THE SECOND CABIN.
What I am now about to write may provoke a smile, but I can only say,
reader, put yourself in my place. That there should be a feeling akin
to affection between a man and an ox will seem past comprehension to
many. The time had come that Buck and Dandy and I must part for good
and all. I could not transport them to our island home, neither provide
for them. These patient, dumb brutes had been my close companions for
the long, weary months on the plains, and had never failed me; they
would do my bidding to the letter. I often said Buck understood English
better than some people I had seen in my lifetime. I had done what not
one in a hundred did; that was, to start on that trip with an unbroken
ox and cow team. I had selected these four-year-old steers for their
intelligent eyes as well as for their trim build, and had made no
mistake. We had bivouacked together; actually slept together, lunched
together. They knew me as far as they could see, and seemed delighted
to obey my word, and I did regret to feel constrained to part with
them. I knew they had assured my safe transit on the weary journey, if
not even to the point of having saved my life. I could pack them, ride
them, drive them by the word and receive their salutations, and why
should I be ashamed to part with feelings of more than regret.
But I had scant time to spend on sentiment. The brother did not expect
my return so soon. The island claim (and cabin, as I thought) must be
reached; the little skiff obtained in which to transport the wife and
baby, not yet feeling willing to trust them in a canoe.
So, without further ado, a small canoe was chartered, and my first
experience to "paddle my own canoe" materialized. It seemed this same
place where we had our first clam bake was the sticking point again.
The tide turned, night overtook me, and I could go no farther. Two men
were in a cabin, the Doctor Johnson heretofore mentioned and a man by
the name of Hathaway, both drunk and drinking, with a jug handy by,
far from empty. Both were men that seemed to me to be well educated,
and, if sober, refined. They quoted from Burns, sang songs and ditties,
laughed and danced until late in the night, when they became exhausted
and fell asleep. They would not listen to my suggestion that I would
camp and sleep outside the cabin, and I could not sleep inside, so the
night passed off without, rest or sleep until the tide turned, and I
was glad enough to slip away, leaving them in their stupor.
A few miles vigorous paddling brought me to McNeil Island, opposite
the town of Steilacoom, where I expected to find our second cabin, my
brother and the boat. No cabin, no brother, no boat, were to be seen.
A raft of cabin logs floating in the lagoon near by, where the United
States penitentiary now stands, was all the signs to be seen, other
than what was there when I left the place for my return trip to the
Columbia River. I was sorely puzzled as to what to do. My brother 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 left no sign as to where it or
he could be found. Not knowing what else to do I mechanically paddled
over to the town, where, sure enough, the boat was anchored, but nobody
knew where the man had gone. I finally found where the provisions
had been left, and, after an earnest parley, succeeded in getting
possession. I took my canoe in tow and soon made my way back to where
the little folks were, and speedily transferred the whole outfit to the
spot that was to be our island home; set up our tent, and felt at home
once more.
The village, three miles away, across the bay, had grown during my
absence and in the distance looked like a city in fact as well as in
name. The mountain looked bigger and taller than ever. Even the songs
of the Indians sounded better, and the canoes seemed more graceful, and
the paddles wielded more expertly. Everything looked cheerful, even
to the spouting clams on the beach, and the crow's antics of breaking
clams by rising in the air and dropping them on the boulders. So many
new things to show the folks that I for a time almost forget we were
out of provisions and money, and did not know what had happened to the
brother. Thoughts of these suddenly coming upon us, our spirits fell,
and for a time we could hardly say we were perfectly happy.
"I believe that canoe is coming straight here," said the little wife,
the next morning, about nine o'clock. All else is dropped, and a
watch set upon the strange craft, moving slowly, apparently in the
long distance, but more rapidly as it approached, and there sat the
brother. Having returned to the village and finding that the boat and
provisions had been taken, and seeing smoke in the bight, he knew
what had happened, and, following his own good impulse, we were soon
together again, and supremely happy. He had received a tempting offer
to help load a ship, and had just completed his contract, and was able
to exhibit a "slug"[5] of money and more besides that looked precious
in our eyes.
The building of the cabin, with its stone fireplace, cat-and-clay
chimney, its lumber floor, real window with glass in, together with the
high post bedstead out of tapering cedar saplings, the table fastened
to the wall, with rustic chairs, seemed but like a play spell. No eight
hour a day work there—eighteen would be nearer the mark—we never tired.
There came a letter: "Boys, if Oliver will come back to cross with us,
we will go to Oregon next year," this signed by the father, then fifty
years old. The letter was nearly three months old when we received it.
What should we say and what should we do? Would Davenport pay for the
Columbia River claims and the prospective potato crop in the fall—could
he? We will say yes, Oliver will be with you next Spring. We must go to
the timber camp to earn the money to pay expenses of the trip and not
depend altogether on the Columbia River asset.
"What shall we do with the things?" said the little wife.
"Lock them up in the cabin," said the elder brother.
"And you go and stay with Dofflemire," said the young husband.
"Not I," said the little wife, "I'm going along to cook," and thus it
was that all our well-laid plans were suddenly changed, our clearing
land deferred, the chicken house, the inmates of which were to make us
rich, was not to be built, the pigs were not bought to fatten on the
clams, and many other pet schemes dropped that we might accomplish this
one object, that Oliver might go back to Iowa to "bring the father out"
across the Plains.
[Illustration: "We Struck Rapid, Heavy, But Awkward Strokes."]
We struck rapid, heavy, but awkward strokes in the timber camp
established on the bluff overlooking the falls at Tumwater, while the
little wife supplied the huckleberry pudding for dinner, plenty of the
lightest, whitest bread, vegetables, meat, and fish served in style
good enough for kings; such appetites! No coaxing required to eat a
hearty meal; such sound sleep; such satisfaction! Talk about your
hardships. We would have none of it. It was a 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, which we earned every
day, and Sundays, too, seventy-seven dollars a week. Yes, we were going
to make it. "Make what?" the reader will say. Why, succeed in getting
money enough together to pay the passage of the elder brother to Iowa.
And what a trip. Over to the Columbia River, out from there by steamer
to San Francisco, then to the Isthmus, then New York, after which by
rail as far west as there was a railroad and then walk to Eddyville,
Iowa, from where the start was again to be made.
Again the younger brother was left without money and but a scant
supply of provisions, and winter had come on. The elder brother was
speeding on his way, and could not be heard from frequently. How our
little family succeeded in getting enough together to eat is not an
interesting topic for the general reader. Suffice to say, we always
secured abundance, even if at times the variety was restricted.
It was soon after Oliver's departure that I first made the acquaintance
of Dr. Tolmie. It was upon the occasion when our new baby was born, now
the mother of eight grown-up children, and several times a grandmother,
Mrs. Ella Templeton of Halsey, Oregon.
Of course, Dr. Tolmie did not practice medicine. He had the cares of
the great foreign corporation, the Puget Sound Agricultural Company,
on his shoulders. He was harassed by the settlers, who chafed because
a foreign corporation had fenced up quite large tracts of grazing and
some farming lands, and had thousands of sheep and cattle on the range.
Constant friction was the result. The cattle were wild; therefore, some
settler would kill one every now and then, and make the remainder still
wilder, and again, therefore, the more the reason that others might
be killed. The Doctor was a patient, tactful man, with an impulse to
always do one a good turn for the sake of doing it. Consequently, when
asked to attend, he did so without hesitation, though the request came
from a perfect stranger and compliance was to his great inconvenience,
yet without fee and without expectation of ever meeting the parties
again. This first acquaintance ripened into friendship lifelong,
that became closer as he neared his end. But recently, fifty years
after this event, I have had the pleasure of a visit from two of his
daughters, and I may say there has been scarcely a year in all this
time but some token of friendship has passed. He was a noble man, with
noble impulses. He died on his farm near Victoria many years ago.
Soon after this, I made my first acquaintance with Arthur A. Denny.
It came about in this way. He and two other gentlemen were returning
from the first Territorial Legislature, then just adjourned. Wind and
tide compelled them to suspend their journey from Olympia to Seattle,
and to stay over night with us in the little cabin. This was early in
May, 1854. Mr. Denny remarked in the morning that he thought there was
a good foundation under my cabin floor, as he did not find any spring
to the bed. He and his companion laid on the floor, but I remember we
did not go to bed very early. All during the session we had heard a
great deal about removing the capital of the Territory from Olympia
to Steilacoom. The legislature had adjourned and no action had been
taken, and, in fact, no bill for the purpose was introduced. Mr. Denny
said that before the recess a clear majority of both houses were in
favor of removal to Steilacoom, but for the mistake of Lafayette Balch,
member of the council from Pierce County, the removal would have been
accomplished. Balch, so Denny told me, felt so sure of his game that he
did not press to a vote before the recess.
At that, the first session of the legislature, the mania was for
territorial roads; everybody wanted a territorial road. One, projected
from Seattle to Bellingham Bay, did not meet with approval by Balch.
Stroking his long beard as he was wont to do almost mechanically,
he "thought they had gone far enough in establishing roads for one
session." It was impolitic in the highest degree for Balch to offend
the northern members in this way, as also unnecessary, as usually these
roads remained on paper only, and cost nothing. However, he lost his
majority in the council, and so the project died, to the very great
disappointment of the people of Steilacoom and surrounding country.
FOOTNOTE:
[5] A "slug" was fifty dollars value in gold, minted by private
parties, in octagon form and passed current the same as if it had borne
the government's stamp. "Slugs" were worth as much melted as in the
coined form. My ideas about the gold standard were formed at that time,
and I may say my mind never changed on this subject.
The "Beaver Money," so called because of the stamp of a beaver on the
piece, issued by the pioneers of Oregon, of the value of $5.00, was
another instance of no change in value of gold from the melting pot to
the mold. It was simply a matter of convenience to be rid of the more
cumbersome legal tender, wheat, which had been in vogue so long.