acquaintances of Farley
Pierce, Liberty Wallace, the Rudolphs and others who wrote letters
concerning this favored land. Added to the impression made thereby, the
perusal of Fremont's travels, the desire for a change of climate from
the rigorous one of Illinois, the possession of a pioneering spirit and
the resolution was taken, "To the far Pacific Coast we will go;" acting
upon it, they took their places in the great movement having for its
watchword, "Westward Ho!"
John Denny, a Kentuckian by birth, a pioneer of Indiana and Illinois,
whose record as a soldier of 1812, a legislator in company and fraternal
relations with Lincoln, Baker, Gates and Trumbull, distinguished him
for the most admirable qualities, was the leading spirit; his wife,
Sarah Latimer Denny, a Tennessean, thrifty, wise, faithful and
far-seeing, who had for many widowed years previous to her marriage to
John Denny, wrought out success in making a home and educating her three
children in Illinois, was a fit leader of pioneer women.
These, with their grown-up sons and daughters, children and
grandchildren, began the great journey across the plains, starting from
Cherry Grove, Knox County, Illinois, on April 10th, 1851. Four "prairie
schooners," as the canvas-covered wagons were called, three of them
drawn by four-horse teams, one with a single span, a few saddle horses
and two faithful watchdogs, whose value is well known to those who have
traveled the wilds, made up the train.
The names of these brave-hearted ones, ready to dare and endure all, are
as follows:
John Denny, Sarah Latimer Denny and their little daughter, Loretta; A.
A. Denny, Mary A. Denny and their two children, Catherine and Lenora; C.
D. Boren, Mrs. Boren and their daughter, Gertrude; the only unmarried
woman, Miss Louisa Boren, sister of Mrs. A. A. Denny and C. D. Boren; C.
Crawford and family; four unmarried sons of John Denny, D. T. Denny,
James, Samuel and Wiley Denny.
The wrench of parting with friends made a deep and lasting wound; no
doubt every old pioneer of the Pacific Coast can recall the anguish of
that parting, whose scars the healing years have never effaced.
The route followed by our pioneers was the old emigrant road along the
north side of the Platte River, down the Columbia and up the Willamette
to Portland, Oregon Territory, which they afterwards left for their
ultimate destination, Puget Sound, where they found Nature so bountiful,
a climate so moderate and their surroundings so ennobling that I have
often heard them say they had no wish to return to dwell in the country
from whence they came.
Past the last sign of civilization, the Mormon town of Kanesville, a
mile or two east of the Missouri River, the prairie schooners were
fairly out at sea. The great Missouri was crossed at Council Bluffs by
ferryboat on the 5th of May. The site of the now populous city of Omaha
was an untrodden waste. From thence they followed the beaten track of
the many who had preceded them to California and Oregon.
Hundreds of wagons had ground their way over the long road before them,
and beside this road stretched the narrower beaten track of the
ox-drivers.
On the Platte, shortly after crossing the Missouri, a violent
thunderstorm with sheets of rain fell upon them at night, blowing down
their tents and saturating their belongings, thereby causing much
discomfort and inconvenience. Of necessity the following day was spent
in drying out the whole equipment.
It served as a robust initiation in roughing it; up to that time they
had carefully dressed in white night robes and lay down in neatly made
beds, but many a night after this storm were glad to rest in the easiest
way possible, when worn by travel and too utterly weary of the long
day's heat and dust, with grinding and bumping of wheels, to think of
the niceties of dainty living.
For a time spring smiled on all the land; along the Platte the prairies
stretched away on either hand, delightfully green and fresh, on the
horizon lay fleecy white clouds, islands of vapor in the ethereal azure
sea above; but summer came on apace and the landscape became brown and
parched.
The second day west of the Missouri our train fell in with a long line
of eighteen wagons drawn by horses, and fraternizing with the occupants,
joined in one company. This new company elected John Denny as Captain.
It did not prove a harmonious combination, however; discord arose, and
nowhere does it seem to arise so easily as in camp. There was
disagreement about standing guard; fault was found with the Captain and
another was elected, but with no better results. Our pioneers found it
convenient and far pleasanter to paddle their own canoes, or rather
prairie schooners, and so left the contentious ones behind.
Long days of travel followed over the monotonous expanse of prairie,
each with scarcely varying incidents, toils and dangers. The stir of
starting in the morning, the morning forward movement, the halt for the
noonday meal, cooked over a fire of buffalo chips, and the long, weary
afternoon of heat and dust whose passing brought the welcome night,
marked the journey through the treeless region.
At one of the noonings, the hopes of the party in a gastronomic line
were woefully disappointed. A pailful of choice home-dried peaches,
cooked with much care, had been set on a wagon tongue to cool and some
unlucky movement precipitated the whole luscious, juicy mass into the
sand below. It was an occurrence to make the visage lengthen, so far,
far distant were the like of them from the hungry travelers.
Fuel was scarce a large part of the way until west of Fort Laramie, the
pitch pine in the Black Hills made such fires as delight the hearts of
campers. In a stretch of two hundred miles but one tree was seen, a lone
elm by the river Platte, which was finally cut down and the limbs used
for firewood. When near this tree, the train camped over Sunday, and our
party first saw buffaloes, a band of perhaps twenty. D. T. Denny and C.
D. Boren of the party went hunting in the hills three miles from the
camp but other hunters had been among them and scattered the band,
killing only one or two; however they generously divided the meat with
the new arrivals. Our two good hunters determined to get one if possible
and tried stalking a shaggy-maned beast that was separated from the
herd, a half mile from their horses left picketed on the grassy plain.
Shots were fired at him without effect and he ran away unhurt,
fortunately for himself as well as his pursuers. One of the hunters, D.
T. Denny, said it might have been a very serious matter for them to have
been charged by a wounded buffalo out on the treeless prairie where a
man had nothing to dodge behind but his own shadow.
On the prairie before they reached Fort Laramie a blinding hailstorm
pelted the travelers.
D. T. Denny, who was driving a four-horse team in the teeth of the
storm, relates that the poor animals were quite restive, no doubt
suffering much from their shelterless condition. They had been well
provided for as to food; their drivers carried corn which lasted for two
hundred miles. The rich grass of five hundred miles of prairie afforded
luxurious living beyond this, and everywhere along the streams where
camp was made there was an abundance of fresh herbage to be found.
Many lonely graves were seen, graves of pioneers, with hopes as high,
mayhap, as any, but who pitched their silent tents in the wilderness to
await the Judgment Day.
A deep solemnity fell upon the living as the train wound along, where on
the side of a mountain was a lone grave heaped up with stones to protect
it from the ravages of wolves. Tall pines stood around it and grass and
flowers adorned it with nature's broidery. Several joined in singing an
old song beginning
"I came to the place
Where the white pilgrim lay,
And pensively stood by his tomb,
When in a low whisper I heard something say,
'How sweetly I sleep here alone.'"
Echoed only by the rustling of the boughs of scattered pines, moving
gently in the wind.
As they approached the upheaved mountainous country, lively interest, a
keen delight in the novelty of their surroundings, and surprise at
unexpected features were aroused in the minds of the travelers.
A thoughtful one has said that the weird beauty of the Wind River
Mountains impressed her deeply, their image has never left her memory
and if she were an artist she could faithfully represent them on canvas.
A surprise to the former prairie dwellers was the vast extent of the
mountains, their imaginations having projected the sort of mountain
range that is quite rare, a single unbroken ridge traversed by climbing
up one side and going down the other! But they found this process must
be repeated an indefinite number of times and over such roughness as
their imaginations had never even suggested.
What grinding, heaving and bumping over huge boulders! What shouting and
urging of animals, what weary hours of tortured endurance dragged along!
One of them remembers, too, perhaps vaguely, the suffering induced by an
attack of the mysterious mountain fever.
The desert also imposed its tax of misery. Only at night could the
desert be safely crossed. Starting at four o'clock in the afternoon they
traveled all the following night over an arid, desolate region, the
Green River desert, thirty miles, a strange journey in the dimness of a
summer night with only the star-lamps overhead. In sight of the river,
the animals made a rush for the water and ran in to drink, taking the
wagons with them.
Often the names of the streams crossed were indicative of their
character, suggestive of adventure or descriptive of their surroundings.
Thus "Sweetwater" speaks eloquently of the refreshing draughts that
slaked the thirst in contrast with the alkaline waters that were bitter;
Burnt River flowed past the blackened remains of an ancient forest and
Bear River may have been named for the ponderous game secured by a lucky
hunter.
By July of 1851 the train reached Old Fort Hall, composed of a stockade
and log houses, situated on the Snake River, whose flood set toward the
long-sought Pacific shore.
While camped about a mile from the fort the Superintendent wrote for
them directions for camping places where wood and water could be
obtained, extending over the whole distance from Fort Hall to the Dalles
of the Columbia River. He told James Denny, brother of D. T. Denny, that
if they met Indians they must on no account stop at their call, saying
that the Indians of that vicinity were renegade Shoshones and horse
thieves.
On the morning of the fifth of July an old Indian visited the camp, but
no significance was attached to the incident, and all were soon moving
quietly along in sight of the Snake River; the road lay on the south
side of the river, which is there about two hundred yards wide. An
encampment of Indians was observed, on the north side of the river, as
they wound along by the American Falls, but no premonition of danger was
felt, on the contrary, they were absorbed in the contemplation of the
falls and basin below. Dark objects were seen to be moving on the
surface of the wide pool and all supposed them to be ducks disporting
themselves after the manner of harmless water fowl generally. What was
their astonishment to behold them swiftly and simultaneously approach
the river bank, spring out of the water and reveal themselves full
grown savages!
With guns and garments, but few of the latter probably, on their heads,
they swam across and climbed up the bank to the level of the sage brush
plain. The leader, attired in a plug hat and long, black overcoat
flapping about his sinewy limbs, gun in hand, advanced toward the train
calling out, "How-de-do! How-de-do! Stop! Stop!" twice repeating the
words. The Captain, Grandfather John Denny, answered "Go back,"
emphasizing the order by vigorous gestures. Mindful of the friendly
caution of the Superintendent at Fort Hall, the train moved on. The
gentleman of the plains retired to his band, who dodged back behind the
sagebrush and began firing at the train. One bullet threw up the dust
under the horse ridden by one of the company. The frightened women and
children huddled down as low as possible in the bottoms of the wagons,
expecting the shots to penetrate the canvas walls of their moving
houses. In the last wagon, in the most exposed position, one of the
mothers sat pale and trembling like an aspen leaf; the fate of the young
sister and two little daughters in the event of capture, beside the
danger of her own immediate death were too dreadful to contemplate. In
their extremity one said, "O, why don't they hurry! If I were driving I
would lay on the lash!"
When the Indians found that their shots took no effect, they changed
their tactics and ran down along the margin of the river under shelter
of the bank, to head off the train at a point where it must go down one
hill and up another. There were seven men with five rifles and two
rifle-pistols, but these would have been of little avail if the teams
had been disabled. D. T. Denny drove the forward wagon, having one rifle
and the pistols; three of the men were not armed.
All understood the maneuver of the Indians and were anxious to hurry the
teams unless it was Captain John Denny, who was an old soldier and may
have preferred to fight.
Sarah Denny, his wife, looked out and saw the Indians going down the
river; no doubt she urged him to whip up. The order was given and after
moments that seemed hours, down the long hill they rushed pell-mell,
without lock or brake, the prairie schooners tossing like their
namesakes on a stormy sea. What a breathless, panting, nightmare it
seemed! If an axle had broken or a linchpin loosened the race would have
been lost. But on, madly careening past the canyon where the Indians
intended to intercept them, tearing up the opposite hill with desperate
energy, expecting every moment to hear the blood-curdling warwhoop, nor
did they slacken their speed to the usual pace for the remainder of the
day. As night approached, the welcome light of a campfire, that of J. N.
Low's company, induced them to stop. This camp was on a level near a
bluff; a narrow deep stream flowed by into the Snake River not far
away. The cattle were corraled, with the wagons in a circle and a fire
of brushwood built in the center.
Around the Denny company's campfire, the women who prepared the evening
meal were in momentary fear of receiving a shot from an ambushed foe,
lit as they were against the darkness, but happily their fears were not
realized. Weary as the drivers were, guards were posted and watched all
night. The dogs belonging to the train were doubtless a considerable
protection, as they would have given the alarm had the enemy approached.
One of the women went down to the brook the next morning to get water
for the camp and saw the tracks of Indian ponies in the dust on the
opposite side of the stream. Evidently they had followed the train to
that point, but feared to attack the united forces of the two camps.
After this race for life the men stood guard every night; one of them,
D. T. Denny, was on duty one-half of every other night and alternately
slept on the ground under one of the wagons.
This was done until they reached the Cayuse country. On Burnt River they
met thirty warriors, the advance guard of their tribe who were moving,
women, children, drags and dogs. The Indians were friendly and
cheeringly announced "Heap sleep now; we are _good_ Indians."
The Denny and Low trains were well pleased to join their forces and
traveled as one company until they reached their journey's end.
The day after the Indian attack, friendly visits were made and Mrs. J.
N. Low recalls that she saw two women of Denny's company frying cakes
and doughnuts over the campfire, while two others were well occupied
with the youngest of the travelers, who were infants.
There were six men and two women in Low's company and when the two
companies joined they felt quite strong and traveled unmolested the
remainder of the way.
An exchange of experiences brought out the fact that Low's company had
crossed the Missouri the third day of May and had traveled on the south
side of the Platte at the same time the Denny company made their way
along the north side of the same stream.
At a tributary called Big Blue, as Mrs. Low relates, she observed the
clouds rolling up and admonished her husband to whip up or they would
not be able to cross for days if they delayed; they crossed, ascended
the bluffs where there was a semicircle of trees, loosed the cattle and
picketed the horses. By evening the storm reached them with lightning,
heavy thunder and great piles of hail. The next morning the water had
risen half way up tall trees.
The Indians stole the lead horse of one of the four-horse teams and Mrs.
Low rode the other on a man's saddle. Many western equestriennes have
learned to be not too particular as to horse, habit or saddle and have
proven also the greater safety and convenience of cross-saddle riding.
In the Black Hills while traveling along the crest of a high ridge,
where to get out of the road would have been disastrous, the train was
met by a band of Indians on ponies, who pressed up to the wagons in a
rather embarrassing way, bent apparently upon riding between and
separating the teams, but the drivers were too wise to permit this and
kept close together, without stopping to parley with them, and after
riding alongside for some distance, the designing but baffled redskins
withdrew.
The presence of the native inhabitants sometimes proved a convenience;
especially was this true of the more peaceable tribes of the far west.
On the Umatilla River the travelers were glad to obtain the first fresh
vegetable since leaving the cultivated gardens and fields of their old
homes months before. One of the women traded a calico apron for green
peas, which were regarded as a great treat and much enjoyed.
Farther on, as they neared the Columbia, Captain Low, who was riding
ahead of the train, met Indians with salmon, eager to purchase so fine a
fish and not wishing to stop the wagon, pulled off an overshirt over his
head and exchanged it for the piscatorial prize.
The food that had sustained them on the long march was almost military
in its simplicity. Corn meal, flour, rice (a little, as it was not then
in common use), beans, bacon and dried fruits were the main dependence.
They could spend but little time hunting and fishing. On Bear River
"David" and "Louisa" each caught a trout, fine, speckled beauties.
"David" and the other hunters of the company also killed sage hens,
antelope and buffalo.
After leaving the Missouri River they had no opportunity to buy anything
until they reached the Snake River, where they purchased some dried
salmon of the Indians.
CHAPTER II
DOWN THE COLUMBIA IN '51.
After eighty days travel over one thousand seven hundred sixty-five
miles of road these weary pilgrims reached the mighty river of the West,
the vast Columbia.
At The Dalles, the road Across the Plains was finished, from thence the
great waterways would lead them to their journey's end.
It was there the immigrants first feasted on the delicious river salmon,
fresh from the foaming waters. The Indians boiled theirs, making a
savory soup, the odor of which would almost have fed a hungry man; the
white people cooked goodly pieces in the trusty camp frying pan.
Not then accustomed to such finny monsters, they found a comparison for
the huge cuts as like unto sides of pork, and a receptacle for the
giant's morsels in a seaworthy washingtub. However, high living will
pall unto the taste; one may really tire of an uninterrupted piscatorial
banquet, and one of the company, A. A. Denny, declared his intention of
introducing some variety in the bill of fare. "Plague take it," he said,
"I'm tired of salmon--I'm going to have some chicken."
But alas! the gallinaceous fowl, roaming freely at large, had also
feasted frequently on fragments no longer fresh of the overplus of
salmon, and its flavor was indescribable, wholly impossible, as the
French say. It was "fishy" fish rather than fowl.
At The Dalles the company divided, one party composed of a majority of
the men started over the mountains with the wagons and teams; the women
and children prepared to descend the river in boats.
In one boat, seated on top of the "plunder" were Mrs. A. A. Denny and
two children, Miss Louisa Boren, Mrs. Low and four children and Mrs.
Boren and one child. The other boat was loaded in like manner with a
great variety of useful and necessary articles, heaped up, on top of
which sat several women and children, among whom were Mrs. Sarah Denny,
grandmother of the writer, and her little daughter, Loretta.
A long summer day was spent in floating down the great canyon where the
majestic Columbia cleaves the Cascade Range in twain. The succeeding
night the first boat landed on an island in the river, and the voyagers
went ashore to camp. During the night one of the little girls, Gertrude
Boren, rolled out of her bed and narrowly escaped falling into the
hurrying stream; had she done so she must have certainly been lost, but
a kind Providence decreed otherwise. Re-embarking the following day,
gliding swiftly on the current, they traversed a considerable distance
and the second night approached the Cascades.
Swifter and more turbulent, the rushing flood began to break in more
furious foam-wreaths on every jagged rock, impotently striving to stay
its onward rush to the limitless ocean.
Sufficient light enabled the observing eye to perceive the writhing
surface of the angry waters, but the boatmen were stupified with drink!
All day long they had passed a bottle about which contained a liquid
facetiously called "Blue Ruin" and near enough their ruin it proved.
I have penned the following description which met with the approval of
one of the principal actors in what so nearly proved a tragedy:
It was midnight on the mighty Columbia. A waning moon cast a glowworm
light on the dark, rushing river; all but one of the weary women and
tired little children were deeply sunken in sleep. The oars creaked and
dipped monotonously; the river sang louder and louder every boat's
length. Drunken, bloated faces leered foolishly and idiotically; they
admonished each other to "Keep 'er goin'."
The solitary watcher stirred uneasily, looked at the long lines of foam
out in midstream and saw how fiercely the white waves contended, and far
swifter flew the waters than at any hour before. What was the meaning of
it? Hark! that humming, buzzing, hissing, nay, bellowing roar! The blood
flew to her brain and made her senses reel; they must be nearing the
last landing above the falls, the great Cascades of the Columbia.
But the crew gave no heed.
Suddenly she cried out sharply to her sleeping sister, "Mary! Mary! wake
up! we are nearing the falls, I hear them roar."
"What is it, Liza?" she said sleepily.
"O, wake up! we shall all be drowned, the men don't know what they are
doing."
The rudely awakened sleepers seemed dazed and did not make much outcry,
but a strong young figure climbed over the mass of baggage and
confronting the drunken boatmen, plead, urged and besought them, if they
considered their own lives, or their helpless freight of humanity, to
make for the shore.
"Oh, men," she pleaded, "don't you hear the falls, they roar louder now.
It will soon be too late, I beseech you turn the boat to shore. Look at
the rapids beyond us!"
"Thar haint no danger, Miss, leastways not yet; wots all this fuss about
anyhow? No danger," answered one who was a little disturbed; the others
were almost too much stupified to understand her words and stood staring
at the bareheaded, black haired young woman as if she were an apparition
and were no more alarmed than if the warning were given as a curious
mechanical performance, having no reference to themselves.
Repeating her request with greater earnestness, if possible, a man's
voice broke in saying, "I believe she is right, put in men quick, none
of us want to be drowned."
Fortunately this penetrated their besotted minds and they put about in
time to save the lives of all on board, although they landed some
distance below the usual place.
A little farther and they would have been past all human help.
One of the boatmen cheerfully acknowledged the next day that if it
"hadn't been fur that purty girl they had a' gone over them falls,
shure."
The other boat had a similar experience; it began to leak profusely
before they had gone very far and would soon have sunk, had not the
crew, who doubtless were sober, made all haste to land.
My grandmother has often related to me how she clasped her little child
to her heart and resigned herself to a fate which seemed inevitable;
also of a Mrs. McCarthy, a passenger likewise, becoming greatly excited
and alternately swearing and praying until the danger was past. An
inconvenient but amusing feature was the soaked condition of the
"plunder" and the way the shore and shrubbery thereon were decorated
with "hiyu ictas," as the Chinook has it, hung out to dry. Finding it
impossible to proceed, this detachment returned and took the mountain
road.
A tramway built by F. A. Chenoweth, around the great falls, afforded
transportation for the baggage of the narrowly saved first described.
There being no accommodations for passengers, the party walked the
tramroad; at the terminus they unloaded and stayed all night. No
"commodious and elegant" steamer awaited them, but an old brig, bound
for Portland, received them and their effects.
Such variety of adventure had but recently crowded upon them that it was
almost fearfully they re-embarked. A. A. Denny observed to Captain Low,
"Look here, Low, they say women are scarce in Oregon and we had better
be careful of ours." Presumably they were, as both survive at the
present day.
From a proud ranger of the dashing main, the old brig had come down to
be a carrier of salt salmon packed in barrels, and plunder of
immigrants; as for the luckless passengers, they accommodated themselves
as best they could.
The small children were tied to the mast to keep them from falling
overboard, as there were no bulwarks.
Beds were made below on the barrels before mentioned and the travel-worn
lay down, but not to rest; the mosquitos were a bloodthirsty throng and
the beds were likened unto a corduroy road.
One of the women grumbled a little and an investigation proved that it
was, as her husband said, "Nothing but the tea-kettle" wedged in between
the barrels.
Another lost a moccasin overboard and having worn out all her shoes on
the way, went with one stockinged foot until they turned up the
Willamette River, then went ashore to a farmhouse where she was so
fortunate as to find the owner of a new pair of shoes which she bought,
and was thus able to enter the "city" of Portland in appropriate
footgear.
After such vicissitudes, dangers and anxiety, the little company were
glad to tarry in the embryo metropolis for a brief season; then, having
heard of fairer shores, the restless pioneers moved on.
CHAPTER III
THE SETTLEMENT AT ALKI.
Midway between Port Townsend and Olympia, in full view looking west from
the city of Seattle, is a long tongue of land, washed by the sparkling
waves of Puget Sound, called Alki Point. It helps to make Elliott Bay a
beautiful land-locked harbor and is regarded with interest as being the
site of the first settlement by white people in King County in what was
then the Territory of Oregon. _Alki_ is an Indian word pronounced with
the accent on the first syllable, which is _al_ as in altitude; _ki_ is
spoken as _ky_ in silky. Alki means "by and by."
It doth truly fret the soul of the old settler to see it printed and
hear it pronounced Al-ki.
The first movement toward its occupancy was on this wise: A small
detachment of the advancing column of settlers, D. T. Denny and J. N.
Low, left Portland on the Willamette, on the 10th of September, 1851,
with two horses carrying provisions and camp outfit.
These men walked to the Columbia River to round up a band of cattle
belonging to Low. The cattle were ferried over the river at Vancouver
and from thence driven over the old Hudson Bay Company's trail to the
mouth of Cowlitz River, a tributary of the Columbia, up the Cowlitz to
Warbass Landing and on to Ford's prairie, a wide and rich one, where the
band were left to graze on the luxuriant pasturage.
On a steep, rocky trail along the Cowlitz River, Denny was following
along not far behind a big, yellow ox that was scrambling up, trying
vainly to get a firm foothold, when Low, foreseeing calamity, called to
him to "Look out!" Denny swerved a little from the path and at that
moment the animal lost its footing and came tumbling past them, rolling
over several times until it landed on a lower level, breaking off one of
its horns. Here was a narrow escape although not from a wild beast. They
could not then stop to secure the animal although it was restored to the
flock some time after.
From Ford's prairie, although footsore and weary, they kept on their way
until Olympia was reached. It was a long tramp of perhaps two hundred
fifty miles, the exact distance could not be ascertained as the trail
was very winding.
As described by one of our earliest historians, Olympia then consisted
of about a dozen one-story frame cabins, covered with split cedar
siding, well ventilated and healthy, and perhaps twice as many Indian
huts near the custom house, as Olympia was then the port of entry for
Puget Sound.
The last mentioned structure afforded space on the ground floor for a
store, with a small room partitioned off for a postoffice.
Our two pioneers found here Lee Terry, who had been engaged in loading a
sailing vessel with piles. He fell in with the two persistent
pedestrians and thus formed a triumvirate of conquerors of a new world.
The pioneers tarried not in the embryo city but pushed on farther down
the great Inland Sea.
With Captain Fay and several others they embarked in an open boat, the
Captain, who owned the boat, intending to purchase salmon of the Indians
for the San Francisco market. Fay was an old whaling captain. He
afterwards married Mrs. Alexander, a widow of Whidby Island, and lived
there until his death.
The little party spent their first night on the untrod shores of
Sgwudux, the Indian name of the promontory now occupied by West Seattle,
landing on the afternoon of September 25th, 1851, and sleeping that
night under the protecting boughs of a giant cedar tree.
On the 26th, Low, Denny and Terry hired two young Indians of Chief
Sealth's (Seattle's) tillicum (people), who were camped near by, to take
them up the Duwampsh River in a canoe. Safely seated, the paddles dipped
and away they sped over the dancing waves. The weather was fair, the air
clear and a magnificent panorama spread around them. The whole
forest-clad encircling shores of Elliott Bay, untouched by fire or ax,
the tall evergreens thickly set in a dense mass to the water's edge
stood on every hand. The great white dome of Mount Rainier, 14,444 feet
high, before them, toward which they traveled; behind them, stretched
along the western horizon, Towiat or Olympics, a grand range of
snow-capped mountains whose foothills were covered with a continuous
forest.
Entering the Duwampsh River and ascending for several miles they reached
the farther margin of a prairie where Low and Terry, having landed, set
out over an Indian trail through the woods, to look at the country,
while Denny followed on the river with the Indians. On and on they went
until Denny became anxious and fired off his gun but received neither
shot nor shout in answer. The day waned, it was growing dark, and as he
returned the narrow deep river took on a melancholy aspect, the great
forest was gloomy with unknown fears, and he was alone with strange,
wild men whose language was almost unintelligible. Nevertheless, he
landed and camped with them at a place known afterward as the Maple
Prairie.
Morning of the 27th of September saw them paddling up the river again in
search of the other two explorers, whom they met coming down in a canoe.
They had kept on the trail until an Indian camp was reached at the
junction of Black and Duwampsh Rivers the night before. All returned to
Sgwudux, their starting point, to sleep under the cedar tree another
night.
On the evening of the 27th a scow appeared and stopped near shore where
the water was quite deep. Two women on board conversed with Captain Fay
in Chinook, evidently quite proud of their knowledge of the trade jargon
of the Northwest. The scow moved on up Elliott Bay, entered Duwampsh
River and ascended it to the claim of L. M. Collins, where another
settlement sprang into existence.
On the 28th the pioneers moved their camp to Alki Point or Sma-qua-mox
as it was named by the Indians.
Captain Fay returned from down the Sound on the forenoon of the 28th.
That night, as they sat around the campfire, the pioneers talked of
their projected building and the idea of split stuff was advanced, when
Captain Fay remarked, "Well, I think a log house is better in an Indian
country."
"Why, do you think there is any danger from the Indians?" he was quickly
asked.
"Well," he replied, with a sly twinkle in his eye, "It would keep off
the stray bullets when they _poo mowich_" (shoot deer).
These hints, coupled with subsequent experiences, awoke the anxiety of
D. T. Denny, who soon saw that there were swarms of savages to the
northward. Those near by were friendly, but what of those farther away?
One foggy morning, when the distance was veiled in obscurity, the two
young white men, Lee and David, were startled to see a big canoe full
of wild Indians from away down the Sound thrust right out of the dense
fog; they landed and came ashore; the chief was a tall, brawny fellow
with a black beard. They were very impudent, crowding on them and trying
to get into the little brush tent, but Lee Terry stood in the door-way
leaning, or braced rather, against the tree upon which one end of the
frail habitation was fastened. The white men succeeded in avoiding
trouble but they felt inwardly rather "shaky" and were much relieved
when their rude visitors departed. These Indians were Skagits.
The brush shelter referred to was made of boughs laid over a pole placed
in the crotch of another pole at one end, the other end being held by a
crotch fastened to a tree. In it was placed their scanty outfit and
supplies, and there they slept while the cabin was building.
A townsite was located and named "New York," which no doubt killed the
place, exotics do not thrive in the Northwest; however, the name was
after changed to Alki.
D. T. Denny and Lee Terry were left to take care of the "townsite" while
J. N. Low returned with Captain Fay to Olympia and footed it over the
trail again to the Columbia. He carried with him a letter to A. A. Denny
in Portland, remarkable as the first one penned by D. T. Denny on Puget
Sound, also in that upon it and the account given by Low depended the
decision of the rest of the party to settle on the shores of the great
Inland Sea. The substance of the letter was, "Come as soon as you can;
we have found a valley that will accommodate one thousand families,"
referring to that of the Duwampsh River.
These two, David T. Denny and Lee Terry, proceeded to lay the foundation
of the first cabin built on Elliott Bay and also the first in King
County. Their only tools were an ax and a hammer. The logs were too
heavy for the two white men to handle by themselves, and after they were
cut, passing Indians, muscular braves, were called on to assist, which
they willingly did, Mr. Denny giving them bread as a reward, the same
being an unaccustomed luxury to them.
Several days after the foundation was laid, L. M. Collins and "Nesqually
John," an Indian, passed by the camp and rising cabin, driving oxen
along the beach, on their way to the claim selected by Collins on the
fertile banks of the Duwampsh River.
When D. T. Denny and Lee Terry wrote their names on the first page of
our history, they could not fully realize the import of their every act,
yet no doubt they were visionary. Sleeping in their little brush tent at
night, what dreams may have visited them! Dreams, perhaps, of fleets of
white-winged ships with the commerce of many nations, of busy cities, of
throngs of people. Probably they set about chopping down the tall fir
trees in a cheerful mood, singing and whistling to the astonishment of
the pine squirrels and screech owls thus rudely disturbed. Their camp
equipage and arrangements were of the simplest and rudest and Mr. Denny
relates that Lee Terry would not cook so he did the cooking. He made a
"johnny cake" board of willow wood to bake bread upon.
Fish and game were cooked before the camp fire. The only cooking vessel
was a tin pail.
One evening Old Duwampsh Curley, whose Indian name was Su-whalth, with
several others, visited them and begged the privilege of camping near
by. Permission given, the Indians built a fire and proceeded to roast a
fine, fat duck transfixed on a sharp stick, placing a large clam shell
underneath to catch the gravy. When it was cooked to their minds, Curley
offered a choice cut to the white men, who thanked him but declined to
partake, saying that they had eaten their supper.
Old Curley remembered it and in after years often reminded his white
friend of the incident, laughing slyly, "He! He! Boston man halo tikke
Siwash muck-a-muck" (white man do not like Indian's food), knowing
perfectly well the reason they would not accept the proffered dainty.
J. N. Low had returned to Portland and Terry went to Olympia on the
return trip of Collins' scow, leaving David T. Denny alone with "New
York," the unfinished cabin and the Indians. For three weeks he was the
sole occupant and was ill a part of the time.
Meanwhile, the families left behind had not been idle, but having made
up their minds that the end of their rainbow rested on Puget Sound, set
sail on the schooner "Exact," with others who intended to settle at
various points on the Inland Sea, likewise a party of gold hunters bound
for Queen Charlotte's Island.
They were one week getting around Cape Flattery and up the Sound as far
as Alki Point. It was a rough introduction to the briny deep, as the
route covered the most tempestuous portion of the northwest coast. Well
acquainted as they were with prairie schooners, a schooner on the ocean
was another kind of craft and they enjoyed (?) their first experience of
seasickness crossing the bar of the Columbia. As may be easily imagined,
the fittings were not of the most luxurious kind and father, mother and
the children gathered socially around a washing tub to pay their
respects to Neptune.
The gold miners, untouched by mal de mer, sang jolly songs and played
cards to amuse themselves. Their favorite ditty was the round "Three
Blind Mice" and they sang also many good old campmeeting songs. Poor
fellows! they were taken captive by the Indians of Queen Charlotte's
Island and kept in slavery a number of years until Victorians sent an
expedition for their rescue, paid their ransom and they were released.
[Illustration: BARGAINING WITH INDIANS AT ALKI, 1851]
On a dull November day, the thirteenth of the month, this company
landed on Alki Point.
There were A. A. Denny, his wife, Mary Boren Denny, and their three
little children; Miss Louisa Boren, a younger sister of Mrs. Denny; C.
D. Boren and his family; J. N. Low, Mrs. Low and their four children and
Wm. N. Bell, Mrs. Sarah Bell and their family.
John and Sarah Denny with their little daughter, Loretta, remained in
Oregon for several years and then removed to the Sound.
On that eventful morning the lonely occupant of the unfinished cabin was
startled by an unusual sound, the rattling of an anchor chain, that of
the "Exact." Not feeling well he had the night before made some hot tea,
drank it, piled both his own and Lee Terry's blankets over him and slept
long and late. Hearing the noise before mentioned he rose hastily,
pushed aside the boards leaned up for a door and hurried out and down to
the beach to meet his friends who left the schooner in a long boat. It
was a gloomy, rainy time and the prospect for comfort was so poor that
the women, except the youngest who had no family cares, sat them down on
a log on the beach and wept bitter tears of discouragement. Not so with
Miss Louisa Boren, whose lively curiosity and love of nature led her to
examine everything she saw, the shells and pebbles of the beach, rank
shrubbery and rich evergreens that covered the bank, all so new and
interesting to the traveler from the far prairie country.
But little time could be spent, however, indulging in the luxury of woe
as all were obliged to exert themselves to keep their effects from being
carried away by the incoming tide and forgot their sorrow in busily
carrying their goods upon the bank; food and shelter must be prepared,
and as ever before they met the difficulties courageously.
The roof of the cabin was a little imperfect and one of the pioneer
children was rendered quite uncomfortable by the more or less regular
drip of the rain upon her and in after years recalled it saying that she
had forever after a prejudice against camping out.
David T. Denny inadvertantly let fall the remark that he wished they had
not come. A. A. Denny, his brother, came to him, pale with agitation,
asking what he meant, and David attempted to allay his fears produced by
anxiety for his helpless family, by saying that the cabin was not
comfortable in its unfinished state.
The deeper truth was that the Sound country was swarming with Indians.
Had the pioneers fully realized the risk they ran, nothing would have
induced them to remain; their very unconsciousness afterward proved a
safeguard.
The rainy season was fairly under way and suitable shelter was an
absolute necessity.
Soon other houses were built of round fir logs and split cedar boards.
The householders brought quite a supply of provisions with them on the
"Exact;" among other things a barrel of dried apples, which proved
palatable and wholesome. Sea biscuit, known as hard-bread, and potato
bread made of mashed potatoes and baked in the oven were oft times
substitutes for or adjuncts of the customary loaf.
There was very little game in the vicinity of the settlement and at
first they depended on the native hunters and fishermen who brought
toothsome wild ducks and venison, fresh fish and clams in abundance.
One of the pioneers relates that some wily rascals betrayed them into
eating pieces of game which he afterward was convinced were cut from a
cougar. The Indians who brought it called it "mowich" (deer), but the
meat was of too light a color for either venison or bear, and the
conformation of the leg bones in the pieces resembled _felis_ rather
than _cervus_.
But the roasts were savory, it was unseemly to make too severe an
examination and the food supply was not then so certain as to permit
indulgence in an over-nice discrimination.
The inventive genius of the pioneer women found generous exercise in the
manufacture of new dishes. The variations were rung on fish, potatoes
and clams in a way to pamper epicures. Clams in fry, pie, chowder, soup,
stew, boil and bake--even pickled clams were found an agreeable relish.
The great variety of food fishes from the kingly salmon to the tiny
smelt, with crabs, oysters, etc., and their many modes of preparation,
were perpetually tempting to the pioneer appetite.
The question of food was a serious one for the first year, as the
resources of this land of plenty were unknown at first, but the pushing
pioneer proved a ready and adaptable learner.
Flour, butter, syrup, sugar, tea and coffee were brought at long
intervals over great distances by sailing vessels. By the time these
articles reached the settlement their value became considerable.
Game, fish and potatoes were staple articles of diet and judging from
the stalwart frames of the Indians were safe and substantial.
Trading with the Indians brought about some acquaintance with their
leading characteristics.
On one occasion, the youngest of the white women, Louisa Boren,
attempted to barter some red flannel for a basket of potatoes.
The basket of "wapatoes" occupied the center of a level spot in front of
the cabin, backed by a semicircle of perhaps twenty-five Indians. A
tall, bronze tyee (chief) stood up to wa-wa (talk). He wanted so much
cloth; stretching out his long arms to their utmost extent, fully two
yards.
"No," she said, "I will give you so much," about one yard.
"Wake, cultus potlatch" (No, that is just giving them away) answered the
Indian, who measured several times and insisted that he would not trade
for an inch less. Out of patience at last, she disdainfully turned her
back and retired inside the cabin behind a mat screen. No amount of
coaxing from the savages could induce her to return, and the
disappointed spectators filed off, bearing their "hyas mokoke" (very
valuable) potatoes with them, no doubt marveling at the firmness of the
white "slanna" (woman).
A more successful deal in potatoes was the venture of A. A. Denny and J.
N. Low, who traveled from Alki to Fort Nesqually, in a big canoe manned
by four Indians and obtained fifty bushels of little, round, red
potatoes grown by Indians from seed obtained from the "Sking George"
men. The green hides of beeves were spread in the bottom of the canoe
and the potatoes piled thereon.
Returning to Alki it was a little rough and the vegetables were well
moistened with salt chuck, as were the passengers also, probably,
deponent saith not.
It is not difficult for those who have traveled the Sound in all kinds
of weather to realize the aptness of the expression of the Chinese cook
of a camping party who were moving in a large canoe; when the waves
began to rise, he exclaimed in agitation, "Too littlee boat for too
muchee big waters." It is well to bear in mind that the "Sound" is a
great inland sea. A tenderfoot's description of the water over which he
floated, the timorous occupant of a canoe, testifies that it looked to
him to be "Two hundred feet deep, as clear as a kitten's eye and as cold
as death."
All the different sorts of canoes of which I shall speak in another
chapter look "wobbly" and uncertain, yet the Indians make long voyages
of hundreds of miles by carefully observing the wind and tide.
A large canoe will easily carry ten persons and one thousand pounds of
baggage. One of these commodious travelers, with a load of natives and
their "ictas" (baggage) landed on a stormy day at Alki and the occupants
spent several hours ashore. While engaged with their meal one of them
exclaimed, "Nannitch!" (look) at the same time pointing at the smoke of
the campfire curling steadily straight upward. Without another word they
tumbled themselves and belongings aboard and paddled off in silent
satisfaction.
The ascending column of smoke was their barometer which read "Fair
weather, no wind."
The white people, unacquainted with the shores, tides and winds of the
great Inland Sea, did well to listen to their Indian canoemen; sometimes
their unwillingness to do so exposed them to great danger and even loss
of life.
The Indians living on Elliott Bay were chiefly the indigenous tribe of
D'wampsh or Duwampsh, changed by white people into "Duwamish."
They gave abundant evidence of possessing human feeling beneath their
rough exterior.
One of the white women at Alki, prepared some food for a sick Indian
child which finally recovered. The child's father, "Old Alki John," was
a very "hard case," but his heart was tender toward his child, and to
show his gratitude he brought and offered as a present to the kind white
"slanna" (woman) a bright, new tin pail, a very precious thing to the
Indian mind. Of course she readily accepted his thanks but persuaded him
to keep the pail.
Savages though they were, or so appeared, the Indians of Elliott Bay
were correctly described in these words:
"We found a race, though rude and wild,
Still tender toward friend or child,
For dark eyes laughed or shone with tears
As joy or sorrow filled the years.
Their black-eyed babes the red men kissed
And captive brothers sorely missed;
With broken hearts brown mothers wept
When babes away by death were swept."
--Song of the Pioneers.
But there were amusing as well as pathetic experiences. The Indians were
like untaught children in many things. Their curiosity over-came them
and their innocent impertinence sometimes required reproof.
In a cabin at Alki one morning, a white woman was frying fish. Warming
by the fire stood "Duwampsh Curley;" the odor of the fish was doubtless
appetizing; Curley was moved with a wish to partake of it and reached
out a dark and doubtful-looking hand to pick out a piece. The white
woman had a knife in her hand to turn the pieces and raised it to strike
the imprudent hand which was quickly and sheepishly withdrawn.
Had he been as haughty and ill-natured as some savages the result might
have been disastrous, but he took the reproof meekly and mended his
manners instead of retaliating.
Now and then the settlers were spectators in dramas of Indian romance.
"Old Alki John" had a wife whose history became interesting. For some
unknown reason she ran away from Puyallup to Alki. Her husband followed
her, armed with a Hudson Bay musket and a frame of mind that boded no
good. While A. A. Denny, D. T. Denny and Alki John were standing
together on the bank one day Old John's observing eye caught sight of a
strange Indian ascending the bank, carrying his gun muzzle foremost, a
suggestive position not indicative of peaceful intentions. "Nannitch"
(look) he said quietly; the stranger advanced boldly, but Old John's
calm manner must have had a soothing effect upon the bloodthirsty
savage, as he concluded to "wa-wa" (talk) a little before fighting.
So the gutturals and polysyllables of the native tongue fairly flew
about until evidently, as Mr. D. T. Denny relates, some sort of
compromise was effected. Not then understanding the language, he could
not determine just the nature of the arrangement, but has always thought
it was amicably settled by the payment of money by "Old Alki John" to
her former husband. This Indian woman was young and fair, literally so,
as her skin was very white, she being the whitest squaw ever seen among
them; her head was not flattened, she was slender and of good figure.
Possibly she had white blood in her veins; her Indian name was
"Si-a-ye."
Being left a widow, she was not left to pine alone very long; another
claimed her hand and she became Mrs. Yeow-de-pump. When this one joined
his brethren in the happy hunting ground, she remained a widow for some
time, but is now the wife of the Indian Zacuse, mentioned in another
place.
There were women cabin builders. Each married woman was given half the
donation claim by patent from the government; improvement on her part of
the claim was therefore necessary.
On a fine, fair morning in the early spring of 1852, two women set forth
from the settlement at Alki, to cross Elliott Bay in a fishing canoe,
with Indians to paddle and a large dog to protect them from possible
wild animals in the forest, for in that wild time, bears, cougars and
wolves roamed the shores of Puget Sound.
Landed on the opposite shore, the present site of Seattle, they made
their way slowly and with difficulty through the dense undergrowth of
the heavy forest, there being not so much as a trail, over a long
distance. Arrived at the chosen spot, they cut with their own hands some
small fir logs and laid the foundation of a cabin. While thus employed
the weather underwent a change and on the return was rather threatening.
The wind and waves were boisterous, the canine passenger was frightened
and uneasy, thus adding to the danger. The water washed into the canoe
and the human occupants suffered no little anxiety until they reached
the beach at home.
One of the conditions of safe travel in a canoe is a quiet and careful
demeanor, the most approved plan being to sit down in the bottom of the
craft and _stay there_.
To have a large, heavy animal squirming about, getting up and lying down
frequently, must have tried their nerve severely and it must have taken
good management to prevent a serious catastrophe. The Bell family were
camped at that time on their claim in a rude shelter of Indian boards
and mats.
The handful of white men at Alki spent their time and energy in getting
out piles for the San Francisco market. At first they had very few
appliances for handling the timber. The first vessel to load was the
brig Leonesa, which took a cargo of piles, cut, rolled and hauled by
hand, as there were no cattle at the settlement.
There were also no roads and Lee Terry went to Puyallup for a yoke of
oxen, which he drove down on the beach to Alki. Never were dumb brutes
better appreciated than these useful creatures.
But the winter, or rather rainy season, wore away; as spring approached
the settlers explored the shores of the Sound far and near and it became
apparent that Alki must wait till "by and by," as the eastern shore of
Elliott Bay was found more desirable and the pioneers prepared to move
again by locating donation claims on a portion of the land now covered
by a widespread city, which will bring us to the next chapter, "The
Founding of Seattle and Indian War."
The following is a brief recapitulation of the first days on Puget
Sound; in these later years we see the rapid and skillful construction
of elegant mansions, charming cottages and stately business houses, all
in sight of the spot where stood the first little cabin of the pioneer.
The builders of this cabin were D. T. Denny, J. N. Low and Lee Terry,
assisted by the Indians, the only tools, an ax and a hammer, the place
Alki Point, the time, the fall of 1851.
They baked their bread before the fire on a willow board hewed from a
piece of a tree which grew near the camp; the only cooking vessel was a
tin pail; the salmon they got off the Indians was roasted before the
fire on a stick.
The cabin was unfinished when the famous landing was made, November
13th, 1851, because J. N. Low returned to Portland, having been on the
Sound but a few days, then Lee Terry boarded Collins' scow on its return
trip up Sound leaving D. T. Denny alone for about three weeks, during
most of which time he was ill. This was Low's cabin; after the landing
of Bell, Boren and A. A. Denny and the others of the party, among whom
were Low and C. C. Terry, a roof was put on the unfinished cabin and
they next built A. A. Denny's and then two cabins of split cedar for
Bell and Boren and their families.
When they moved to the east side of Elliott Bay, Bell's was the first
one built. W. N. Bell and D. T. Denny built A. A. Denny's on the east
side, as he was sick. D. T. Denny had served an apprenticeship in cabin
building, young as he was, nineteen years of age, before he came to
Puget Sound.
The first of D. T. Denny's cabins he built himself with the aid of three
Indians. There was not a stick or piece of sawed stuff in it.
However, by the August following his marriage, which took place January
23rd, 1853, he bought of H. L. Yesler lumber from his sawmill at about
$25.00 per M. to put up a little board house, sixteen by twenty feet
near the salt water, between Madison and Marion streets, Seattle.
This little home was my birthplace, the first child of the first white
family established at Elliott Bay. Mr. and Mrs. D. T. Denny had been
threatened by Indians and their cabin robbed, so thought it best to move
into the settlement.
CHAPTER IV
FOUNDING OF SEATTLE AND INDIAN WAR.
The most astonishing change wrought in the aspect of nature by the
building of a city on Puget Sound is not the city itself but the
destruction of the primeval forest.
By the removal of the thick timber the country becomes unrecognizable;
replaced by thousands of buildings of brick, wood and stone, graded
streets, telephone and electric light systems, steam, electric and cable
railways and all the paraphernalia of modern civilization, the contrast
is very great. The same amount of energy and money expended in a
treeless, level country would probably have built a city three times as
large as Seattle.
In February, 1852, Bell, Boren and the Dennys located claims on the east
side of Elliott Bay. Others followed, but it was not until May, 1853,
that C. D. Boren and A. A. Denny filed the first plat of the town, named
for the noted chief, "Seattle." The second plat was filed shortly after
by D. S. Maynard. Maynard was a physician who did not at first depend on
the practice of his profession; perhaps the settlers were too vigorous
to require pills, powders and potions, at any rate he proposed to engage
in the business of packing salmon.
The settlers at Alki moved over to their claims in the spring of 1852,
some of them camping until they could build log cabins.
Finally all were well established and then began the hand to hand
conflict for possession of the ground. The mighty forest must yield to
fire and the ax; then from the deep bosom of the earth what bounty
arose!
The Indians proved efficient helpers, guides and workers in many ways.
One of the pioneers had three Indians to help him build his cabin.
To speak more particularly of the original architecture of the country,
the cabins, built usually of round logs of the Douglas fir, about six
inches in diameter, were picturesque, substantial and well suited to the
needs of the pioneer. A great feature of the Seattle cabin was the door
made of thick boards hewed out of the timber as there was no sawmill on
the bay until H. L. Yesler built the first steam sawmill erected on the
Sound. This substantial door was cut across in the middle with a
diagonal joint; the lower half was secured by a stout wooden pin, in
order that the upper half might be opened and the "wa-wa" (talk) proceed
with the native visitor, who might or might not be friendly, while he
stood on the outside of the door and looked in with eager curiosity, on
the strange ways of the "Bostons."
The style of these log cabins was certainly admirable, adapted as they
were to the situation of the settler. They were inexpensive as the
material was plentiful and near at hand, and required only energy and
muscle to construct them; there were no plumber's, gas or electric light
bills coming in every month, no taxes for improvements and a man could
build a lean-to or hay-shed without a building permit. The interiors
were generally neat, tasteful and home-like, made so by the versatile
pioneer women who occupied them.
These primitive habitations were necessarily scattered as it was
imperative that they should be placed so as to perfect the titles of the
donation claims. Sometimes two settlers were able to live near each
other when they held adjoining claims, others were obliged to live
several miles away from the main settlement and far from a neighbor, in
lonely, unprotected places.
What thoughts of the homes and friends they had left many weary leagues
behind, visited these lonely cabin dwellers!
The husband was engaged in clearing, slashing and burning log heaps,
cutting timber, hunting for game to supply the larder, or away on some
errand to the solitary neighbor's or distant settlement. Often, during
the livelong day the wife was alone, occupied with domestic toil, all of
which had to be performed by one pair of hands, with only primitive and
rude appliances; but there were no incompetent servants to annoy, social
obligations were few, fashion was remote and its tyranny unknown, in
short, many disagreeable things were lacking. The sense of isolation
was intensified by frequently recurring incidents in which the dangers
of pioneer life became manifest. The dark, mysterious forest might send
forth from its depths at any moment the menace of savage beast or
relentless man.
The big, grey, timber wolf still roamed the woods, although it soon
disappeared before the oncoming wave of invading settlers. Generally
quite shy, they required some unusual attraction to induce them to
display their voices.
On a dark winter night in 1853, the lonely cabin of D. T. and Louisa
Denny was visited by a pair of these voracious beasts, met to discuss
the remains of a cow, belonging to W. N. Bell, which had stuck fast
among some tree roots and died in the edge of the clearing. How they did
snarl and howl, making the woods and waters resound with their cries as
they greedily devoured the carcass. The pioneer couple who occupied the
cabin entered no objection and were very glad of the protection of the
solid walls of their primitive domicile. The next day, Mr. Denny, with
dog and gun, went out to hunt them but they had departed to some remote
region.
On another occasion the young wife lay sick and alone in the cabin above
mentioned and a good neighbor, Mrs. Sarah Bell, from her home a mile
away, came to see her, bringing some wild [A]pheasant's eggs the men had
found while cutting spars. While the women chatted, an Indian came and
stood idly looking in over the half-door and his companion lurked in the
brush near by.
[Footnote A: Ruffed grouse.]
John Kanem, a brother of the chief, Pat Kanem, afterward told the
occupants of the cabin that these Indians had divulged their intention
of murdering them in order to rob their dwelling, but abandoned the
project, giving as a reason that a "haluimi kloochman" (another or
unknown woman) was there and the man was away.
Surely a kind Providence watched over these unprotected ones that they
might in after years fulfill their destiny.
During the summer of 1855, before the Indian war, Mr. and Mrs. D. T.
Denny were living in a log cabin in the swale, an opening in the midst
of a heavy forest, on their donation claim, to which they had moved from
their first cabin on Elliott Bay.
Dr. Choush, an Indian medicine man, came along one day in a state of
ill-suppressed fury. He had just returned from a Government "potlatch"
at the Tulalip agency. In relating how they were cheated he said that
the Indians were presented with strips of blankets which had been torn
into narrow pieces about six or eight inches wide, and a little bit of
thread and a needle or two. The Indians thereupon traded among
themselves and pieced the strips together.
He was naturally angry and said menacingly that the white people were
few, their doors were thin and the Indians could easily break them in
and kill all the "Bostons."
All this could not have been very reassuring to the inmates of the
cabin; however they were uniformly kind to the natives and had many
friends among them.
Just before the outbreak a troop of Indians visited this cabin and their
bearing was so haughty that Mrs. Denny felt very anxious. When they
demanded "Klosh mika potlatch wapatoes," (Give us some potatoes) she
hurried out herself to dig them as quickly as possible that they might
have no excuse for displeasure, and was much relieved when they took
their departure. One Indian remained behind a long time but talked very
little. It is supposed that he thought of warning them of the intended
attack on the white settlement but was afraid to do so because of the
enmity against him that might follow among his own people.
Gov. Stevens had made treaties with the Indians to extinguish their
title to the lands of the Territory. Some were dissatisfied and stirred
up the others against the white usurpers. This was perfectly natural;
almost any American of whatever color resents usurpation.
Time would fail to recount the injuries and indignities heaped upon the
Indians by the evil-minded among the whites, who could scarcely have
been better than the same class among the natives they sought to
displace.
As subsequently appeared, there was a difference of opinion among the
natives as to the desirability of white settlements in their domain:
Leschi, Coquilton, Owhi, Kitsap, Kamiakin and Kanasket were determined
against them, while Sealth (Seattle) and Pat Kanem were peaceable and
friendly.
The former, shrewd chieftains, well knew that the white people coveted
their good lands.
One night before the war, a passing white man, David T. Denny, heard
Indians talking together in one of their "rancherees" or large houses;
they were telling how the white men knew that the lands belonging to
Tseiyuse and Ohwi, two great Yakima chiefs, were very desirable.
Cupidity, race prejudice and cruelty caused numberless injuries and
indignities against the Indians. In spite of all, there were those among
them who proved the faithful friends of the white race.
Hu-hu-bate-sute or "Salmon Bay Curley," a tall, hawk-nosed, eagle-eyed
Indian with very curly hair, was a staunch friend of the "Bostons."
Thlid Kanem or "Cut-Hand" sent Lake John Che-shi-a-hud to Shilshole to
inform this "Curley," who lived there, of the intended attack on
Seattle. Curley told Ira W. Utter, a white settler on Shilshole or
Salmon Bay, and brought him up to Seattle in his own canoe during the
night.
"Duwampsh Curley" or Su-whalth, appears in a very unfavorable light in
Bancroft's history. My authority, who speaks the native tongue fluently
and was a volunteer in active duty on the day of the battle of Seattle,
says it was not Curley who disported himself in the manner therein
described. I find this refreshing note pencilled on the margin: "Now
this is all a lie about Curley."
Curley rendered valuable assistance on the day of the fight. D. T. Denny
saw him go on a mission down the bay at the request of the navy
officers, to ascertain the position of the hostiles in the north part of
the town.
"Old Mose" or Show-halthlk brought word to Seattle of the approach of
the hostile bands in January, 1856.
But I seem to anticipate and hasten to refer again to the daily life of
the Founders of Seattle.
Trade here, as at Alki, consisted in cutting piles, spars and timber to
load vessels for San Francisco. These ships brought food supplies and
merchandise, the latter often consisting of goods, calicoes, blankets,
shawls and tinware, suitable for barter with the Indians to whom the
settlers still looked for a number of articles of food.
Bread being the staff of life to the white man, the supply of flour was
a matter of importance. In the winter of 1852 this commodity became so
scarce, from the long delay of ships carrying it, that the price became
quite fancy, reaching forty dollars per barrel. Pork likewise became a
costly luxury; A. A. Denny relates that he paid ninety dollars for two
barrels and when by an untoward fate one of the barrels of the precious
meat was lost it was regarded as a positive calamity.
Left on the beach out of reach of high tide, it was supposed to be safe,
but during the night it was carried away by the waves that swept the
banks under the high wind. At the next low tide which came also at
night, the whole settlement turned out and searched the beach, with
pitchwood torches, from the head of the Bay to Smith's Cove, but found
no trace of the missing barrel of pork.
An extenuating circumstance was the fact that a large salmon might be
purchased for a brass button, while red flannel, beads, knives and other
"ictas" (things) were legal tender for potatoes, venison, berries and
clams.
Domestic animals were few; I do not know if there was a sheep, pig or
cow, and but few chickens, on Elliott Bay at the beginning of the year
1852.
As late as 1859, Charles Prosch relates that he paid one dollar and a
half for a dozen eggs and the same price for a pound of butter.
There were no roads, only a few trails through the forest; a common mode
of travel was to follow the beach, the traveler having to be especially
mindful of the tide as the banks are so abrupt in many places that at
high tide the shore is impassable. The Indian canoe was pressed into
service whenever possible.
Very gradually ways through the forest were tunneled out and made
passable, by cutting the trees and grubbing the larger stumps, but small
obstructions were disdained and anything that would escape a wagon-bed
was given peaceable possession.
Of the original settlement, J. N. Low and family remained at Alki.
D. T. and Louisa Denny, who were married at the cabin home of A. A.
Denny, January 23rd, 1853, moved themselves and few effects in a canoe
to their cabin on the front of their donation claim, the habitation
standing on the spot for many years occupied by numerous "sweetbrier"
bushes, grown from seeds planted by the first bride of Seattle.
Stern realities confronted them; a part of the time they were out of
flour and had no bread for days; they bought fish of the Indians, which,
together with game from the forest, brought down by the rifle of the
pioneer, made existence possible.
And then, too, the pioneer housewife soon became a shrewd searcher for
indigenous articles of food. Among these were nettle greens gathered in
the woods.
In their season the native berries were very acceptable; the
salmonberry ripening early in June; dewberries and red and black
huckleberries were plentiful in July and August.
The first meal partaken of in this cabin consisted of salt meat from a
ship's stores and potatoes. They afterward learned to make a whole meal
of a medium sized salmon with potatoes, the fragments remaining not
worth mention.
The furniture of their cabin was meager, a few chairs from a ship, a
bedstead made of fir poles and a ship's stove were the principle
articles. One window without glass but closed by a wooden shutter with
the open upper half-door served to light it in the daytime, while the
glimmer of a dog-fish-oil lamp was the illumination at night.
The stock consisted of a single pair of chickens, a wedding present from
D. S. Maynard. The hen set under the door-step and brought out a fine
brood of chicks. The rooster soon took charge of them, scratched, called
and led them about in the most motherly manner, while the hen,
apparently realizing the fact that she was literally a rara avis
prepared to bring out another brood.
Mr. and Mrs. D. T. Denny while visiting their friends at Alki on one
occasion witnessed a startling scene.
An Indian had come to trade, "Old Alki John," and a misunderstanding
appears to have arisen about the price of a sack of flour. The women,
seated chatting at one end of the cabin, were chilled with horror to see
the white man, his face pale with anger and excitement, raise an ax as
if to strike the Indian, who had a large knife, such as many of them
wore suspended from the wrist by a cord; the latter, a tall and brawny
fellow, regarded him with a threatening look.
Fortunately no blow was struck and the white man gradually lowered the
ax and dropped it on the floor. The Indian quietly departed, much to
their relief, as a single blow would likely have resulted in a bloody
affray and the massacre of all the white people.
At that time there were neither jails, nor courthouse, no churches, but
one sawmill, no steamboats, railways or street cars, not even a rod of
wagon road in King County, indeed all the conveniences of modern
civilization were wanting.
There were famous, historic buildings erected and occupied, other than
the cabin homes; the most notable of these was Fort Decatur.
The commodious blockhouse so named after the good sloop-of-war that
rescued the town of Seattle from the hostiles, stood on an eminence at
the end of Cherry Street overlooking the Bay. At this time there were
about three hundred white inhabitants.
The hewn timbers of this fort were cut by D. T. Denny and two others, on
the front of the donation claim, and hauled out on the beach ready to
load a ship for San Francisco, but ultimately served a very different
purpose from the one first intended.
The mutterings of discontent among the Indians portended war and the
settlers made haste to prepare a place of refuge. The timbers were
dragged up the hill by oxen and many willing hands promptly put them in
place; hewn to the line, the joints were close and a good shingle roof
covered the building, to which were added two bastions of sawed stuff
from Yesler's mill. D. T. Denny remembers the winter was a mild one, and
men went about without coats, otherwise "in their shirtsleeves." While
they were building the fort, the U. S. Sloop-of-war _Decatur_, sailed up
the Bay with a fair breeze, came to anchor almost directly opposite,
swung around and fired off the guns, sixteen thirty-two-pounders, making
thunderous reverberations far and wide, a sweet sound to the settlers.
Several of the too confident ones laughed and scoffed at the need of a
fort while peace seemed secure. One of these doubters was told by Mrs.
Louisa Denny that the people laughed at Noah when he built the ark, and
it transpired that a party was obliged to bring this objector and his
family into the fort from their claim two miles away, after dark of the
night before the battle.
A few nights before the attack, a false alarm sent several settlers out
in fluttering nightrobes, cold, moonlight and frosty though it was. Mr.
Hillory Butler and his wife, Mrs. McConaha and her children calling to
the former "Wait for me." It is needless to say that Mr. Butler waited
for nobody until he got inside the fort.
The excitement was caused by the shooting of Jack Drew, a deserter from
the Decatur. He was instantly killed by a boy of fifteen, alone with his
sister whom he thus bravely defended. This was Milton Holgate and the
weapon a shotgun, the charge of which took effect in the wanderer's
face. As the report rang out through the still night air it created a
panic throughout the settlement.
A family living on the eastern outskirts of the village at the foot of a
hill were driven in and their house burned. The men had been engaged in
tanning leather and had quite a number of hides on hand that must have
enriched the flames. The owners had ridiculed the idea that there was
danger of an Indian attack and would not assist in building the fort,
scoffed at the man-of-war in the harbor and were generally contemptuous
of the whole proceeding. However, when fired on by the Indians they fled
precipitately to the fort they had scorned. One of them sank down,
bareheaded, breathless and panting on a block of wood inside the fort in
an exceedingly subdued frame of mind to the great amusement of the
soldiery, both Captain and men.
The first decided move of the hostiles was the attack on the White River
settlers, burning, killing and destroying as is the wont of a savage
foe.
Joe Lake, a somewhat eccentric character, had one of the hairbreadth
escapes fall to his share of the terrible times. He was slightly wounded
in an attack on the Cox home on White River. Joe was standing in the
open door when an Indian not far away from the cabin, seeing him, held
his ramrod on the ground for a rest, placed his gun across it and fired
at Joe; the bullet penetrated the clothing and just grazed his shoulder.
A man inside the cabin reached up for a gun which hung over the door;
the Indian saw the movement and guessing its purpose made haste to
depart.
The occupants of the Cox residence hurriedly gathered themselves and
indispensable effects, and embarking in a canoe, with energetic
paddling, aided by the current, sped swiftly down the river into the Bay
and safely reached the fort.
Beside the Decatur, a solitary sailing vessel, the Bark Brontes, was
anchored in the harbor.
Those to engage in the battle were the detachments of men from the
Decatur, under Lieutenants Drake, Hughes, Morris and Phelps, ninety-six
men and eighteen marines, leaving a small number on board.
A volunteer three months' company of settlers of whom C. C. Hewitt was
Captain, Wm. Gilliam, First Lieutenant, D. T. Denny, Corporal and Robert
Olliver, Sergeant, aided in the defense.
A number of the settlers had received friendly warning and were
expecting the attack, some having made as many as three removals from
their claims, each time approaching nearer to the fort.
Mr. and Mrs. D. T. Denny forsook their cabin in the wilderness and spent
an anxious night at the home of W. N. Bell, which was a mile or more
from the settlement, and the following day moved in to occupy a house
near A. A. Denny's, where the Frye block now stands. From thence they
moved again to a little frame house near the fort.
Yoke-Yakeman, an Indian who had worked for A. A. Denny and was nicknamed
"Denny Jim," played an important part as a spy in a council of the
hostiles and gave the warning to Captain Gansevoort of the Decatur of
the impending battle.
Mr. and Mrs. Blaine, the pioneer M. E. minister, and his wife, who was
the first school teacher of Seattle, went on board the man-of-war on
the 22nd of January, 1856, with their infant son, from their home
situated where the Boston Block now stands.
On the morning of the 26th, while not yet arisen, she was urging her
husband to get a boat so that she might go ashore; he demurred,
parleying, with his hand upon the doorknob. Just then they heard the
following dialogue:
Mr. H. L. Yesler (who had come aboard in some haste): "Captain, a
klootchman says there are lots of Indians back of Tom Pepper's
house."
Captain Gansevoort (who was lying in his berth): "John bring me
my boots."
H. L. Yesler: "Never mind Captain, just send the lieutenant with
the howitzer."
Captain G.: "No sir! Where my men go, I go too John bring me my
boots."
And thus the ball opened; a shell was dropped in the neighborhood of
"Tom Pepper's house" with the effect to arouse the whole horde of
savages, perhaps a thousand, gathered in the woods back of the town.
Unearthly yells of Indians and brisk firing of musketry followed; the
battle raged until noon, when there was a lull.
A volume of personal experiences might be written, but I will give here
but a few incidents. To a number of the settlers who were about
breakfasting, it was a time of breathless terror; they must flee for
their lives to the fort. The bullets from unseen foes whistled over
their heads and the distance traversed to the fort was the longest
journey of their lives. It was remembered afterward that some very
amusing things took place in the midst of fright and flight. One man,
rising late and not fully attired, donned his wife's red flannel
petticoat instead of the bifurcated garment that usually graced his
limbs. The "pants" were not handy and the petticoat was put on in a
trice.
Louisa Boren Denny, my mother, was alone with her child about two years
old, in the little frame house, a short distance from the fort. She was
engaged in baking biscuits when hearing the shots and yells of the
Indians she looked out to see the marines from the Decatur swarming up
out of their boats onto Yesler's wharf and concluded it was best to
retire in good order. With provident foresight she snatched the pan from
the oven and turned the biscuits into her apron, picked up the child,
Emily Inez Denny, with her free hand and hurried out, leaving the
premises to their fate. Fortunately her husband, David T. Denny, who had
been standing guard, met her in the midst of the flying bullets and
assisted her, speedily, into the friendly fort.
A terrible day it was for all those who were called upon to endure the
anxiety and suspense that hovered within those walls; perhaps the moment
that tried them most was when the report was circulated that all would
be burned alive as the Indians would shoot arrows carrying fire on the
roof of cedar shingles or heap combustibles against the walls near the
ground and thus set fire to the building. To prevent the latter
maneuver, the walls were banked with earth all around.
But the Indians kept at a respectful distance, the rifle-balls and
shells were not to their taste and it is not their way to fight in the
open.
A tragic incident was the death of Milton Holgate. Francis McNatt, a
tall man, stood in the door of the fort with one hand up on the frame
and Jim Broad beside him; Milton Holgate stood a little back of McNatt,
and the bullet from a savage's gun passed either over or under the
uplifted arm of McNatt, striking the boy between the eyes.
Quite a number of women and children were taken on board the two ships
in the harbor, but my mother remained in the fort.
The battle was again renewed and fiercely fought in the afternoon.
Toward evening the Indians prepared to burn the town, but a brisk
dropping of shells from the big guns of the Decatur dispersed them and
they departed for cooler regions, burning houses on the outskirts of the
settlement as they retreated toward the Duwamish River.
[Illustration: INDIAN CANOES SAILING WITH NORTH WIND]
Leschi, the leader, threatened to return in a month with his bands and
annihilate the place. In view of other possible attacks, a second block
house was built and the forest side of the town barricaded.
Fort Decatur was a two-story building, forty feet square; the upper
story was partitioned off into small rooms, where a half dozen or more
families lived until it was safe or convenient to return to their
distant homes. Each had a stove on which to cook, and water was carried
from a well inside the stockade.
There were a number of children thus shut in, who enlivened the grim
walls with their shifting shadows, awakened mirth by their playfulness
or touched the hearts of their elders by their pathos.
Like a ray of sunlight in a gloomy interior was little Sam Neely, a
great pet, a sociable, affectionate little fellow, visiting about from
corner to corner, always sure of attention and a kindly welcome. The
marines from the man-of-war spoiled him without stint. One of the
Sergeants gave his mother a half worn uniform, which she skilfully
re-made, gold braid, buttons and all, for little Sam. How proud he was,
with everybody calling him the "Little Sergeant"; whenever he approached
a loquacious group, some one was sure to say, "Well, Sergeant, what's
the news?"
When the day came for the Neely family to move out of the fort, his
mother was very busy and meals uncertain.
He finally appealed to a friend, who had before proven herself capable
of sympathy, for something to appease his gnawing hunger, and she
promptly gave him a bowl of bread and milk. Down he sat and ate with
much relish; as he drained the last drop he observed, "I was just so
hungry, I didn't know how hungry I was."
Poor little Sam was drowned in the Duwampsh River the same year, and
buried on its banks.
Laura Bell, a little girl of perhaps ten years, during her stay in the
fort exhibited the courage and constancy characterizing even the
children in those troublous times.
She did a great part of the work for the family, cared for her younger
sisters, prepared and carried food to her sick mother who was heard to
say with tender gratitude, "Your dear little hands have brought me
almost everything I have had." Both have passed into the Beyond; one who
remembers Laura well says she was a beautiful, bright, rosy cheeked
child, pleasant to look upon.
In unconscious childhood I was carried into Fort Decatur, on the morning
of the battle, yet by careful investigation it has been satisfactorily
proven that one lasting impression was recorded upon the palimpsest of
my immature mind.
A shot was accidentally fired from a gun inside the fort, by which a
palefaced, dark haired lady narrowly escaped death. The bullet passed
through a loop of her hair, below the ear, just beside the white neck.
Her hair was dressed in an old fashioned way, parted in the middle on
the forehead and smoothly brushed down over the ears, divided and
twisted on each side and the two ropes of hair coiled together at the
back of the head. Like a flashlight photograph, her face is imprinted on
my memory, nothing before or after for sometime can I claim to recall.
A daughter, the second child of David T. and Louisa Denny, was born in
Fort Decatur on the sixteenth of March, 1856, who lived to mature into a
gifted and gracious womanhood and passed away from earth in Christian
faith and hope on January seventeenth, 1889.
Other children who remained in the fort for varying periods, were those
of the Jones, Kirkland, Lewis, McConaha and Boren families.
Of the number of settlers who occupied the fort on the day of the
battle, the following are nearly, if not quite all, the families: Wm. N.
Bell, Mrs. Bell and several young children; John Buckley and Mrs.
Buckley; D. A. Neely and family, one of whom was little Sam Neely spoken
of elsewhere; Mr. and Mrs. Hillory Butler, gratefully remembered as the
best people in the settlement to visit and help the sick; the Holgates,
Mrs. and Miss Holgate, Lemuel Holgate, and Milton Holgate who was
killed; Timothy Grow, B. L. Johns and six children, whose mother died on
the way to Puget Sound; Joe Lake, the Kirkland family, father and
several daughters; Wm. Cox and family and D. T. Denny and family.
During the Indian war, H. L. Yesler took Yoke-Yakeman, or "Denny Jim,"
the friendly Indian before mentioned, with him across Lake Washington to
the hiding place of the Sammumpsh Indians who were aiding the hostiles.
Yesler conferred with them and succeeded in persuading the Indians to
come out of their retreat and go across the Sound.
While returning, Denny Jim met with an accident which resulted fatally.
Intending to shoot some ducks, he drew his shotgun toward him, muzzle
first, and discharged it, the load entering his arm, making a flesh
wound. Through lack of skill, perhaps, in treating it, he died from the
effects, in Curley's house situated on the slope in front of Fort
Decatur toward the Bay.
This Indian and the service he rendered should not be forgotten; the
same may be appropriately said of the faithful Spokane of whom the
following account has been given by eye witnesses:
"At the attack of the Cascades of the Columbia, on the 26th of
March, 1856, the white people took refuge in Bradford's store, a
log structure near the river. Having burned a number of other
buildings, the Indians, Yakimas and Klickitats, attempted to fire
the store also; as fast as the shingles were ignited by burning
missiles in the hands of the Indians, the first was put out by
pouring brine from a pork barrel, with a tin cup, on the
incipient blazes, not being able to get any water.
"The occupants, some wounded, suffered for fresh water, having
only some ale and whisky. They hoped to get to the river at
night, but the Indians illuminated the scene by burning
government property and a warehouse.
"James Sinclair, who was shot and instantly killed early in the
fight, had brought a Spokane Indian with him. This Indian
volunteered to get water for the suffering inmates. A slide used
in loading boats was the only chance and he stripped off his
clothing, slid down to the river and returned with a bucket of
water. This was made to last until the 28th, when, the enemy
remaining quiet the Spokane repeated the daring performance of
going down the slide and returning with a pailful of water, with
great expedition, until he had filled two barrels, a feat
deserving more than passing mention."
On Elliott Bay, the cabins of the farther away settlers had gone up in
smoke, fired by the hostile Indians. Some were deserted and new ones
built far away from the Sound in the depths of the forest. It required
great courage to return to their abandoned homes from the security of
the fort, yet doubtless the settlers were glad to be at liberty after
their enforced confinement. One pioneer woman says it was easy to see
_Indians_ among the stumps and trees around their cabin after the war.
Many remained in the settlement, others left the country for safer
regions, while a few cultivated land under volunteer military guard in
order to provide the settlement with vegetables.
The Yesler mill cookhouse, a log structure, was made historical in those
days. The hungry soldiers after a night watch were fed there and rushed
therefrom to the battle.
While there was no church, hotel, storehouse, courthouse or jail it was
all these by turns. No doubt those who were sheltered within its walls,
ran the whole gamut of human emotion and experience.
In the PUGET SOUND WEEKLY of July 30th, 1866, published in Seattle, it
was thus described:
"There was nothing about this cook house very peculiar, except
the interest with which old memories had invested it. It was
simply a dingy-looking hewed log building, about twenty-five feet
square, a little more than one story high, with a shed addition
in the rear, and to strangers and newcomers was rather an
eye-sore and nuisance in the place--standing as it did in the
business part of the town, among the more pretentious buildings
of modern construction, like a quaint octogenarian, among a band
of dandyish sprigs of young America. To old settlers, however,
its weather-worn roof and smoke-blackened walls, inside and out,
were vastly interesting from long familiarity, and many pleasant
and perhaps a few unpleasant recollections were connected with
its early history, which we might make subjects of a small volume
of great interest, had we time to indite it. Suffice it to say,
however, that this old cook house was one among the first
buildings erected in Seattle; was built for the use of the saw
mill many years since, and though designed especially for a cook
house, has been used for almost every conceivable purpose for
which a log cabin, in a new and wild country, may be employed.
"For many years the only place for one hundred miles or more
along the eastern shores of Puget Sound, where the pioneer
settlers could be hospitably entertained by white men and get a
square meal, was Yesler's cook house in Seattle, and whether he
had money or not, no man ever found the latch string of the cook
house drawn in, or went away hungry from the little cabin door;
and many an old Puget Sounder remembers the happy hours, jolly
nights, strange encounters and wild scenes he has enjoyed around
the broad fireplace and hospitable board of Yesler's cook house.
"During the Indian war this building was the general rendezvous
of the volunteers engaged in defending the thinly populated
country against the depredations of the savages, and was also the
resort of the navy officers on the same duty on the Sound. Judge
Lander's office was held in one corner of the dining room; the
auditor's office, for some time, was kept under the same roof,
and, indeed, it may be said to have been used for more purposes
than any other building on the Pacific coast. It was the general
depository from which law and justice were dispensed throughout a
large scope of surrounding country. It has, at different times,
served for town hall, courthouse, jail, military headquarters,
storehouse, hotel and church; and in the early years of its
history served all these purposes at once. It was the place of
holding elections, and political parties of all sorts held their
meetings in it, and quarreled and made friends again, and ate,
drank, laughed, sung, wept, and slept under the same hospitable
roof. If there was to be a public gathering of the settlers of
any kind and for any purpose, no one ever asked where the place
of meeting was to be, for all knew it was to be at the cook
house.
"The first sermon, by a Protestant, in King county was preached
by the Rev. Mr. Close in the old cook house. The first
lawsuit--which was the trial of the mate of the Franklin Adams,
for selling ship's stores and appropriating the proceeds--came
off, of course, in the old cook house. Justice Maynard presided
at this trial, and the accused was discharged from the old cook
house with the wholesome advice that in future he should be
careful to make a correct return of all his private sales of
other people's property.
"Who, then, knowing the full history of this famous old relic of
early times, can wonder that it has so long been suffered to
stand and moulder, unused, in the midst of the more gaudy
surroundings of a later civilization? And who can think it
strange, when, at last, its old smoky walls were compelled to
yield to the pressure of progression, and be tumbled heedlessly
into the street, that the old settler looked sorrowfully upon the
vandal destruction, and silently dropped a tear over its leveled
ruins. Peace to the ashes of the old cook house."
While the pioneers lingered in the settlement, they enjoyed the luxury
of living in houses of sawed lumber. Time has worked out his revenges
until what was then disesteemed is much admired now. A substantial and
picturesque lodge of logs, furnished with modern contrivances is now
regarded as quite desirable, for summer occupation at least.
The struggle of the Indians to regain their domain resulted in many
sanguinary conflicts. The bloody wave of war ran hither and yon until
spent and the doom of the passing race was sealed.
Seattle and the whole Puget Sound region were set back ten years in
development. Toilsome years they were that stretched before the
pioneers. They and their families were obliged to do whatever they could
to obtain a livelihood; they were neither ashamed nor afraid of honest
work and doubtless enjoyed the reward of a good conscience and vigorous
health.
Life held many pleasures and much freedom from modern fret besides. As
one of them observed, "We were happy then, in our log cabin homes."
Long after the incidents herein related occurred, one of the survivors
of the White River massacre wrote the following letter, which was
published in a local paper:
"Burgh Hill, Ohio, Sept. 8.--I notice occasionally a pioneer
sketch in the Post-Intelligencer relating some incident in the
war of 1855-56. I have a vivid recollection of this, being a
member of one of the families concerned therein. I remember
distinctly the attack upon the fort at Seattle in January, 1856.
Though a child, the murdering of my mother and step-father by the
Indians a few weeks before made such an impression upon my mind
that I was terror-stricken at the thought of another massacre,
and the details are indelibly and most vividly fixed in my mind.
When I read of the marvelous growth of Seattle I can hardly
realize that it is possible. I add my mite to the pioneer history
of Seattle and vicinity.
"I was born in Harrison township, Grant county, Wisconsin,
November 13, 1848. When I was five months old my father started
for the gold diggings in California, but died shortly after
reaching that state. In the early part of 1851 my mother married
Harvey Jones. In the spring of 1854 we started for Washington
territory, overland, reaching our destination on White river in
the fall, having been six months and five days in making the
trip. Our route lay through Iowa, Nebraska, Wyoming, Idaho,
Oregon and Washington territory. To speak in detail of all my
recollections of this journey would make this article too
lengthy.
"My step-father took up land on White river some twenty miles up
the stream from Seattle. At that time there were only five or six
families in the settlement, the nearest neighbor to us being
about one-fourth mile distant. During the summer of 1855 I went
some two and a half miles to school along a path through the
dense woods in danger both from wild animals and Indians. Some of
the settlers became alarmed at reports of hostile intentions by
the Indians upon our settlement and left some two weeks before
the outbreak. Among those who thought their fears groundless and
remained was our family.
"On Sunday morning, October 28, 1855, while at breakfast we were
surprised, and the house surrounded by a band of hostile Indians,
who came running from the grass and bushes, whooping and
discharging firearms. They seemed to rise from the ground so
sudden and stealthy had been the attack. Our family consisted of
my step-father (sick at the time), my mother, a half-sister, not
quite four years old, a half-brother, not quite two, a hired
man, Cooper by name, and myself.
"As soon as the Indians began firing into the house my mother
covered us children over with a feather bed in the corner of one
of the rooms farthest from the side attacked. In a short time it
became evident we were entirely at the mercy of the savages, and
after a hurried consultation between my mother and the hired man,
he concluded to attempt to escape by flight; accordingly he came
into the room where I was, and with an ax pried off the casing of
the window and removed the lower sash, and then jumped out, but
as was afterward learned he was shot when only a few rods from
the house.
"My step-father was shot about the same time inside the house
while passing from his room to the one in which my mother was. In
a short time there appeared to be a cessation of the firing, and
upon looking out from under the bed over us I saw an Indian in
the next room carrying something out. Soon we were taken out by
them. I did not see my mother. We were placed in the charge of
the leader of the band who directed them in their actions. They
put bedclothes and other combustible articles under the house and
set fire to them, and in this way burned the house. When it was
well nigh burned to the ground, we were led away by one of the
tribe, who in a short time allowed us to go where we pleased. I
first went to the nearest neighbor's, but all was confusion, and
no one was about. I then came back to the burned house.
"I found my mother a short distance from the house, or where it
had stood, still alive. She warned me to leave speedily and soon.
I begged to stay with her but she urged me to flee. We made a
dinner of some potatoes which had been baked by the fire. I
carried my little half-brother and led my half-sister along the
path to where I had gone to school during the summer, but there
was no one there. I went still further on, but they, too, had
gone. I came back to the school house, not knowing what to do. It
was getting late. I was tired, as was my sister. My little
brother was fretful, and cried to see his mother. I had carried
him some three and a half or four miles altogether.
"While trying to quiet them I saw an Indian coming toward us. He
had not seen us. I hid the children in the bushes and moved
toward him to meet him. I soon had the relief to recognize in him
an acquaintance I had often seen while attending school. We knew
him as Dave. He told me to bring the children to his wigwam. His
squaw was very kind, but my sister and brother were afraid of
her. In the night he took us in a canoe down the river to
Seattle. I was taken on board the man-of-war, Decatur, and they
were placed in charge of some one in the fort. An uncle, John
Smale, had crossed the plains when we did, but went to
California. He was written to about the massacre, and reached us
in June, 1856. We went to San Francisco and then to the Isthmus,
and from there we went to New York city. From there we were taken
to Wisconsin, where my sister and brother remained. I was brought
back to Ohio in September, 1856. They both died in October, 1864,
of diphtheria, in Wisconsin."
"JOHN I. KING, M. D."
CHAPTER V.
THE MURDER OF MCCORMICK.
The shores of Lake Union, in Seattle, now surrounded by electric and
steam railways, sawmills and manufactories, dwellings and public
buildings, were clothed with a magnificent, dense, primeval forest, when
the adventurous pioneers first looked upon its mirror-like surface. The
shadowy depths of the solemn woods held many a dark and tragic secret;
contests between enemies in both brute and human forms were doubtless
not infrequently hidden there.
Many men came to the far northwest unheralded and unknown to the few
already established, and wandering about without guides, unacquainted
with the dangers peculiar to the region, were incautious and met a
mysterious fate.
For a long time the "Pioneer and Democrat," of Olympia, Washington, one
of the earliest newspapers of the northwest, published an advertisement
in its columns inquiring for James Montgomery McCormick, sent to it from
Pennsylvania. It is thought to have been one and the same person with
the subject of this sketch. Even if it were not, the name will do as
well as any other.
One brilliant summer day in July of 1853, a medium sized man, past
middle age, was pushing his way through the black raspberry jungle on
the east side of Lake Union, gathering handfuls of the luscious fruit
that hung in rich purple clusters above his head. A cool bubbling
spring, that came from far up the divide toward Lake Washington, tempted
him and stooping down he drank of the refreshing stream where it filled
a little pool in the shadow of a mossy log. Glancing about him, he
marked with a keen delight the loveliness of the vegetation, the plumy
ferns, velvet mosses and drooping cedars; how grateful to him must have
been the cool north breeze wandering through the forest! No doubt he
thought it a pleasant place to rest in before returning to the far away
settlement. Upon the mossy log he sat contentedly, marveling at the
stillness of the mighty forest.
The thought had scarcely formed itself when he was startled by the
dipping of paddles, wild laughter and vociferous imitations of animals
and birds. A canoe grated on the beach and after a brief expectant
interval, tramping feet along the trail betokened an arrival and a group
of young Indians came in sight, one of whom carried a Hudson Bay musket.
"Kla-how-ya" (How do you do), said the leader, a flathead, with shining
skin recently oiled, sinister black brows, and thick black hair cut
square and even at the neck.
At first they whistled and muttered, affecting little interest in his
appearance, yet all the while were keenly studying him.
The white man had with him a rifle, revolver and camp ax. The young
savages examined the gun, lifting it up and sighting at a knot-hole in a
distant tree; then the ax, the sharp edge of which they fingered, and
the revolver, to their minds yet more fascinating.
They were slightly disdainful as though not caring to own such articles,
thereby allaying any fears he may have had as to their intentions. Being
able to converse but little with the natives, the stranger
good-naturedly permitted them to examine his weapons and even his
clothing came under their scrutiny. His garments were new, and well
adapted to frontier life.
When he supposed their curiosity satisfied, he rose to go, when one of
the Indians asked him, "Halo chicamum?" (Have you any money?) he
incautiously slapped his hip pocket and answered "Hiyu chicamum" (plenty
of money), perhaps imagining they did not know its use or value, then
started on the trail.
They let him go a little way out of sight and in a few, half-whispered,
eager, savage words agreed to follow him, with what purpose did not
require a full explanation.
Noiselessly and swiftly they followed on his track. One shot from the
musket struck him in the back of the head and he fell forward and they
rushed upon him, seized the camp ax and dealt repeated blows; life
extinct, they soon stripped him of coat, shirt, and pantaloons, rifled
the pockets, finding $200 and a few small trinkets, knife or keys. With
the haste of guilt they threw the body still clothed in a suit of
undergarments, behind a big log, among the bushes and hurried away with
their booty, paddling swiftly far up the lake to their camp.
A dark, cloudy night followed and the Indians huddled around a little
fire, ever and anon starting at some sound in the gloomy forest. Already
very superstitious, their guilt made them doubly afraid of imaginary
foes. On a piece of mat in the center of the group lay the money,
revolver, etc., of which they had robbed the unfortunate white man. They
intended to divide them by "slahal," the native game played with
"stobsh" and "slanna" (men and women), as they called the round black
and white disks with which they gambled. A bunch of shredded cedar bark
was brought from the canoe and the game began. All were very skillful
and continued for several hours, until at last they counted the clothes
to one, all the money to another, and the revolver and trifles to the
rest. One of the less fortunate in a very bad humor said "The game was
not good, I don't want this little 'cultus' (worthless) thing."
"O, you are stupid and don't understand it," they answered tauntingly,
thereupon he rolled himself in his blanket and sulked himself to sleep,
while the others sat half dreamily planning what they would do with
their booty.
Very early they made the portage between Lakes Union and Washington and
returned to their homes.
But they did not escape detection.
Only a few days afterward an Indian woman, the wife of Hu-hu-bate-sute
or "Salmon Bay Curley," crossed Lake Union to the black raspberry patch
to gather the berries. Creeping here and there through the thick
undergrowth, she came upon a gruesome sight, the disfigured body of the
murdered white man. Scarcely waiting for a horrified "Achada!" she fled
incontinently to her canoe and paddled quickly home to tell her husband.
Hu-hu-bate-sute went back with her and arrived at the spot, where one
log lay across another, hollowed out the earth slightly, rolled in and
covered the body near the place where it was discovered.
Suspecting it was the work of some wild, reckless Indians he said
nothing about it.
Their ill-gotten gains troubled the perpetrators of the deed, brought
them no good fortune and they began to think there was "tamanuse" about
them; they gave the revolver away, bestowed the small articles on some
unsuspecting "tenas" (children) and gave a part of the money to "Old
Steve," whose Indian name was Stemalyu.
The one who criticised the division of the spoils, whispered about
among the other Indians dark hints concerning the origin of the suddenly
acquired wealth and gradually a feeling arose against those who had the
money. Quarreling one day over some trifle, one of them scornfully
referred to the other's part of the cruel deed: "You are wicked, you
killed a white man," said he. The swarthy face of the accused grew livid
with rage and he plunged viciously at the speaker, but turning,
eel-like, the accuser slipped away and ran out of sight into the forest.
An old Indian followed him and asked "What was that you said?"
"O nothing, just idle talk."
"You had better tell me," said the old man sternly.
After some hesitation he told the story. The old man was deeply grieved
and so uneasy that he went all the way to Shilshole (Salmon Bay) to see
if his friend Hu-hu-bate-sute knew anything about it and that discreet
person astonished him by telling him his share of the story. By degrees
it became known to the Indians on both lakes and at the settlement.
Meanwhile the wife of the one accused in the contention, took the money
and secretly dropped it into the lake.
One warm September day in the fall of the same year, quite a concourse
of Indians were gathered out doors near the big Indian house a little
north of D. T. Denny's home in the settlement (Seattle); they were
having a great "wa-wa" (talk) about something; he walked over and asked
them what it was all about.
"Salmon Bay Curley," who was among them, thereupon told him of the
murder and the distribution of the valuables.
Shortly after, W. N. Bell, D. T. Denny, Dr. Maynard, E. A. Clark and one
or two others, with Curley as a guide, went out to the lake, found the
place and at first thought of removing the body, but that being
impossible, Dr. Maynard placed the skull, or rather the fragments of it,
in a handkerchief and took the two pairs of spectacles, one gold-rimmed,
the other steel-rimmed, which were left by the Indians, and all returned
to the settlement to make their report.
Investigation followed and as a result four Indians were arrested. A
trial before a Justice Court was held in the old Felker house, which was
built by Captain Felker and was the first large frame house of sawed
lumber erected on the site of Seattle.
At this trial, Klap-ke-lachi Jim testified positively against two of
them and implicated two others. The first two were summarily executed by
hanging from a tall sharply leaning stump over which a rope was thrown;
it stood where the New England Hotel was afterward built. A young Indian
and one called Old Petawow were the others accused.
Petawow was carried into court by two young Indians, having somehow
broken his leg. There was not sufficient evidence against him to convict
and he was released.
C. D. Boren was sheriff and for lack of a jail, the young Indian accused
was locked in a room in his own house.
Not yet satisfied with the work of execution, a mob headed by E. A.
Clark determined to hang this Indian also. They therefore obtained the
assistance of some sailors with block and tackle from a ship in the
harbor, set up a tripod of spars, cut for shipment, over which they put
the rope. In order to have the coast clear so they could break the
"jail," a man was sent to Boren's house, who pretended that he wished to
buy some barrels left in Boren's care by a cooper and stacked on the
beach some distance away.
The unsuspecting victim of the ruse accompanied him to the beach where
the man detained him as long as he thought necessary, talking of
barrels, brine and pickling salmon, and perhaps not liking to miss the
"neck-tie party," at last said, "Maybe we'd better get back, the boys
are threatening mischief."
Taking the hint instantly, Boren started on a dead run up the beach in a
wild anxiety to save the Indian's life. In sight of the improvised
scaffold he beheld the Indian with the noose around his neck, E. A.
Clark and D. Livingston near by, a sea captain, who was a
mere-on-looker, and the four sailors in line with the rope in their
hands, awaiting the order to pull.
The sheriff recovered himself enough to shout, "Drop that rope, you
rascals!"
"O string him up, he's nothing but a Siwash," said one.
"Dry up! you have no right to hang him, he will be tried at the next
term of court," said Boren. The sailors dropped the rope, Boren removed
the noose from the neck of the Indian, who was silent, bravely enduring
the indignity from the mob. The majesty of the law was recognized and
the crowd dispersed.
The Indian was sent to Steilacoom, where he was kept in jail for six
months, but when tried there was no additional evidence and he was
therefore released. Returning to his people he changed his name, taking
that of his father's cousin, and has lived a quiet and peaceable life
throughout the years.
Sad indeed seems the fate of this unknown wanderer, but not so much so
as that of others who came to the Northwest to waste their lives in
riotous living and were themselves responsible for a tragic end of a
wicked career, so often sorrowfully witnessed by the sober and
steadfast.
Of the participants in this exciting episode, D. T. Denny, C. D. Boren
and the Indian, whose life was so promptly and courageously saved by C.
D. Boren from an ignominious death, are (in 1892) still living in King
County, Washington.
CHAPTER VI.
KILLING COUGARS.
It was springtime in an early year of pioneer times. D. T. and Louisa
Denny were living in their log cabin in the swale, an opening in the
midst of the great forest, about midway between Elliott Bay and Lake
Union. Not very far away was their only neighbor, Thomas Mercer, with
his family of several young daughters.
On a pleasant morning, balmy with the presage of coming summer, as the
two pioneers, David T. Denny and Thomas Mercer, wended, their way to
their task of cutting timber, they observed some of the cattle lying
down in an open space, and heard the tinkling bell of one of the little
band wandering about cropping fresh spring herbage in the edge of the
woods. They looked with a feeling of affection at the faithful dumb
creatures who were to aid in affording sustenance, as well as a sort of
friendly companionship in the lonely wilds.
After a long, sunny day spent in swinging the ax, whistling, singing and
chatting, they returned to their cabins as the shadows were deepening in
the mighty forest.
[Illustration: LOG CABIN IN THE SWALE]
In the first cabin there was considerable anxiety manifested by the
mistress of the same, revealed in the conversation at the supper
table:
"David," said she, "there was something wrong with the cattle
today; I heard a calf bawl as if something had caught it and
'Whiteface' came up all muddy and distressed looking."
"Is that so? Did you look to see what it was?"
"I started to go but the baby cried so that I had to come back. A
little while before that I thought I heard an Indian halloo and
looked out of the door expecting to see him come down to the
trail, but I did not see anything at all."
"What could it be? Well, it is so dark now in the woods that I
can't see anything; I will have to wait until tomorrow."
Early the next morning, David went up to the place where he had seen the
calves the day before, taking "Towser," a large Newfoundland dog with
him, also a long western rifle he had brought across the plains.
Not so many rods away from the cabin he found the remnants of a calf
upon which some wild beast had feasted the day previous.
There were large tracks all around easily followed, as the ground was
soft with spring rains. Towser ran out into the thick timber hard after
a wild creature, and David heard something scratch and run up a tree and
thought it must be a wild cat.
No white person had ever seen any larger specimen of the feline race in
this region.
He stepped up to a big fir log and walked along perhaps fifty feet and
looking up a giant cedar tree saw a huge cougar glaring down at him with
great, savage yellow eyes, crouching motionless, except for the
incessant twitching, to and fro, of the tip of its tail, as a cat does
when watching a mouse.
Right before him in so convenient a place as to attract his attention,
stood a large limb which had fallen and stuck into the ground alongside
the log he was standing on, so he promptly rested his gun on it, but it
sank into the soft earth from the weight of the gun and he quickly drew
up, aiming at the chest of the cougar.
The gun missed fire.
Fearing the animal would spring upon him, he walked back along the log
about twenty feet, took a pin out of his coat and picked out the tube,
poured in fresh powder from his powder horn and put on a fresh cap.
All the time the yellow eyes watched him.
Advancing again, he fired; the bullet struck through its vitals, but
away it went bolting up the tree quite a distance. Another bullet was
rammed home in the old muzzle loader. The cougar was dying, but still
held on by its claws stuck in the bark of the tree, its head resting on
a limb. Receiving one more shot in the head it let go and came hurtling
down to the ground.
Towser was wild with savage delight and bit his prostrate enemy many
times, chewing at the neck until it was a mass of foam, but not once did
his sharp teeth penetrate the tough, thick hide.
Hurrying back, David called for Mercer, a genial man always ready to
lend a hand, to help him get the beast out to the cabin. The two men
found it very heavy, all they could stagger under, even the short
distance it had to be carried.
As soon as the killing of the cougar was reported in the settlement, two
miles away, everybody turned out to see the monster.
Mrs. Catherine Blaine, the school teacher, who had gone home with the
Mercer children, saw the animal and marveled at its size.
Henry L. Yesler and all the mill hands repaired to the spot to view the
dead monarch of the forest, none of whom had seen his like before. Large
tracks had been seen in various places but were credited to timber
wolves. This cougar's forearm measured the same as the leg of a large
horse just above the knee joint.
Such an animal, if it jumped down from a considerable height, would
carry a man to the ground with such force as to stun him, when he could
be clawed and chewed up at the creature's will.
While the curious and admiring crowd were measuring and guessing at the
weight of the cougar, Mr. Yesler called at the cabin. He kept looking
about while he talked and finally said, "You are quite high-toned here,
I see your house is papered," at which all laughed good-naturedly. Not
all the cabins were "papered," but this one was made quite neat by means
of newspapers pasted on the walls, the finishing touch being a border of
nothing more expensive than blue calico.
At last they were all satisfied with their inspection of the first
cougar and returned to the settlement.
A moral might be pinned here: if this cougar had not dined so
gluttonously on the tender calf, which no doubt made excellent veal,
possibly he would not have come to such a sudden and violent end.
Had some skillful taxidermist been at hand to mount this splendid
specimen of Felis Concolor, the first killed by a white man in this
region, it would now be very highly prized.
Some imagine that the danger of encounters with cougars has been
purposely exaggerated by the pioneer hunters to create admiring respect
for their own prowess. This is not my opinion, as I believe there is
good reason to fear them, especially if they are hungry.
They are large, swift and agile, and have the advantage in the dense
forest of the northwest Pacific coast, as they can station themselves in
tall trees amid thick foliage and pounce upon deer, cattle and human
beings.
Several years after the killing of the first specimen, a cow was caught
in the jaw by a cougar, but wrenched herself away in terror and pain
and ran home with the whole frightened herd at her heels, into the
settlement of Seattle.
The natives have always feared them and would much rather meet a bear
than a cougar, as the former will, ordinarily, run away, while the
latter is hard to scare and is liable to follow and spring out of the
thick undergrowth.
In one instance known to the pioneers first mentioned in this chapter,
an Indian woman who was washing at the edge of a stream beat a cougar
off her child with a stick, thereby saving its life.
In early days, about 1869 or '70, a Mr. T. Cherry, cradling oats in a
field in Squowh Valley, was attacked by a cougar; holding his cradle
between him and the hungry beast, he backed toward the fence, the animal
following until the fence was reached. A gang of hogs were feeding just
outside the enclosure and the cougar leaped the fence, seized one of the
hogs and ran off with it.
A saloon-keeper on the Snohomish River, walking along the trail in the
adjacent forest one day with his yellow dog, was startled by the sudden
accession to their party of a huge and hungry cougar. The man fled
precipitately, leaving the dog to his fate. The wild beast fell to and
made a meal of the hapless canine, devouring all but the tip of his
yellow tail, which his sorrowing master found near the trail the next
day.
A lonely pioneer cabin on the Columbia River was enclosed by a high
board fence. One sunny day as the two children of the family were
playing in the yard, a cougar sprang from a neighboring tree and caught
one of the children; the mother ran out and beat off the murderous
beast, but the child was dead.
She then walked six or seven miles to a settlement carrying the dead
child, while leading the other. What a task! The precious burden, the
heavier load of sorrow, the care of the remaining child, the dread of a
renewed attack from the cougar and the bodily fatigue incident to such a
journey, forming an experience upon which it would be painful to dwell.
Many more such incidents might be given, but I am reminded at this point
that they would appropriately appear in another volume.
Since the first settlement there have been killed in King County nearly
thirty of these animals.
C. Brownfield, an old settler on Lake Union, killed several with the aid
of "Jack," a yellow dog which belonged to D. T. Denny for a time, then
to A. A. Denny.
C. D. Boren, with his dog, killed others.
Moses Kirkland brought a dog from Louisiana, a half bloodhound, with
which Henry Van Asselt hunted and killed several cougars.
D. T. Denny killed one in the region occupied by the suburb of Seattle
known as Ross. It had been dining off mutton secured from Dr. H. A.
Smith's flock of sheep. It was half grown and much the color of a deer.
Toward Lake Washington another flock of sheep had been visited by a
cougar, and Mr. Wetmore borrowed D. T. Denny's little dog "Watch," who
treed the animal, remaining by it all night, but it escaped until a trap
was set, when, being more hungry than cautious, it was secured.
CHAPTER VII.
PIONEER CHILD LIFE.
The very thought of it makes the blood tingle and the heart leap. No
element was wanting for romance or adventure. Indians, bears, panthers,
far journeys, in canoes or on horseback, fording rivers, camping and
tramping, and all in a virgin wilderness so full of grandeur and
loveliness that even very little children were impressed by the
appearance thereof. The strangeness and newness of it all was hardly
understood by the native white children as they had no means of
comparing this region and mode of life with other countries and customs.
Traditions did not trouble us; the Indians were generally friendly, the
bears were only black ones and ran away from us as fast as their furry
legs would carry them; the panthers did not care to eat us up, we felt
assured, while there was plenty of venison to be had by stalking, and on
a journey we rode safely, either on the pommel of father's saddle or
behind mother's, clinging like small kittens or cockleburs.
Familiarity with the coquettish canoe made us perfectly at home with it,
and in later years when the tenderfoot arrived, we were convulsed with
inextinguishable laughter at what seemed to us an unreasoning terror of
a harmless craft.
[Illustration: WHERE WE WANDERED LONG AGO]
Ah! we lived close to dear nature then! Our play-grounds were the brown
beaches or the hillsides covered with plumy young fir trees, the alder
groves or the slashings where we hacked and chopped with our little
hatchets in imitation of our elders or the Father of His Country and
namesake of our state. Running on long logs, the prostrate trunks of
trees several hundred feet long, and jumping from one to another was
found to be an exhilarating pastime.
When the frolicsome Chinook wind came singing across the Sound, the boys
flew home built kites of more or less ambitious proportions and the
little girls ran down the hills, performing a peculiar skirt dance by
taking the gown by the hem on either side and turning the skirt half
over the head. Facing the wind it assumed a balloonlike inflation very
pleasing to the small performer. It was thought the proper thing to let
the hair out of net or braids at the time, as the sensation of air
permeating long locks was sufficient excuse for its "weirdness" as I
suppose we would have politely termed it had we ever heard the word.
Instead we were more likely to be reproved for having such untidy heads
and perhaps reminded that we looked as wild as Indians. "As wild as
Indians," the poor Indians! How they admired the native white children!
Without ceremony they claimed blood brotherhood, saying, "You were born
in our 'illahee' (country) and are our 'tillicum' (people). You eat the
same food, will grow up here and belong to us."
Often we were sung to sleep at night by their "tamanuse" singing, as we
lived quite near the bank below which many Indians camped, on Elliott
Bay.
I never met with the least rudeness or suffered the slightest injury
from an Indian except on one occasion. Walking upon the beach one day
three white children drew near a group of Indian camps. Almost deserted
they were, probably the inhabitants had gone fishing; the only being
visible was a boy about ten years of age. Snarling out some bitter words
in an unknown tongue, he flung a stone which struck hard a small head,
making a slight scalp wound. Such eyes! they fairly glittered with
hatred. We hurried home, the victim crying with the pain inflicted, and
learned afterward that the boy was none of our "tillicum" but a stranger
from the Snohomish tribe. What cruel wrong had he witnessed or suffered
to make him so full of bitterness?
The Indian children were usually quite amiable in disposition, and it
seemed hard to refuse their friendly advances which it became necessary
to do. In their primitive state they seemed perfectly healthy and happy
little creatures. They never had the toothache; just think of that, ye
small consumers of colored candies! Unknown to them was the creeping
horror that white children feel when about to enter the terrible
dentist's den. They had their favorite fear, however, the frightful
"statalth," or "stick siwash," that haunted the great forest. As near as
we could ascertain, these were the ghosts of a long dead race of savages
who had been of gigantic stature and whose ghosts were likewise very
tall and dreadful and very fond of chasing people out of the woods on
dark nights. Plenty of little white people know what the sensation is,
produced by imagining that something is coming after them in the dark.
I have seen a big, brawny, tough looking Indian running as fast as he
could go, holding a blazing pitchwood torch over his head while he
glanced furtively over his shoulder for the approaching statalth.
Both white and Indian children were afraid of the Northern Indians,
especially the Stickeens, who were head-takers.
We were seldom panic stricken; born amid dangers there seemed nothing
novel about them and we took our environment as a matter of course. We
were taught to be courageous but not foolhardy, which may account for
our not getting oftener in trouble.
The boys learned to shoot and shoot well at an early age, first with
shot guns, then rifles. Sometimes the girls proved dangerous with
firearms in their hands. A sister of the writer learned to shoot off the
head of a grouse at long range. A girl schoolmate, when scarcely grown,
shot and killed a bear. My brothers and cousin, Wm. R. Boren, were good
shots at a tender age and killed numerous bears, deer, grouse,
pheasants, ducks, wild pigeon, etc., in and about the district now
occupied by the city of Seattle.
The wild flowers and the birds interested us deeply and every spring we
joyfully noted the returning bluebirds and robins, the migrating wren
and a number of other charming feathered friends. The high banks, not
then demolished by grades, were smothered in greenery and hung with
banners of bloom every succeeding season.
We clambered up and down the steep places gathering armfuls of lillies
(trillium), red currant (ribes sanguineum), Indian-arrow-wood (spiraea),
snowy syringa (philadelphus) and blue forgetmenots and the yellow
blossoms of the Oregon grape (berberis glumacea and aquifolium), which
we munched with satisfaction for the _soursweet_, and the scarlet
honeysuckle to bite off the honeyglands for a like purpose.
The salmonberry and blackberry seasons were quite delightful. To plunge
into the thick jungle, now traversed by Pike Street, Seattle, was a
great treat. There blackberries attained Brobdignagian hugeness, rich
and delicious.
On a Saturday, our favorite reward for lessons and work well done, was
to be allowed to go down the lovely beach with its wide strip of
variegated shingle and bands of brown, ribbed sand, as far as the
"three big stones," no farther, as there were bears, panthers and
Indians, as hereinbefore stated, inhabiting the regions round about.
One brilliant April day we felt very brave, we were bigger than ever
before, five was quite a party, and the flowers were O! so enchanting a
little farther on. Two of us climbed the bank to gather the tempting
blossoms.
Our little dog, "Watch," a very intelligent animal, took the lead;
scarcely had we gained the top and essayed to break the branch of a wild
currant, gay with rose colored blossoms, when Watch showed unusual
excitement about something, a mysterious something occupying the
cavernous depths of an immense hollow log. With his bristles up, rage
and terror in every quivering muscle, he was slowly, very slowly,
backing toward us.
Although in the woods often, we had never seen him act so before. We
took the hint and to our heels, tumbled down the yielding, yellow bank
in an exceedingly hasty and unceremonious manner, gathered up our party
of thoroughly frightened youngsters and hurried along the sand homeward,
at a double quick pace.
Hardly stopping for a backward glance to see if the "something" was
coming after us, we reached home, safe but subdued.
Not many days after the young truants were invited down to an Indian
camp to see the carcass of a cougar about nine feet long. There it lay,
stretched out full length, its hard, white teeth visible beyond the
shrunken lips, its huge paws quite helpless and harmless.
It is more than probable that this was the "something" in the great
hollow log, as it was killed in the vicinity of the place where our
stampede occurred.
Evidently Watch felt his responsibility and did the best he could to
divert the enemy while we escaped.
The dense forest hid many an unseen danger in early days and it
transpired that I never saw a live cougar in the woods, but even a dead
one may produce real old fashioned fright in a spectator.
Having occasion, when attending the University, at the age of twelve, to
visit the library of that institution, a strange adventure befell me;
the selection of a book absorbed my mind very fully and I was unprepared
for a sudden change of thought. Turning from the shelves, a terrible
sight met my eyes, a ferocious wild beast, all its fangs exhibited, in
the opposite corner of the room. How did each particular hair stand
upright and perspiration ooze from every pore! A moment passed and a
complete collapse of the illusion left the victim weak and disgusted; it
was only the stuffed cougar given to the Faculty to be the nucleus of a
great collection.
The young Washingtonians, called "clam-diggers," were usually well fed,
what with venison, fish, grouse and berries, game of many kinds, and
creatures of the sea, they were really pampered, in the memory of the
writer. But it is related by those who experienced the privations
incident to the first year or two of white settlement, that the children
were sometimes hungry for bread, especially during the first winter at
Alki. Fish and potatoes were plentiful, obtained from the Indians, syrup
from a vessel in the harbor, but bread was scarce. On one occasion, a
little girl of one of the four white families on Elliott Bay, was
observed to pick up an old crust and carry it around in her pocket.
When asked what she intended to do with that crust, with childish
simplicity she replied, "Save it to eat with syrup at dinner." Not able
to resist its delicious flavor she kept nibbling away at the crust until
scarcely a crumb remained; its dessicated surface had no opportunity to
be masked with treacle.
To look back upon our pioneer menu is quite tantalizing.
The fish, of many excellent kinds, from the "salt-chuck," brought fresh
and flapping to our doors, in native baskets by Indian fishermen, cooked
in many appetizing ways; clams of all sizes from the huge bivalves
weighing three-quarters of a pound a piece to the tiny white soup clam;
sustain me, O my muse, if I attempt to describe their excellence. Every
conceivable preparation, soup, stew, baked, pie, fry or chowder was
tried with the happiest results. The Puget Sound oyster, not the stale,
globe-trotting oyster of however aristocratic antecedents, the enjoyment
in eating of which is chiefly as a reminiscence, but the fresh western
oyster, was much esteemed.
The crab, too, figured prominently on the bill of fare, dropped alive in
boiling water and served in scarlet, _a la naturel_.
A pioneer family gathered about the table enjoying a feast of the
stalk-eyed crustaceans, were treated to a little diversion in this wise.
The room was small, used for both kitchen and diningroom, as the house
boasted of but two or three rooms, consequently space was economized.
A fine basket of crabs traded from an Indian were put in a tin pan and
set under the table; several were cooked, the rest left alive. As one of
the children was proceeding with the dismemberment necessary to extract
the delicate meat, as if to seek its fellows, the crab slipped from her
grasp and slid beneath the table. Stooping down she hastily seized her
crab, as she supposed, but to her utter astonishment it seemed to have
come to life, it _was_ alive, kicking and snapping. In a moment the
table was in an uproar of crab catching and wild laughter. The mother of
the astonished child declares that to this day she cannot help laughing
whenever she thinks of the crab that came to life.
It was to this home that John and Sarah Denny, and their little
daughter, Loretta, came to visit their son, daughter and the
grandchildren, in the winter of 1857-8.
Grandmother was tall and straight, dressed in a plain, dark gown, black
silk apron and lace cap; her hair, coal black, slightly gray on the
temples; her eyes dark, soft and gentle. She brought a little treat of
Oregon apples from their farm in the Waldo Hills, to the children, who
thought them the most wonderful fruit they had ever seen, more desirable
than the golden apples of Hesperides.
We were to return with them, joyful news! What visions of bliss arose
before us! new places to see and all the nice things and good times we
children could have at grandfather's farm.
When the day came, in the long, dark canoe, manned by a crew of Indians,
we embarked for Olympia, the head of navigation, bidding "good-bye" to
our friends, few but precious, who watched us from the bank, among whom
were an old man and his little daughter.
A few days before he had been sick and one of the party sent him a
steaming cup of ginger and milk which, although simple, had proved
efficacious; ere we reached our home again he showed his gratitude in a
substantial manner, as will be seen farther on.
At one beautiful resting place, the canoe slid up against a strip of
shingle covered with delicate shells; we were delighted to be allowed to
walk about, after sitting curled up in the bottom of the canoe for a
long time, to gather crab, pecten and periwinkle shells, even extending
our ramble to a lovely grove of dark young evergreens, standing in a
grassy meadow.
The first night of the journey was spent in Steilacoom. It was March of
1858 and it was chilly traveling on the big salt water. We were cold and
hungry but the keeper of the one hotel in the place had retired and
refused to be aroused, so we turned to the only store, where the
proprietor received us kindly, brought out new blankets to cover us
while we camped on the floor, gave us bread and a hot oyster stew, the
best his place afforded. His generous hospitality was never forgotten by
the grateful recipients who often spoke of it in after years.
I saw there a "witches' scene" of an old Indian woman boiling devilfish
or octopus in a kettle over a campfire, splendidly lit against the gloom
of night, and all reflected in the water.
At the break of day we paddled away over the remainder of the
salt-chuck, as the Indians call the sea, until Stetchas was reached.
Stetchas is "bear's place," the Indian name for the site of Olympia.
From thence the mail stage awaited us to Cowlitz Landing. The trip over
this stretch of country was not exactly like a triumphal progress. The
six-horse team plunged and floundered, while the wagon sank up to the
hub in black mud; the language of the driver has not been recorded.
At the first stop out from Olympia, the Tilley's, famous in the first
annals, entertained us. At a bountiful and appetizing meal, one of the
articles, boiled eggs, were not cooked to suit Grandfather John Denny.
With amusing bluntness he sent the chicken out to be killed before he
ate it, complaining that the eggs were not hard enough. Mrs. Tilly made
two or three efforts and finally set the dish down beside him saying,
"There, if that isn't hard enough you don't deserve to have any."
The long rough ride ended at Warbass' Landing on the Cowlitz River, a
tributary of the Columbia, and another canoe trip, this time on a swift
and treacherous stream, was safely made to Monticello, a mere little
settlement. A tiny steamboat, almost microscopic on the wide water,
carried us across the great Columbia with its sparkling waves, and up
the winding Willamette to Portland, Oregon.
From thence the journey progressed to the falls below Oregon City.
At the portage, we walked along a narrow plank walk built up on the side
of the river bank which rose in a high rounded hill. Its noble outline
stood dark with giant firs against a blue spring sky; the rushing,
silvery flood of the Willamette swept below us past a bank fringed with
wild currants just coming into bloom.
At the end of the walk there stood a house which represented itself as a
resting place for weary travelers. We spent the night there but Alas!
for rest; the occupants were convivial and "drowned the shamrock" all
night long; as no doubt they felt obliged to do for wasn't it "St.
Patrick's Day in the mornin'?"
Most likely we three, the juveniles, slumbered peacefully until aroused
to learn that we were about to start "sure enough" for grandfather's
farm in the Waldo Hills.
At length the log cabin home was reached and our interest deepened in
everything about. So many flowers to gather as they came in lively
processional, blue violets under the oaks, blue-flags all along the
valley; such great, golden buttercups, larkspurs, and many a wildling we
scarcely called by any name.
All the affairs of the house and garden, field and pasture seemed by us
especially gotten up, for our amusement and we found endless
entertainment therein.
If a cheese was made or churning done we were sure to be "hanging
around" for a green curd or paring, a taste of sweet butter or a chance
to lift the dasher of the old fashioned churn. The milking time was
enticing, too, and we trotted down to the milking pen with our little
tin cups for a drink of fresh, warm milk from the fat, lowing kine,
which fed all day on rich grasses and waited at the edge of the flower
decked valley for the milkers with their pails.
As summer advanced our joys increased, for there were wild strawberries
and such luscious ones! no berries in after years tasted half so good.
Some artist has portrayed a group of children on a sunny slope among the
hills, busy with the scarlet fruit and called it "The Strawberry of
Memory"; such was the strawberry of that summer.
One brilliant June day when all the landscape was steeped in sunshine we
went some distance from home to gather a large supply. It is needless to
say that we, the juvenile contingent, improved the opportunity well; and
when we sat at table the following day and grandfather helped us to
generous pieces of strawberry "cobbler" and grandmother poured over them
rich, sweet cream, our satisfaction was complete. It is likely that if
we had heard of the boy who wished for a neck as long as a giraffe so
that he could taste the good things all the way down, we would have
echoed the sentiment.
Mentioning the giraffe, of the animal also we probably had no knowledge
as books were few and menageries, none at all.
No lack was felt, however, as the wild animals were numerous and
interesting. The birds, rabbits and squirrels were friendly and
fearless then; the birds were especially loved and it was pleasing to
translate their notes into endearments for ourselves.
But the rolling suns brought round the day when we must return to our
native heath on Puget Sound. Right sorry were the two little
"clam-diggers" to leave the little companion of delightful days, and
grandparents. With a rush of tears and calling "good-bye! good-bye!" as
long as we could see or hear we rode away in a wagon, beginning the long
journey, full of variety, back to the settlement on Elliott Bay.
Ourselves, and wagon and team purchased in the "web-foot" country, were
carried down the Willamette and across the sweeping Columbia on a
steamer to Monticello. There the wagon was loaded into a canoe to ascend
the Cowlitz River, and we mounted the horses for a long day's ride, one
of the children on the pommel of father's saddle, the other perched
behind on mother's steed.
The forest was so dense through which we rode for a long distance that
the light of noonday became a feeble twilight, the way was a mere
trail, the salal bushes on either side so tall that they brushed the
feet of the little riders. The tedium of succeeding miles of this weird
wilderness was beguiled by the stories, gentle warnings and
encouragement from my mother.
The cicadas sang as if it were evening, the dark woods looked a little
fearful and I was advised to "Hold on tight and keep awake, there are
bears in these woods."
The trail led us to the first crossing of the Cowlitz River, where
father hallooed long and loud for help to ferry us over, from a lonely
house on the opposite shore, but only echo and silence returned. The
deep, dark stream, sombre forest and deserted house made an eerie
impression on the children.
The little party boarded the ferryboat and swimming the horses,
alongside crossed without delay.
The next afternoon saw us nearing the crossing of the Cowlitz again at
Warbass Landing.
The path crossed a pretty open space covered with ripe yellow grass and
set around with giant trees, just before it vanished in the hurrying
stream.
Father rode on and crossed, quite easily, the uneven bed of the swift
river, with its gravelly islands and deep pools.
When it came our turn, our patient beast plunged in and courageously
advanced to near the middle of the stream, wavered and stood still and
seemed about to go down with the current. How distinctly the green,
rapid water, gravelly shoals and distant bank with its anxious onlookers
is photographed on my memory's page!
Only for a moment did the brave animal falter and then sturdily worked
her way to the shore. Mr. Warbass, with white face and trembling voice,
said "I thought you were gone, sure." His coat was off and he had been
on the point of plunging in to save us from drowning, if possible.
Willing hands helped us down and into the hospitable home, where we were
glad to rest after such a severe trial. A sleepless night followed for
my mother, who suffered from the reaction common to such experience,
although not panic stricken at the time of danger.
It was here I received my first remembered lesson in "meum et tuum."
While playing under the fruit trees around the house I spied a peach
lying on the ground, round, red and fair to see. I took it in to my
mother who asked where I got it, if I had asked for it, etc. I replied I
had found it outdoors.
"Well, it isn't yours, go and give it to the lady and never pick up
anything without asking for it."
A lesson that was heeded, and one much needed by children in these days
when individual rights are so little regarded.
The muddy wagon road between this point and Olympia over which the teams
had struggled in the springtime was now dry and the wagon was put
together with hope of a fairly comfortable trip. It was discovered in so
doing that the tongue of the vehicle had been left at Monticello. Not to
be delayed, father repaired to the woods and cut a forked ash stick and
made it do duty for the missing portion.
At Olympia we were entertained by Mr. and Mrs. Dickinson with whom we
tarried as we went to Oregon.
My mother preferred her steed to the steamer plying on the Sound; that
same trip the selfsame craft blew up.
On horseback again, we followed the trail from Olympia to the Duwampsh
River, over hills and hollows, out on the prairie or in the dark forest,
at night putting up at the house of a hospitable settler. From thence we
were told that it was only one day's travel but the trail stretched out
amazingly. Night, and a stormy one, overtook the hapless travelers.
The thunder crashed, the lightning flamed, sheets of rain came down, but
there was no escape.
A halt was called at an open space in a grove of tall cedar trees, a
fire made and the horses hitched under the trees.
The two children slept snugly under a fir bark shed made of slabs of
bark leaned up against a large log. Father and mother sat by the fire
under a cedar whose branches gave a partial shelter. Some time in the
night I was awakened by my mother lying down beside me, then slept
calmly on.
The next morning everything was dripping wet and we hastened on to the
Duwampsh crossing where lived the old man who stood on the bank at
Seattle when we started.
What a comfort it was to the cold, wet, hungry, weary quartette to be
invited into a dry warm place! and then the dinner, just prepared for
company he had been expecting; a bountiful supply of garden vegetables,
beets, cabbage, potatoes, a great dish of beans and hot coffee. These
seemed veritable luxuries and we partook of them with a hearty relish.
A messenger was sent to Seattle to apprise our friends of our return,
two of them came to meet us at the mouth of the Duwampsh River and
brought us down the bay in a canoe to the landing near the old laurel
(Madrona) tree that leaned over the bank in front of our home.
The first Fourth of July celebration in which I participated took place
in the old M. E. Church on Second Street, Seattle, in 1861.
Early in the morning of that eventful day there was hurrying to and fro
in the Dennys' cottage, on Seneca Street, embowered in flowers which
even luxuriant as they were we did not deem sufficient. The nimble
eldest of the children was sent to a flower-loving neighbor's for
blossoms of patriotic hues, for each of the small Americans was to carry
a banner inscribed with a strong motto and wreathed with red, white and
blue flowers. Large letters, cut from the titles of newspapers spelled
out the legends on squares of white cotton, "Freedom for All," "Slavery
for none," "United we stand, divided we fall," each surrounded with a
heavy wreath of beautiful flowers.
Arrived at the church, we found ourselves a little late, the orator was
just rounding the first of his eloquent periods; the audience,
principally men, turned to view the disturbers as they sturdily marched
up the aisle to a front seat, and seeing the patriotic family with their
expressive emblems, broke out in a hearty round of applause. Although
very young we felt the spirit of the occasion.
The first commencement exercises at the University took place in 1863.
It was a great event, an audience of about nine hundred or more,
including many visitors from all parts of the Sound, Victoria, B. C.,
and Portland, Oregon, gathered in the hall of the old University, then
quite new.
I was then nine years of age and had been trained to recite "Barbara
Frietchie," it "goes without the saying" that it was received with
acclaim, as feeling ran high and the hearts of the people burned within
them for the things that were transpiring in the South.
Still better were they pleased and much affected by the singing of "Who
Will Care for Mother Now," by Annie May Adams, a lovely young girl of
fifteen, with a pure, sympathetic, soprano voice and a touching
simplicity of style.
How warm beat the hearts of the people on this far off shore, as at the
seat of war, and even the children shouted, sang and wept in sympathy
with those who shed their lifeblood for their country.
The singing of "Red, White and Blue" by the children created great
enthusiasm; war tableaux such as "The Soldier's Farewell," "Who Goes
There?" "In Camp," were well presented and received with enthusiastic
applause, and whatever apology might have been made for the status of
the school, there was none to be made for its patriotism.
Our teachers were Unionists without exception and we were taught many
such things; "Rally Round the Flag" was a favorite and up went every
right hand and stamped hard every little foot as we sang "Down With the
Traitor and Up With the Stars" with perhaps more energy than music.
The children of my family, with those of A. A. Denny's, sometimes held
"Union Meetings;" at these were speeches made that were very intense, as
we thought, from the top of a stump or barrel, each mounting in turn to
declaim against slavery and the Confederacy, to pronounce sentence of
execution upon Jeff. Davis, Captain Semmes, et al. in a way to have made
those worthies uneasy in their sleep. Every book, picture, story,
indeed, every printed page concerning the war was eagerly scanned and I
remember sitting by, through long talks of Grandfather John Denny with
my father, to which I listened intently.
We finally burned Semmes in effigy to express our opinion of him and
named the only poor, sour apple in our orchard for the Confederate
president.
For a time there were two war vessels in the harbor, the "Saranac" and
"Suwanee," afterwards wrecked in Seymour Narrows. The Suwanee was
overturned and sunk by the shifting of her heavy guns, but was finally
raised. Both had fine bands that discoursed sweet music every evening.
We stood on the bank to listen, delighted to recognize our favorites,
national airs and war songs, from "Just Before the Battle, Mother" to
"Star Spangled Banner."
Other beautiful music, from operas, perhaps, we enjoyed without
comprehending, although we did understand the stirring strains with
which we were so familiar.
In those days the itinerant M. E. ministers were often the guests of my
parents and many were the good natured jokes concerning the fatalities
among the yellow-legged chickens.
On one occasion a small daughter of the family, whose discretion had not
developed with her hospitality, rushed excitedly into the sitting room
where the minister was being entertained and said, "Mother, which
chicken shall I catch?" to the great amusement of all.
One of the reverend gentlemen declared that whenever he put in an
appearance, the finest and fattest of the flock immediately lay down
upon their backs with their feet in the air, as they knew some of them
would have to appear on the festal board.
Like children everywhere we lavished our young affections on pets of
many kinds. Among these were a family of kittens, one at least of which
was considered superfluous. An Indian woman, who came to trade clams for
potatoes, was given the little "pish-pish," as she called it, with which
she seemed much pleased, carrying it away wrapped in her shawl.
Her camp was a mile away on the shore of Elliott Bay, from whence it
returned through the thick woods, on the following day. Soon after she
came to our door to exhibit numerous scratches on her hands and arms
made by the "mesachie pish-pish" (bad cat), as she now considered it. My
mother healed her wounds by giving her some "supalel" (bread) esteemed a
luxury by the Indians, they seldom having it unless they bought a little
flour and made ash-cake.
Now this same ash-cake deserves to rank with the southern cornpone or
the western Johnny cake. Its flavor is sweet and nut-like, quite unlike
that of bread baked in an ordinary oven.
The first Christmas tree was set up in our own house. It was not then a
common American custom; we usually called out "Christmas Gift,"
affecting to claim a present after the Southern "Christmas Gif" of the
darkies. One early Christmas, father brought in a young Douglas fir tree
and mother hung various little gifts on its branches, among them, bright
red Lady apples and sticks of candy; that was our very first Christmas
tree. A few years afterward the whole village joined in loading a large
tree with beautiful and costly articles, as times were good, fully one
thousand dollars' worth was hung upon and heaped around it.
When the fourth time our family returned to the donation claim, now a
part of the city of Seattle, we found a veritable paradise of flowers,
field and forest.
The claim reached from Lake Union to Elliott Bay, about a mile and a
half; a portion of it was rich meadow land covered with luxuriant grass
and bordered with flowering shrubs, the fringe on the hem of the mighty
evergreen forest covering the remainder.
Hundreds of birds of many kinds built their nests here and daily
throughout the summer chanted their hymns of praise. Robins and wrens,
song-sparrows and snow birds, thrushes and larks vied with each other in
joyful song.
The western meadow larks wandered into this great valley, adding their
rich flute-like voices to the feathered chorus.
Woodpeckers, yellow hammers and sap-suckers, beat their brave tattoo on
the dead tree trunks and owls uttered their cries from the thick
branches at night. Riding to church one Sunday morning we beheld seven
little owls sitting in a row on the dead limb of a tall fir tree, about
fourteen feet from the ground. Winking and blinking they sat, silently
staring as we passed by.
Rare birds peculiar to the western coast, the rufous-backed hummingbird,
like a living coal of fire, and the bush-titmouse which builds a curious
hanging nest, also visited this natural park.
The road we children traveled from this place led through heavy forest
and the year of the drouth (1868) a great fire raged; we lost but little
time on this account; it had not ceased before we ran past the tall firs
and cedars flaming far above our heads.
Returning from church one day, when about half way home, a huge fir tree
fell just behind us, and a half mile farther on we turned down a branch
road at the very moment that a tree fell across the main road usually
traveled.
The game was not then all destroyed; water fowl were numerous on the
lakes and bays and the boys of the family often went shooting.
Rather late in the afternoon of a November day, the two smaller boys,
taking a shot gun with them, repaired to Lake Union, borrowed a little
fishing canoe of old Tsetseguis, the Indian who lived at the landing,
and went to look at some muskrat traps they had set.
It was growing quite dark when they thought of returning. For some
reason they decided to change places in the canoe, a very "ticklish"
thing to do. When one attempted to pass the other, over went the little
cockle-shell and both were struggling in the water. The elder managed to
thrust one arm through the strap of the hunting bag worn by the younger
and grasped him by the hair, said hair being a luxuriant mass of long,
golden brown curls. Able to swim a little he kept them afloat although
he could not keep the younger one's head above water. His cries for help
reached the ears of a young man, Charles Nollop, who was preparing to
cook a beefsteak for his supper--he threw the frying pan one way while
the steak went the other, and rushed, coatless and hatless, to the
rescue with another man, Joe Raber, in a boat.
An older brother of the two lads, John B. Denny, was just emerging from
the north door of the big barn with two pails of milk; hearing, as he
thought, the words "I'm drowning," rather faintly from the lake, he
dropped the pails unceremoniously and ran down to the shore swiftly,
found only an old shovel-nosed canoe and no paddle, seized a picket and
paddled across the little bay to where the water appeared agitated;
there he found the boys struggling in the water, or rather one of them,
the other was already unconscious. Arriving at the same time in their
boat Charley Nollop and Joe Raber helped to pull them out of the water.
The long golden curls of the younger were entangled in the crossed
cords of the shot pouch and powder flask worn by the older one, who was
about to sink for the last time, as he was exhausted and had let go of
the younger, who was submerged.
Their mother reached the shore as the unconscious one was stretched upon
the ground and raised his arms and felt for the heart which was beating
feebly.
The swimmer walked up the hill to the house; the younger, still
unconscious, was carried, face downward, into a room where a large fire
was burning in an open fireplace, and laid down before it on a rug.
Restoratives were quickly applied and upon partial recovery he was
warmly tucked in bed. A few feverish days followed, yet both escaped
without serious injury.
Mrs. Tsetseguis was much grieved and repeated over and over, "I told the
Oleman not to lend that little canoe to the boys, and he said, 'O it's
all right, they know how to manage a canoe.'"
Tsetseguis was also much distressed and showed genuine sympathy,
following the rescued into the house to see if they were really safe.
The games we played in early days were often the time-honored ones
taught us by our parents, and again were inventions of our own. During
the Rebellion we drilled as soldiers or played "black man;" by the
latter we wrought excitement to the highest pitch, whether we chased the
black man, or returning the favor, he chased us.
The teeter-board was available when the neighbor's children came; the
wonder is that no bones were broken by our method.
The longest, strongest, Douglas fir board that could be found, was
placed across a large log, a huge stone rested in the middle and the
children, boys and girls, little and big, crowded on the board almost
filling it; then we carefully "waggled" it up and down, watching the
stone in breathless and ecstatic silence until weary of it.
Our bravado consisted in climbing up the steepest banks on the bay, or
walking long logs across ravines or on steep inclines.
The surroundings were so peculiar that old games took on new charms when
played on Puget Sound. Hide-and-seek in a dense jungle of young Douglas
firs was most delightful; the great fir and cedar trees, logs and
stumps, afforded ample cover for any number of players, from the sharp
eyes of the one who had been counted "out" with one of the old rhymes.
The shadow of danger always lurked about the undetermined boundary of
our play-grounds, wild animals and wild men might be not far beyond.
We feared the drunken white man more than the sober Indian, with much
greater reason. Even the drunken Indian never molested us, but usually
ran "amuck" among the inhabitants of the beach.
Neither superstitious nor timid we seldom experienced a panic.
The nearest Indian graveyard was on a hill at the foot of Spring Street,
Seattle. It sloped directly down to the beach; the bodies were placed in
shallow graves to the very brow and down over the face of the sandy
bluff. All this hill was dug down when the town advanced.
The children's' graves were especially pathetic, with their rude
shelters, to keep off the rain of the long winter months, and upright
poles bearing bits of bright colored cloth, tin pails and baskets.
Over these poor graves no costly monuments stood, only the winds sang
wild songs there, the sea-gulls flitted over, the fair, wild flowers
bloomed and the dark-eyed Indian mothers tarried sometimes, human as
others in their sorrow.
But the light-hearted Indian girls wandered past, hand in hand, singing
as they went, pausing to turn bright friendly eyes upon me as they
answered the white child's question, "Ka mika klatawa?" (Where are you
going?)
"O, kopa yawa" (O, over yonder), nodding toward the winding road that
stretched along the green bank before them. Without a care or sorrow,
living a healthy, free, untrammeled life, they looked the impersonation
of native contentment.
The social instinct of the pioneers found expression in various ways.
A merry party of pioneer young people, invited to spend the evening at a
neighbor's, were promised the luxury of a candy-pull. The first batch
was put on to boil and the assembled youngsters engaged in old fashioned
games to while away the time. Unfortunately for their hopes the molasses
burned and they were obliged to throw it away. There was a reserve in
the jug, however, and the precious remainder was set over the fire and
the games went on again. Determined to succeed, the hostess stirred,
while an equally anxious and careful guest held the light, a small
fish-oil lamp. The lamp had a leak and was set on a tin plate; in her
eagerness to light the bubbling saccharine substance and to watch the
stirring-down, she leaned over a little too far and over went the lamp
directly into the molasses.
What consternation fell upon them! The very thought of the fish-oil was
nauseating, and that was all the molasses. There was no candy-pulling,
there being no grocery just around the corner where a fresh supply might
be obtained, indeed molasses and syrup were very scarce articles,
brought from a great distance.
The guests departed, doubtless realizing that the "best laid plans ...
gang aft agley."
The climate of Puget Sound is one so mild that snow seldom falls and ice
rarely forms as thick as windowglass, consequently travel, traffic and
amusement are scarcely modified during the winter, or more correctly,
the rainy season. Unless it rained more energetically than usual, the
children went on with their games as in summer.
The long northern twilight of the summertime and equally long evenings
in winter had each their special charm.
The pictures of winter scenes in eastern magazines and books looked
strange and unfamiliar to us, but as one saucy girl said to a tenderfoot
from a blizzard-swept state, "We see more and deeper snow everyday than
you ever saw in your life."
"How is that?" said he.
"On Mount Rainier," she answered, laughing.
Even so, this magnificent mountain, together with many lesser peaks,
wears perpetual robes of snow in sight of green and blooming shores.
When it came to decorating for Christmas, well, we had a decided
advantage as the evergreens stood thick about us, millions of them. Busy
fingers made lavish use of rich garlands of cedar to festoon whole
buildings; handsome Douglas firs, reaching from floor to ceiling,
loaded with gay presents and blazing with tapers, made the little
"clam-diggers'" eyes glisten and their mouths water. In the garden the
flowers bloomed often in December and January, as many as twenty-six
varieties at once.
One New Year's day I walked down the garden path and plucked a fine, red
rosebud to decorate the New Year's cake.
The pussy-willows began the floral procession of wildlings in January
and the trilliums and currants were not far behind unless a "cold snap"
came on in February and the flowers _dozed on_, for they never seem to
_sleep_ very profoundly here. By the middle of February there was,
occasionally, a general display of bloom, but more frequently it began
about the first of March, the seasons varying considerably.
The following poem tells of favorite flowers gathered in the olden time
"i' the spring o' the year!"
In the summertime we had work as well as play, out of doors. The garden
surrounding our cottage in 1863, overflowed with fruits, vegetables and
flowers. Nimble young fingers were made useful in helping to tend them.
Weeding beds of spring onions and lettuce, sticking peas and beans, or
hoeing potatoes, were considered excellent exercise for young muscles;
no need of physical "culchuah" in the school had dawned upon us, as
periods of work and rest, study and play, followed each other in
healthful succession.
Having a surplus of good things, the children often went about the
village with fresh vegetables and flowers, more often the latter,
generous bouquets of fragrant and spicy roses and carnations, sweet peas
and nasturtiums, to sell. Two little daughters in pretty, light print
dresses and white hats were flower girls who were treated like little
queens.
There was no disdain of work to earn a living in those days; every
respectable person did something useful.
For recreation, we went with father in the wagon over the "bumpy" road
when he went to haul wood, or perhaps a long way on the county road to
the meadow, begging to get off to gather flowers whenever we saw them
peeping from their green bowers.
Driving along through the great forest which stood an almost solid green
wall on either hand, we called "O father, stop! stop; here is the
lady-slipper place."
"Well, be quick, I can't wait long."
Dropping down to the ground, we ran as fast as our feet could carry us
to gather the lovely, fragrant orchid, Calypso Borealis, from its mossy
bed.
When the ferns were fully grown, eight or ten feet high, the little
girls broke down as many as they could drag, and ran along the road,
great ladies, with long green trains!
[Illustration: A VISIT FROM OUR TILLICUM]
We found the way to the opening in the woods, where in the midst
thereof, grandfather sat making cedar shingles with a drawing knife.
Huge trees lay on the ground, piles of bolts had been cut and the heap
of shingles, clear and straight of the very best quality, grew apace.
Very tall and grand the firs and cedars stood all around, like stately
pillars with a dome of blue sky above; the birds sang in the underbrush
and the brown butterflies floated by.
Among all the beautiful things, there was one to rivet the eye and
attention; a dark green fir tree, perhaps thirty feet high, around whose
trunk and branches a wild honeysuckle vine had twined itself from the
ground to the topmost twig.
It had the appearance of a giant candelabrum, with the orange-scarlet
blossoms that tipped the boughs like jets of flame.
Many a merry picnic we had in blackberry time, taking our lunch with us
and spending the day; sometimes in an Indian canoe we paddled off
several miles, to Smith's Cove or some other likely place.
It was necessary to watch the tide at the Cove or the shore could not be
reached across the mudflat.
Once ashore how happy we were; clambering about over the hills,
gathering the ripe fruit, now and then turning about to gaze at the
snowy sentinel in the southern sky, grand old Mount Rainier.
How wide the sparkling waters of the bay! the sky so pure and clear, the
north wind so cool and refreshing. The plumy boughs stirred gently
overhead and shed for us the balsamic odors, the flowers waved a welcome
at our feet.
In the winter there was seldom any "frost on the rills" or "snow on the
hills," but when it did come the children made haste to get all the
possible fun out of the unusual pastime of coasting. Mothers were glad
when the Chinook wind came and ate up the snow and brought back the
ordinary conditions, as the children were frequently sick during a cold
spell.
Now the tenderfoot, as the newcomer is called in the west, is apt to be
mistaken about the Chinook wind; there is a wet south wind and a dry
south wind on Puget Sound. The Chinook, as the "natives" have known it,
is a dry wind, clears the sky, and melts and dries up the snow at once.
Wet south wind, carrying heavy rain often follows after snow, and slush
reigns for a few days. Perhaps this is a distinction without much
difference.
Storms rarely occur, I remember but two violent ones in which the gentle
south wind seemed to forget its nature and became a raging gale.
The first occurred when I was a small child. The wind had been blowing
for some time, gradually increasing in the evening, and as night
advanced becoming heavier every hour. Large stones were taken up from
the high bank on the bay and piled on the roof with limbs broken from
tough fir trees. Thousands of giant trees fell crashing and groaning to
the ground, like a continuous cannonade; the noise was terrific and we
feared for our lives.
At midnight, not daring to leave the house, and yet fearing that it
might be overthrown, we knelt and commended ourselves to Him who rules
the storm.
About one o'clock the storm abated and calmly and safely we lay down to
sleep.
The morning broke still and clear, but many a proud monarch of the
forest lay prone upon the ground.
Electric storms were very infrequent; if there came a few claps of
thunder the children exclaimed, "O mother, hear the thunder storm!"
"Well, children, that isn't much of a thunder storm; you just ought to
hear the thunder in Illinois, and the lighting was a continual blaze."
Our mother complained that we were scarcely enough afraid of snakes; as
there are no deadly reptiles on Puget Sound, we thrust our hands into
the densest foliage or searched the thick grass without dread of a
lurking enemy.
The common garter snake, a short, thick snake, whose track across the
dusty roads I have seen, a long lead-colored snake and a small brown
one, comprise the list known to us.
Walking along a narrow trail one summer day, singing as I went, the song
was abruptly broken, I sprang to one side with remarkable agility, a
long, wiggling thing "swished" through the grass in an opposite
direction. Calling for help, I armed myself with a club, and with my
support, boldly advanced to seek out the serpent. When discovered we
belabored it so earnestly that its head was well-nigh severed from its
body.
It was about five feet long, the largest I had even seen, whether
poisonous or not is beyond my knowledge.
There are but two spiders known to be dangerous, a white one and a small
black "crab" spider. A little girl acquaintance was bitten by one of
these, it was supposed, though not positively known; the bite was on the
upper arm and produced such serious effects that a large piece of flesh
had to be removed by the surgeon's knife and amputation was narrowly
escaped.
A mysterious creature inhabiting Lake Union sometimes poisoned the young
bathers. One of my younger brothers was bitten on the knee, and a
lameness ensued, which continued for several months. There was only a
small puncture visible with a moderate swelling, which finally passed
away.
The general immunity from danger extends to the vegetable world, but
very few plants are unsafe to handle, chief among them being the Panax
horridum or "devil's club."
So the happy pioneer children roamed the forest fearlessly and sat on
the vines and moss under the great trees, often making bonnets of the
shining salal leaves pinned together with rose thorns or tiny twigs,
making whistles of alder, which gave forth sweet and pleasant sounds if
successfully made; or in the garden making dolls of hollyhocks, mallows
and morning glories.
CHAPTER VIII.
MARCHING EXPERIENCES OF ESTHER CHAMBERS.
The following thrilling account, written by herself and first published
in the "Weekly Ledger" of Tacoma, Washington, of June 3, 1892, is to be
highly commended for its clear and forcible style:
"My father, William Packwood, left Missouri in the spring of 1844
with my mother and four children in an ox team to cross the
plains to Oregon.
"My mother's health was very poor when we started. She had to be
helped in and out of the wagon, but the change by traveling
improved her health so much that she gained a little every day,
and in the course of a month or six weeks she was able to get up
in the morning and cook breakfast, while my father attended his
team and did other chores. I had one sister older than myself,
and I was only six years old. My little sister and baby brother,
who learned to walk by rolling the water keg as we camped nights
and mornings, were of no help to my sick mother.
"The company in which we started was Captain Gilliam's and we
traveled quite a way when we joined Captain Ford's company,
making upward of sixty wagons in all.
"Our company was so large that the Indians did not molest us,
although we, after letting our stock feed until late in the
evening, had formed a large corral of the wagons, in which we
drove the cattle and horses, and stood guard at night, as the
Indians had troubled small companies by driving off their stock,
but they were not at all hostile to us.
"We came to a river and camped. The next morning we were visited
by Indians, who seemed to want to see us children, so we were
terribly afraid of the Indians, and, as father drove in the river
to cross, the oxen got frightened at the Indians and tipped the
wagon over, and father jumped and held the wagon until help came.
We thought the Indians would catch us, so we jumped to the lower
part of the box, where there was about six inches of water. The
swim and fright I will never forget--the Indian fright, of
course.
"I was quite small but I do remember the beautiful scenery. We
could see antelope, deer, rabbits, sage hens and coyotes, etc.,
and in the camp we children had a general good time. All joined
at night in the plays. One night Mr. Jenkins' boys told me to ask
their father for his sheath knife to cut some sticks with. When
using it on the first stick, I cut my lefthand forefinger nail
and all off, except a small portion of the top of my finger, and
the scar is still visible.
"On another evening we children were having a nice time, when a
boy by the name of Stephen, who had been in the habit of hugging
around the children's shoulders and biting them, hugged me and
bit a piece almost out of my shoulder. This was the first time I
remember seeing my father's wrath rise on the plains, as he was a
very even-tempered man. He said to the offending boy, 'If you do
that again, I shall surely whip you.'
"A few days later we came to a stream that was deep but narrow.
Mr. Stephens, this boy's father, was leading a cow by a rope tied
around his waist and around the cow's head for the purpose of
teaching the rest of the cattle to swim. The current being very
swift, washed the cow down the stream, dragging the man. The
women and children were all crying at a great rate, when one of
the party went to Mrs. Stephens, saying, 'Mr. Stephens is
drowning.' 'Well,' she replied, 'there is plenty of more men
where he came from.' Mr. Stephens, his cow and all lodged safely
on a drift. They got him out safely, but he did not try to swim a
stream with a cow tied to his waist again.
"We could see the plains covered with buffalo as we traveled
along, just like the cattle of our plains are here.
"One day a band of buffalo came running toward us, and one jumped
between the wheel cattle and the wheels of the wagon, and we came
very near having a general stampede of the cattle; so when the
teamsters got their teams quieted down, the men, gathering their
guns, ran and killed three of the buffalo, and all of the company
were furnished with dried beef, which was fine for camping.
"We came to a place where there was a boiling spring that would
cook eggs, and a short distance from this was a cold, clear
spring, and a short distance from this was a heap of what looked
like ashes, and when we crossed it the cattle's' feet burned until
they bawled. Another great sight I remember of seeing was an oil
spring.
"Then we reached the Blue Mountains. Snow fell as we traveled
through them.
"We then came down in the Grande Ronde valley, and it seemed as
if we had reached a paradise. It was a beautiful valley. Here
Indians came to trade us dried salmon, la camas cakes and dried
crickette cakes. We traded for some salmon and the la camas
cakes, but the crickette cakes we did not hanker after.
"A man in one train thought he would fool an Indian chief, so he
told the Indian he would swap his girl sixteen years old, for a
couple of horses. The bargain was made and he took the horses,
and the Indian hung around until near night. When the captain of
the company found out that the Indian was waiting for his girl to
go with him, the captain told the man that we might all be killed
through him, and made him give up the horses to the chief. The
Indian chief was real mad as he took the horses away.
"We went on down to The Dalles, where we stopped a few days.
There was a mission at The Dalles where two missionaries lived,
Brewer and Waller. We emigrants traded some of our poor, tired
cattle off to them for some of their fat beef, and some coarse
flour chopped on a hand mill, like what we call chop-feed
nowadays.
"Then we had to make a portage around the falls, and the women
and children walked. I don't remember the distance, but we walked
until late at night, and waded in the mud knee-deep, and my
mother stumped her toe and fell against a log or she might have
gone down into the river. We little tots fell down in the mud
until you'd have thought we were pigs.
"The men drove around the falls another way, and got out of
provisions.
"My father, seeing a boat from the high bluffs, going down to the
river hailed it, and when he came down to the boat he found us.
He said he had gotten so hungry that he killed a crow and ate it,
and thought it tasted splendid. He took provisions to the cattle
drivers and we came on down the river to Fort Vancouver. It
rained on us for a week and our bedclothes were drenched through
and through, so at night we would open our bed of wet clothes and
cuddle in them as though we were in a palace car, and all kept
well and were not sick a day in all of our six months' journey
crossing the plains. My mother gained and grew fleshy and strong.
"Next we arrived in what is now the city of Portland, which then
consisted of a log cabin and a few shanties. We stayed there a
few days to dry our bedding.
"Then we moved out to the Tualatin Plains, where we wintered in a
barn, with three other families, each family having a corner of
the barn, with fire in the center and a hole in the roof for the
smoke to go out. My father went to work for a man by the name of
Baxton, as all my father was worth in money, I think, was
twenty-five cents, or something like that. He arrived with a cow,
calf and three oxen, and had to support his family by mauling
rails in the rain, to earn the wheat, peas and potatoes we ate, as
that was all we could get, as bread was out of the question.
Shortly after father had gone to work my little brother had a
rising on his cheek. It made him so sick that mother wanted us
little tots to go to the place where my father was working. It
being dark, we got out of our way and went to a man, who had an
Indian woman, by the name of Williams. In the plains there are
swales that fill up with water when the heavy rains come, and they
are knee deep. I fell in one of these, but we got to Mr. Williams
all right. But when we found our neighbor we began crying, so Mr.
Williams persuaded us to come in and he would go and get father,
which he did, and father came home with us to our barn house. My
little brother got better, and my father returned to his work
again.
"Among the settlers on the Tualatin Plains were Mr. Lackriss, Mr.
Burton, Mr. Williams and General McCarver, who had settled on
farms before we came, and many a time did we go to their farms
for greens and turnips, which were something new and a great
treat to us.
"Often the Indians used to frighten us with their war dances, as
we called them, as we did not know the nature of Indians, so, as
General McCarver was used to them, we often asked him if the
Indians were having a war dance for the purpose of hostility. He
told us, that was the way they doctored their sick.
"General McCarver settled in Tacoma when the townsite was first
laid out and is well known. He died in Tacoma, leaving a family.
"After we moved out to the Tualatin Plains, many a night when
father was away we lay awake listening to the dogs barking,
thinking the Indians were coming to kill us, and when father came
home I felt safe and slept happily.
"In the spring of 1845 my father took a nice place in West
Yamhill, about two miles from the Willamette River and we had
some settlers around, but our advantage for a school was poor, as
we were too far from settlers to have a school, so my education,
what little I have, was gotten by punching the cedar fire and
studying at night, but, however, we were a happy family, hoping
to accumulate a competency in our new home.
"One dog, myself and elder sister and brother were carrying water
from our spring, which was a hundred yards or more from our
house, when a number of Indians came along. We were afraid of
them and all hid. I hid by the trail, when an old Indian, seeing
me, yelled out, 'Adeda!' and I began to laugh, but my sister was
terribly frightened and yelled at me to hide, so they found all
of us, but they were friendly to us, only a wretched lot to
steal, as they stole the only cow we had brought through, leaving
the calf with us without milk.
"My father was quite a hunter, and deer were plenty, and once in
a while he would get one, so we did get along without milk.
During the first year we could not get bread, as there were no
mills or places to buy flour. A Canadian put up a small chop mill
and chopped wheat something like feed is chopped now.
"My father being a jack-of-all-trades, set to work and put up a
turning lathe and went to making chairs, and my mother and her
little tots took the straw from the sheaves and braided and made
hats. We sold the chairs and hats and helped ourselves along in
every way we could and did pretty well.
"One day, while my father's lathe was running, some one yelled
'Stop!' A large black bear was walking through the yard. The men
gave him a grand chase, but bruin got away from them.
"My father remained on this place until the spring of 1847, when
he and a number of other families decided to move to Puget Sound.
During that winter they dug two large canoes, lashed them
together as a raft or flatboat to move on, and sold out their
places, bought enough provisions to last that summer, and loading
up with their wagons, families and provisions, started for Puget
Sound.
"Coming up the Cowlitz River was a hard trip, as the men had to
tow the raft over rapids and wade. The weather was very bad.
Arriving at what was called the Cowlitz Landing we stayed a few
days and moved out to the Catholic priest's place (Mr. Langlay's)
where the women and children remained while the men went back to
Oregon for our stock. They had to drive up the Cowlitz River by a
trail, and swim the rivers. My father said it was a hard trip.
"On arriving at Pug
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