Broad and Charley Williamson, a couple of harum-scarum run-away
sailors, to accompany me to my ranch in the cove, where we
remained two weeks securing crops. We always kept our rifles near
us while working in the field, so as to be ready for
emergencies, and brave as they seemed their faces several times
blanched white as they sprang for their guns on hearing brush
crack near them, usually caused by deer. One morning on going to
the field where we were digging potatoes, we found fresh moccasin
tracks, and judged from the difference in the size of the tracks
that at least half a dozen savages had paid the field a visit
during the night. As nothing had been disturbed we concluded that
they were waiting in ambush for us and accordingly we retired to
the side of the field farthest from the woods and began work,
keeping a sharp lookout the while. Soon we heard a cracking in
the brush and a noise that sounded like the snapping of a
flintlock. We grabbed our rifles and rushed into the woods where
we heard the noise, so as to have the trees for shelter, and if
possible to draw a bead on the enemy. On reaching shelter, the
crackling sound receded toward Salmon Bay. But fearing a surprise
if we followed the sound of retreat, we concluded to reach the
Bay by way of a trail that led to it, but higher up; we reached
the water just in time to see five redskins land in a canoe, on
the opposite side of the Bay where the Crooks' barn now stands.
After that I had hard work to keep the runaways until the crop
was secured, and did so only by keeping one of them secreted in
the nearest brush constantly on guard. At night we barred the
doors and slept in the attic, hauling the ladder up after us.
Sometimes, when the boys told blood-curdling stories until they
became panicky by their own eloquence, we slept in the woods, but
that was not often.
"In this way the crops were all saved, cellared and stacked, only
to be destroyed afterward by the torch of the common enemy.
"Twice the house was fired before it was finally consumed, and
each time I happened to arrive in time to extinguish the flames,
the incendiaries evidently having taken to their heels as soon as
the torch was applied."
While yet new to the country he met with an adventure not uncommon to
the earliest settlers in the great forest, recorded as follows:
"I once had a little experience, but a very amusing one, of being
'lost.' In the summer of 1854, I concluded to make a trail to Seattle.
Up to that time I had ridden to the city in a 'Chinook buggy.' One
bright morning I took a compass and started for Seattle on as nearly a
straight line as possible. After an hour's travel the sun was hid by
clouds and the compass had to be entirely relied upon for the right
course. This was tedious business, for the woods had never been burned,
and the old fallen timber was almost impassable. About noon I noticed to
my utter astonishment, that the compass had reversed its poles. I knew
that beds of mineral would sometimes cause a variation of the needle and
was delighted at the thought of discovering a _valuable iron mine_ so
near salt water. A good deal of time was spent in breaking bushes and
thoroughly marking the spot so that there would be no difficulty in
finding it again, and from that on I broke bushes as I walked, so as to
be able to easily retrace my steps. From that place I followed the
compass _reversed_, calculating, as I walked, the number of ships that
would load annually at Seattle with pig-iron, and the amount of ground
that would be eventually covered at the cove with furnaces, rolling
mills, foundries, tool manufacturing establishments, etc.
"As night came on I became satisfied that I had traveled too far to the
east, and had passed Seattle, and the prospect of spending a night in
the woods knocked my iron calculations into pi. Soon, however, I was
delighted to see a clearing ahead, and a shake-built shanty that I
concluded must be the ranch that Mr. Nagle had commenced improving some
time before, and which, I had understood, lay between Seattle and Lake
Washington. When I reached the fence surrounding the improvements, I
seated myself on one of the top rails for a seat and to ponder the
advisability of remaining with my new neighbor over night, or going on
to town. While sitting thus, I could not help contrasting his
improvements with my own. The size of the clearing was the same, the
house was a good deal like mine, the only seeming difference was that
the front of his faced the west, whereas the front of mine faced the
east. While puzzling over this strange coincidence, my own mother came
out of the house to feed the poultry that had commenced going to roost,
in a rookery for all the world like my own, only facing the wrong way.
'In the name of all that's wonderful!' I thought, 'what is she doing
here? and how did she get here ahead of me?' Just then the world took a
spin around, my ranch wheeled into line, and, lo! I was sitting on my
own fence, and had been looking at my own improvements without knowing
them." And from this he draws a moral and adorns the tale with the
philosophic conclusion that people cannot see and think alike owing to
their point of view, and we therefore must be charitable.
Until accustomed to it and schooled in wood-craft, the mighty and
amazing forest was bewildering and mysterious to the adventurous
settler; however, they soon learned how not to lose themselves in its
labyrinthine depths.
Dr. Smith is a past master in description, as will be seen by this
word-picture of a fire in a vast pitchy and resinous mass of combustible
material. I have witnessed many, each a magnificent display.
"Washington beats the world for variety and magnificence of awe
inspiring mountains and other scenery. I have seen old ocean in
her wildest moods, have beheld the western prairie on fire by
night, when the long, waving lines of flame flared and flashed
their red light against the low, fleecy clouds till they
blossomed into roseate beauty, looking like vast spectral flower
gardens, majestically sweeping through the heavens; have been in
the valley of the river Platte, when all the windows of the sky
and a good many doors opened at once and the cloud-masked
batteries of the invisible hosts of the air volleyed and
thundered till the earth fairly reeled beneath the terrific
cannonade that tore its quivering bosom with red-hot bombs until
awe-stricken humanity shriveled into utter nothingness in the
presence of the mad fury of the mightiest forces of nature. But
for magnificence of sublime imagery and awe-inspiring grandeur a
forest fire raging among the gigantic firs and towering cedars
that mantle the shores of Puget Sound, surpasses anything I have
ever beheld, and absolutely baffles all attempts at description.
It has to be seen to be comprehended. The grandest display of
forest pyrotechnics is witnessed when an extensive tract that has
been partly cleared by logging is purposely or accidentally
fired. When thus partly cleared, all the tops of the fir, cedar,
spruce, pine and hemlock trees felled for their lumber remain on
the ground, their boughs fairly reeking with balsam. All inferior
trees are left standing, and in early days when only the very
choicest logs would be accepted by the mills, about one-third
would be left untouched, and then the trees would stand thicker,
mightier, taller than in the average forest of the eastern and
middle states.
"I once witnessed the firing of a two thousand acre tract thus
logged over. It was noon in the month of August, and not a breath
of air moved the most delicate ferns on the hillsides. The birds
had hushed their songs for their midday siesta, and the babbling
brook at our feet had grown less garrulous, as if in sympathy
with the rest of nature, when the torch was applied. A dozen or
more neighbors had come together to witness the exhibition of the
unchained element about to hold high carnival in the amphitheater
of the hills, and each one posted himself, rifle in hand, in some
conspicuous place at least a quarter of a mile from the slashing
in order to get a shot at any wild animal fleeing from the 'wrath
to come.'
"The tract was fired simultaneously on all sides by siwashes, who
rapidly circled it with long brands, followed closely by rivers
of flame in hot pursuit.
"As soon as the fire worked its way to the massive winrows of dry
brush, piled in making roads in every direction, a circular wall
of solid flame rose half way to the tops of the tall trees. Soon
the rising of the heated air caused strong currents of cooler air
to set in from every side. The air currents soon increased to
cyclones. Then began a race of the towering, billowy, surging
walls of fire for the center. Driven furiously on by these
ever-increasing, eddying, and fiercely contending tornadoes, the
flames lolled and rolled and swayed and leaped, rising higher and
higher, until one vast, circular tidal wave of liquid fire rolled
in and met at the center with the whirl and roar of pandemoniac
thunder and shot up in a spiral and rapidly revolving red-hot
cone, a thousand feet in mid-air, out of whose flaring and
crater-like apex poured dense volumes of tarry smoke, spreading
out on every side, like unfolding curtains of night, till the sun
was darkened and the moon was turned to blood and the stars
seemed literally raining from heaven, as glowing firebrands that
had been carried up by the fierce tornado of swirling flame and
carried to immense distances by upper air currents, fell back in
showers to the ground. The vast tract, but a few moments before
as quiet as a sleeping infant in its cradle, was now one vast
arena of seething, roaring, raging flame. The long, lithe limbs
of the tall cedars were tossing wildly about, while the strong
limbs of the sturdier firs and hemlocks were freely gyrating like
the sinewy arms of mighty giant athletes engaged in mortal
combat. Ever and anon their lower, pitch-dripping branches would
ignite from the fervent heat below, when the flames would rush to
the very tops with the roar of contending thunders and shoot
upward in bright silvery volumes from five to seven hundred feet,
or double the height of the trees themselves. Hundreds of these
fire-volumes flaring and flaming in quick succession and
sometimes many of them simultaneously, in conjunction with the
weird eclipse-like darkness that veiled the heavens, rendered the
scene one of awful grandeur never to be forgotten.
"So absorbed were we all in the preternatural war of the fiercely
contending elements that we forgot our guns, our game and
ourselves.
* * * * *
"The burnt district, after darkness set in, was wild and weird in
the extreme. The dry bark to the very tops of the tall trees was
on fire and constantly falling off in large flakes, and the air
was filled ever and anon with dense showers of golden stars,
while the trees in the environs seemed to move about through the
fitful shadows like grim brobdignags clad in sheeny armor."
Having witnessed many similar conflagrations I am able to say that the
subject could scarcely be better treated.
Through the courtesy of the author, Dr. H. A. Smith, I have been
permitted to insert the following poem, which has no doubt caused many a
grim chuckle and scowl of sympathy, too, from the old pioneers of the
Northwest:
"THE MORTGAGE.
"The man who holds a mortgage on my farm
And sells me out to gratify his greed,
Is shielded by our shyster laws from harm,
And ever laud for the dastard deed!
Though morally the man is really worse
Than if he knocked me down and took my purse;
The last would mean, at most, a moment's strife,
The first would mean the struggle of a life,
And homeless children wailing in the cold,
A prey to want and miseries manifold;
Then if I loot him of his mangy pup
The guardians of the law will lock me up,
And jaundiced justice fly into a rage
While pampered Piety askance my rags will scan,
And Shylock shout, 'Behold a dangerous man!'
But notwithstanding want to Heaven cries,
And villains masquerade in virtue's guise,
And Liberty is moribund or dead--
Except for men who corporations head--
One little consolation still remains,
The human race will one day rend its chains."
In transcribing Indian myths and religious beliefs, Dr. Smith displays
much ability. After having had considerable acquaintance with the native
races, he concludes that "Many persons are honestly of the opinion that
Indians have no ideas above catching and eating salmon, but if they will
lay aside prejudice and converse freely with the more intelligent
natives, they will soon find that they reason just as well on all
subjects that attract their attention as we do, and being free from
pre-conceived opinions, they go directly to the heart of theories and
reason both inductively and deductively with surprising clearness and
force."
Dr. Smith exhibits in his writings a broadly charitable mind which sees
even in the worst, still some lingering or smothered good.
Dr. Smith is one of a family of patriots; his great-grandfather,
Copelton Smith, who came from Germany to America in 1760 and settled in
or near Philadelphia, Pa., fought for liberty in the war of the
Revolution under General Washington. His father, Nicholas Smith, a
native of Pennsylvania, fought for the Stars and Stripes in 1812. Two
brothers fought for Old Glory in the war of the Rebellion, and he
himself was one of the volunteers who fought for their firesides in the
State, then Territory of Washington.
"A family of fighters," as he says, "famous for their peaceful
proclivities when let alone."
The varied experiences of life in the Northwest have developed in him a
sane and sweet philosophy, perhaps nowhere better set forth in his
writings than in his poem "Pacific's Pioneers," read at a reunion of the
founders of the state a few years ago, and with which I close this brief
and inadequate sketch:
"PACIFIC'S PIONEERS.
"A greeting to Pacific's Pioneers,
Whose peaceful lives are drawing to a close,
Whose patient toil, for lo these many years,
Has made the forest blossom as the rose.
"And bright-browed women, bonny, brave and true,
And laughing lasses, sound of heart and head,
Who home and kindred bade a last adieu
To follow love where fortune led.
"I do not dedicate these lines alone
To men who live to bless the world today,
But I include the nameless and unknown
The pioneers who perished by the way.
"Not for the recreant do my numbers ring,
The men who spent their lives in sport and spree,
Nor for the barnacles that always cling
To every craft that cruises Freedom's sea.
"But nearly all were noble, brave and kind,
And little cared for fame or fashion's gyves;
And though they left their Sunday suits behind
They practiced pure religion all their lives.
"Their love of peace no people could excel,
Their dash in war the poet's pen awaits;
Their sterling loyalty made possible
Pacific's golden galaxy of states.
"They had no time to bother much about
Contending creeds that vex the nation's Hub,
But then they left their leather latches out
To every wandering Arab short of grub.
"Cut off from all courts, man's earthly shield from harm,
They looked for help to Him whose court's above,
And learned to lean on labor's honest arm,
And live the higher law, the law of love.
"Not one but ought to wear a crown of gold,
If crowns were made for men who do their best
Amid privations cast and manifold
That unborn generations may be blest.
"Among these rugged pioneers the rule
Was equal rights, and all took special pride
In 'tending Mother Nature's matchless school,
And on her lessons lovingly relied.
"And this is doubtless why they are in touch
With Nature's noblemen neath other skies;
And though of books they may not know as much
Their wisdom lasts, as Nature never lies.
"And trusting God and His unerring plan
As only altruistic natures could
Their faith extended to their fellow man,
The image of the Author of all good.
"Since Nature here has done her best to please
By making everything in beauty's mold,
Loads down with balm of flowers every breeze,
And runs her rivers over reefs of gold,
"It seems but natural that men who yearn
For native skies, and visit scenes of yore,
Are seldom satisfied till they return
To roam the Gardens of the Gods once more!
"And since they fell in love with nature here
How fitting they should wish to fall asleep
Where sparkling mountain spires soar and spear
The stainless azure of the upper deep.
"And yet we're saddened when the papers say
Another pioneer has passed away!
And memory recalls when first, forsooth,
We saw him in the glorious flush of youth.
"How plain the simple truth when seen appears,
No wonder that faded leaves we fall!
This is the winter of the pioneers
That blows a wreath of wrinkles to us all!
"A few more mounds for faltering feet to seek,
When, somewhere in this lovely sunset-land
Like some weird, wintry, weather-beaten peak
Some rare old Roman all alone will stand.
"But not for long, for ere the rosy dawn
Of many golden days has come and gone,
Our pine-embowered bells will shout to every shore
'Pacific's Pioneers are now no more!'
"But lovely still the glorious stars will glow
And glitter in God's upper deep like pearls
And mountains too will wear their robes of snow
Just as they did when we were boys and girls.
"Ah well, it may be best, and is, no doubt,
As death is quite as natural as birth
And since no storms can blow the sweet stars out,
Why should one wish to always stay on earth?
"Especially as God can never change,
And man's the object of His constant care
And though beyond the Pleiades we range
His boundless love and mercy must be there."
CHAPTER X.
FAMOUS INDIAN CHIEFS.
Sealth or "Old Seattle," a peaceable son of the forest, was of a line of
chieftains, his father, Schweabe, or Schweahub, a chief before him of
the Suquampsh tribe inhabiting a portion of the west shore of Puget
Sound, his mother, a Duwampsh of Elliott Bay, whose name was
Wood-sho-lit-sa.
Sealth's birthplace was the famous Oleman House, near the site of which
he is now buried. Oleman House was an immense timber structure, long ago
inhabited by many Indians; scarcely a vestige of it now remains. It was
built by Sealth's father. Chief Sealth was twice married and had three
sons and five daughters, the last of whom, Angeline, or Ka-ki-is-il-ma,
passed away on May 31, 1896. In an interview she informed me that her
grandfather, Schweabe, was a tall, slim man, while Sealth was rather
heavy as well as tall. Sealth was a hunter, she said, but not a great
warrior. In the time of her youth there were herds of elk near Oleman
House which Sealth hunted with the bow or gun.
The elk, now limited to the fastnesses of the Olympic Mountains, were
also hunted in the cove south of West Seattle, by Englishmen, Sealth's
cousin, Tsetseguis, helping, with other Indians, to carry out the
game.
Angeline further said that her father, "Old Seattle," as the white
people called him, inherited the chiefship when a little boy. As he grew
up he became more important, married, obtained slaves, of whom he had
eight when the Dennys came, and acquired wealth. Of his slaves, Yutestid
is living (1899) and when reminded of him she laughed and repeated his
name several times, saying, "Yutestid! Yutestid! How was it possible for
me to forget him? Why, we grew up together!" Yutestid was a slave by
descent, as also were five others; the remaining two he had purchased.
It is said that he bought them out of pity from another who treated them
cruelly.
Sealth, Keokuk, William and others, with quite a band of Duwampsh and
Suquampsh Indians, once attacked the Chimacums, surrounded their large
house or rancheree at night; at some distance away they joined hands
forming a circle and gradually crept up along the ground until quite
near, when they sprang up and fired upon them; the terrified occupants
ran out and were killed by their enemies. On entering they found one of
the wounded crawling around crying "Ah! A-ah!" whom they quickly
dispatched with an ax.
A band of Indians visited Alki in 1851, who told the story to the white
settlers, imitating their movements as the attacking party and
evidently much enjoying the performance.
About the year 1841, Sealth set himself to avenge the death of his
nephew, Almos, who was killed by Owhi. With five canoe loads of his
warriors, among whom was Curley, he ascended White River and attacked a
large camp, killed more than ten men and carried the women and children
away into captivity.
At one time in Olympia some renegades who had planned to assassinate
him, fired a shot through his tent but he escaped unhurt. Dr. Maynard,
who visited him shortly after, saw that while he talked as coolly as if
nothing unusual had occurred, he toyed with his bow and arrow as if he
felt his power to deal death to the plotters, but nothing was ever known
of their punishment.
Sealth was of a type of Puget Sound Indian whose physique was not by any
means contemptible. Tall, broad shouldered, muscular, even brawny,
straight and strong, they made formidable enemies, and on the warpath
were sufficiently alarming to satisfy the most exacting tenderfoot whose
contempt for the "bowlegged siwash" is by no means concealed. Many of
the old grizzly-haired Indians were of large frame and would, if living,
have made a towering contrast to their little "runts" of critics.
Neither were their minds dwarfed, for evidently not narrowed by running
in the grooves of other men's thoughts, they were free to nourish
themselves upon nature and from their magnificent environment they drew
many striking comparisons.
Not versed in the set phrases of speech, time-worn and hackneyed, their
thoughts were naive, fresh, crude and angular as the frost-rended rocks
on the mountain side. A number of these Indians were naturally gifted as
orators; with great, mellow voices, expressive gestures, flaming
earnestness, piteous pathos and scorching sarcasm, they told their
wrongs, commemorated their dead and declared their friendship or hatred
in a voluminous, polysyllabic language no more like Chinook than
American is like pigeon English.
The following is a fragment valuable for the intimation it gives of
their power as orators, as well as a true description of the appearance
of Sealth, written by Dr. H. A. Smith, a well known pioneer, and
published in the Seattle Sunday Star of October 29, 1877:
"Old Chief Seattle was the largest Indian I ever saw, and by far
the noblest looking. He stood nearly six feet in his moccasins,
was broad-shouldered, deep-chested and finely proportioned. His
eyes were large, intelligent, expressive and friendly when in
repose, and faithfully mirrored the varying moods of the great
soul that looked through them. He was usually solemn, silent and
dignified, but on great occasions moved among assembled
multitudes like a Titan among Lilliputians, and his lightest word
was law.
"When rising to speak in council or to tender advice, all eyes
were turned upon him, and deep-toned, sonorous and eloquent
sentences rolled from his lips like the ceaseless thunders of
cataracts flowing from exhaustless fountains, and his magnificent
bearing was as noble as that of the most civilized military
chieftain in command of the force of a continent. Neither his
eloquence, his dignity nor his grace was acquired. They were as
native to his manhood as leaves and blossoms are to a flowering
almond.
"His influence was marvelous. He might have been an emperor but
all his instincts were democratic, and he ruled his subjects with
kindness and paternal benignity.
"He was always flattered by marked attentions from white men, and
never so much as when seated at their tables, and on such
occasions he manifested more than anywhere else his genuine
instincts of a gentleman.
"When Governor Stevens first arrived in Seattle and told the
natives that he had been appointed commissioner of Indian affairs
for Washington Territory, they gave him a demonstrative reception
in front of Dr. Maynard's office near the water front on Main
Street. The bay swarmed with canoes and the shore was lined with
a living mass of swaying, writhing, dusky humanity, until Old
Chief Seattle's trumpet-toned voice rolled over the immense
multitude like the reveille of a bass drum, when silence became
as instantaneous and perfect as that which follows a clap of
thunder from a clear sky.
"The governor was then introduced to the native multitude by Dr.
Maynard, and at once commenced in a conversational, plain and
straightforward style, an explanation of his mission among them,
which is too well understood to require recapitulation.
"When he sat down, Chief Seattle arose, with all the dignity of a
senator who carries the responsibilities of a great nation on his
shoulders. Placing one hand on the governor's head, and slowly
pointing heavenward with the index finger of the other, he
commenced his memorable address in solemn and impressive tones:
"'Yonder sky has wept tears of compassion on our fathers for
centuries untold, and which to us, looks eternal, may change.
Today it is fair, tomorrow it may be overcast with clouds. My
words are like the clouds that never set. What Seattle says the
chief Washington can rely upon, with as much certainty as our
pale-face brothers can rely upon the return of the seasons. The
son of the white chief says his father sends us greetings of
friendship and good-will. This is kind, for we know he has little
need of our friendship in return, because his people are many.
They are like the grass that covers the vast prairie, while my
people are few and resemble the scattering trees of a storm-swept
plain.
"'The great, and I presume good, white chief sends us word that
he wants to buy our lands, but is willing to allow us to reserve
enough to live on comfortably. This indeed appears generous, for
the red man no longer has rights that he need respect, and the
offer may be wise also, for we are no longer in need of a great
country.
"'There was a time when our people covered the whole land as the
waves of a wind-ruffled sea covers its shell-paved shore. That
time has long since passed away with the greatness of tribes
almost forgotten. I will not mourn over our untimely decay, or
reproach my pale-face brothers with hastening it, for we, too,
may have been somewhat to blame.
"'When our young men grew angry at some real or imaginary wrong
and disfigured their faces with black paint, their hearts also
are disfigured and turned black, and then cruelty is relentless
and knows no bounds, and our old men are not able to restrain
them.'
"He continued in this eloquent strain and closed by saying: 'We
will ponder your proposition and when we have decided we will
tell you, but should we accept it I here and now make this first
condition: That we shall not be denied the privilege, without
molestation, of visiting at will the graves of our ancestors and
friends. Every part of this country is sacred to my people;
every hillside, every valley, every plain and grove has been
hallowed by some fond memory or some sad experience of my tribe.
"'Even the rocks that seem to lie dumb, as they swelter in the
sun, along the silent seashore in solemn grandeur, thrill with
memories of past events, connected with the fate of my people and
the very dust under our feet responds more lovingly to our
footsteps than to yours, because it is the ashes of our ancestors
and their bare feet are conscious of the sympathetic touch, for
the soil is rich with the life of our kindred. At night when the
streets of your cities and villages shall be silent and you think
them deserted they will throng with the returning hosts that once
filled and still love this beautiful land. The white man will
never be alone. Let him be just and deal kindly with my people,
for the dead are not altogether powerless.'"
Concerning the well-known portrait of Sealth, Clarence Bagley has this
to say:
"It was in the early summer of 1865 that the original picture
which is now so much seen of the old chief was taken. I think I
probably have a diary giving the day upon which the old chief sat
for his picture. An amateur artist named E. M. Sammis had secured
a camera at Olympia and coming to Seattle established himself in
a ramshackle building at the southeast corner of what is now Main
and First Avenue South. Old Chief Seattle used often to hang
about the gallery and scrutinize the pictures with evident
satisfaction. I myself spent not a little time in and about the
gallery and on the particular day the picture of the old chief
was taken, was there. It occurred to the photographer to get a
picture of the chief. The latter was easily persuaded to sit and
it is a wrong impression, that has become historic, that the
Indians generally were afraid of the photographer's art,
considering it black magic.
"The chief's picture was taken and I printed the first copy taken
from the negative. There may possibly have been photographs taken
of the old chief at a later date, but I do not remember any,
certainly none earlier, that I ever knew of."
With regard to Sealth's oratory, D. T. Denny relates that when the chief
with his "tillicum" camped on the "Point" near the site of the New
England Hotel, often in the evening he would stand up and address his
people. D. T. Denny's home was near the site of the Stevens Hotel
(Marion and First Avenue, Seattle), and many Indians were camped near
by. When these heard Chief Sealth's voice, they would turn their heads
in a listening attitude and evidently understood what he was saying,
although he was about three-fourths of a mile away, such was the
resonance and carrying power of his voice.
My father has also related to me this incident: Sealth and his people
camped alongside the little white settlement at Alki. While there one
of his wives died and A. A. Denny made a coffin for the body, but they
wrapped the same in so many blankets that it would not go in and they
were obliged to remove several layers, although they probably felt
regret as the number of wrappings no doubt evidenced wealth and
position.
D. T. Denny was well acquainted with George Seattle, or See-an-ump-kun,
one of Sealth's sons, who was a friendly, good-natured Indian, married
to a woman of the Sklallam tribe. The other surviving son when the
whites arrived, was called Jim Seattle.
Thlid Kanem was a cousin of Sealth.
On the 7th of June, 1866, the famous old chieftain joined the Great
Majority.
He had outlived many of his race, doubtless because of his temperate
habits.
If, as the white people concluded, he was born in 1786, his age was
eighty years. It might well have been greater, as they have no records
and old Indians show little change often in twenty or twenty-five years,
as I have myself observed.
In 1890 some leading pioneers of Seattle erected a monument to his
memory over his grave in the Port Madison reservation. A Christian
emblem it is, a cross of Italian marble adorned with an ivy wreath and
bears this legend:
"SEATTLE
Chief of the Suqamps and Allied Tribes,
Died June 7, 1866.
The Firm Friend of the Whites, and for Him the
City of Seattle was Named by Its
Founders."
Also on the side opposite,
"Baptismal name, Noah Sealth, Age probably
80 years."
LESCHI.
Leschi was a noted Nesqually-Klickitat chief, who at the head of a body
of warriors attacked Seattle in 1856.
Other chiefs implicated were, Kitsap, Kanasket, Quiemuth, Owhi and
Coquilton.
Leschi being accused of influencing the Indians at Seattle, who were
friendly, in January, 1856, an attempt was made to capture him by
Captain Keyes of Fort Steilacoom. Keyes sent Maloney and his company in
the Hudson Bay Company's steamer "Beaver" to take him prisoner.
They attempted to land but Leschi gathered up his warriors and prepared
to fight. Being at a decided disadvantage, as but a few could land at a
time, the soldiers were obliged to withdraw. Keyes made a second attempt
in the surveying steamer "Active;" having no cannon he tried to borrow a
howitzer from the "Decatur" at Seattle, but the captain refused to loan
it and Keyes returned to get a gun at the fort. Leschi prudently
withdrew to Puyallup, where he continued his warlike preparations.
Followed by quite an army of hostile Indians, he landed on the shore of
Lake Washington, east of Seattle, at a point near what is now called
Leschi Park, and on the 26th of January, 1856, made the memorable attack
on Seattle.
The cunning and skill of the Indian in warfare were no match for the
white man's cannon and substantial defenses and Leschi was defeated. He
threatened a second attack but none was ever made. By midsummer the war
was at an end.
By an agreement of a council held in the Yakima country, between Col.
Wright and the conquered chiefs, among whom were Leschi, Quiemuth,
Nelson, Stahi and the younger Kitsap, they were permitted to go free on
parole, having promised to lead peaceable lives. Leschi complied with
the agreement but feared the revenge of white men, so gave himself up to
Dr. Tolmie, as stated elsewhere. Dr. Tolmie was Chief Factor of the
Hudson Bay Company. He came from Scotland in 1833 with another young
surgeon and served in the medical department at Fort Vancouver several
years. Dr. Tolmie was a prominent figure at Fort Nesqually, a very
influential man with the Indians and distinguished for his ability; he
lived in Victoria many years, where he died at a good old age.
[Illustration: TYPES OF INDIAN HOUSES]
A special term of court was held to try Leschi for a murder which it
could not be proven he committed and the jury failed to agree. He was
tried again in March, 1857, convicted and sentenced to be hanged on the
10th of June. The case was carried up to the supreme court and the
verdict sustained. Again he was sentenced to die on the 22nd of January,
1858. A strong appeal was made by those who wished to see justice done,
to Gov. McMullin, who succeeded Gov. Stevens, but a protest prevailed,
and when the day set for execution arrived, a multitude of people
gathered to witness it at Steilacoom. But the doomed man's friends saw
the purpose was revenge and a sharp reproof was administered. The
sheriff and his deputy were arrested, for selling liquor to the Indians,
before the hour appointed, and held until the time passed. Greatly
chagrined at being frustrated, the crowd held meetings the same evening
and by appealing to the legislature and some extraordinary legislation
in sympathy with them, supplemented by "ground and lofty tumbling" in
the courts, Leschi was sentenced for the third time.
On the 19th of February, 1858, worn by sickness and prolonged
imprisonment he was murdered in accordance with the sentiment of his
enemies.
No doubt the methods of _savage_ warfare were not approved, but that did
not prevent their hanging a man on parole.
On July 3rd, 1895, a large gathering of Indians assembled on the
Nesqually reservation. Over one thousand were there. They met to remove
the bones of Leschi and Quiemuth to the reservation. The ceremonies were
very impressive; George Leschi, a nephew of Leschi and son of Quiemuth,
made a speech in the Indian tongue. He said the war was caused by the
whites demanding that the Nesqually and Puyallup Indians be removed to
the Quiniault reservation on the Pacific Coast, and their reservation
thrown open for settlement. It was in battling for the rights of their
people and to preserve the lands of their forefathers, he said, that the
war was inaugurated by the Indian chiefs.
PAT KANEM.
The subject of this sketch was one of the most interesting characters
brought into prominence by the conflict of the two races in early days
of conquest in the Northwest. That he was sometimes misunderstood was
inevitable as he was self-contained and independent in his nature and
probably concealed his motives from friend and foe alike.
The opinion of the Indians was not wholly favorable to him as he became
friendly to the white people, especially so toward some who were
influential.
Pat Kanem was one of seven brothers, his mother a Snoqualmie of which
tribe he was the recognized leader, his father, of another tribe, the
Soljampsh.
It is said that he planned the extermination or driving out of the
whites and brought about a collision at old Fort Nesqually in 1849, when
Leander Wallace was killed, he and his warriors having picked a quarrel
with the Indians in that vicinity who ran to the fort for protection. It
seems impossible to ascertain the facts as to the intention of the
Snoqualmies because of conflicting accounts. Some who are well
acquainted with the Indians think it was a quarrel, pure and simple,
between the Indians camped near by and the visiting Snoqualmies, without
any ulterior design upon the white men or upon the fort itself. Also,
Leander Wallace persisted in boasting that he could settle the
difficulty with a club and contrary to the persuasions of the people in
the fort went outside, thereby losing his life.
Four of Pat Kanem's brothers were arrested; and although one shot killed
Wallace, two Indians were hung, a proceeding which would hardly have
followed had they been white men. John Kanem, one of Pat Kanem's
brothers, often visited Mr. and Mrs. D. T. Denny afterward, and would
repeat again and again, "They killed my brother" (Kluskie mem-a-loose
nika ow).
A Snoqualmie Indian in an interview recently said that Qushun (Little
Cloud) persuaded Pat Kanem to give up his brother so that he might
surely obtain and maintain the chiefship. Whatever may have been his
attitude at first toward the white invaders he afterward became their
ally in subduing the Indian outbreak.
As A. A. Denny recounts in his valuable work "Pioneer Days on Puget
Sound," Pat Kanem gave him assurance of his steadfast friendship before
the war and further demonstrated it by appearing according to previous
agreement, accompanied by women and children of the tribe, obviously a
peace party, with gifts of choice game which he presented on board to
the captain of the "Decatur."
With half a hundred or more of his warriors, his services were accepted
by the governor and they applied themselves to the gruesome industry of
taking heads from the hostile ranks. Eighty dollars for a chief's head
and twenty for a warrior's were the rewards offered.
Lieut. Phelps, gratefully remembered by the settlers of Seattle, thus
described his appearance at Olympia, after having invested some of his
pay in "Boston ictas" (clothes): "Pat Kanem was arrayed in citizen's
garb, including congress gaiters, white kid gloves, and a white shirt
with standing collar reaching half-way up his ears, and the whole
finished off with a flaming red neck-tie."
Pat Kanem died while yet young; he must have been regarded with
affection by his people. Years afterward when one of his tribe visited
an old pioneer, he was given a photograph of Pat Kanem to look at;
wondering at his silence the family were struck by observing that he
was gazing intently on the pictured semblance of his dead and gone
chieftain, while great tears rolled unchecked down the bronze cheeks.
What thoughts of past prosperity, the happy, roving life of the long ago
and those who mingled in it, he may have had, we cannot tell.
STUDAH.
Studah, or Williams, was one of three sons of a very old Duwampsh chief,
"Queaucton," who brought them to A. A. Denny asking that he give them
"Boston" names. He complied by calling them Tecumseh, Keokuk and
William.
The following sketch was written by Rev. G. F. Whitworth, a well-known
pioneer:
"William, the chief of the surviving Indians of the Duwampsh
tribe, died at the Indian camp on Cedar River on Wednesday, April
1. He was one of the few remaining Indians who were at all
prominent in the early settlement of this country, and is almost,
if not actually, the last of those who were ever friendly to the
whites. His father, who died about the time that the first white
settlements were made in this country, was the principal or head
chief of the Duwamish Indians. He left three sons, Tecumseh,
Keokuk and William. All of whom are now dead. Tecumseh,
presumably the eldest son, succeeded his father, and was
recognized as chief until he was deposed by Capt. (now Gen.)
Dent, U. S. A., who acted under authority of the United States
government in relation to the Indians, at that time. He had some
characteristics which seemed to disqualify him for the office,
while on the other hand William seemed pre-eminently fitted to
fill the position, and was therefore chief and had been
recognized both by whites and Indians up to the time of his
death.
"At the time of the Indian war, he, like Seattle and Curley, was
a true friend of the whites. The night before Seattle was
attacked there was a council of war held in the woods back of the
town, and William attended that council, and his voice was heard
for peace and against war. He was always friendly to the whites,
and for nearly forty years he has been faithful in his friendship
to E. W. Smithers, to whom I am indebted for much of the
information contained in this article.
"Those who knew William will remember that he was distinguished
for natural dignity of manner. He was an earnest and sincere
Catholic, was a thoroughly good Indian, greatly respected by his
tribe, and having the confidence of those among the whites who
knew him. William was an orator and quite eloquent in his own
language. On one occasion shortly after Capt. Hill, U. S. A.,
came to the territory, some complaints had been made to the
superintendent, which were afterwards learned to be unfounded,
asking to have the Duwamish Indians removed from Black River to
the reservation. Capt. Hill was sent to perform this service, and
went with a steamer to their camp, which was on Mr. Smither's
farm, a little above the railroad bridge. The captain was
accompanied by United States Agent Finkbonner, and on his arrival
at the camp addressed the Indians, through an interpreter,
informing them of the nature of his errand, and directing them to
gather their 'ictas' without delay and go on board the steamer,
to be at once conveyed to the reservation. William and his
Indians listened respectfully to the captain, and when he had
closed his remarks William made his reply.
"His speech was about an hour in length, in which his eloquence
was clearly exhibited. He replied that the father at Olympia or
the Great Father at Washington City, had no right to remove his
tribe. They were peaceful, had done no wrong. They were under no
obligation to the government, had received nothing at its hands,
and had asked for nothing; they had entered into no treaty; their
lands had been taken from them. This, however, was their home. He
had been born on Cedar River, and there he intended to remain,
and there his bones should be laid. They were not willing to be
removed. They could not be removed. He might bring the soldiers
to take them, but when they should come he would not find them,
for they would flee and hide themselves in the 'stick' (the
woods) where the soldiers could not find them. Capt. Hill found
himself in a dilemma, out of which he was extricated by Mr.
Smithers, who convinced the captain that the complaints were
unfounded, and that with two or three exceptions those who had
signed the complaint and made the request did not reside in that
neighborhood, but lived miles away. They were living on Mr.
Smithers' land with his consent, and when he further guaranteed
their good behavior, and Mrs. Smithers assured him that she had
no fears and no grievance, but that when Mr. Smithers was away
she considered them a protection rather than otherwise, the
captain concluded to return without them, and to report the facts
as he found them.
"William's last message was sent to Mr. Smithers a few days
before he died, and was a request that he would see that he was
laid to rest as befitted his rank, and not allow him to be buried
like a seedy old vagrant, as many of the newcomers considered him
to be.
"It is hardly necessary for me to say that this request was
faithfully complied with, and that on Friday, April 3, his
remains were interred in the Indian burying ground near Renton.
The funeral was a large one, Indians from far and near coming to
render their last tribute of respect to his memory.
"From the time of his birth until his death he had lived in the
region of Cedar and Black Rivers, seventy-nine years.
"His successor as chief will be his nephew, Rogers, who is a son
of Tecumseh."
"ANGELINE."
Ka-ki-is-il-ma, called Angeline by the white settlers, about whom so much
has been written, was a daughter of Sealth.
In an interview, some interesting facts were elicited.
Angeline saw white people first at Nesqually, "King George" people, the
Indians called the Hudson Bay Company's agents and followers.
She saw the brothers of Pat Kanem arrested for the killing of Wallace;
she said that Sealth thought it was right that the two Snoqualmies were
executed.
When a little girl she wore deerskin robes or long coats and a collar of
shells; in those days her tribe made three kinds of robes, some of
"suwella," "shulth" or mountain beaver fur, and of deer-skins; the third
was possibly woven, as they made blankets of mountain sheep's wool and
goat's hair.
Angeline was first married to a big chief of the Skagits, Dokubkun by
name; her second husband was Talisha, a Duwampsh chief. She was a widow
of about forty-five when Americans settled on Elliott Bay. Two
daughters, Chewatum or Betsy and Mamie, were her only children known to
the white people, and both married white men. Betsy committed suicide by
hanging herself in the shed room of a house on Commercial Street, tying
herself to a rafter by a red bandanna handkerchief. Betsy left an
infant son, since grown up, who lived with Angeline many years. Mary or
Mamie married Wm. DeShaw and has been dead for some time.
It has been said that some are born great, some achieve greatness, while
others have greatness thrust upon them. Of the last described class,
Angeline was a shining representative. Souvenir spoons, photographs, and
cups bearing her likeness have doubtless traveled over a considerable
portion of the civilized world, all of the notoriety arising therefrom
certainly being unsought by the poor old Indian woman.
Newspaper reporters, paragraphers, and magazine writers have never
wearied of limning her life, recounting even the smallest incidents and
making of her a conspicuous figure in the literature of the Northwest.
It quite naturally follows that some absurd things have been written,
some heartless, others pathetic and of real literary value, although it
has been difficult for the tenderfoot to avoid errors. Upon the event of
her death, which occurred on Sunday, May 31st, 1896, a leading paper
published an editorial in which a brief outline of the building of the
city witnessed by Angeline was given and is here inserted:
"Angeline, as she had been named by the early settlers, had seen
many wonders. Born on the lonely shores of an unknown country,
reared in the primeval forest, she saw all the progress of modern
civilization. She saw the first cabin of the pioneer; the
struggles for existence on the part of the white man with nature;
the hewing of the log, then the work of the sawmill, the revolt
of the aboriginal inhabitants against the intruder and the
subjugation of the inferior race; the growth from one hut to a
village; from village to town; the swelling population with its
concomitants of stores, ships and collateral industries; the
platting of a town; the organization of government; the
accumulation of commerce; the advent of railroads and
locomotives; of steamships and great engines of maritime warfare;
the destruction of a town by fire and the marvelous energy which
built upon its site, a city. Where there had been a handful of
shacks she saw a city of sixty thousand people; in place of a few
canoes she saw a great fleet of vessels, stern-wheelers,
side-wheelers, propellers, whalebacks, the Charleston and
Monterey. She saw the streets lighted by electricity; saw the
telephone, elevators and many other wonders.
* * * * *
"Death came to her as it does to all; but it came as the
precursor of extinction, it adds another link in the chain which
exemplifies the survival of the fittest."
These comments are coldly judicial and exactly after the mind of the
unsympathetic tenderfoot or the "hard case" of early days. In speaking
of the "survival of the fittest" and the "subjugation of the inferior
race" a contrast is drawn flattering to the white race, but any mention
of the incalculable injury, outrages, indignities and villainies
practiced upon the native inhabitants by evil white men is carefully
avoided. Angeline "saw" a good many other things not mentioned in the
above eulogy upon civilization. She saw the wreck wrought by the white
man's drink; the Indians never made a fermented liquor of their own.
Angeline said that her father, Sealth, once owned all the land on which
Seattle is built, that he was friendly to the white people and wanted
them to have the land; that she was glad to see fine buildings, stores
and such like, but not the saloons; she did not like it at all that the
white people built saloons and Joe, her grandson, would go to them and
get drunk and then they made her pay five dollars to get him out of
jail!
However, I will not dwell here on the dark side of the poor Indians'
history, I turn therefore to more pleasant reminiscence.
Ankuti (a great while ago) when the days were long and happy, in the
time of wild blackberries, two pioneer women with their children, of
whom the writer was one, embarked with Angeline and Mamie in a canoe,
under the old laurel (madrona) tree and paddled down Elliott Bay to a
fine blackberry patch on W. N. Bell's claim.
After wandering about a long while they sat down to rest on mossy logs
beside the trail. They sat facing the water, the day was waning, and as
they thought of their return one of them said, "O look at the canoe!" It
was far out on the shining water; the tide had come up while the party
wandered in the woods and the canoe, with its stake, was quite a
distance from the bank. Mamie ran down the trail to the beach, took off
her moccasins and swam out to the canoe, her mother and the rest
intently watching her. Then she dived down to the bottom; as her round,
black head disappeared beneath the rippling surface, Angeline said "Now
she's gone." But in a few moments we breathed a sigh of relief as up she
rose, having pulled up the stake, and climbed into the canoe, although
how she did it one cannot tell, and paddled to the shore to take in the
happy crew. This little incident, but more especially the scene, the
forms and faces of my friends, the dark forest, moss-cushioned seats
under drooping branches, and the graceful canoe afloat on the silvery
water--and it _did_ seem for a few, long moments that Mamie was gone as
Angeline said in her anxiety for her child's safety showing she too was
a human mother--all this has never left my memory!
Angeline lived for many years in her little shanty near the water front,
assisted often with food and clothing from kindly white friends. She had
a determination to live, die and be buried in Seattle, as it was her
home, and that, too, near her old pioneer friends, thus typifying one of
the dearest wishes of the Indians.
She was one of the good Indian washerwomen, gratefully remembered by
pioneer housewives. These faithful servitors took on them much toil,
wearing and wearisome, now accomplished by machinery or Chinese.
The world is still deceived by the external appearance; but even the
toad "ugly and venomous" was credited with a jewel in its head.
Now Angeline was ugly and untidy, and all that, but not as soulless as
some who relegated her to the lowest class of living creatures.
A white friend whom she often visited, Mrs. Sarah Kellogg, said to the
writer, "Angeline lived up to the light she had; she was honest and
would never take anything that was offered her unless she needed it. I
always made her some little present, saying, 'Well, Angeline, what do
you want? Some sugar?' 'No, I have plenty of sugar, I would like a
little tea.' So it was with anything else mentioned, if she was supplied
she said so. I had not seen her for quite a while at one time, and
hearing she was sick sent my husband to the door of her shack to inquire
after her. Sure enough she lay in her bunk unable to rise. When asked if
she wanted anything to eat, she replied, 'No, I have plenty of
muck-amuck; Arthur Denny sent me a box full, but I want some candles and
matches.'
"She told me that she was getting old and might die any time and that
she never went to bed without saying her prayers.
"During a long illness she came to my house quite often, but was sent
away by those in charge; when I was at last able to sit up, I saw her
approaching the house and went down to the kitchen to be ready to
receive her. As usual I inquired after her wants, when she somewhat
indignantly asked, 'Don't you suppose I can come to see you without
wanting something?'
"One day as she sat in my kitchen a young white girl asked before her,
in English, of course, 'Does Angeline know anything about God?' She said
quickly in Chinook, 'You tell that girl that I know God sees me all the
time; I might lie or steal and you would never find it out, but God
would see me do it.'"
In her old age she exerted herself, even when feeble from sickness, to
walk long distances in quest of food and other necessities, stumping
along with her cane and sitting down now and then on a door-step to rest.
All the trades-people knew her and were generally kind to her.
At last she succumbed to an attack of lung trouble and passed away.
Having declared herself a Roman Catholic, she was honorably buried from
the church in Seattle, Rev. F. X. Prefontaine officiating, while several
of the old pioneers were pallbearers.
A canoe-shaped coffin had been prepared on which lay a cross of native
rhododendrons and a cluster of snowballs, likely from an old garden. A
great concourse of people were present, many out of curiosity, no doubt,
while some were there with real feeling and solemn thought. Her old
friend, Mrs. Maynard, stood at the head of the grave and dropped in a
sprig of cedar. She spoke some encouraging words to Joe Foster, Betsy's
son, and Angeline's sole mourner, advising him to live a good life.
And so Angeline was buried according to her wish, in the burying ground
of the old pioneers.
YUTESTID.
After extending numerous invitations, I was pleasantly surprised upon my
return to my home one day to find Mr. and Mrs. Yutestid awaiting an
interview.
In the first place this Indian name is pronounced _Yute-stid_ and he is
the only survivor (in 1898) of Chief Sealth's once numerous household.
His mother was doubtless a captive, a Cowichan of British Columbia; his
father, a Puget Sound Indian from the vicinity of Olympia. He was quite
old, he does not know how old, but not decrepit; Angeline said they grew
up together.
[Illustration: LAST VOYAGE OF THE LUMEI]
He is thin and wiry looking, with some straggling bristles for a beard
and thick short hair, still quite black, covering a head which looks as
if it had been flattened directly on top as well as back and front as
they were wont to do. This peculiar cranial development does not affect
his intelligence, however, as we have before observed in others; he is
quick-witted and knows a great many things. Yutestid says he can speak
all the leading dialects of the Upper Sound, Soljampsh, Nesqually,
Puyallup, Snoqualmie, Duwampsh, Snohomish, but not the Sklallam and
others north toward Vancouver.
Several incidents related in this volume were mentioned and he
remembered them perfectly, referred to the naming of "New York" on Alki
Point and the earliest settlement, repeating the names of the pioneers.
The murder at Bean's Point was committed by two Soljampsh Indians, he
said, and they were tried and punished by an Indian court.
He remembers the hanging of Pat Kanem's brothers, Kussass and
Quallawowit.
"Long ago, the Indians fight, fight, fight," he said, but he declared he
had never heard of the Duwampsh campaign attributed to Sealth.
Yutestid was not at the battle of Seattle but at Oleman House with
Sealth's tribe and others whom Gov. Stevens had ordered there. He
chuckled as he said "The bad Indians came into the woods near town and
the man-of-war (Decatur) mamoked pooh (shot) at them and they were
frightened and ran away."
Lachuse, the Indian who was shot near Seneca Street, Seattle, he
remembered, and when I told him how the Indian doctor extracted the
buckshot from the wounds he sententiously remarked, "Well, sometimes
the Indian doctors did very well, sometimes they were old humbugs, just
the same as white people."
Oleman House was built long before he was born, according to his
testimony, and was adorned by a carved wooden figure, over the entrance,
of the great thunder bird, which performed the office of a lightning rod
or at least prevented thunder bolts from striking the building.
When asked what the medium of exchange was "ankuti" (long ago), he
measured on the index finger the length of pieces of abalone shell
formerly used for money.
In those days he saw the old women make feather robes of duck-skins,
also of deer-skins and dog-skins with the hair on; they made bead work,
too; beaded moccasins called "_Yachit_."
The old time ways were very slow; he described the cutting of a huge
cedar for a canoe as taking a long time to do, by hacking around it with
a stone hammer and "chisel."
Before the advent of the whites, mats served as sails.
I told him of having seen the public part of Black Tamanuse and they
both laughed at the heathenism of long ago and said, "We don't have that
now."
Yutestid denied that _his_ people ate dog when making black tamanuse,
but said the Sklallams did so.
"If I could speak better English or you better Chinook I could tell you
lots of stories," he averred. Chinook is so very meager, however, that
an interpreter of the native tongue will be necessary to get these
stories.
They politely shook hands and bade me "Good-bye" to jog off through the
rain to their camping place, Indian file, he following in the rear
contentedly smoking a pipe. Yutestid is industrious, cultivating a patch
of ground and yearly visiting the city of Seattle with fruit to sell.
THE CHIEF'S REPLY.
Yonder sky through ages weeping
Tender tears o'er sire and son,
O'er the dead in grave-banks sleeping,
Dead and living loved as one,
May turn cruel, harsh and brazen,
Burn as with a tropic sun,
But my words are true and changeless,
Changeless as the season's run.
Waving grass-blades of wide prairie
Shuttled by lithe foxes wary,
As the eagle sees afar,
So the pale-face people are;
Like the lonely scattering pine-trees
On a bleak and stormy shore,
Few my brother warriors linger
Faint and failing evermore.
Well I know you could command us
To give o'er the land we love,
With your warriors well withstand us
And ne'er weep our graves above.
See on Whulch the South wind blowing
And the waves are running free!
Once my people they were many
Like the waves of Whulch's sea.
When our young men rise in anger,
Gather in a war-bent band,
Face black-painted and the musket
In the fierce, relentless hand,
Old men pleading, plead in vain,
Their dark spirits none restrain.
If to you our land we barter,
This we ask ere set of sun,
To the graves of our forefathers,
Till our days on earth are done,
We may wander as our hearts are
Wandering till our race is run.
Speak the hillsides and the waters,
Speak the valleys, plains and groves,
Waving trees and snow-robed mountains,
Speak to him where'er he roves,
To the red men's sons and daughters
Of their joys, their woes and loves.
By the shore the rocks are ringing
That to you seem wholly dumb,
Ever with the waves are singing,
Winds with songs forever come;
Songs of sorrow for the partings
Death and time make as of yore,
Songs of war and peace and valor,
Red men sang on Whulch's shore.
See! the ashes of our fathers,
Mingling dust beneath our feet,
Common earth to you, the strangers,
Thrills us with a longing sweet.
Fills our pulses rhythmic beat.
At the midnight in your cities
Empty seeming, silent streets
Shall be peopled with the hosts
Of returning warriors' ghosts.
Tho' I shall sink into the dust,
My warning heed; be kind, be just,
Or ghosts shall menace and avenge.
PART III.
INDIAN LIFE AND SETTLERS' BEGINNINGS.
CHAPTER I.
SAVAGE DEEDS OF SAVAGE MEN.
At Bean's Point, opposite Alki on Puget Sound, an Indian murdered, at
night, a family of Indians who were camping there.
The Puyallups and Duwampsh came together in council at Bean's Point,
held a trial and condemned and executed the murderer. Old Duwampsh
Curley was among the members of this native court and likely Sealth and
his counsellors.
One of the family escaped by wading out into the water where he might
have become very cool, if not entirely cold, if it had not been that
Captain Fay and George Martin, a Swedish sailor, were passing by in
their boat and the Indian begged to be taken in, a request they readily
granted and landed him in a place of safety.
Again at Bean's Point an Indian was shot by a white man, a Scandinavian;
the charge was a liberal one of buckshot.
Some white men who went to inquire into the matter followed the
Indian's trail, finding ample evidence that he had climbed the hill back
of the house, where he may have been employed to work, and weak from his
wounds had sat down on a log and then went back to the water; but his
body was never found. It was supposed that the murderer enticed him back
again and when he was dead, weighted and sunk him in the deep, cold
waters of the Sound.
At one time there was quite a large camp of Indians where now runs
Seneca Street, Seattle, near which was my home. It was my father's
custom to hire the Indians to perform various kinds of hard labor, such
as grubbing stumps, digging ditches, cutting wood, etc. For a while we
employed a tall, strong, fine-looking Indian called Lachuse to cut wood;
through a long summer day he industriously plied the ax and late in the
twilight went down to a pool of water, near an old bridge, to bathe. As
he passed by a clump of bushes, suddenly the flash and report of a gun
shattered the still air and Lachuse fell heavily to the ground with his
broad chest riddled with buckshot.
There was great excitement in the camp, running and crying of the women
and debate by the men, who soon carried him into the large Indian house.
He was laid down in the middle of the room and the medicine man, finding
him alive, proceeded to suck the wounds while the tamanuse noise went
on.
A distracted, grey-haired lum-e-i, his mother, came to our house to beg
for a keeler of water, all the time crying, "Mame-loose Lachuse!
Achada!"
Two of the little girls of our family, sleeping in an old-fashioned
trundle bed, were so frightened at the commotion that they pulled the
covers up over their heads so far that their feet protruded below.
The medicine man's treatment seems to have been effective, aided by the
tamanuse music, as Lachuse finally recovered.
The revengeful deed was committed by a Port Washington Indian, in
retaliation for the stealing of his "klootchman" (wife) by an Indian of
the Duwampsh tribe, although it was not Lachuse, this sort of revenge
being in accordance with their heathen custom.
"Jim Keokuk," an Indian, killed another Indian in the marsh near the gas
works; he struck him on the head with a stone. Jim worked as deck hand
on a steamer for a time, but he in turn was finally murdered by other
Indians, wrapped with chains and thrown overboard, which was afterward
revealed by some of the tribe.
There were many cases of retaliation, but the Indians were fairly
peaceable until degraded by drink.
The beginning of hostilities against the white people on the Sound, by
some historians is said to have been the killing of Leander Wallace at
old Fort Nesqually. One of them gives this account:
"Prior to the Whitman massacre, Owhi and Kamiakin, the great
chiefs of the upper and lower Yakima nations, while on a visit to
Fort Nesqually, had observed to Dr. Tolmie that the Hudson Bay
Company's posts with their white employes were a great
convenience to the natives, but the American immigration had
excited alarm and was the constant theme of hostile conversation
among the interior tribes. The erection in 1848, at Fort
Nesqually, of a stockade and blockhouse had also been the subject
of angry criticism by the visiting northern tribes. So insolent
and defiant had been their conduct that upon one afternoon for
over an hour the officers and men of the post had guns pointed
through the loop-holes at a number of Skawhumpsh Indians, who,
with their weapons ready for assault, had posted themselves under
cover of adjacent stumps and trees.
"Shortly before the shooting of Wallace, rumors had reached the
fort that the Snoqualmies were coming in force to redress the
alleged cruel treatment of Why-it, the Snoqualmie wife of the
young Nesqually chief, Wyampch, a dissipated son of Lahalet.
"Dr. Tolmie treated such a pretext as a mere cloak for a
marauding expedition of the Snoqualmies.
"Sheep shearing had gathered numbers of extra hands, chiefly
Snohomish, who were occupying mat lodges close to the fort,
besides unemployed stragglers and camp followers.
"On Tuesday, May 1, 1849, about noon, numbers of Indian women and
children fled in great alarm from their lodges and sought refuge
within the fort. A Snoqualmie war party, led by Pat Kanem,
approached from the southwestern end of the American plains. Dr.
Tolmie having posted a party of Kanakas in the northwest bastion
went out to meet them.
"Tolmie induced Pat Kanem to return with him to the fort, closing
the gate after their entrance."
The following is said to be the account given by the Hudson Bay
Company's officials:
"The gate nearest the mat lodges was guarded by a white man and
an Indian servant. While Dr. Tolmie was engaged in attending a
patient, he heard a single shot fired, speedily followed by two
or three others. He hastily rushed to the bastion, whence a
volley was being discharged at a number of retreating Indians who
had made a stand and found cover behind the sheep washing dam of
Segualitschu Creek. Through a loop-hole the bodies of an Indian
and a white man were discernible at a few yards distance from the
north gate where the firing had commenced.
"He hastened thither and found Wallace breathing his last, with a
full charge of buckshot in his stomach. The dying man was
immediately carried inside of the fort.
"The dead Indian was a young Skawhumpsh, who had accompanied the
Snoqualmies.
"The Snohomish workers, as also the stragglers, had been, with
the newly arrived Snoqualmies, in and out of the abandoned
lodges, chatting and exchanging news. A thoughtless act of the
Indian sentry posted at the water gate, in firing into the air,
had occasioned a general rush of the Snohomish, who had been cool
observers of all that had passed outside.
"Walter Ross, the clerk, came to the gate armed, and seeing
Kussass, a Snoqualmie, pointing his gun at him, fired but missed
him. Kussass then fired at Wallace. Lewis, an American, had a
narrow escape, one ball passing through his vest and trousers and
another grazing his left arm.
"Quallawowit, as soon as the firing began, shot through the
pickets and wounded Tziass, an Indian, in the muscles of his
shoulder, which soon after occasioned his death.
"The Snoqualmies as they retreated to the beach killed two Indian
ponies and then hastily departed in their canoes.
"At the commencement of the shooting, Pat Kanem, guided by
Wyampch, escaped from the fort, a fortunate occurrence, as, upon
his rejoining his party the retreat at once began.
"When Dr. Tolmie stooped to raise Wallace, and the Snoqualmies
levelled their guns to kill that old and revered friend, an
Indian called 'the Priest' pushed aside the guns, exclaiming
'Enough mischief has already been done.'
"The four Indians of the Snoqualmie party whose names were given
by Snohomish informers to Dr. Tolmie, together with Kussass and
Quallawowit, were afterward tried for the murder of Wallace."
Their names were Whyik, Quallawowit, Kussass, Stahowie, Tatetum and
Quilthlimkyne; the last mentioned was a Duwampsh.
Eighty blankets were offered for the giving up of these Indians.
The Snoqualmies came to Steilacoom, where they were to be tried, in war
paint and parade.
The officials came from far; down the Columbia; up the Cowlitz, and
across to Puget Sound, about two hundred miles in primitive style, by
canoe, oxcart or cayuse.
The trial occupied two days; on the third day, the two condemned,
Kussass and Quallawowit, were executed.
One shot Wallace, _two_ Indians were hung; Leschi, a leader in the
subsequent war of 1855, looked on and went away resenting the injustice
of taking two lives for one. Other Indians no doubt felt the same, thus
preparing the way for their deadly opposition to the white race.
It certainly seems likely that the "pretext" of the Snoqualmies was a
valid one as Wyampch, the young Nesqually chief, was a drunkard, and
Why-it, his Snoqualmie wife, was no doubt treated much as Indian wives
generally in such a case, frequently beaten and kicked into
insensibility.
The Snoqualmies had been quarreling with the Nesquallies before this and
it is extremely probable that, as was currently reported among old
settlers, the trouble was among the Indians themselves.
There are two stories also concerning Wallace; first, that he was
outside quietly looking on, which he ought to have known better than to
do; second, that he was warned not to go outside but persisted in going,
boasting that he could settle the difficulty with a club, paying for his
temerity with his life.
A well known historian has said that the "different tribes had been
successfully treated with, but the Indians had acted treacherously
inasmuch as it was well known that they had long been plotting against
the white race to destroy it. This being true and they having entered
upon a war without cause, however, he (Gov. Stevens) might sympathize
with the restlessness of an inferior race who perceived that destiny was
against them, he nevertheless had high duties toward his own."
Now all this was true, yet there were other things equally true. Not all
the treachery, not all the revenge, not all the cruelty were on the
side of the "inferior" race. Even all the inferiority was not on one
side. The garbled translation by white interpreters, the lying, deceit,
nameless and numberless impositions by lawless white men must have
aroused and fostered intense resentment. That there were white savages
here we have ample proof.
When Col. Wright received the conquered Spokane chiefs in council with
some the pipe of peace was smoked. After it was over, Owhi presented
himself and was placed in irons for breaking an agreement with Col.
Wright, who bade him summon his son, Qualchin, on pain of death by
hanging if his son refused to come.
The next day Qualchin appeared not knowing that the order had been
given, and was seized and hung without trial. Evidently Kamiakin, the
Yakima chief, had good reason to fear the white man's treachery when he
refused to join in the council.
The same historian before mentioned tells how Col. Wright called
together the Walla Wallas, informed them that he knew that they had
taken part in recent battles and ordered those who had to stand up;
thirty-five promptly rose. Four of these were selected and hung. Now
these Indians fought for home and country and volunteered to be put to
death for the sake of their people, as it is thought by some, those hung
for the murder of Whitman and his companions, did, choosing to do so of
their own free will, not having been the really guilty ones at all.
Quiemuth, an Indian, after the war, emerged from his hiding place, went
to a white man on Yelm prairie requesting the latter to accompany him to
Olympia that he might give himself up for trial. Several persons went
with him; reached Olympia after midnight, the governor placed him in his
office, locking the door. It was soon known that the Indian was in the
town and several white men got in at the back door of the building. The
guard may have been drowsy or their movements very quiet; a shot was
fired and Quiemuth and the others made a rush for the door where a white
man named Joe Brannan stabbed the Indian fatally, in revenge for the
death of his brother who had been killed by Indians some time before.
Three of the Indian leaders in Western Washington were assassinated by
white men for revenge. Leschi, the most noted of the hostile chiefs on
the Sound, was betrayed by two of his own people, some have said.
I have good authority for saying that he gave himself up for fear of a
similar fate.
He was tried three times before he was finally hung after having been
kept in jail a long time. Evidently there were some obstructionists who
agreed with the following just and truthful statement by Col. G. O.
Haller, a well-known Indian fighter, first published in the Seattle
Post-Intelligencer:
"The white man's aphorism 'The first blow is half the battle,' is
no secret among Indians, and they practice it upon entering a
war. Indeed, weak nations and Indian tribes, wrought to
desperation by real or fancied grievances, inflict while able to
do so horrible deeds when viewed by civilized and Christ-like
men. War is simply barbarism. And when was war refined and
reduced to rules and regulations that must control the Indian who
fights for all that is dear to him--his native land and the
graves of his sires--who finds the white man's donation claim
spread over his long cultivated potato patch, his hog a
trespasser on his old pasture ground and his old residence turned
into a stable for stock, etc.?
"Leschi, like many citizens during the struggle for secession,
appealed to his instincts--his attachment to his tribe--his
desire, at the same time to conform to the requirements of the
whites, which to many of his people were repulsive and
incompatible. He decided and struck heavy blows against us with
his warriors. Since then we have learned a lesson.
[Illustration: A FEW ARTIFACTS OF PUGET SOUND INDIANS]
"Gen. Lee inflicted on the Union army heavy losses of life and
destruction of property belonging to individuals. When he
surrendered his sword agreeing to return to his home and become a
law-abiding citizen, Gen. Grant protected him and his paroled
army from the vengeance of men who sought to make treason
odious. This was in 1866 and but the repetition of the Indian war
of 1856.
"Col. Geo. Wright, commanding the department of the Columbia,
displayed such an overwhelming force in the Klickitat country
that it convinced the hostile Indians of the hopelessness of
pursuing war to a successful issue, and when they asked the terms
of peace, Col. Wright directed them to return to their former
homes, be peaceful and obey the orders of the Indian agents sent
by our government to take charge of them, and they would be
protected by the soldiers.
"The crimes of war cannot be atoned by crimes in cold blood after
the war. Two wrongs do not make a right.
"Leschi, though shrewd and daring in war, adopted Col. Wright's
directions, dropped hostilities, laid aside his rifle and
repaired to Puget Sound, his home.
"Like Lee, he was entitled to protection from the officers and
soldiers. But Leschi, on the Sound, feared the enmity of the
whites, and gave himself up to Dr. Tolmie, an old friend, at
Nesqually--not captured by two Indians of his own tribe and
delivered up. Then began a crusade against Leschi for all the
crimes of his people in war.
"On the testimony of a perjured man, whose testimony was
demonstrated, by a survey of the route claimed by the deponent,
to be a falsehood, he was found guilty by the jury, not of the
offense alleged against him, for it was physically impossible for
Leschi to be at the two points indicated in the time alleged;
hence he was a martyr to the vengeance of unforgiving white men."
I remember having seen the beautiful pioneer woman spoken of in the
following account first published in a Seattle paper. The Castos were
buried in the old burying ground in a corner next the road we traveled
from our ranch to school.
This is the article, head-lines and all:
"John Bonser's Death Recalls an Indian Massacre.
Beautiful Abbie Casto's Fate.
How Death Came Upon Three Pioneers of Squak
Valley--Swift Vengeance on the Murderers.
"The death of John Bonser, one of the earliest pioneers of
Oregon, at Sauvie's Island, near Portland, recently, recalls one
of the bloodiest tragedies that ever occurred in King County and
one which will go down in history as the greatest example the
pioneers had of the evil effect of giving whisky to the Indians.
The event is memorable for another reason, and that is that the
daughter of John Bonser, wife of William Casto, and probably the
most beautiful woman in the territory, was a victim.
"'I don't take much stock in the handsome, charming women we read
about,' said C. B. Bagley yesterday, 'but Mrs. Casto, if placed
in Seattle today with face and form as when she came among us in
1864, would be among the handsomest women in the city, and I
shall never forget the sensation created in our little settlement
when messengers arrived from Squak valley, where the Castos
moved, with the news that Mrs. Casto, her husband and John
Holstead had been killed by Indians, and that a friendly
Klickitat had slain the murderers.
"The first impression was that there had been an uprising among
the treacherous natives and a force, consisting of nearly all the
able-bodied men in the community, started for the scene of the
massacre.
"It is a hard matter for the people of metropolitan Seattle to
carry themselves back, figuratively speaking, to 1864, and
imagine the village of that period with its thirty families.
"The boundaries were limited to a short and narrow line extending
along the water front not farther north than Pike Street. The few
houses were small and unpretentious and the business portion of
the town was confined to Commercial Street, between Main and
Yesler Avenue.
"At that time and even after the great fire in 1889, Yesler
Avenue was known as Mill Street, the name having originated from
the fact that Yesler's mill was located at its foot. Where the
magnificent Dexter Horton bank building now stands stood a small
wooden structure occupied by Dexter Horton as a store, and where
the National Bank of Commerce building, at the corner of Yesler
Avenue and Commercial Street, stood the mill store of the
Yesler-Denny Company. S. B. Hinds, a name forgotten in commercial
circles, kept store on Commercial Street, between Washington and
Main Streets. Charles Plummer was at the corner of Main and
Commercial, and J. R. Williamson was on the east side of
Commercial Street, a half block north. This comprised the entire
list of stores at that time. The forests were the only source to
which the settlers looked for commercial commodities, and these,
when put in salable shape, were often-times compelled to await
means of transportation to markets. Briefly summed up, spars,
piles, lumber and hop-poles were about all the sources of income.
"At that time there was no 'blue book,' and, in fact women were
scarce. It is not surprising then that the arrival of William
Casto, a man aged 38 years and a true representative of the
Kentucky colonel type, with his young wife, the daughter of John
Bonser, of Sauvies Island, Columbia River, near Portland, should
have been a memorable occasion. Mrs. Casto was a natural not an
artificial beauty--one of those women to whom all apparel adapts
itself and becomes a part of the wearer. Every movement was
graceful and her face one that an artist would have raved
about--not that dark, imperious beauty that some might expect,
but the exact opposite. Her eyes were large, blue and expressive,
while her complexion, clear as alabaster, was rendered more
attractive by a rosy hue. She was admired by all and fairly
worshipped by her husband. It was one of those rare cases where
disparity in ages did not prevent mutual devotion.
"In the spring of the year that Casto came to Seattle he took up
a ranch in the heart of Squak valley, where the Tibbetts farm now
lies. Here he built a small house, put in a garden and commenced
clearing. In order to create an income for himself and wife he
opened a small trading post and carried on the manufacture of
hoop poles. The valley was peculiarly adapted to this business,
owing to the dense growth of hazel bush, the very article most
desired.
"'Casto did most of his trading with San Francisco merchants and
frequently received as much as $1,500 for a single shipment. Such
a business might be laughed at in 1893, but at that time it meant
a great deal to a sparsely settled community where wealth was
largely prospective. It is a notable fact that, even in the early
days when North Seattle was a howling wilderness and large game
ran wild between the town limits and Lake Washington, the
advantages of that body of water were appreciated and a
successful effort was made by Henry L. Yesler, L. V. Wyckoff and
others to connect the one with the other by a wagon road. The
lake terminus was at a point called Fleaburg, now known as the
terminus of the Madison Street cable line. Fleaburg was a small
Indian settlement, and according to tradition derived its name
from innumerable insects that made life miserable for the
inhabitants and visitors. The many miles of travel this cut saved
was greatly appreciated by the Squak settlers, because it was not
only to their advantage in a commercial sense, but also made them
feel that they were much nearer to the mother settlement. Another
short cut was made by means of a foot path starting from Coal
Creek on the eastern shore of the lake. This was so rough that
only persons well acquainted with the country would have taken
advantage of it. While it was not practical, yet it furnished
means of reaching the settlement, in case of necessity, in one
day, whereas the water route took twice as long.
"'Even at that time the great fear of the settlers, who were few
in number, was the Indians. If a young man in Seattle went
hunting his mother cautioned him to 'be very careful of the
Indians.' Many people now living in or about the city will
remember that in the fall of 1864 there were fears of an Indian
uprising. How the rumors started or on what they were founded
would be hard to state, nevertheless the fact remains that there
was a general feeling of uneasiness. During the summer there had
been trouble on the Snohomish River between white men and
members of the Snohomish tribe. Three of the latter were killed,
and among them a chief. These facts alone would have led a person
well versed in the characteristics of the Washington Indian to
look for trouble of some kind, although to judge from what
direction and in what manner would have been difficult.
"'Casto at that time had several of the Snohomish Indians working
for him, but the thought of fear never entered his mind. He had
great influence over his workmen and was looked up to by them as
a sort of white 'tyee' or chief. Any one that knew Casto could
not but like him, he was so free-hearted, kind and considerate of
every person he met, whether as a friend and equal or as his
servant. He had one fault, however, which goes hand in hand the
world over with a free heart--he loved liquor and now and then
drank too much. He also got in the habit of giving it to the
Indians in his employ. On several occasions the true Indian
nature, under the influence of stimulants, came out, and it
required all his authority to avoid bloodshed. His neighbors, who
could be numbered on the fingers of both hands, with some to
spare, cautioned him not to give 'a redskin whisky and arouse the
devil,' but he laughed at them, and when they warned him of
treachery, thought they spoke nonsense. He would not believe that
the men whom he treated so kindly and befriended in every
conceivable manner would do him harm under any conditions. He
reasoned that his neighbors did not judge the character of the
native correctly and underestimated his influence. There was no
reason why he should not give his Indians liquor if he so
desired.
"'He acted on this decision on the afternoon of November 7, 1864,
and then went to his home for supper. The Indians got gloriously
drunk and then commenced to thirst for blood. In the crowd were
two of the Snohomish tribe, bloodthirsty brutes, and still
seeking revenge for the death of their tribesmen and chief on the
Snohomish river the summer previous. Their resolve was made.
Casto's life would atone for that of the chief, his wife and
friend, John Holstead, for the other two. They secretly took
their guns and went to Casto's house. The curtain of the room
wherein all three were seated at the supper table was up, and the
breast of Casto was in plain view of the assassins. There was no
hesitation on the part of the Indians. The first shot crashed
through the window and pierced Casto in a vital spot. He arose to
his feet, staggered and fell upon a lounge. His wife sprang to
his assistance, but the rifle spoke again and she fell to the
floor. The third shot hit Holstead, but not fatally, and the
Indians, determined to complete their bloody work, ran to the
front door. They were met by Holstead, who fought like a demon,
but at length fell, his body stabbed in more than twenty places.
Not content with the slaughter already done, the bloodthirsty
wretches drove their knives into the body of Casto's beautiful
wife in a manner most inhuman. Having finished their bloody work
of revenge they left the house, never for a moment thinking their
lives were in danger. In this particular they made a fatal error.
"The shots fired had attracted a Klickitat Indian named Aleck to
the scene. As fate had it, he was a true friend to the white man
and held Casto, his employer, in high regard. It took him but a
brief period to comprehend the situation, and he determined to
avenge the death of his master, wife and friend. He concealed
himself, and when the bloody brutes came out of the house he
crept up behind them. One shot was enough to end the earthly
career of one, but the other took to his heels. Aleck followed
him with a hatchet he had drawn from his belt, and, being fleeter
of foot, caught up. Then with one swift blow the skull of the
fleeing Indian was cleft, and as he fell headlong to the ground
Aleck jumped on him, and again and again the bloody hatchet drank
blood until the head that but a few minutes before had human
shape looked like a chipped pumpkin.
"While this series of bloody deeds was being enacted the few
neighbors became wild with alarm, and, thinking that an Indian
war had broken out, started for Seattle immediately. The band
was made up of a Mr. Bush and family and three or four single men
who had ranches in the valley.
"They reached Seattle the morning of the 9th and told the news,
stating their fears of an Indian uprising. A party consisting of
all the able-bodied men in the town immediately started for the
scene of the tragedy by the short cut, and arrived there in the
evening. The sight that met their eyes was horrible. In the
bushes was found the body of the Indian who had been shot, and
not far distant were the remains of the other, covered with blood
and dirt mixed. In the house the sight was even more horrible.
Holstead lay in the front room in a pool of clotted blood, his
body literally punctured with knife wounds, and in the adjoining
room, on a sofa, half reclining, was the body of Casto. On the
floor, almost in the middle of the room, was Mrs. Casto,
beautiful even in death, and lying in a pool of blood.
"The coroner at that time was Josiah Settle, and he, after
looking around and investigating, found that the only witnesses
he had were an old squaw, who claimed to have been an eye witness
to the tragedy, and Aleck, the Klickitat. The inquest was held
immediately, and the testimony agreed in substance with facts
previously stated. The jury then returned the following verdict:
"'Territory of Washington, County of King, before Josiah Settle,
Coroner.
"'We, the undersigned jurors summoned to appear before Josiah
Settle, the coroner of King county, at Squak, on the 9th day of
November, 1864, to inquire into the cause of death of William
Casto, Abbie Casto and John Holstead, having been duly sworn
according to law, and having made such inquisition after
inspecting the bodies and hearing the testimony adduced, upon our
oath each and all do say that we find that the deceased were
named William Casto, Abbie Casto and John Holstead; that William
Casto was a native of Kentucky, Abbie Casto was formerly a
resident of Sauvies Island, Columbia county, Ore., and John
Holstead was a native of Wheeling, Va., and that they came to
their deaths on the 7th of November, 1864, in this county, by
knives and pistols in the hands of Indians, the bodies of the
deceased having been found in the house of William Casto, at
Squak, and we further find that we believe John Taylor and
George, his brother, Indians of the Snoqualmie tribe, to have
been the persons by whose hands they came to their deaths.'
"The bodies were brought to Seattle and buried in what is now
known as the Denny Park, then a cemetery, North Seattle. Since
then they have been removed to the Masonic cemetery.
"The news of the murder was sent to John Bonser, in Oregon, and
he came to the town at once. For several weeks after the event
the columns of the Seattle _Gazette_ were devoted in part to a
discussion of the question of selling and giving liquor to the
Indians, the general conclusion being that it was not only
against the law but a dangerous practice.
"Out of the killing by Aleck of the two Snohomish Indians grew a
feud which resulted in the death of Aleck's son. The old man was
the one wanted, but he was too quick with the rifle and they
never got him. He died a few years ago, aged nearly ninety
years."
So we see that whisky caused the death of six persons in this case.
The Lower Sound Indians were, if anything, more fierce and wild than
those toward the south.
George Martin, the Swedish sailor who accompanied Capt. Fay, in 1851,
said that he saw Sklallam Indians dancing a war dance at which there
appeared the head of one of their enemies, which they had roasted; small
pieces of it were touched to their lips, but were not eaten.
In an early day when Ira W. Utter lived on Salmon Bay, or more properly
_Shilshole_ Bay, he was much troubled by cougars killing his cattle,
calves particularly. Thinking strychnine a good cure he put a dose in
some lights of a beef, placed on a stick with the opposite end thrust in
the ground. "Old Limpy," an Indian, spied the tempting morsel, took it
to his home, roasted and ate the same and went to join his ancestors in
the happy hunting grounds.
This Indian received his name from a limp occasioned by a gunshot wound
inflicted by Lower Sound Indians on one of their raids. He was just
recovering when the white people settled on Elliott Bay.
The very mention of these raids must have been terrifying to our
Indians, as we called those who lived on the Upper Sound. On one
occasion as a party of them were digging clams on the eastern shore of
Admiralty Inlet, north of Meadow Point, they were attacked by their
northern enemies, who shot two or three while the rest _klatawaw-ed_
with all the _hyak_ (hurry) possible and hid themselves.
CHAPTER II.
PIONEER JOKES AND ANECDOTES.
In early days, the preachers came in for some rather severe criticisms,
although the roughest of the frontiersmen had a genuine reverence for
their calling.
Ministers of the Gospel, as well as others, were obliged to turn the
hand to toil with ax and saw. Now these tools require frequent recourse
to sharpening processes and the minister with ax on shoulder, requesting
the privilege of grinding that useful article on one of the few
grindstones in the settlement occasioned no surprise, but when he
prepared to grind by putting the handle on "wrong side to," gave it a
brisk turn and snapped it off short, the disgust of the owner found vent
in the caustic comment, "Well, if you're such a blame fool as that, I'll
never go to hear you preach in the world!"
James G. Swan tells of an amusing experience with a Neah Bay Indian
chief, in these words:
"I had a lively time with old Kobetsi, the war chief, whose name
was Kobetsi-bis, which in the Makah language means frost. I had
been directed by Agent Webster to make a survey of the
reservation as far south as the Tsoess river, where Kobetsi
lived, and claimed exclusive ownership to the cranberry meadows
along the bank of that river. He was then at his summer residence
on Tatoosh Island. The Makah Indians had seen and understood
something of the mariner's compass, but a surveyor's compass was
a riddle to them.
"A slave of Kobetsi, who had seen me at work on the cranberry
meadows, hurried to Tatoosh Island and reported that I was
working a tamanuse, or magic, by which I could collect all the
cranberries in one pile, and that Peter had sold me the land.
This enraged the old ruffian, and he came up to Neah Bay with
sixteen braves, with their faces painted black, their long hair
tied in a knot on top of their heads with spruce twigs, their
regular war paint, and all whooping and yelling. The old fellow
declared he would have my head. Peter and the others laughed at
him, and I explained to him what I had been about. He was
pacified with me, but on his return to Tatoosh Island he shot the
slave dead for making a fool of his chief."
The same writer is responsible for this account of a somewhat harsh
practical joke; the time was November, 1859, the place Port Angeles Bay,
in a log cabin where Captain Rufus Holmes resided:
"Uncle Rufus had a chum, a jolly, fat butcher named Jones, who
lived in Port Townsend, and a great wag. He often visited Uncle
Rufus for a few days' hunt and always took along some grub. On
one occasion he procured an eagle, which he boiled for two days
and then managed to disjoint. When it was cold he carefully
wrapped the pieces in a cabbage leaf and took it to Uncle Rufus
as a wild swan, but somewhat tough. The captain chopped it up
with onions and savory herbs and made a fine soup, of which he
partook heartily, Jones contenting himself with some clam
fritters and fried salmon, remarking that it was his off day on
soup. After dinner the wretched wag informed him that he had been
eating an eagle, and produced the head and claws as proof. This
piece of news operated on Uncle Rufus like an emetic, and after
he had earnestly expressed his gastronomic regrets, Jones asked
with feigned anxiety, 'Did the soup make you sick, Uncle Rufus?'
"Not to be outdone, the captain made reply, 'No, not the soup,
but the thought I had been eating one of the emblems of my
country.'"
A young man of lively disposition and consequently popular, was the
victim of an April fool joke in the "auld lang syne." Very fond he was
of playing tricks on others but some of the hapless worms turned and
planned a sweet and neat revenge, well knowing it was hard to get ahead
of the shrewd and witty youth. A "two-bit" piece, which had likely
adorned the neck or ear of an Indian belle, as it had a hole pierced in
it, was nailed securely to the floor of the postoffice in the village of
Seattle, and a group of loungers waited to see the result. Early on the
first, the young man before indicated walked briskly and confidently in.
Observing the coin he stooped airily and essayed to pick it up,
remarking, "It isn't everybody that can pick up two bits so early in the
morning!" "April Fool!" and howls of laughter greeted his failure to
pocket the coin. With burning face he sheepishly called for his mail and
hurried out with the derisive shout of "It isn't everybody that can pick
up two bits so early in the morning, Ha! ha! ha!" ringing in his ears.
Such fragments of early history as the following are frequently afloat
in the literature of the Sound country:
"THEY VOTED THEMSELVES GUNS.
"How Pioneer Legislators Equipped Themselves to Fight the
Indians.
"If the state legislature should vote to each member of both
houses a first-class rifle, a sensation indeed would be created.
But few are aware that such a precedent has been established by a
legislature of Washington Territory. It has been so long ago,
though, that the incident has almost faded from memory, and there
are but few of the members to relate the circumstances.
"It was in 1855, when I was a member of the council, that we
passed a law giving each legislator a rifle," said Hon. R. S.
Robinson, a wealthy old pioneer farmer living near Chimacum in
Jefferson County, while going to Port Townsend the other night
on the steamer Rosalie. Being in a reminiscent humor, he told
about the exciting times the pioneers experienced in both dodging
Indians and navigating the waters of Puget Sound in frail canoes.
"It was just preceding the Indian outbreak of 1855-6, the
settlers were apprehensive of a sudden onslaught," continued Mr.
Robinson. "Gov. Stevens had secured from the war department
several stands of small arms and ammunition, which were intended
for general distribution, and we thought one feasible plan was to
provide each legislator with a rifle and ammunition. Many times
since I have thought of the incident, and how ridiculous it would
seem if our present legislature adopted our course as a
precedent, and armed each member at the state's expense. Things
have changed considerably. In those days guns and ammunition were
perquisites. Now it is stationery, lead pencils and waste
baskets."
Among other incidents related by a speaker whose subject was "Primitive
Justice," was heard this story at a picnic of the pioneers:
"An instance in which I was particularly interested being
connected with the administration of the sheriff's office
occurred in what is now Shoshone County, Idaho, but was then a
part of Washington Territory. A man was brought into the town
charged with a crime; he was taken before the justice at once,
but the trial was adjourned because the man was drunk. The
sheriff took the prisoner down the trail, but before he had gone
far the man fell down in a drunken sleep. A wagon bed lay handy
and this was turned over the man and weighted down with stones to
prevent his escape. The next morning he was again brought before
the justice, who, finding him guilty, sentenced him to thirty
days confinement _in the jail from whence he had come_ and to be
fed on bread and water."
No doubt this was a heavy punishment, especially the water diet.
An incident occurred in that historic building, the Yesler cook house,
never before published.
A big, powerful man named Emmick, generally known as "Californy," was
engaged one morning in a game of fisticuffs of more or less seriousness,
when Bill Carr, a small man, stepped up and struck Emmick, who was too
busy with his opponent just then to pay any attention to the impertinent
meddler. Nevertheless he bided his time, although "Bill" made himself
quite scarce and was nowhere to be seen when "Californy's" bulky form
cast a shadow on the sawdust. After a while, however, he grew more
confident and returned to a favorite position in front of the fire in
the old cook house. He was just comfortably settled when in came
"Californy," who pounced on him like a wildcat on a rabbit, stood him on
his head and holding him by the heels "chucked" him up and down like a
dasher on an old-fashioned churn, until Carr was much subdued, then left
him to such reflections as were possible to an all but cracked cranium.
It is safe to say he did not soon again meddle with strife.
This mode of punishment offers tempting possibilities in cases where the
self-conceit of small people is offensively thrust upon their superiors.
The village of Seattle crept up the hill from the shore of Elliott Bay,
by the laborious removal of the heavy forest, cutting, burning and
grubbing of trees and stumps, grading and building of neat residences.
In the clearing of a certain piece of property between Fourth and Fifth
streets, on Columbia, Seattle, now in the heart of the city, three
pioneers participated in a somewhat unique experience. One of them, the
irrepressible "Gard" or Gardner Kellogg, now well known as the very
popular chief of the fire department of Seattle, has often told the
story, which runs somewhat like this:
Mr. and Mrs. Gardner Kellogg were dining on a Sunday, with the latter's
sister and her husband, Mr. and Mrs. O. C. Shorey, as they often did, at
their home on Third Avenue. It was a cold, drizzly day, but in spite of
that "Gard" and Mr. Shorey walked out to the edge of the clearing, where
the dense young fir trees still held the ground, and the former was
soon pushing up a stump fire on his lots.
As he poked the fire a bright thought occurred to him and he observed to
his companion that he believed it "would save a lot of hard work,
digging out the roots, to bring up that old shell and put it under the
stump."
The "old shell" was one that had been thrown from the sloop-of-war
"Decatur" during the Indian war, and had buried itself in the earth
without exploding. In excavating for the Kellogg's wood house it had
been unearthed.
Mr. Shorey thought it might not be safe if some one should pass by: "O,
nobody will come out this way this miserable day; it may not go off
anyway," was the answer.
So the shell was brought up and they dug under the roots of the stump,
put it in and returned to the Shorey residence.
When they told what they had done, it was, agreed that it was extremely
unlikely that anyone would take a pleasure walk in that direction on so
gloomy a day.
Meanwhile a worthy citizen of the little burgh had gone roaming in
search of his stray cow. As before stated, it was a chilly, damp day,
and the man who was looking for his cow, Mr. Dexter Horton, for it was
none other than he, seeing the fire, was moved to comfort himself with
its genial warmth.
He advanced toward it and spread his hands benignantly as though
blessing the man that invented fire, rubbed his palms together in a mute
ecstasy of mellow satisfaction and then reversed his position, lifted
his coat-tails and set his feet wide apart, even as a man doth at his
own peaceful hearthstone. The radiant energy had not time to reach the
marrow when a terrific explosion took place. It threw earth, roots and
splinters, firebrands and coals, yards away, hurled the whilom
fire-worshiper a considerable distance, cautioned him with a piece of
hot iron that just missed his face, covered him with the debris,
mystified and stupefied him, but fortunately did not inflict any
permanent injury.
As he recovered the use of his faculties the idea gained upon him that
it was a mean, low-down trick anyhow to blow up stumps that way. He was
very much disgusted and refused very naturally to see anything funny
about it; but as time passed by and he recovered from the shock, the
ludicrous side appeared and he was content to let it be regarded as a
pioneer pleasantry.
The innocent perpetrator of this amazing joke has no doubt laughed long
and loud many times as he has pictured to himself the vast astonishment
of his fellow townsman, and tells the story often, with the keenest
relish, to appreciative listeners.
Yes, to be blown up by an old bomb-shell on a quiet Sunday afternoon,
while resting beside a benevolent looking stump-fire that not even
remotely suggested warlike demonstrations, was rather tough.
HOW BEAN'S POINT WAS NAMED.
Opposite Alki Point was a fine prairie of about forty acres to which C.
C. Terry at first laid claim. Some of the earliest settlers of the first
mentioned locality crossed the water, taking their cattle, ploughed and
planted potatoes on this prairie. Terry subsequently settled elsewhere
and the place was settled on by a large man of about sixty years, a Nova
Scotian, it was supposed, who bore the name of _Bean_. This lonely
settler was a sort of spiritualist; in Fort Decatur, while one of a
group around a stove, he leaned his arm on the wall and when a natural
tremor resulted, insisted that the "spirits" did it. After the war he
returned to his cabin and while in his bed, probably asleep, was shot
and killed by an Indian. Since then the place has been known as Bean's
Point.
Dr. H. A. Smith, the happiest story-teller of pioneer days, relates in
his "Early Reminiscences" how "Dick Atkins played the dickens with poor
old Beaty's appetite for cheese" in this engaging manner:
"One day when he (Dick Atkins) was merchandising on Commercial
Street, Seattle, as successor to Horton & Denny, he laid a piece
of cheese on the stove to fry for his dinner. A dozen loafers
were around the stove and among them Mr. Beaty, remarkable
principally for his appetite, big feet and good nature. And he
on this occasion good-naturedly took the cheese from the stove
and cooled and swallowed it without waiting to say grace, while
Dick was in the back room, waiting on a customer. When the cheese
was fairly out of sight, Beaty grew uneasy and skedadled up the
street. When Atkins returned and found his cheese missing, and
was told what became of it, he rushed to the door just in time to
catch sight of Beaty's coat-tail going into Dr. Williamson's
store. Without returning for his coat or hat, off he darted at
full speed. Beaty had fairly got seated, when Dick stood before
him and fairly screamed:
"'Did you eat that cheese?'
"'Wal--yes--but I didn't think you'd care much.'
"'Care! Care! good thunder, no! but I thought _you_ might care,
as I had just put a DOUBLE DOSE OF ARSENIC in it to kill rats.'
"'Don't say!' exclaimed Beaty, jumping to his feet, 'thought it
tasted mighty queer; what can I do?'
"'Come right along with me; there is only one thing that can save
you.'
"And down the street they flew as fast as their feet would carry
them. As soon as they had arrived at the store, Atkins drew off a
pint of rancid fish-oil and handed it to Beaty saying, 'Swallow
it quick! Your life depends upon it!'
"Poor Beaty was too badly frightened to hesitate, and after a few
gags, pauses and wry faces he handed back the cup, drained to the
bitter dregs. 'There now,' said Dick, 'go home and to bed, and if
you are alive in the morning come around and report yourself.'
"After he was gone one of the spectators asked if the cheese was
really poisoned.
"'No,' replied Dick, 'and I intended telling the gormand it was
not, but when I saw that look of gratitude come into his face as
he handed back the empty cup, my heart failed me, and my revenge
became my defeat.' 'No, gentlemen, Beaty is decidedly ahead in
this little game. I never before was beaten at a game of cold
bluff after having stacked the cards myself. I beg you to keep
the matter quiet, gentlemen.' But it was always hard for a dozen
men to keep a secret."
These same "Early Reminiscences" contain many a merry tale, some "thrice
told" to the writer of this work, of the people who were familiar
figures on the streets of Seattle and other settlements, in the long
ago, among them two of the Rev. J. F. DeVore, with whom I was
acquainted.
"When he lived in Steilacoom, at a time when that city was even
smaller than it is now, a certain would-be bully declared, with
an oath, that if it were not for the respect he had for the
'cloth,' he would let daylight through his portly ministerial
carcass. Thereupon the 'cloth' was instantly stripped off and
dashed upon the ground, accompanied with the remark, 'The "cloth"
never stands in the way of a good cause. I am in a condition, now
sir, to be enlightened.' But instead of attempting to shed any
light into this luminary of the pulpit, whose eyes fairly blazed
with a light not altogether of this world, the blustering bully
lit out down the street at the top of his speed."