My father was born in Virginia, had lived in Ohio, then in Indiana.
Both father and mother dying on the way to Oregon and the two oldest
members of the family then remaining, having been cruelly torn from us
by the massacre, we girls had little knowledge of any relatives in the
East, save that they lived somewhere in Ohio. Time rolled on. My oldest
sister made her home with the Rev. William and Mrs. Roberts until she
married. Mr. Roberts was a Methodist minister. His sons, in writing a
letter to their grandparents in New Jersey, told of their father and
mother taking an orphan girl by the name of Catherine Sager to live
with them. An extract of this letter was published in the Advocate and
was read by an uncle of mine, who, seeing the name of Catherine Sager
and knowing that his brother Henry had a daughter by that name, wrote a
letter and addressed it to "Miss Catherine Sager, Somewhere in Oregon."
He gave it to a man who was crossing the plains; he carried it some
months and finally put it in a postoffice near Salem, Oregon, and the
postmaster gave it to my sister. In that way we found our relatives.
I was with the Spaldings for, I think, four months, and I attended Mrs.
Thornton's private school in the Methodist church. Then Mr. Spalding
decided to go and live in Forest Grove and the Rev. Mr. Griffin and Mr.
Alvin T. Smith came with their ox teams and moved us out.
Miss Mary Johnson came to the Whitmans in '45, wintered there and went
to the Spalding's mission in '46 and was there at the time of the
massacre and came down the river with us. She came with the Spalding
family to Forest Grove when we moved. We were taken to the Smith home
until the Spalding family could get a house and settle down.
It was decided, however, that I should go and live with Mr. and Mrs.
Geiger, living on a farm adjoining the Smith's. The Geigers were a
young married couple without children. Mr. Geiger came on horseback
after me the day after we reached the Smiths, but I cried so hard at
the prospect of leaving Mary Johnson that he went away without me. A
day or so later he came back again and still I would not go, but clung
to Mary. It seemed to me she was my only friend. The third time he
came, I had to go and all my belongings were tied up in a little
bundle. A large bandana handkerchief would have held them all. I rode
behind him. His home was a one-room log house with a fireplace to cook
by. I took up my life there, lonely and isolated. The nearest neighbor
was a mile away. Life was primitive. If the fire was not carefully
covered to keep the coals alive, we would have to go to a neighbor's to
borrow fire. There were no matches in the country and sometimes I would
be sent a mile across the prairie to bring fire on a shovel from the
neighbor's. If there were no coals, the flint and steel had to be used
and if that was not successful we would have to do without. It was not
always possible to obtain dry sticks in order to make the flint and
steel serve their purpose. Supplies were to be had only from the Hudson
Bay Posts, for people had had to leave most of their things behind in
crossing the plains. That summer a baby came to the home of the
Geiger's and I had to take care of it and a good deal of the time be
nurse and help with the housework. I had been taught to sew and iron
and repair my own clothes and must have been a really helpful young
person. In the fall of '48 discovery of gold in California made a great
change. All were eager to go to the gold mines. Mr. Geiger got the gold
fever and moved us away up to his father-in-law's, the Rev. J.
Cornwall. This family had moved onto the place in the spring and had
just a log cabin to house a large family. They did not raise much of a
crop the first year and Mr. Cornwall traveled around and preached over
the valley most of the time. That fall he took a band of sheep in the
valley and the winter being very hard, a good many of them died and his
wife had to card and spin wool, knit socks and sell them to the miners
at a dollar a pair in order to help make the living. She knit all the
time and a part of my work was to help pull the wool off the dead sheep
and wash it and get it ready for her to use. We had to carry water
quite a distance from the river, as it seemed that many of the early
settlers of Oregon had a great habit of building as far from the river
as possible, so we children would have more to do to pack the water and
stamp the clothes with our feet. We wintered there and in the spring
Mrs. Gieger, baby and I went to their farm thirty-five miles down into
the valley to look after some of their belongings, as the Rev.
Spalding, who had wintered there, had gone to a house of his own. Mr.
Geiger returned unexpectedly from California, went up to get their
things left on the Yamhill, and we settled down on the farm and life
went on. I didn't attend school that year, for there was no school. The
Reverend Eels came down in the spring of 50 to teach private school. I
went three months, walking three and a half miles each way. Mr. Geiger
paid five dollars for three months' schooling.
There were large herds of Mexican cattle owned in the valley and they
would chase everything except someone on horseback. Everyone owned a
few of the domestic cattle with them and they proved very useful, as
the tame cattle stood guard until the others were chased away. I was in
continual fear of being chased by them. They would lie down to watch
you all day and I would skirt along in the bushes, working my way along
tremblingly to get out and away to school without their seeing me. If
these long-horned Spanish cattle chased a person up a tree they would
lie under the tree all day on guard. Wolves chased the cattle, trying
to get the little calves. Pigs would have to be bedded right up against
the house on account of the coyotes and wolves.
While I was at the Cornwalls in '49, we lived right where the Indians
passed by on the trail coming down the valley. The Indians were not on
reserves then. When the men folks were gone the women were very afraid
of the Indians. They were women of the South, reared with a certain
fear of the negroes, and this fear extended to the Indians. When the
Indians were in the vicinity they would have me cover up the fire and
if any of the babies needed any attention, I was the one who would have
to give it and rake out the coals and make a fire for the baby. We had
chickens and had a stick chimney; and in a corner of the chimney was a
chicken-roost. One night old Mrs. Cornwall spied what she thought was
an Indian looking through the chinking of the log house. I said, "Oh, I
think not, I don't hear anything." But they hurried me up to
investigate and it was soon found to be the light shining on the old
rooster's eyes.
The summer of '50 I attended school, as I have before said, going also
the next year for three months to the same place, to the Reverend Eels.
Then I did not go any more until the summer I was thirteen. Mr. Eells
moved over near Hillsboro, where the Reverend Griffin had built a
school building on his place and had hired Mr. Eells to come over and
teach and he lived in a part of Mr. Griffin's house. He called it "Mr.
Griffin's select school." I was permitted to go there and work for my
board, but did not have to work very hard. Mr. Griffin had lots of
cattle and Mr. Eells had one cow; when he was at home he milked it and
when he was not the youngsters had to milk. Mrs. Griffin and her
children had all their cows to milk. They did not wean the calves, but
would turn them all in together and the big calves would have a fine
time getting all the milk. One day I was milking the cow and I set the
milk pail down in the corner and the old cow got at it and drank all
the milk.
I had read of town pumps, but had never seen one until I went there and
I did not like the taste of the water in this, but Mr. Griffin said it
was sulphur water. Finally it got so strong of sulphur he concluded he
had better have the well cleaned out; so someone came to clean it out
and they found a side of bacon, a skunk, some squirrels and mice. After
it was cleaned out, we had no more sulphur water, but I have never
enjoyed the taste of sulphur water since.
We had a garden. I was very fond of cucumbers and my favorite pastime
in summer after supper was to gather cucumbers, get a handful of salt
and walk up the lane. When anyone asked about Matilda, someone would
reply, "The last I saw of her she was walking up the lane with salt and
cucumbers for company."
Some of our pastimes, evenings, were to sit together by the fireplace
in Mr. Griffin's home with him as the leader in the story-telling. We
would recount incidents in our lives and then make up stories and tell
them; roast potatoes in the fire, rake them out with a stick when about
half done and each would have a part of the refreshments of half
roasted potatoes and salt. Mr. Griffin sent and got what he called a
seraphine--a small cabinet organ; it opened up like a piano and was a
wonder around there. At about eleven o'clock, when we were all in bed,
he would go in where it was kept, open up the organ and give us some
music. His favorite hymn was set to the tune of "Balerma," and the
words were, "Oh, for a closer walk with God," and he would sing such
songs until after midnight. In the morning he never did any work on the
place. He had a saddle horse and he rode around. Mrs. Griffin and the
children had to do everything. He didn't even plant the potatoes. All
the new potatoes we had grew among the old potatoes that were dug and
stored for the winter and I used to help Mrs. Griffin get the new
potatoes out from among the old ones. I helped her to churn and in many
other ways. She thought I was a pretty good girl. Mr. Griffin was very
fond of entertaining their company with music. There was a man named
Laughlin who once came to spend the night when it was raining. We were
sitting by the fireplace. The fire did not burn very well and Mrs.
Griffin came in with a little hand bellows and blew up the fire. The
old man saw her coming and fancied it must be a dangerous instrument of
some kind. It frightened him and he got up and made for the door. He
finally saw what it was and came back and sat down. Then Mr. Griffin
sat down by his organ and began playing it. That frightened the old
gentleman again and in his fright he overturned his chair and got out
of the door. He could not understand what was happening. So we had our
fun with the organ, Mr. Laughlin and the little bellows.
Mr. Griffin liked to give advice to the young. My chum, Maria Tanner,
and I were frequently given the benefit of his wisdom, but
child-fashion, did not care to be "preached at." We would see him
coming and would start to evade him. Sometimes we would dodge around
the house, but finally he got on to our trick and would meet us and
corner us and give us whole lot of advice. He thought it dreadful for
young girls to be as frivolous as we were; for he called it frivolous
because we went down to the woods and sang songs and laughed. That was
one of my sins--to laugh. We would often lie in bed singing and
laughing and Mr. Eells would call up for us to be quiet. We would be
still until we thought the old man had settled down and then we would
start in again. Children were not supposed to be in evidence at all in
those days, and I sometimes got double doses of advice and correction.
But my school days ended--when I was thirteen.
I went back to the Gieger farm where I washed, did housework, sewed and
cared for the children. Sometimes if there had been a good deal of
trouble in the church, the man I lived with (Mr. Gieger) would not
allow me to go to the Grove to church. But we had a meeting at Mr.
Walker's home and Mr. Walker preached. Sometimes in the winter it was
so lonely and cold that it would be three or four months until we could
go out to church. We looked forward to the campmeetings in June. We had
an old mud oven outside to bake in. The people got together and
furnished provisions; some would bring meat, some potatoes and some
materials for bread. I went with Mrs. Gieger's folks. One old lady said
she went to campmeetings because she got to see all the old neighbors;
and I think they were pretty nearly our only salvation from entire
stagnation. Sometimes we would go fifty miles to a camp. One of the
tricks of the boys was to shave the tails of the horses; another was to
throw tom cats with their tails tied together in the crowd at the
mourner's bench. This would stop the praying for awhile.
We always picked berries in the spring and summer. There was not much
tame fruit--a few seedling apples. The only way we travelled was on
horseback. The first printing press that was brought to Oregon was
stored in Mr. Griffin's house. We used to go to the old press and try
to sort out the type. Mrs. Griffin had a sister, Rachel Smith; the
Griffins arranged a match between her and the Rev. Henry Spalding and
she came out from Boston to marry him. We were invited to the wedding,
which occurred in a schoolhouse used for a church, and the "infare" was
arranged to be held at Mrs. Griffin's the next day. I had never been to
a wedding and I had a great desire to go; so I went to the wedding in
preference to going to the infare, since I had my choice. Mr. Griffin
performed the ceremony. Mr. Spalding preached the sermon and Mr.
Griffin played the organ and sang. The bride was attired in a white
dress and a long, thin scarf with purple stripes in the ends and fringe
and she had on a rough straw bonnet. Mrs. Griffin called it "Rachel's
Dunstable bonnet." When they were ready for the ceremony, Mr. Spalding
stepped forward and Mrs. Griffin placed her sister by his side, putting
Miss Smith's hand in his; they stood there a little while and Mr.
Griffin said the words that made them man and wife. That was my first
wedding.
My next experience at a wedding was when I was chosen to be the
bridesmaid. I was to wear a thin blue dress and I went to the place
where the wedding was to occur, carrying my dress. Our dressing room
was to stand on the bed with curtains around it. The bride was dressed
first and then I dressed myself. We knew of another bride who was
coming and we waited to get the white ribbon bows for the bride to wear
in her hair and the white ribbons to wear around her wrists. The men
were all standing outside the house, as the table was set for
dinner--the cooking was done at the fireplace--and there was not room
in the small house for them. Finally when the bride was ready the best
man came in. His name was John Kane. I discovered he had about half of
his coat sleeve ripped out, but in spite of torn coat, the ceremony
proceeded and then we sat down and had the wedding dinner. The Rev.
Walker performed the ceremony. Among other goodies which we had on the
table were glasses of syrup. There was something a little bit white in
it and I found that it was pie-dough cut out with a thimble and baked
and dropped in it for an ornament. The next day the bride and groom and
myself were to take a trip. The best man's sweetheart got very jealous
of me because I acted as bridesmaid with her intended husband as best
man. Engaged couples at that time were supposed to look only at each
other. There were two couples besides the bride and groom, who took a
horseback trip to Scroggin's valley; we went about fifteen miles, I
should judge, and ate dinner with a brother of the groom. They had not
been married very long and were starting in housekeeping. We went on to
Mr. Tanner's and spent the night, leaving the bride and groom at his
brother's. Our trip covered about fifty miles.
The next thing that came into my life, of any importance, was meeting
my first husband. In the fall of '52 Mr. Gieger had two brothers come
from Michigan and they spent the winter with him and in the spring went
to the mines in Southern Oregon, then on the northern California, where
they mined a while and then started a store. There were the two Grieger
boys and associated with them were the two Hazlett brothers and Mat
Fultz. Someone was always coming down with pack animals to get
supplies, as they had to be packed out from Portland or Scotsburg. This
summer Everett Gieger came and one of the Hazletts came with him and
spent the summer, returning in the fall with supplies. One morning I
was sweeping the floor and was around with the children. About ten or
eleven o'clock a man came to the door. He had long hair down over his
shoulders; he wanted know if this was where Mr. Gieger lived. I was
barefooted and not in trim to see visitors, but the stranger said
"Everett Gieger would be along the next day; that he had stopped to
visit someone and he had come on ahead." They spent the summer there.
During the summer, they made up a party--Mr. Gieger and his wife, her
sister and myself, and a man by the name of Mr. Blank, made a trip over
to Tillamook Bay. We went up to the head of the Yamhill valley, that is
now the Siletz Reserve. We crossed the mountains on just a thread of a
heavily timbered trail and were the second party of women that had
crossed the mountains. We were two days going over the mountain to come
down into the valley of Tillamook and on down to what is known as
Traskville. A man by the name of Trask lived there and made butter and
took it to Portland to sell.
Mr. Grieger and Mr. Trask were acquainted. We spent a night and a
couple of days there; then went on down and camped on Tillamook Bay and
hired a boat to go down the bay to the mouth of the river and I had my
first glimpse of the Pacific ocean. That was the first time I ever saw
any clams. The gnats were terrible. We spent a few days near the shore
and then came back to Yamhill and Mrs. Gieger's father's home. We staid
there a few days and then returned to our own home. In the meantime Mr.
Everett Gieger had fallen in love with Narcissa Cornwall, Mrs. Gieger's
sister. I was promised to marry Mr. Hazlett. The two men went away in
October, back to the mines. In February they were to return and we were
to be married and go back to Illinois to live. But meantime they
changed their minds and concluded they would go into the stock business
in the Little Shasta valley. They took up a farm there and didn't come
down until May. They bought a lot of stock to drive down, two yokes of
oxen and a wagon; the oxen had worked or been driven across the plains.
Even in these early times, the subject of clothes claimed some
attention of the feminine mind. When I was about thirteen years old I
was very anxious to have a white dress. I had never had one. Mrs. Smith
had kept Joe Gale's four children during the winter, while the parents
went to California to the mines. He had sent up some white goods,
scarfs, shawls and so on, but I wanted a white dress. Mrs. Smith told
me if I would come down and do four washings she would let me have
everything to make me a dress, so I went to the river to wash and I got
the goods for my dress and when I went to board with Mrs. Eells, she
made the dress with flowing sleeves and three tucks in the skirt. She
made undersleeves, too. The first pair of gloves I ever had I bought
from a peddler, paying twenty-five cents for them. I earned most of the
money that bought my wedding outfit. The wedding dress was a white one
and I trimmed my own wedding bonnet. Mr. Gieger bought my shoes, which
were poor leather slippers, with no heels, such as the men wore. I was
very much disappointed in my shoes, for they were just like old bedroom
slippers. I had my hair braided and wore a big horse-shoe comb. I had
white ribbon around my wrists like a cuff. Abigail Walker, my girl
chum, came over and helped me dress. The wedding day was the fifth of
June and the Rev. Walker performed the ceremony. His family, Mrs. Eells
and family and other friends were there. Mr. Walker was a very nervous
man and when he preached he would shake like a person with a mild
nervous chill. Mrs. Eells said that she could hardly keep from laughing
during the ceremony, Mr. Walker's clothing shook so. I had the usual
congratulations from the guests and the single men's congratulations
was the privilege of kissing the bride. We had the wedding feast. Mrs.
Walker came over to make the cake. She was the best cake maker in the
neighborhood. She couldn't manage the cake on our stove as well as on
her own, so she carried the batter in a bucket, four miles on
horseback, baked it in her own stove, and brought back a fine wedding
cake with green cedar laid on the plate and the cake set on that. The
trimmings were cedar boughs, wild roses and honeysuckle.
The next day my husband had to go to Portland on business and we went
as far as Hillsboro, where I visited Mrs. Eells until he returned. Then
we began to get ready to go to my future home in Shasta valley,
traveling with the stock and ox team. Part of the time I rode horseback
and part of the time I helped drive the cattle. We went on until we got
into the Umpqua valley and it was very warm and the grasshoppers were
eating up the whole country; they had eaten all the foliage on the
trees. We came to the Cow Creek canyon, but the military road had not
been built and we had to travel the old road in the bed of the creek
for miles. It was very rough and rugged and the hills were steep. We
had traveled one day to put up camp. Next day we started, but in going
up a steep hill one of the oxen stopped and trembled and we thought he
had got poisoned. We cut up some sliced bacon and he didn't object to
eating it and licked his tongue out for more. We gave him some more
bacon and still he wouldn't go. Finally we hired another team which got
us through the canyon, but we concluded it was only a trick of the old
ox, as he had been raised on bacon and that was all he wanted. We came
to the Grave Creek hills which were very steep. We camped just as we
got to the summit of them and after a rest traveled on; in just two
weeks from that time two men were killed in that place by the Indians.
We just missed being killed. We traveled on in the Rogue River valley
which was not very much settled, save in the lower part. It showed
evidence of the conflict between the white men and the Indians by the
lonely graves that were scattered along the roadside. We came onto
Wagner Creek where Mrs. Harris and other settlers were killed by the
Indians in '55. They were harvesting some fine fields of grain as we
came through the valley. The towns were all small--they could hardly be
seen. There was Waitsburg, where Mr. Wait had a flouring mill, and a
large log house; and at the time of the Indian trouble, the people
flocked there for safety. In going through the Rogue River valley the
Indians came to our wagon and were very inquisitive and even got into
the wagon and frightened me; and when the men had to be away I would
become very much frightened. One evening when in camp on the bank of
the Rogue River, we saw across the stream some soldiers who had some
Indians with them. The Indians finally took up their belongings and
started across the mountains. The soldiers crossed the river and the
bugler rode down to our camp and told us it would be better for us to
go up to a nearby farm house; that while he did not apprehend any
trouble, we would be safer there. We went up there and found seven men,
including a fifteen year old boy. They had a log cabin and very kindly
made all the preparation that they could for our safety. The boy was
very anxious to kill an Indian, so he put seven bullets down in his
muzzle-loader gun and said: "One of those bullets would surely hit an
Indian."
So we traveled on to the head of the valley and across the Siskiyou
Mountains into California and we camped over night on the summit of the
mountains. Three weeks afterward, three teamsters camped there and were
killed by the Indians. We came on down into a rough looking country--a
little mining camp we called Cottonwood, where my husband had been
mining. We staid there a week, then took our way on south to Willow
Creek in Shasta valley, where my husband had a home for us to live in
and where he was to follow the stock business. We were there about two
months and a half, when the Klamath Lake Indians began to make trouble.
We lived close to their trail and we were afraid of being killed and so
we put up our belonging and went back to the little mining camp. I
never saw the home again. We lived in this Cottonwood district near the
Oregon line and raised stock, and my husband put out fruit trees and
started raising a garden. In the year '60 he had to be operated on for
cancer. We had to go across the Trinity and Scott mountains to Red
Bluff, where we took the boat down the Sacramento river. Friends
thought he would not live to make the trip. The doctors said his
disease was incurable and that he would not live more than three years
at best. They operated on him. I had left our ten-months old baby at
home. In the June before we went down to San Francisco, our house and
belongings were destroyed by fire and we went into a bachelor's house
and lived there.
Many amusing incidents occurred during the long winter months in the
mining districts of northern California, when the placer miners,
waiting for the water to open up, found time hanging heavy on their
hands. Isolated as we were, we welcomed anything that would break the
monotony of life. One locality in which we lived had always given a
Democratic majority and the Republican brethren of course did not take
kindly to this. One year they determined to beat the Democrats in the
coming election and set about it with considerable vim. As there were
several men in town who did not care particularly which ticket they
voted, they worked on them. I took in the situation and as all my men
folks were Democrats, I decided to have a little fun and help our party
at the same time. I, too, worked on those who could be influenced to
vote either way. One of these persons was named Davey Crockett and he
claimed to be a nephew of the famous Davey Crockett of "Alamo" fame.
This Crockett was known as "Dirty Crockett," because it well described
his personal appearance. He lived in a "tepee" out in the hills and
hunted deer. He always wore a red cap that had the corners tied up to
look like horns. He said he could always get the deer, because they
would stop to look at his cap long enough for him to get a bead on
them. Another of his accomplishments was his ability to catch live
skunks. He offered to rid the neighborhood of them if he were paid
fifty cents for each one he brought in alive. He was given the job and
soon came carrying a live skunk by the tail. He said he caught them by
the tail and held them so tight they could not scent him. He collected
his fifty cents from two or three persons. He repeated this several
times; in fact, so frequent became his appearance with a live skunk
that some of the business men became suspicious and upon investigation
it was found that he had caught just one skunk and whenever he wanted
money he would reappear with the same skunk and collect the bounty. A
Welchman, who was a staunch Republican, offered Crockett a fine rooster
if he would agree to vote that ticket. To this he readily agreed. When
I learned this, I went to him and offered him two dried mink skins that
I had, if he would agree to vote the Democratic ticket. These looked
better than the rooster, so he transferred his allegiance to the
Democratic party. Four or five "floaters" seen with equally good
results kept the balance of power on the Democratic side on election
day.
The Welchman who had labored so hard to make a Republican of Crockett,
gave me a write-up in the paper after election, telling how the
Democrats won the day by the aid of skunk-catchers and wood-choppers,
but little did I care. We won the day by using his tactics and I had
considerable fun with my experience in early day politics.
The winter of '60-61 being very cold, many cattle died and this same
Crockett made considerable money skinning the dead animals and selling
their hides. One cold and stormy evening, quite a distance from his
home, he skinned a large steer that had just died and was still warm.
As he could not reach home that night, he rolled himself up in the warm
hide. During the night it froze so hard that it was with considerable
difficulty that he was able to cut himself out in the morning.
An Irishman named Pat O'Halloran was a prospector and miner, and like
most of the early day miners, was fond of a drink now and then. He
would frequently sit around the saloons watching the card games until a
very late hour, or rather, early morning hour. One dark night he
started for home, loaded a little beyond his capacity. Not being able
to keep the road, he fell into a prospect hole. The hole was about
forty feet deep and Pat went to the bottom. The next morning the
ditch-tender going his rounds, heard someone calling and finally
located old Pat in the bottom of the prospect hole. He went for help.
The men got a windless and bucket and after some effort drew him near
the surface. Now Pat was an uncompromising Democrat, and as he
approached the top he noticed that a preacher, who was the leading
Republican in the neighborhood, was one of his rescuers. He commanded
them to lower him again and "go and get some Democrats to haul me out,"
saying "I don't want that black abolitionist to help me out." So they
had to lower him until they could find Democrats enough to pull him
out. We were eating breakfast when a man came to get my husband to
assist in pulling the Irishman to the surface and he came back laughing
heartily at Pat's political stubbornness. The editor of the Democratic
paper gave him a life subscription to his paper and Pat lived fifteen
years to read it; he then decided he had enjoyed it long enough and
suicided.
We had many interesting neighbors, men and women of considerable force
of character. In the early days of the gold excitement in southern
Oregon and northern California a man and his wife, by the name of
Redfield, located a homestead on Cow Creek. They built a house and ran
a station where travelers were accommodated with lodging and food.
Attacks by Indians were frequent, but they stayed and fought it out
with them. In one of these attacks, Mrs. Redfield was severely wounded
in the hip, but even this did not dismay them and they staid with
their home and continued to fight it out. During the civil war she was
a Union sympathizer and he was equally strong on the rebel side.
Whenever they would get news of a Union victory, she would give a
banquet and invite all their friends to celebrate; when news of a Rebel
victory came, he, in turn, would give a banquet and call all the
friends together. After the close of the war, he was told that he would
not be allowed to vote and that if he attempted to do so, his vote
would be challenged. He said, "All right"; but on election day he was
at the polls. He had a long muzzle-loading gun and was known to be a
sure shot. He folded his ballot and stuck it in the muzzle of "old
Betsy" and handed it to the clerk, who took it without protest and no
one else challenged his vote.
There was a German citizen named Haserich who was known as "Slam Bang"
among the miners, because of his frequent use of those words in
describing any thing or event. He was the proprietor of a billiard hall
and lodging house. Being Republican committeeman one year, he called
the boys in and told them that a Mr. Van Dueser, who was the Republican
candidate for the Legislature, was coming to make a speech. Knowing
that the boys were always playing pranks, he implored them to be "nice"
and to listen attentively to what he had to say. They promised to
behave, but when the old man escorted the speaker into the hall the
night of the meeting, there were about two hundred men there, each with
his face blackened and wearing a high paper collar. The meeting
proceeded without disturbance, but the speaker was not to get away in
peace. The horse he had hired was one that had been trained to stop in
front of every saloon and sit on his haunches. This he did as usual and
the boys had their fun in assuring the dignified speaker of the evening
that his horse wanted a drink before he would pass the saloon.
In early days, dishes were not very plentiful. Most people had only tin
dishes and these were hard to get. One man, to avoid the risk of loss,
nailed his dishes to the table. When he wanted to wash them he would
turn the table on it's side, take the broom and some hot water and
scrub them well; after rinsing them, he would turn the table back with
the dishes thoroughly cleansed.
The Rev. Childs (the abolitionist preacher) took a claim with two young
men who were both in their teens and full of pranks. The Reverend often
used to tell them of the fine eels he used to have in the East, what
good eating they were and how he longed for one again. The boys
concluded they would treat him to one for his dinner some day. One day
they caught a rattle snake and skinned it. As one of them always
prepared the dinner, the snake was cooked and sizzling hot when time
for dinner arrived. The frying pan was put on the table, containing
what the boys said was a nice fat eel. The minister stuck his fork into
a portion and put it on his plate, saying, "This is the toughest eel I
ever saw." The boys were a little dubious about allowing him to eat it,
for fear it might poison him; so one of them said, "If you had seen the
string of rattles on it, you would have thought it was tough." The
preacher took the frying pan and snake and threw them into the Klamath
River.
Ministers were frequently the victims of the rude wit of the times. One
day one drove into town with a team and buggy, saying he was the
Reverend Bullock and that he had been told there was no church nor
anything of a religious nature in the place; so he had come to try to
convert the people and build up a church. He made an appointment to
come and conduct services in two weeks. He was there, true to his
promise, and most of the people attended the service. When the
collection was taken up, they responded liberally.
In time the people tired of his preaching, so a committee was appointed
to call upon him and tell him that no one cared to listen to him
longer; but he was not to be deterred and when the regular day for
service came, he was on hand again to preach. The boys decided they
would get rid of him for good. A man by the name of George Horner had
collected five hundred pieces of Chinese money. He went to the store
keeper who had the only safe in town and told him that he had five
hundred dollars which he wanted to deposit in his safe. The old man
took it and put it safely away. On the appointed day for church
services, George had this money distributed among the boys and they all
attended church, well prepared for the collection. The church was full
and the minister's face beamed with delight to see so large an
audience. There were a few men in the place who had been church members
in their Eastern homes. Some had been exhorters in these churches and
when the minister was fervently praying, outpourings of the spirit,
"God grant it" and "Amens" came from all parts of the church and one
could well imagine that they were in one of the old time Methodist
revival meetings.
The minister seemed to sense that there was something unusual in the
air and hurriedly brought his discourse to a close; but the boys were
determined that the collection must not be overlooked, so two of them
passed the hat among the congregation and the Chinese money soon filled
the hats. The minister closed without the usual benediction and made
for the door, where the collection was handed to him. When he saw what
it was, he made a hasty retreat to the barn where his team was and
ordered it ready. When he got into the buggy, he found that some one
had not forgotten to put in a few decks of cards and several bottles
of whiskey. He drove away and was not seen again for a number of years.
The town was not to be abandoned by the clergy altogether, however, so
another minister came. It always fell to me to entertain the traveling
ministers and this one was sent to my house. He told me he saw the need
of work in the community and he thought we should have a church. He
asked me what I thought of the outlook. I told him about the other
minister and his collection and he laughed heartily. He preached that
evening and left the next morning. That ended the religious effort in
our town for a long time.
The ministers did not have all the mishaps, however. A man named Thomas
owned the Eagle grist mall in the Rogue River valley, Oregon. In 1856
he surveyed and built the toll road across the Siskiyou mountains. He
also owned and operated a salt works down the Klamath river. On one of
his trips he had in addition to his load of salt a barrel of whisky and
a grindstone. It was late in the evening when he reached the Klamath
ferry and the ferryman told him not to try to cross Cottonwood creek as
it was high and dangerous. The tailings from the placers formed ridges
and holes that were dangerous in high water. He cautioned him to stay
in a house of his close to the crossing until morning, when it would be
safe to cross. He replied, "I will cross so quick that my salt won't
get wet." Fortunately, he had picked up a traveler on the road and was
giving him a lift to his destination. They attempted the crossing of
the creek and when they overturned in mid-creek this man succeeded in
cutting the horses loose and they all managed to swim ashore. Then they
went on to their camp, returning in the morning to see what they had
left. The wagon and the grindstone were there buried in the clay, but
the salt and whisky had vanished.
The winter of '62 was very severe and all the stock in the whole
country perished. Mr. Hazlett owned five hundred head of cattle in the
fall and in the spring had about five left. He had to go back in March
to be operated on again for cancer. He was quite a while in recovering.
I went down in June to see him and he returned with me, but lived only
until the next spring. He left me with five children and I had to build
a house to shelter them. I traded a cow for some lumber and some of my
friends helped me. The house was not finished inside. I used to take in
washing, which was the only thing to be done. Goods were very high
during the Civil war. The orchard had begun to bear and quite a lot of
gooseberries had set on. One year we had three hundred pounds of them.
I managed to care for my children and in '67 I married Mr. Fultz, my
first husband's partner. We lived there twenty-seven years. I had six
daughters. We at last sold out and came up into Washington to live and
settled in the town of Farmington, going into the hotel business. Some
of my girls were grown and lived with me. We bought a livery business,
then Mr. Fultz started a furniture business and finally took on
undertaking. Mr. Fultz lived but a year after coming to Farmington and
I was left with four businesses on my hands. All the responsibility
rested on me. One daughter died. With the help of the girls, the house
was enlarged to three stories. After three years one of the girls
married, a year after another, and then another. I had one daughter in
California; my youngest was with me. Six years after Mr. Fultz died I
married Mr. Delaney. We still had the hotel. Then I became crippled
with rheumatism and was given up to die, but finally recovered, though
told I would never walk again. I laid helpless and drawn up for five
months, with life dispaired of; but my children came to me, one from
California, one from Lewiston, Idaho, a son and daughter living in the
house and another in town. They all did everything possible and cared
for me continually. My doctor was faithful and the neighbors were kind
to come and do everything they could for me. The Chinaman cook brewed
good herbs and steamed my limbs and straightened them out and some of
the Coeur d'Alene squaws said they prayed for me. Another friend
furnished me a lot of Medical Lake salts, which he thought was good for
all ailments. After five months I was carried out in a chair and placed
in the sunshine; then came gradually returning strength and little by
little, with the aid of crutches, I walked and with continual effort
and perseverance I at last recovered the use of my limbs. With my
sister, who came to visit me, I went to visit Perrin Whitman, our old
friend.
In the spring of 1843, when Dr. Whitman returned to his Mission, he
brought with him his nephew, Perrin B. Whitman, a motherless boy of
thirteen years. Perrin learned the different Indian languages very
readily and at an early date helped the Rev. H. H. Spalding to
translate the three gospels into the Nez Perce tongue. He also helped
to print them on the first printing press brought to Oregon. In the
month of September, 1847, he was sent by his uncle to The Dalles to
learn the Wascopean Indian language, as Dr. Whitman had bargained for
the Methodist Station at that place and intended to move his family and
belongings there the following spring. The Doctor also hired a man
named Hindman to go there with his family and take charge of the place,
as he had left most of his supplies at that point. Four days after the
massacre, an Indian came to the house and told them that another Indian
had been at their camp and told them that Dr. Whitman's wife and all
the men at the Mission had been killed and the other women and children
taken captive. Mr. Hindman was so alarmed for the safety of his family
that he hired an Indian with his canoe to take him to Fort Vancouver
for help. He had not been gone long when four Cayuse Indians came to
the house and wanted Perrin to let them in. With Perrin was Mrs.
Hindman, her fourteen-months-old baby and a young girl of sixteen years
of age named Mary Warren.
At the approach of the Indians Mrs. Hindman sank into a chair with her
babe in her arms. She was speechless and helpless. Perrin stood at the
door and talked from the inside. He afterward said that if he ever
talked Walla Walla, he did that day. Miss Warren stood at the other
door with uplifted ax and vowed she would kill the first Indian who
attempted to enter. They tried in every way to induce Perrin to come
outside, but he refused to go. They finally left and Perrin said that
Miss Warren was the bravest woman he ever knew. She never showed any
sign of fear throughout the trying ordeal. He also said that he was
satisfied that the Indians came with the intention of killing all of
them. In a few days Mr. Hindman returned with help and they moved to
Oregon City.
Perrin clerked in Allen McKinley's store during the winter and in the
spring went as interpreter with a company of Volunteers to seek out and
punish the perpetrators of the massacre. After the Volunteers returned,
he married Priscilla Parker, a daughter of Sam Parker of Salem, Oregon,
and took up a farm near Salem. He and his family lived there until the
United States military authorities went to Fort Lapwai. As they wished
to make a treaty with the Indians, they needed an interpreter. The
Indians refused to talk until they had Whitman to interpret for them.
They were told by the military authorities that they would write for
him, but the Indians said, "No. Send a man for him." One day as he was
ploughing in his fields a man came and gave him a note, ordering him to
come at once to Lapwai to act as interpreter. (He afterwards told me
that "this was the only time he was ever taken on a bench warrant.") He
put his team in the barn and left at once for Lapwai.
He spent many years among the Nez Perce Indians as government
interpreter, teacher and missionary and no one man ever exerted such an
influence for good over them as Perrin Whitman. Their confidence in him
was unbounded and his word always accepted as the gospel truth. They
knew him and loved him and would never sign a treaty or take any
important step without his advice.
After an interval of thirty-eight years, during which time I had not
seen him, I journeyed to Lewiston by stage for the purpose of paying
him and his family a visit. The stage driver was Felix Warren, an old
friend of mine. On our way there, Mr. Warren said, "You must stay with
my wife and me tonight, for I know as soon as Whitman knows you are in
town, we will see no more of you." I said, "Very well." So we went to
his house. We had been there only a short time when a lady came in. As
we were introduced she said, "Why, you are father's old friend." She
went to the door and called her son and told him to run to Grandpa's
and "tell him his friend is here." He came over on a run and when he
looked at me he said, "Matilda, where did you get your hair dyed?" (My
hair had not yet turned grey.)
I replied, "What is the matter with you, that you don't dye yours?" His
hair and whiskers were almost white. We went to his house at once. He
would not even let me eat supper with my friends, the Warrens. We
talked over old times until two o'clock in the morning. Next morning
early we continued our reminiscences. My visit will always be a
pleasant memory.
When the Northern Pacific railroad was building across the Nez Perce
reservation the Indians refused to negotiate until their friend Perrin
Whitman was sent for to explain things to them. Again when the
Commissioners called for Volunteers to go among the different factions
to get their consent to the building of the road, not an Indian offered
his services until the Commissioners said, "Of course, you understand
that Whitman goes along." Then there were plenty of volunteers. They
said of him, "Whitman can ride all day and all night without sleep and
he never talks with a crooked tongue." It was a severely hard trip in
the storm and sleet that comes in the spring in that country; the roads
were rough and the nights cold. Not long after this experience he was
stricken with slow paralysis and was confined to his bed most of the
time for six years before his death. When Perrin Whitman passed on to
his reward, a civilizing influence that helped to make the great
Northwest safe for the white man went out. He was all that an honest
man should be. As I have said before, sister and I went to visit him
after my long and severe illness. A short time after we reached there,
a long distance message told me that the town had burned and I had lost
everything. Since then I have never been able to do anything, but have
been cared for by my children. They have looked after me and I have had
a good home and the comforts of life. Once, only, I went back to visit
the old California home. Found a few there whom I had known and
received a hearty welcome; many had passed over the long trail to the
better land. Once I went to Baltimore, Md., to visit my daughter, and
on that trip I came to realize the changes that my lifetime had
experienced. On the vast plains, where years before my childish eyes
had seen vast herds of buffalo roaming at will and where all was Indian
territory from the Missouri river to the Rocky mountains, where the
immigrant's wagon had toiled slowly and painfully along, with the
menace of privation and death a constant attendant, railroads had
thrust their slender bands of steel; large cities had been built and
prosperous farms dotted the land. Surely a magician must travel with
me, constantly waving a magic wand before my surprised eyes!
On the fiftieth anniversary of the Whitman massacre, through the
courtesy of the O.-W. R. & N. R. R. Co., all the survivors were given
transportation to go to the exercises attendant upon the erection of a
monument to the memory of Dr. Whitman and his fellow martyrs. When the
mound was leveled the workmen, to their surprise, found many bones.
These bones were classified by Dr. Bingham and others. I went to the
home of Dr. Penrose to assist in identifying them. A skeleton of a foot
in a part of a leather boot, we felt sure belonged to Mr. Kimball, as
he was the only man at the Mission who wore such boots.
The skull of a white woman was, of course, that of Mrs. Whitman. It
showed large eye-sockets. Mrs. Whitman had large light blue eyes. Dr.
Whitman had a strong face, his massive chin turning up a little. A
man's skull showed two tomahawk cuts. I asked Dr. Penrose to hold the
skull, which was in two parts, together; and as I went back in memory
and imagined the skull clothed with flesh, I felt it was Dr. Whitman's.
Both his and Mrs. Whitman's had been cut in two parts with a saw--an
old trick of the Indians upon some victims. The teeth in the skull
which I felt was that of Dr. Whitman, were intact and some of the lower
back ones were filled with gold. Perrin Whitman had told me that when
he had gone with the volunteers to the Mission the spring after the
massacre, he had picked up a skull among others which he then claimed
was that of his uncle. He said he recognized it by the gold fillings in
the back teeth, as when coming West in 1843 he went with his uncle to a
dentist in St. Louis, Mo., and that was the first time he ever saw
gold-leaf, which was used in his uncle's teeth. It was the first dental
work he had ever seen done and he was very much interested and it made
a deep impression upon his mind. The skull with the unusually large
nose orifice, we felt sure was that of Mr. Hoffman as he was the only
man in the settlement having a very large nose. A very thick skull, we
felt, resembled Mr. Gillam, the tailor. The skull of an old man, we
decided, was that of the miller, Mr. Marsh. The thigh-bone of a boy
about fifteen years of age, we were sure belonged to my brother, Frank,
as he was the youngest killed. It was considered remarkable that the
bones were so well preserved after the lapse of half a century.
In 1916 I attended the reunion of the Oregon Pioneer Society and that
of the Indian Volunteers at Portland. A gathering of 1600 persons
gathered in the City Auditorium. It was a most interesting meeting to
me and kept my mind constantly occupied with past experiences. Perhaps
the thing that brought by-gone times most vividly to my mind was the
trip for the pioneers up the Columbia Highway in autos furnished by the
city. As I looked out across the broad river from the height of the
_Vista House_, dedicated to the pioneers of Oregon, the beautifully
finished roadway, with its wonderful curves, solid masonry, gentle
grades, faded from before my eyes and again I saw a little party of
forlorn and homeless refugees rowing down that same river in the
old-fashioned, flat-bottomed bateaux, thankful to be alive, but always
hurrying to put more and more miles of water between them and the
tragic place called Waiilatpu. The chill of those misty winter days
again crept to my heart and I clearly recalled the childish awe that
filled my soul as I noticed the girth and height of the forest trees on
either side of the murky, greenish water that swept on past them with a
strong current, leaving sand-bar after sand-bar a gleam of tawny color
against their masses of dark green foliage; and I thought of a moment
when we saw a little cluster of five log houses and knew that we could
see Portland. Then as I looked toward the magnificent city of today,
with its homes, churches, schools, its parks and business places, I
felt that I must be waking from a _Rip Van Winkle_ sleep and the magic
of the moment almost overcame me. This thought I carried away with me.
Surely if the way of the pioneer is hard and beset with dangers, at
least the long years bring at last the realization that life, patiently
and hopefully lived, brings its own sense of having been part and
parcel of the onward move to better things--not for self alone, but for
others.
Transcriber's note:
The following corrections have been made:
Foreword: "Coeurd 'Alene" changed to Coeur d'Alene;
p. 10 "we would go picnicing in" picnicing changed to picnicking;
p. 18 "children haven't had any dinner," 'and" single quotation mark
before and removed;
p. 19 "realized whatt it meant" whatt changed to what;
p. 20 "the woman watned" watned changed to wanted;
p. 25 "repent the argreement" argreement changed to agreement;
p. 26 "we got to Vancauver" Vancauver changed to Vancouver;
p. 30: "it go so strong of sulphur" go changed to got;
p. 33 "rtip to Scroggin's valley" rtip changed to trip; "meeing my first
husband" meeing changed to meeting;
p. 35 "baked it her own stove" changed to baked it in her own stove;
"rought and rugged" rought changed to rough; "Rev. Walker performer the
ceremony" performer changed to performed;
p. 36 "bugler rode down to our" buglar changed to bugler;
p. 38 "wood-choppers,b ut little" moved space before b; "winter of
'61-61" '61-61 changed to '60-61;
p. 39 "stuck in it the muzzle" changed to stuck it in the muzzle;
p. 42 "his Mission, be brought" be changed to he; "family and
belingings" belingings changed to belongings; "steamed by limbs" by
changed to my; "with life dispared of" dispared changed to dispaired;
"and perseverance I at last" perseverence changed to perseverance;
p. 44 "Whitman kiows you" kiows changed to knows; "old Colifornia home"
Colifornia changed to California; "we continued our reminiscences"
reminiscenses changed to reminiscences;
p. 45 "some of the lower black ones" black changed to back;
p. 46 "with past exteriences" exteriences changed to experiences.
Everything else has been retained as printed, i.e. inconsistent spelling
like Geiger/Gieger/Grieger, Waiilatpu/Waillatpu, Eels/Eells.