of miles of unoccupied prairie land as rich as anything that ever "lay
out of doors," on our way from Indiana to Oregon in search of land on
which to make a home. Here, at what we might call the end of our rope,
we had found the land, but with conditions that seemed almost too
adverse to overcome.
It was a discouraging outlook, even if there had been roads. Such
timber! It seemed an appalling undertaking to clear this land, the
greater part of it being covered with a heavy growth of balm and alder
trees and a thick tangle of underbrush besides. When we fell asleep that
night, it was without visions of new-found wealth. And yet later I did
tackle a quarter-section of that heaviest timber land, and never let up
until the last tree, log, stump, and root had disappeared, though of
course, not all cleared off by my own hands.
If we could have known what was coming four months later, we would have
remained, in spite of our discouragement, and searched the valley
diligently for the choicest locations. For in October following there
came the first immigrants over the Natchess Pass Trail into Washington.
They located in a body over nearly the whole valley, and before the year
was ended had made a rough wagon road out to the prairies and to
Steilacoom, the county seat.
We lingered at the mouth of the river in doubt as to what best to do. My
thoughts went back to wife and baby in the lonely cabin on the Columbia
River, and again to that bargain we had made before marriage, that we
were going to be farmers. How could we be farmers if we did not have
land? Under the donation act we could hold three hundred and twenty
acres, but we must live on it for four years; it behooved us to look out
and secure our location before the act expired, which would occur the
following year.
With misgivings and doubts, on the fourth day Oliver and I loaded our
outfit into our skiff and floated out on the receding tide, whither, we
did not know.
As we drew off from the mouth of the Puyallup River, numerous parties of
Indians were in sight. Some were trolling for salmon, with a lone Indian
in the bow of each canoe; others with poles were fishing for smelt;
still others with nets seemed waiting for fisherman's luck.
Other parties were passing, those in each canoe singing a plaintive
chant in minor key, accompanied by heavy strokes of the paddle handles
against the sides of the canoe, as if to keep time. There were some fine
voices to be heard, and though there were but slight variations in the
sounds or words, the Indians seemed never to tire in repeating, and I
must confess we never tired of listening.
During the afternoon, after we had traveled some twenty miles, we saw
ahead of us larger waters, into which we entered, finding ourselves in a
bay five or six miles wide, with no very certain prospect of a camping
place. Just then we espied a cluster of cabins and houses on a point to
the east. There we made a landing, at what is now known as Alki Point,
though it then bore the pretentious name of New York.
We soon pushed on to the east shore, where the steam from a sawmill
served as a guide, and landed at a point that cannot be far from the
western limit of the present Pioneer Place, in Seattle, near where the
totem pole now stands.
As we were not looking for a mill site or town site, we pushed on next
day. We had gone but a few miles when a favorable breeze sprang up,
bringing with it visions of a happy time sailing; but behind us lay a
long stretch of open waters several miles wide, and ahead we could see
no visible shelter and no lessening of width; consequently the breeze
was not entirely welcome. In a short time the breeze stiffened, and we
began to realize that we were in danger. We were afraid to attempt a
landing on the surf-beaten shore; but finally, the wind increasing, the
clouds lowering, and the rain coming down in torrents, we had to take
the risk. Letting down the sail, we headed our frail craft towards the
shore. Fortune favored us, for we found a good sandy beach upon which to
land, though we got a thorough drenching while so doing.
[Illustration: _Brown Bros._
A rich haul of salmon.]
Here we were compelled to remain two or three days in a dismal camp,
until the weather became more favorable. Then launching our boat, we
pulled for the head of Whidbey's Island, a few miles to the northwest.
Now I have a fish story to tell. I have always been shy about telling
it, lest some smart fellow should up and say I was drawing on my
imagination: I am not.
When we had broken camp and were sailing along, we heard a dull sound
like that often heard from the tide rips. As we rested on our oars, we
could see that there was a disturbance in the water and that it was
moving toward us. It extended as far as we could see, in the direction
we were going. The sound increased and became like the roar of a heavy
fall of rain or hail on water, and we became aware that it was a vast
school of fish moving south, while millions were seemingly dancing on
the surface of the water or leaping in the air.
We could feel the fish striking against the boat in such vast numbers
that they fairly moved it. The leap in the air was so high that we tried
tipping the boat to catch some as they fell back, and sure enough, here
and there one would drop into the boat. We soon discovered some Indians
following the school. They quickly loaded their canoes by using the
barbed pole and throwing the impaled fish into their canoes. With an
improvised net we too soon obtained all we wanted.
When we began to go on we were embarrassed by the mass of fish moving in
the water. As far as we could see there was no end to the school ahead
of us; but we finally got clear of the moving mass and reached the
island shore in safety, only to become weather-bound in the wilds once
more.
This camp did not prove so dreary as the last one, although it was more
exposed to the swell of the big waters and the sweep of the wind. To the
north we had a view of thirty miles or more, to where horizon and water
blended, leaving it doubtful whether land was in sight or not. As we
afterwards ascertained, we could see the famous San Juan Island, later
the bone of contention between our government and Great Britain, when
the northern boundary of the United States was settled.
Port Townsend lay some ten miles from our camp, but was shut out from
view by an intervening headland. We did not know the exact location of
the town. Like the lost hunters, "we knew where we were, but we didn't
know where any place else was." Not lost ourselves, the world was lost
from us.
Three ships passed us while we were at this camp, one coming from out of
space, as it seemed, a mere speck, and growing to a full-fledged
deep-sea vessel, with all sails set, scudding before the wind. The other
two were gracefully beating their way out against the stiff breeze to
the open waters beyond. What prettier sight is there than a full-rigged
vessel with all sails spread! The enthusiasm that rose as we gazed at
the ships, coupled with a spirit of adventure, prompted us to go
farther.
[Illustration: A deep-sea vessel sailing before the wind.]
It was a calm, beautiful day when we reached Port Townsend. Distance
lends enchantment, the old adage says; but in this case the nearer we
approached to the place, the greater our admiration. The shining, pebbly
beach in front, the clear, level spot adjoining, with the beautiful open
and comparatively level plateau in the background, and two or three
vessels at anchor in the foreground, made a picture of a perfect city
site.
Upon closer examination of the little town we found that the first
impression, gained from a distance, was illusory. Many shacks and
camps, at first mistaken for the white men's houses, were found to be
occupied by natives. They were a drunken, rascally rabble, spending
their gains from the sale of fish and oil in a debauch that would last
as long as their money held out.
This seemed to be a more stalwart race of Indians than those to the
south, doubtless from the buffeting received in the larger waters. They
would often go out even to the open sea on their fishing excursions in
canoes manned by thirty men or more.
After spending two or three days exploring the country, we turned back
to the bay where lay the seven ships we had seen near Steilacoom. We
remembered the timber camps, the bustle and stir of the little new
village, and the activity that we saw there, greater than anywhere else
on the waters of the Sound. Most of all, my thoughts would go on to the
little cabin on the Columbia River.
Three days sufficed to land us back in the bay we sought, but the ships
were gone. Not a sailing craft of any kind was in sight of the little
town, though the building activity was going on as before.
The memory of those ships, however, remained with us and determined our
minds on the important question where the trade center was to be. We
decided therefore that our new home should be near Steilacoom, and we
finally staked out a claim on an island not far from that place.
Once the claim had been decided upon, my next desire naturally was to
get home to my family. The expedition had taken thirty days, and of
course there had been no news from my wife, nor had I been able to send
back any word to her.
FOOTNOTES:
[6] Are you afraid of the rapid water?
[7] I will stay with you.
[Illustration: On the trail again with Buck and Dandy.]
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
MOVING FROM THE COLUMBIA TO PUGET SOUND
"CAN I get home tonight?" I asked myself.
It was an afternoon of the last week of June, in 1853, and the sun was
yet high. I was well up the left bank of the Cowlitz River; how far I
could not tell, for there were no milestones on the crooked,
half-obstructed trail leading downstream. At best it would be a race
with the sun, but the days were long, and the twilight was long, and I
would camp that much nearer home if I made haste.
My pack had been discarded on the Sound. I had neither coat nor blanket.
I wore a heavy woolen shirt, a slouch hat, and worn shoes; both hat and
shoes gave ample ventilation. Socks I had none; neither had I
suspenders, an improvised belt taking their place. I was dressed for the
race and was eager for the trial. At Olympia I had parted with my
brother, who had returned to stay at the claims we had taken, while I
was to go home for the wife and baby, to remove them to our new home.
I did not particularly mind the camping, but I did not fancy the idea
of lying out so near home if by extra exertion I could reach the cabin
before night. There was no friendly ox to snug up to for warmth, as in
so many of the bivouacs on the plains; but I had matches, and there were
many mossy places for a bed under the friendly shelter of drooping
cedars. We never thought of catching cold from lying on the ground or on
cedar boughs, or from getting a good drenching.
After all, the cabin could not be reached, as the trail could not be
followed at night. Slackening pace at nightfall to cool my system
gradually, I finally made my camp and slept as soundly as if on a bed of
down. My consolation was that the night was short and I could see to
travel by three o'clock.
I do not look upon those years of camp and cabin life as years of
hardship. To be sure, our food was plain as well as our dress; our hours
of labor were long and the labor itself was frequently severe; the
pioneers appeared rough and uncouth. Yet underlying all this there ran a
vein of good cheer, of hopefulness. We never watched for the sun to go
down, or for the seven o'clock whistle, or for the boss to quicken our
steps. The days were always too short, and interest in our work was
always unabated.
The cabin could not be seen until the trail came quite near it. When I
caught sight of a curl of smoke I knew I was almost there. Then I saw
the cabin and a little lady in almost bloomer dress milking the cow. She
never finished milking that cow, nor did she ever milk any cow when her
husband was at home.
There were so many things to talk about that we could scarcely tell
where to begin or when to stop. Much of the conversation naturally
centered on the question of our moving to a new home.
"Why, at Olympia, eggs were a dollar a dozen. I saw them selling at
that. The butter you have there would bring you a dollar a pound as fast
as you could weigh it out. I saw stuff they called butter sell for that.
Potatoes are selling for three dollars a bushel and onions at four.
Everything the farmer raises sells high."
"Who buys?"
"Oh, almost everybody has to buy. There are ships and timber camps and
the hotels, and--"
"Where do they get the money?"
"Everybody seems to have money. Some take it there with them. Men
working in the timber camps get four dollars a day and their board. At
one place they paid four dollars a cord for wood to ship to San
Francisco, and a man can sell all the shingles he can make at four
dollars a thousand. I was offered five cents a foot for piles. If we had
Buck and Dandy over there we could make twenty dollars a day putting in
piles."
"Where could you get the piles?"
"Off the government land, of course. All help themselves to what they
want. Then there are the fish and the clams and oysters, and--"
"But what about the land for the claim?"
That question was a stumper. The little wife never lost sight of that
bargain made before we were married. Now I found myself praising a
country for the agricultural qualities of which I could not say much.
But if we could sell produce higher, might we not well lower our
standard of an ideal farm? The claim I had taken was described with a
touch of apology, in quality falling so far below what we had hoped to
acquire. However, we decided to move, and began to prepare for the
journey.
The wife, baby, bedding, ox yoke, and log chain were sent up the Cowlitz
in a canoe. Buck and Dandy and I took the trail. On this occasion I was
ill prepared for a cool night camp, having neither blanket nor coat. I
had expected to reach Hard Bread's Hotel, where the people in the canoe
would stop overnight. But I could not make it, so again I lay out on the
trail. "Hard Bread's," an odd name for a hotel, was so called because
the old widower that kept the place fed his patrons on hardtack three
times a day.
I found that my wife had not fared any better than I had on the trail,
and in fact not so well. The floor of the cabin--that is, the hotel--was
a great deal harder than the sand spit where I had passed the night. I
had plenty of pure, fresh air, while she, in a closed cabin and in the
same room with many others, had neither fresh air nor freedom from
creeping things that make life miserable. With her shoes for a pillow, a
shawl for covering, small wonder that she reported, "I did not sleep a
wink last night."
We soon arrived at the Cowlitz landing, the end of the canoe journey.
Striking the tent that had served us so well on the Plains and making a
cheerful camp fire, we speedily forgot the hard experiences of the
trail.
Fifty miles more of travel lay before us. And such a road! However, we
had one consolation,--it would be worse in winter than at that time.
Our wagon had been left at The Dalles and we had never seen or heard of
it again. Our cows were gone--given for provender to save the lives of
the oxen during the deep December snow. So when we took account of
stock, we had the baby, Buck and Dandy, a tent, an ox yoke and chain,
enough clothing and bedding to keep us comfortable, a very little food,
and no money. The money had all been expended on the canoe passage.
Should we pack the oxen and walk, and carry the baby, or should we build
a sled and drag our things over to the Sound, or should I make an effort
to get a wagon? This last proposition was the most attractive, and so
next morning, driving my oxen before me and leaving wife and baby to
take care of the camp, I began the search for a wagon.
That great-hearted pioneer, John R. Jackson, did not hesitate a moment,
stranger though I was, to say, "Yes, you can have two if you need them."
Jackson had settled there eight years before, ten miles out from the
landing, and now had an abundance around him. Like all the earlier
pioneers, he took a pride in helping others who came later. He would not
listen to our proceeding any farther before the next day. He insisted on
entertaining us in his comfortable cabin, and sent us on our way in the
morning, rejoicing in plenty.
Without special incident we in due time arrived at the falls of the
Deschutes (Tumwater) and on the shore of Puget Sound. Here a camp must
be established again. The wife and baby were left there while I drove
the wagon back over the tedious road to Jackson's and then returned with
the oxen to tidewater.
[Illustration: A cat-and-clay chimney, made of small split sticks
embedded in layers of clay mortar.]
My feelings may well be imagined when, upon returning, I found wife,
baby, and tent all gone. I knew that smallpox was raging among the
Indians, and that a camp where it was prevalent was less than a quarter
of a mile away. The dread disease had terrors then that it does not now
possess. Could it be possible my folks had been taken sick and had been
removed?
[Illustration]
The question was soon solved. It appeared that I had scarcely got out of
sight on my trip back with the oxen before one of those royal pioneer
matrons had come to the camp. She pleaded and insisted, and finally
almost frightened the little wife into going with her and sharing her
house, which was near by, but out of danger from the smallpox. God bless
those earlier pioneers! They were all good to us, sometimes to the point
of embarrassment, in their generous hospitality.
Oliver was to have had the cabin ready by the time I returned. He not
only had not done that, but had taken the boat and had left no sign to
tell us where either brother or boat could be found. Not knowing what
else to do, I paddled over to the town of Steilacoom. There I found out
where the boat and the provisions had been left, and after an earnest
parley succeeded in getting possession. With my canoe in tow I soon made
my way back to where my little flock was, and speedily transferred all
to the spot that was to be our island dwelling. We set up our tent, and
felt at home once more.
[Illustration: Crows breaking clams by dropping them on boulders.]
Steilacoom, three miles across the bay, had grown during my absence, and
in the distance it looked like a city in fact as well as in name. Mt.
Rainier looked bigger and taller than ever. Even the songs of the
Indians sounded better; the canoes looked more graceful, and the paddles
seemed to be wielded more expertly. Everything looked cheerful;
everything interested us, especially the crows, with their trick of
breaking clams by rising in the air and dropping them on the boulders.
There were so many new things to observe that for a time we almost
forgot that we were nearly out of provisions and money and did not know
what had happened to Oliver.
Next morning Oliver returned to the village. Finding that the boat and
provisions had been taken and seeing smoke in the bight, he surmised
what had happened and came paddling across to the tent. He had received
a tempting offer to help load a ship and had just completed his
contract. As a result of this work, he was able to exhibit a slug of
California gold and other money that looked precious indeed in our eyes.
The building of our second cabin with its stone fireplace, cat-and-clay
chimney, lumber floor, real window with glass in it, together with the
high-post bedstead made out of tapering cedar saplings, the table
fastened to the wall, the rustic chairs, seemed but like a play spell.
No eight-hour day there--eighteen would be nearer the mark; we never
tired.
It was in this same year, 1853, that Congress cut off from Oregon the
region that now comprises the state of Washington and all of Idaho north
of the Snake River. The new district was called Washington Territory, so
we who had moved out to the Oregon Country found ourselves living in
Washington.
[Illustration: Bobby carried me safely over the sixty crossings and
more.]
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
MESSAGES AND MESSENGERS
AT last we were really settled and could begin the business for which we
had come West; henceforth the quiet life of the farmer was to be ours,
we thought. But again we had not reckoned with the unexpected.
While we were working on our new cabin, we received a letter from
father, saying: "Boys, if Oliver will come back to cross with us, we
will go to Oregon next year." The letter was nearly three months old
when we received it.
Our answer was immediate: "Oliver will be with you next spring."
Then came the question of money. Would Davenport, who had bought the
Columbia River claims, pay in the fall? Could he? We decided that we
must go to the timber camp to earn the money to pay the expenses of
Oliver's journey, that we must not depend altogether on the Columbia
River asset.
"What shall we do with the things?" asked my wife.
"Lock them up in the cabin," suggested Oliver.
"And you go and stay with the Dofflemires," I added.
"Not I," she returned. "I'm going along to cook."
All our well-laid plans were thus suddenly changed. Our clearing of the
land was deferred; the chicken house, the inmates of which were to make
us rich, was not built; the pigs were not bought to fatten on the clams,
and many other pet schemes were dropped that Oliver might go back East
to bring father and mother across the Plains.
We struck awkward but rapid and heavy strokes in the timber camp
established on the bluff overlooking the falls at Tumwater. The little
cook supplied the huckleberry pudding for dinner, with plenty of the
lightest, whitest bread, and vegetables, meat, and fish served in style
good enough for kings. Such appetites! No coaxing was required to get us
to eat a hearty meal. Such sound sleep, such satisfaction! Talk about
hardships--it was all pleasure as we counted the eleven dollars a day
that the Tullis brothers paid us for cutting logs, at one dollar and
seventy cents a thousand. We earned this every day. Yes, we should be
able to make money enough together to pay Oliver's passage to Iowa.
It was to be a long journey--over to the Columbia River, out from there
by steamer to San Francisco, then to the Isthmus, then to New York.
After that, by rail as far west as there was a railroad, then on foot to
Eddyville, Iowa, where the start was again to be made. It would take
Oliver two months to reach Eddyville, and then at least seven more to
lead the newcomers over the trail from Iowa to Puget Sound.
Oliver was soon speeding on his way, and again my wife and I were left
without money and with but a scant supply of provisions. How we made out
through the winter I can hardly remember, but we managed somehow and
kept well and happy. Soon after Oliver's departure our second baby was
born.
In the latter part of August, 1854, eight months after Oliver had left
us, James K. Hurd, of Olympia, sent me word that he had been out on the
immigrant trail and had heard that some of my relatives were on the
road, but that they were belated and short of provisions. He advised me
to go to their assistance, to make sure of their coming directly over
the Cascade Mountains, and not down the Columbia River.
How my people, with Oliver's experience to guide them, should be in the
condition described, was past my comprehension. However, I accepted the
statement as true. I felt the particular importance of their having
certain knowledge as to prevailing conditions of an over-mountain trip
through the Natchess Pass. The immigrants of the previous year had
encountered formidable difficulties in the mountains, narrowly escaping
the loss of everything, if not facing actual starvation. I could not
help feeling that possibly the same conditions still prevailed. The only
way to determine the question was to go and see for myself, to meet my
father's party and pilot them through the pass.
[Illustration: We struck awkward but rapid and heavy strokes.]
But how could I go and leave wife and two babies on our island home?
The summer had been spent in clearing land and planting crops, and my
money was very low. To remove my family would cost something in cash,
besides the abandonment of the season's work to almost certain
destruction. Without a moment's hesitation my wife said to go; she and
Mrs. Darrow, who was with us as nurse and companion, would stay right
where they were until I got back.