Dashed from shore to shore,
On the Pacific evermore,
Now sunk in grave or bent with years,
Dauntless pioneers.
No class of people or nation deserves the title, cosmopolitan, better
than the Vikings. Their names mingle with the history of England,
France, Russia and Italy, and in the Western Hemisphere we find them all
over. To trace up the first Scandinavian that touched the shore of
Washington is difficult, if not impossible. No doubt but Scandinavians
made stoppings along the coast on their fishing expeditions to the north
before any white man had dreamt to pin his hopes to the North Pacific.
And it is probable, too, that some adventurous spirit of Viking blood
had been washed with American polish, and passed as a Yankee in the
Lewis and Clark expedition. It is safe to conjecture, however, that
some straggler from the sea-beaten shores of Scandinavia shared the
sufferings with the trappers of the Hudson Bay Company, or partook
of the hardships in John Jacob Astor's expeditions for the mouth of
Columbia river. These companies were made up of heterogeneous crews. The
mercurial French Canadian, the acute Yankee, the jolly Englishman, the
stern German, joined hands for the furfields, and it seems reasonable
that some hardy Scandinavian, too, was likely to abandon his fireside,
turn his back on civilization, and yield consent to a more romantic
life.
A motley combine known as the Russian Fur Company had established an
emporium on the Pacific coast, and a number of trading posts in
the interior, ere the close of the eighteenth century, and it is
authentically evidenced that Scandinavians and Finlanders constituted
the minor force of the regiment of trappers and navigators. Let it
suffice to say, however, that these brave adventurers regardless of
genealogical type did much to sow information in the Old World of the
evergreen land west of the Rocky; and suffer it to be known that the
probability is that some intrepid Scandinavian sacrificed his life in
search for peltry, and that his bones rest in peace beneath the green
turf in the Pacific forest. This brings us to the influx of permanent
settlers.
MRS. FREDERIC MEYER.--One of the first white women that breathed the air
of Pierce county was Mrs. Frederic Meyer, a Norwegian by birth. She left
her mother's hearth in Toten while a tender bud, fresh as a rose with
blooms of white and purple blushing on her cheeks. Few women are of
true romantic nature, their hearts, as a rule, are attached to social
affiliation around the fireside, but Mrs. Meyer figures as a typical
exception. Those that have known her well speak with kind tongues,
pronouncing her a model of her sex, chivalric in spirit, and brave, but
warm at heart. According to reliable information obtained in Tacoma, she
lit her feet on the green-trimmed shore, where the City of Destiny now
looms, forty odd years ago. She was married to an estimable German.
[Illustration: A SCENE OF PIONEER LIFE.]
HOOD'S CANAL ANDERSON.--Hood's Canal Anderson was a peculiar composition
of strange fancy. He was born in Denmark, and from childhood showed an
insatiable passion for the sea, which ripened into irresistible lust.
While a lad of vernal years he left his native seat to be dashed on the
briny waves from port to port. He saw the crystal ice of Lofoten, the
huge glaciers of Greenland, the thirsty greens of India, the foul bogs
of China, the flowery vales of Japan, the rich gold fields of Australia,
the teeming meadows of New Zealand. He was tossed from continent to
continent, from island to island. About forty-five years ago he drifted
ashore near Port Discovery, and under veil of night put wings to his
feet for the forest. The fascinating aspect of the country and the
aromatic sylva poured streams of delight into his soul. As he stood in
the early morn, gazing around in mingled awe and admiration, he was
surrounded by a red race, who, at first, gave vent to the horrible
dilemma of converting his heart to ashes or treating him as a slave, but
his ingenious demeanor turned their sanguinity to laughter, and Anderson
became their curious jocularity which melted to favoritism. He strolled
with the train of vagabonds alternately fishing and hunting up streams
and canoeing the Sound. Thus ten years were dragged out of his longevity
without mingling with white men.
His longing for civilization vanished little by little, and the life of
celibacy settled heavily on his heart. He was a friend of the chief and
an admirer of his daughter, and it took only the big canoe to seal the
bargain. Anderson was rather long-headed for the red heathens, and got
the best of every deal. He was now the possessor of the biggest canoe,
save the royal ship, and was looked upon as independently opulent. Only
a word would change his life for better or worse. Finally he took the
delicate step and offered the huge dug-out in trade for the young
princess, which was accepted with loud eclat.
The ban of the nuptial day was made public. The bride spared no
tiptoeing to make it highly royal. First was a coat of red paint, then
purple, tinged with green. A carefully administered shampoo of oil
followed, then a crands of wild flowers was critically twined to her
wealth of black locks with a few quills set on end in the most confused
bewilderment. Of course, Anderson did not fancy the odorous coat of his
intended, nor her pert of etiquette, but being as those things were
incidental to the dynasty, he darted approbation with his blue eyes,
thinking, "Costume is not permanent."
From this time the chivalric Dane became a leader. He piloted the royal
squadron to Hood's Canal, where he squatted on a piece of land, hence
the sobriquet--Hood's Canal Anderson.
He became attached to his wife, and she reciprocated with equal depth of
conjugality, and shaped her costume to meet his liking, yet Uncle Sam
pried into their warm nestling by passing a law to either separate
or marry according to his code. Of course, Anderson had to marry his
wife the second time, which he did like a loyal citizen. He took his
corpulent queen, placed her in the stern of the big canoe, and paddled
to Seabold, where they were united in holy ties by Harry Shafer, Uncle
Sam's matrimonial agent. Anderson bears the honor of being the first
white man on Puget Sound concubined to a squaw in accordance with the
laws of the United States. He was industrious and elevated compared with
his station, turned a wooded bit of ground to a flowery garden, and in a
corner, beneath a weedy sod, he rests unsung.
PETER FRIBERG.--Peter Friberg, like Hood's Canal Anderson, has walked
the highway of frontier trials. He was born in Sweden, but when a mere
youth sought the waves. After years of trying experiences he found
himself on Puget Sound, among the floating Flatheads, about the same
time Anderson landed, but perchance drifted off with another flock of
red skins, consequently the two contemporaries were ignorant of each
others wanderings till later years, when they accidently met and shook
hands.
Peter Friberg also threw his heart to a squaw, and with her he barged
along the shores making depredation on salmon and halibut, finally
pinning his future to a happy point running into the bosom of the Sound,
near Salmon Bay.
MARTIN TOFTEZEN.--About two-and-forty years ago, a son of Norway
anchored his canoe on the north side of Whidbey Island. His name has
been pinned to its soil among the first on record. He was a pioneer of
heart and courage--chivalrous Martin Toftezen. He had drifted around the
Horn on a ship, and was tossed into the mouth of Puget Sound, where the
breath of the deep calmed to a gentle zephyr, and the wings of speed
flapped in disconsolation. The bark was dashed ashore by the angry
billows, caused by the agitating tide, and Toftezen stood in a transport
of mingled awe and perturbation. Nature was grand, enchantingly sang
the ripples up the fascinating arm, and mad in grandeur reared the
snow-capped peaks, flinging smiles of welcome. "Why reject the poetic
landscape? Nature's sweetness will smite the blue forehead of dreary
solitude." These thoughts rolled in his fancy, and up the Sound he
paddled, and settled on the green tail, where he wore out his life.
PETER ANDRIAS PETERSON.--No man on the Pacific coast ever endured more
hardships than the personage in question--Peter Andrias Peterson--who,
about a year ago fell prey to an incidental injury, and was carried over
the stream for the unknown sea beyond.
He was born in Denmark, 1828, and cast on the cold billows to struggle
for himself at the age of fifteen. A few years later he stepped ashore
in England, where he took a course in navigation to enable himself to
cope more successfully with the foam-crest surges. He embarked a ship
for India and Australia. In the latter place his mind was engrossed with
exciting reports from the gold fields, and thither he flew, a fugitive
of the sea. Success smiled on his brow, and wealth crowded into his
hands; but riches easily won are not highly treasured. In a wildcat
scheme he sunk his fortune, and before the dawn of a fresh week his
thousands were in the hands of others.
This catastrophe, brought about by sheer mishap, drove him back to the
sea, and, in 1859, landed at Victoria, British Columbia. A buoyant
spirit, though wounded with ill-luck, will soar to felicity and breathe
vigor on green fields. Peterson was delighted with the verdure that
greeted his vision, and took a canoe excursion around the Sound. On
returning to Victoria, he was struck with the gold fever which raged
desperately in the Cascades and Sound country. He compromised with his
floating thoughts, bent his energy on a prospecting tour, and in two
days flocked together sixteen men. In his customary adroitness he took
command of the little army of gold seekers, and bore into the forest,
but when two hundred and twenty-five miles from Victoria, thirteen of
them lost courage and returned to the city.
Peterson and his two companions proceeded up a small stream for some
days, and to their astonishment, one gray evening, fell upon four
white men actively engaged in picking gold nuggets. They staked out
a claim, glimpses of luck commenced to play on their cheeks, but died
ere a fortnight had gone to rest in the pensive dream of growing
forgetfulness. Their ration was getting low, and to save themselves from
falling victims to pitiless starvation, they raked together their pelf,
and returned to Victoria.
In the spring an English syndicate mustered a regiment of fresh
recruits, a man of spirit and agility was wanted to head an expedition
into the mountains, and Peterson was offered the responsibility, as he
had already gained fame as a daring adventurer. It was suggested to
seek a new field, and a guide was secured to usher them along. First,
however, was to hunt up an easy pass, and to accomplish this, a knot of
fourteen men, headed by Peterson, was dispatched into the wilderness.
They fought their way through murky vales and climbed moss-bearded
brows, the day sunk behind the horizon and night wrapped them in
darkness. Thus they continued; but, alas! the guide disappears. The
others rambled through treacherous woods, thoughtless of any hazard.
Hours were consumed climbing over angry logs and chasing through
witching dingles, but the guide was neither heard nor sighted.
The thirteen brave were lost in the forest where gloomy giants stretched
into a ghastly stillness, broken only by deceiving owls sailing over
their heads on disconsolate wings. For eight days they wandered without
a morsel to eat; grouse and pheasant were drumming through the air, and
deer gambolled in listless droves, but only to whet their keen appetite.
Their fire-locks were empty like their stomachs.
After darkness comes sunshine, and to their exhileration tumbled into
an unknown mining camp. They were received as friends and immediately
treated to a savory table. One of the unfortunates being so greedy for
the palatable viands that he rose in the night to gormandize a heap of
pan-cakes, left from supper, and shortly after fell juicy feed for the
grave and worms.
A new plan was formulated, two Scotchmen were sent back to Victoria
for provision, and the others remained at the camp. A couple of months
elapsed, and twenty-four miners halted at the gold-seeking hamlet where
the unlucky retinue joined them.
The company, now numbering thirty-four, resumed their pilgrimage in an
easterly direction for nearly two hundred miles. The landscape swept up
into jutting brows and gray-headed peaks, and the forest fringed into
a scabby shrub of hungry appearance. The change in nature cast cold
currents into their souls, but soon melted into delight. A beautiful
stream grated their ears, and thither they flocked.
Nature was now sweetness and grandeur, and fortune seemed to smile from
every leaf and twig. The blue heaven hung over them, here and there
dipped with shades of purple; the sun sent down his wealth of beams to
kiss their hardy cheeks; and the clear stream was busy making music
as it tumbled down jeweled precipices to swell the deep. They drank
hope and aspiration from the poetic environment, and each, as a loyal
soldier, embarked his assigned duty with happiness in his heart. Gold
was not doubted, before a month had slipped away, the precious metal
glittered in rich veins.
A frontier mining camp, in the heart of savages, is a continuous scene
of sunshine and storm, of joy and despair. Precaution must be the
watchword of every individual, early and late; a careless step might
betray them to the altar of cruel slaughter. The book-keeper had been
appointed custodian of the fire arms, who, in a thoughtless way, or to
satisfy his greed, bargained the ammunition to the Indians. Oh, terror!
the happy camp was turned to a lake of blood. One sad night, in the
early part of winter, the savages stealthily fell upon the camp, and
like thieves entered the lodges, pointed their ill-gotten fire-pieces
against innocent breasts, and quenched the light within.
Peterson and two Scotchmen escaped the murderous fire, naked they ran,
not dissimilar to deer over the snow, the former dashed into the river
where ten thousand pug devils, sitting in its bosom, bleeded his feet,
and the latter chased down the bank of the stream as in an elopement
from hell. After a month of severest suffering and hardship they reached
the gate of safety--Victoria--blood-stained and scraggy, hardly able to
combat the icy angel of death. The gold fever had ceased to ebb through
their veins. The two Scotchmen returned to their dear fatherland, and
Peterson built a boat and sailed for Stillaguamish where he sleeps in
peace under the green turf, three miles from Stanwood.
FRED LANDSTONE.--In Swedish, Fredrik Landsten, a man of nomadic spirit
and fine intellect, was born in Sweden, and in the spring of manhood
ascended the horizon of sea-faring exploits. In 1860 he landed at San
Francisco, and a year later stept ashore at Port Discovery, Washington.
A score of years on the rolling brine had changed his mind for terra
firma. He resorted to logging camps and saw mills, working hard until
1876, when he retired on a piece of land three miles from Poulsbo,
where he still resides, slowly wearing out the balance of his years.
[Illustration: THE CHILBERG FAMILY OF FOUR GENERATIONS--ALL LIVING.
John Charles Chilberg is behind the vase of flowers and his wife
the second to his left.]
CHARLES JOHN CHILBERG (not John Charles as shown under the
illustration).--White with a wealth of snowy locks, and seven-and-four
scores of years hanging on his back, yet nimbly he frisks about on his
beautiful farm at Pleasant Ridge, Skagit county. This aged pioneer of
unusual endurance and grit, keen intellect and warm soul, was born in
Halland, near Laholm, Sweden, 1813, came to America, 1846, and located
in Iowa. In 1860 he visited Pike's Peak, Colorado, and in 1863 left
his family again, a loving wife and children, for the West with a view
to find a more congenial clime. For some time he traveled in Montana,
crossed the Rocky, and came to Puget Sound, 1865. The sweet-scenting
forest and the balmy heaven awakened his love for perambulation of the
Pacific, from British Columbia to the Golden State. He resolved to make
his future abode west of the Cascades, and in 1869 returned to Iowa
to remove his family to Washington, arriving at Pleasant Ridge the
following spring.
Mrs. Charles John Chilberg and three of her sons, Joseph, John H. and
Charles F., came to the Pacific in the spring of 1871, and Isaac and B.
A. a few months later. James P. Chilberg has climbed the horizon of
pioneer adventures. In 1859 he landed in California, in 1864 traveled in
Oregon, and in 1870 beheld the rippling Sound and the Washington forest.
In 1872 Nelson Chilberg took a survey of the Pacific and three years
subsequent his brother Andrew threw his eyes upon the mighty ocean.
ANDREW NELSON.--A jolly fellow, familiarly known as Dogfish Nelson, was
among the first Scandinavian pioneers. He was born in Denmark, 1832,
and landed as a sailor at Port Ludlow in 1867. Like many others he was
attracted by the country, and to drive away monotony took an Indian
woman for wife, as white women were almost unknown on the coast at that
time. Nelson has encountered many obstacles in his cruising among the
red skins and fierce brutes, but always managed to play the hero. He has
been industrious and convivial, and a flowery nest in Brown's Bay
bespeaks his rank.
HANS HANSEN, a Dane, who resides at Alki Point, near Seattle, has earned
a footing among the early Scandinavian pioneers. His years on the
Pacific reach pretty nigh two scores. Knut Knutson, a native of Norway,
and also a resident of Alki Point, came to Puget Sound over thirty
years ago, and has passed through days of sun and storm. C. E. Norager,
likewise of Norse birth, places his disembarkation on the Pacific about
forty years back.