CROSSING THE ISTHMUS
Governor Stevens, with his family, consisting of his wife, four
children, the two youngest being only two and four years old
respectively, and the nurse Ellen, a bonny young Irish woman, sailed
from New York, September 20, 1854, en route for his far Western home.
The vessel was packed full, with thirteen hundred passengers. The food
was execrable, meats and poultry tainted and almost uneatable. Ice was
charged extra, twenty-five cents a pound. The second cabin table rivaled
at times a scene from Bedlam. The hungry passengers would often hurl the
spoiled chickens overboard amid loud complaints, laughter, and the
imitated crowing and cackle of cocks and hens. Christy's minstrels were
on board, bound to San Francisco,--a reckless, noisy, drinking crew, but
fine performers, both instrumental and vocal, and always ready and
willing to entertain the passengers with their pleasing melodies. The
best state-rooms were allotted the governor and family, with seats next
the captain at table, but the younger children had to sit at the second
table. The ship put in at Havana for a day, where the family enjoyed a
delicious repast of broiled birds on toast and guava jelly at the
Dominica restaurant, and viewed the cathedral and tomb of Columbus.
Crossing the Caribbean sea in hot and sultry weather, they arrived at
Aspinwall on the 29th.
This place was squalid, dreary, and repulsive. Low, flat, swampy morass,
some filled-in land; great pools of dirty, green, stagnant water; a
frail, rickety wharf, which the ship hardly dared touch lest it fall
over; a railroad track along the shore; a hundred yards back, a number
of large, cheap-built wooden houses, like overgrown tenement houses,
unpainted and dilapidated; the street a bed of mud, littered with broken
boards and refuse lumber and piles of rubbish; black pigs roaming and
rooting about; many rascally and worthless-looking natives, in whom the
negro predominated,--the whole thoroughly wet down by heavy, drenching,
tropical showers,--such was Aspinwall, as the disappointed passengers
landed, and sought the shelter of the buildings supposed to be hotels,
but where almost everything was lacking except extortionate charges.
After a comfortless night and miserable breakfast, the party embarked on
the cars, and proceeded about twenty miles to the "Summit," which was
half way to Panama, and as far as the road then extended, and which was
reached about noon, and learned that the rest of the way across had to
be made on horse or mule back. There were no animals ready, but it was
announced that the party would have to wait until the next morning, when
plenty of mules would be provided. Some railroad sheds, a few native
huts, and a huge pavilion, consisting of an immense pyramidal thatched
roof surmounting low sides mostly open, comprised the only shelters, and
into them the passengers flocked.
The great pavilion belonged to a huge, jet black Jamaica negro, named
Carusi, and was not partitioned off, consisting of nothing indeed but
the earthen floor and the roof above it, with the low sides. At night
this rude structure was thronged with the weary passengers. Delicate
ladies and children, rough men, and people of every kind and condition
fairly covered the floor, or rather ground, seeking rest as best they
could; while in the centre of the apartment, in a big, old-fashioned,
four-poster bed, lay the gigantic Carusi side by side with his fat wife,
their ebony faces contrasting with the white pillows and sheets. The
minstrels improved the occasion with banjo and song until late at night,
when some of them, becoming drunk, began disturbing the company with
oaths and obscene language, but Governor Stevens rebuked them in such
stern and minatory manner that they were cowed, and relapsed into
silence.
The expected mules began arriving in small bands under charge of natives
about noon the next day, and with much bargaining and contention the
passengers secured their mounts, and started off in groups. The governor
employed two natives to carry the two youngest children, who were mere
babies, on their backs in chairs, and set off followed by the rest of
the family mounted each on a mule. It soon began to rain in torrents. In
an hour it as suddenly ceased, and the sun came out, hot and sultry,
soon to be followed by another downpour, and so deluge and sunshine
alternated all day. After riding two hours over narrow, muddy trails,
and up and down steep though short hills, where the mules had trodden
the clay into regular steps, they reached the Chagres River, and found
all the passengers who had preceded them collected on the bank, gazing
in dismay on the raging yellow flood, for the stream was up under the
tremendous rains, and fearing to essay its passage. After viewing the
river carefully, the governor forced his mule into it, and, guiding him
diagonally across, safely made the opposite bank. Then, returning, he
led the way across again, his little daughter Sue, only eight years old,
close behind on her mule, then the rest of the family, and after them
followed all the waiting crowd. It was dark when they reached Panama,
and found shelter in an old cloistered stone convent, now used as a
hotel, exchanged their wet clothes for dry purchased at the nearest
shop, and obtained much-needed food and rest. But nothing was seen or
heard of the natives with the two babies, since they stole off on a
footpath soon after starting, and late in the evening the governor
mounted a fresh animal, and with a guide went back to find them,
spending the greater part of the night in a vain search. At breakfast
the next morning the natives brought in the children, safe and well and
perfectly contented. They had taken the little ones to their huts on
account of the heavy rains, where the native women fed them and put them
to bed, dried their clothes, and sent them in the next morning, safe and
sound.
During the day the passengers were taken out in boats to the steamer
Golden Age, which was anchored in the bay three miles from the town. She
was a larger and more commodious ship than the other. The voyage up the
coast began the next morning. A stop of several hours was made in the
land-locked harbor of Acapulco, which the governor improved by taking
his family ashore, and treating them to a dinner of fried chicken at a
small posada on the old and quaint paved main street. The Panama fever
soon made its dreaded appearance among the passengers, owing to their
exposure on the Isthmus; many fell sick, and a considerable number died
and were buried at sea. The weather was fine, the sea calm and smooth
save for the long rollers of the Pacific, and the voyage would have been
an enjoyable one had it not been for the fearful fever and the crowded
condition of the vessel. On the fourteenth day she entered the Golden
Gate, and rested in the welcome port of San Francisco.
The governor took rooms at the Oriental Hotel. His wife and the three
little girls were all seized with the fever on the ship, and their
condition was serious when they landed. Doctors Hitchcock and Hammond,
old army friends of the governor, were unremitting in their attentions,
and after several weeks' care brought the sufferers past the danger
point, all except the little four-year-old Maude. Her case they at
length pronounced hopeless. But her father would not give her up. He had
a hot bath administered as a last resort, and sat by her bedside hour
after hour, giving liquid nourishment drop by drop, and at last she
passed the crisis and began to recover. By all this sickness they were
forced to remain in the city over a month; but in the society of his old
friends, and amid the bright, vigorous men and bustling scenes of the
new-born metropolis, the time passed rapidly and well improved. Folsom,
a man of wealth, placed his fine carriage and horses at Mrs. Stevens's
disposal. Halleck would have long talks with the governor. Dr. Gwin and
his family, old friends and neighbors, met them with real Southern
cordiality.
One incident is worth relating, because it materially affected
subsequent events, as the governor believed. A number of officers and
other gentlemen were conversing together at the hotel one evening, among
whom was General John E. Wool, then commanding the United States forces
on the Pacific coast. The talk turned on the battle of Buena Vista, and
General Wool loudly claimed for himself all the credit for that battle,
disparaging in an offensive manner General Taylor and the part he took
in it. At length Governor Stevens, whose strong sense of justice was
outraged by the boastful and unfair tirade, spoke up and said: "General
Wool, we all know the brilliant part you bore in the battle, but we all
know and history will record that General Taylor fought and won the
battle of Buena Vista."[10] Wool, although visibly offended, made no
reply to this rebuke, but it rankled and caused a bitter animosity,
which subsequently found vent in hostile speech and action.
The voyage up the coast was made without special incident; they crossed
the bar, steamed up the Columbia, and landed at Vancouver early in
November. Here they remained a fortnight, the guests of Captain Brent,
the quartermaster, in order to enable the sick members to gain strength
sufficiently to stand the hard trip to the Sound. After this brief stay
the governor took his family on a little steamboat to Portland, where
they spent the night. The town then consisted only of a string of small
wooden buildings along the river-bank. The street, or road, was a
perfect quagmire of mud-holes. Single planks laid along irregularly,
with many intervals, furnished the only sidewalks. The next morning they
embarked on a steamer and went down the river to Rainier, where they
landed. This place consisted of a wharf and a sawmill. It was called
Rainier, it was said, by way of a joke, because it rained here all the
time; but doubtless it was named after Mount Rainier, which was named by
Admiral Vancouver after a lord of the British admiralty. The party took
canoes, manned by Indians, the same afternoon, crossed the Columbia, and
paddled a few miles up the Cowlitz to Monticello, where they spent the
night. At daylight the next morning the governor and family embarked in
one large canoe, while the trunks and baggage followed in another, and
pushed upstream against a swift current. There were in the canoe the
governor, his wife and four children, the nurse, and a crew of four
Indians, two at each end. It was a dark, drizzling day, with frequent
showers. The passengers sat upon the bottom of the canoe upon plenty of
Indian mats, and well wrapped in blankets, and, except for the
constrained and irksome position, were fairly comfortable. The Indians,
urged by promise of extra pay, paddled vigorously. At the rapids (and
it seemed that nearly all the stream was in rapids) they laid aside
their paddles, and, standing up, forced the canoe ahead with poles,
which they wielded with great skill and vigor. All day long they paddled
and poled with unabated energy, now paddling where they could take
advantage of an eddy or stretch of back water, now forcing the canoe up
swift rapids, gaining inch by inch. It was after dark when they reached
Cowlitz Landing, thirty miles above Monticello, and found shelter for
the night at the hospitable inn kept by Dr. and Mrs. U.G. Warbass.
Writes Mrs. Stevens of this trip:--
"We were placed in the canoe with great care, so as to balance it
evenly, as it was frail and upset easily. At first the novelty,
motion, and watching our Indians paddle so deftly, then seize their
poles and push along over shallow places, keeping up a low, sweet
singing as they glided along, was amusing. As we were sitting flat
on the bottom of the canoe, the position became irksome and painful.
We were all day long on this Cowlitz River. At night I could not
stand on my feet for some time after landing. We walked ankle-deep
in the mud to a small log-house, where we had a good meal. Here we
found a number of rough, dirty-looking men, with pantaloons tucked
inside their boots, and so much hair upon their heads and faces they
all looked alike. After tea we were shown a room to sleep in, full
of beds, which were for the women. I was so worn out with this novel
way of traveling that I laid down on a narrow strip of bed, not
undressed, all my family alongside on the same bed. The governor sat
on a stool near by, and, strange to say, slept sound through the
long, dismal night. He had been shown his bed up through a hole on
top of the shanty. He said one look was sufficient. Men were strewn
as thick as possible on the floor in their blankets. The steam
generated from their wet clothes, boots, and blankets was stifling.
One small hole cut through the roof was the only ventilation.
"As soon as breakfast was over the next morning, we mounted into a
wagon without springs and proceeded on our journey. The governor
took M. in his arms to keep her from being jolted. There surely were
no worse roads to be found anywhere in the world than this. The
horses went deep in the mud every step; the wheels sank to the hub,
and often had to be pried up. We forded rivers, the water coming
above our ankles in the wagon. Many big, deep holes they would jump
over, making the horses run quick, when the wagon would jump across,
shaking us up fearfully. In one of these holes our horses fell down,
and we stuck fast in the mud. We were taken from the wagon by men of
our party plunging up to their knees in the mud, and carrying us out
by sheer force of their strength. After seating us upon a fallen
log, the horses were with difficulty extricated from the mud. After
another long day's tiresome travel we stopped at a log-house for the
night. Upon entering from the porch we found a big room, with a wood
fire filling up one side, blazing and crackling, low chairs in
front; in the centre of the room was a table with a clean cloth on
it, and a repast of well-cooked food, relishing and abundant, was
placed upon it, to which we did ample justice. Our host was an
Englishman, a farmer, who was getting on well, a genial, hospitable
man. His wife was a superior woman. She had crossed the plains with
her first husband. On the journey they were surrounded by Indians.
He was killed. She was taken prisoner by these savages, and after
passing through untold suffering she managed to make her escape, and
after walking hundreds of miles, living upon berries by the way, she
came into the Dalles, a forlorn, starved woman, almost destitute of
clothing, with her boy ten years of age. It was here our host met
her and offered shelter to her child and herself, which she gladly
accepted, and finally became his wife. She was a fine-looking woman
and a thorough housekeeper, but had the saddest expression on her
face. At night she took us across the yard into another log-house,
where we found a bright fire burning on the hearth, and nice, clean
beds. I felt like staying in this comfortable shelter, hearing the
rain patter on the roof, until the rainy season was over, at least."
The host referred to was John R. Jackson. His farm was only ten miles
from Cowlitz Landing, but the roads were in such wretched state that a
whole day was consumed in traveling this short distance.
After a cheerful breakfast the next morning, the journey was resumed.
George W. Stevens and several other gentlemen came out to meet the
governor and family, and escorted them to Olympia. The governor mounted
his horse Charlie, which he purchased of the Red River half-breeds, and
which was brought out to him. This was a great, powerful gray charger,
of high spirit, and able to cover twelve miles an hour in a swinging
trot without distress. It was another rainy, drizzling day. The road was
almost impassable. At Saunders's Bottom, where the town of Chehalis now
stands, the mud was knee-deep for two miles, terribly wearing on the
animals. At length, after fording the Skookumchuck at its mouth, and
traversing an extensive prairie, the wet, tired, and bedraggled party
reached the log-house of Judge Sidney S. Ford, and found hospitable
shelter for the night, having traveled about twenty-five miles that day.
The next day the party reached Olympia late in the afternoon, after a
thirty miles' journey over much better and pleasanter roads, traversing
prairies over half the distance, including Grand Mound, Little Mound,
and Bush's prairies. It was a dreary, dark, December day. It had rained
considerably. The road from Tumwater to Olympia was ankle-deep in mud,
and thridded a dense forest with a narrow track. With expectations
raised at the idea of seeing the capital and chief town of the
Territory, the weary travelers toiled up a small hill in the edge of the
timber, reached the summit, and eagerly looked to see the future
metropolis. Their hearts sank with bitter disappointment as they
surveyed the dismal and forlorn scene before them. A low, flat neck of
land, running into the bay, down it stretched the narrow, muddy track,
winding among the stumps which stood thickly on either side; twenty
small wooden houses bordered the road, while back of them on the left
and next the shore were a number of Indian lodges, with canoes drawn up
on the beach, and Indians and dogs lounging about. The little hill
mentioned is where now stands the Masonic Building, opposite the Olympia
Hotel. The site of the Indian camp is now Columbia Street, between Third
and Fourth. There were only one or two buildings above, or south of,
Sixth Street. The public square was a tangle of fallen timber. Main
Street terminated in Giddings's Wharf, which was left high and dry at
low tide.
Mrs. Stevens continues her account as follows:--
"At night we were told, on ascending a hill, 'There is Olympia.'
Below us, in the deep mud, were a few low, wooden houses, at the
head of Puget Sound. My heart sank, for the first time in my life,
at the prospect. After ploughing through the mud, we stopped at the
principal hotel, to stay until our house was ready for us. As we
went upstairs there were a number of people standing about to see
the governor and his family. I was very much annoyed at their
staring and their remarks, which they made audibly, and hastened to
get in some private room, where I could make myself better prepared
for an inspection. Being out in rains for many days had not improved
our appearance or clothes. But there seemed no rest for the weary.
Upon being ushered into the public parlor I found people from far
and near had been invited to inspect us. The room was full. The sick
child was cross, and took no notice of anything that was said to
her. One of the women saying aloud, 'What a cross brat that is!' I
could stand it no longer, but opened a door and went into a large
dancing-hall, and soon after, when the governor came to look me up,
I was breaking my heart over the forlorn situation I found myself
in,--cold, wet, uncomfortable, no fire, shaking with chills. What a
prospect! How I longed to find myself back in my childhood's home,
among good friends and relatives! Just then we were told we were
expected across the street. The governor had his office there, and
had us taken directly there. It was a happy change. We went into a
large, cheerful room, with the beds on the floor, a bright fire
burning, book-cases filled with books smiling upon us. We soon had a
good repast, and felt comfortable at last. In a few days we were at
housekeeping, very pleasant indeed, all picking up in health, and
good friends around us.
"Many of the people called on me. I found them pleasant and
agreeable people; many of them were well-educated and interesting
young ladies who had come here with their husbands, government
officials, and who had given up their city homes to live in this
unknown land, surrounded by Indians and dense forests.
"I remained three years at Olympia, a great part of the time living
alone with the children, the governor being away in all parts of the
Territory, making treaties with the Indians, planning and arranging
the settlement of the country. There was a pleasant company of
officers, with their wives, stationed at Steilacoom, twenty miles
from Olympia, with whom I became acquainted, and had visits from and
visited. Naval ships came up Puget Sound with agreeable officers on
board. I had a horse to ride on horseback across the lovely
prairies. Almost daily I took a ride about the picturesque,
beautiful country, with the rich, dense forests and snowy mountains,
green little prairies skirted by timber, lakes of deep, clear water,
all of which was new to me, affording great pleasure in exploring
Indian trails and country, which was completely new. I also had a
boat built, in which I made excursions down the Sound. About two
miles down there was a Catholic mission, a large, dark house or
monastery, surrounded by cultivated land, a fine garden in front
filled with flowers, bordered on one side, next the water, with
immense bushes of wall-flowers in bloom; the fragrance, resembling
the sweet English violet, filling the air with its delicious odor.
Father Ricard, the venerable head of this house, was from Paris. He
had lived in this place more than twenty years. He had with him
Father Blanchet, a short, thickset man, who managed everything
pertaining to the temporal comfort of the mission. Under him were
servants who were employed in various ways, baking, cooking,
digging, and planting. Their fruit was excellent and a great rarity,
as there was but one more orchard in the whole country. There was a
large number of Flatheads settled about them, who had been taught to
count their beads, say prayers, and were good Catholics in all
outward observances; chanted the morning and evening prayers, which
they sang in their own language in a low, sweet strain, which, the
first time I heard it, sitting in my boat at sunset, was impressive
and solemn. We went often to visit Father Ricard, who was a highly
educated man, who seemed to enjoy having some one to converse with
in his own language. He said the Canadians used such bad French."
Mrs. Stevens was still suffering from the Panama fever, and it was a
year before she and little Maude recovered from it. The new quarters
consisted of two long, one-story wooden buildings, one room wide, little
more than sheds, hired of Father Ricard at $900 a year. They were
cheaply built, without plastering, but lined inside with cotton cloth.
There was a narrow passageway between them, from which doors gave access
to the different rooms. In rear was a large yard, extending to the
beach, upon which a gate in the rear fence opened, and where a boat was
kept. The Indian camp began at the corner of the yard. The governor had
secured two men servants, Agnew as cook, and W.F. Seely, man of all
work. The latter was a lusty young Irishman, strong as a bull and quick
as a cat, witty, boastful, brave, and devoted to the governor and his
family. He was a member of the exploring party, where he had fought and
beaten all the pugilistic heroes up to the wagon-master, C.P. Higgins,
by whom he had been handsomely vanquished, and whom he regarded ever
after with great admiration and esteem.
The family soon felt at home in the new abode, amid the novel scenes and
experiences, and cheered by new and old friends. George Stevens, Mason,
and Lieutenant Arnold came in and out like brothers. There were Evans
and Kendall, who came with the exploration; Major H. A. Goldsborough,
George Gibbs, Colonel Simmons, Frank Shaw, and Orrington Cushman, known
as "Old Cush," with his great red beard, a great favorite with children,
and liked and trusted by both whites and Indians. Major James Tilton,
the surveyor-general, arrived with his family after a voyage around the
Horn,--a man of soldierly bearing and aristocratic tastes, who was to
render valuable service. Captain J. Cain also arrived, as Indian
agent,--a typical Indiana politician, but a man of parts and integrity
and public spirit, and a true friend.
The second legislature met on December 4, and the governor on the 5th
delivered his message in person.
After acknowledging the consideration shown him as their executive, and
congratulating them on the flattering prospects of the Territory, he
recommended them to memorialize Congress for roads, mail service,
steamer lines, etc., and other needs, and mentioned with regret the
failure of Congress to provide for objects for which he had earnestly
striven, viz., the extinction of the Hudson Bay Company's claims, the
running of the northern boundary line, and a geological survey of the
coal measures. He urged the organization of an effective militia,
referring to the danger of Indian hostilities, his recommendation to the
first legislature, and to the fact that the government had refused his
recent applications for arms because the militia was not organized. He
summed up the results of his exploration in saying: "Beautiful prairies
and delightful valleys, easy passes practicable at all seasons of the
year, have taken the place of savage deserts and mountain defiles
impracticable half the year from snow.... The more the country is
examined, the better it develops."
In closing he invoked their support of his efforts in behalf of the
Indians:--
"I will indulge the hope that the same spirit of concord and exalted
patriotism, which has thus far marked our political existence, will
continue to the end. Particularly do I invoke that spirit in
reference to our Indian relations. I believe the time has now come
for their final settlement. In view of the important duties which
have been assigned to me, I throw myself unreservedly upon the
people of the Territory, not doubting that they will extend to me a
hearty and generous support in my efforts to arrange on a permanent
basis the future of the Indians of this Territory."
Referring to the military road across the Nahchess Pass, he said:--
"It would be a great benefit to those traveling this road should the
legislature take some step toward sowing with grass-seed the small
prairie known as the Bare Prairie, situated a little below the mouth
of Green River, as also the sides of the mountain known as La Tête.
These points are intermediate in a long distance destitute of grass,
and are almost necessarily stopping-places on the march. A very
small sum would cover the expense of planting them, and the
advantage would be incalculable."
This humane and sensible suggestion was turned into ridicule and
defeated by one of those wiseacres, strong in their own conceit and
ignorance, that infest most assemblies, who cried out, "Governor Stevens
needn't try to make grass grow where God Almighty didn't make it grow."
There was great jealousy on the part of the settlers of the far-reaching
claims of the Hudson Bay Company, and under the influence of this
feeling the council requested the governor to communicate any
information he had as to the manner in which Congress arrived at the
estimated amount of $300,000 as the value of such claims. The attentions
paid him by the officers of that company, in their open efforts to gain
his goodwill and support, were well known, and, with the fact that an
appropriation of the above amount for extinguishing the claims had
passed the Senate, had excited some mistrust as to the governor's action
and attitude on that important question. In reply he simply gave a
synopsis of his report to the State Department, which set all doubts at
rest.
FOOTNOTES:
[10] Governor Stevens's own statement. See Bancroft's _Pacific
States_, vol. xxvi. p. 117, note.