TRIP THROUGH THE NATCHESS PASS—[CONTINUED.]
It almost goes without saying, that before the final break up of
the camp and separation of the parties there must be some sort
of celebration of the event, a sort of house warming or surprise
party—something must be done out of the usual course of events. So,
what better could these people do than to visit the island[9] home they
had heard so much about, and see for themselves some of the wonder land
described.
My cabin stood on the south side of the bight or lagoon within stone
throw of where the United States penitentiary now stands and only a
few feet above high tide level. The lagoon widens and deepens from the
entrance and curves to the south with gentle slope on either side, the
whole forming a miniature sheltered valley of light, timbered, fertile
land. On the higher levels of the receding shore, great quantities of
salal and high bush huckleberries grew in profusion, interspersed with
what for lack of a better name we called Sweet Bay, the perfumes from
the leaves of which permeated the atmosphere for long distances. In
the nearby front a long flat or sandy beach extended far out from the
high tide line where the clams spouted in countless numbers, and crows
played their antics of breaking the shell by dropping to the stony
beach the helpless bivalve they had stealthily clutched and taken to
flight with them.
Off to the eastward and three miles distant the town of Steilacoom, or
rather the two towns, loomed up like quite a city, on the ascending
slope of the shore, to make us feel after all we were not so far off
from civilization, particularly at the time as two or more deep sea
vessels (ships we called them), were in port discharging merchandise.
Southeasterly, the grand mountain, before mentioned, rose so near three
miles high above the tide level that that was the height spoken by all
and as being fifty miles distant.
Nisqually House, on the arm of the bay known as Nisqually Beach, five
miles distant, could be seen in clear weather, while the Hudson Bay
Fort of that name was hidden from view by intervening timber, two miles
easterly from the beach.
The Medicine Creek council grounds, afterwards made famous by the
treaty council held a few months later than the date of which I am
writing, lay across the Nisqually tide flats, south from Nisqually
House, near three miles distant, but the view of this was cut off by an
intervening island (Anderson), of several sections in extent, and of
varying elevations to a maximum of near four hundred feet.
Fortunately one of those "spells" of weather had settled over the
whole country, a veritable Indian Summer, though now bordering on
the usually stormy month of November, a little hazy, just enough to
lend enchantment to the landscape, and warm enough to add pleasurable
experience to the trip the little party was to make. Add to these
surroundings the smooth glassy waters of the bay, interspersed here and
there by streaks and spots of troubled water to vary the outlook, small
wonder that enthusiasm ran high as the half-rested immigrants neared
the cabin in their boat and canoe, chartered for the trip, piloted and
paddled by the Indians and supplemented by the awkward stroke of the
landlubber's oar.
"What in the world are we going to do with all these people?" I said to
the little wife, half apologetically, partly quizzical and yet with a
tinge of earnestness illy concealed.
"Oh, never mind, we will get along all right some way; I'll venture
father has brought a tent." And sure enough, the party had brought the
three tents that had served them so well for so long a time, on the
long journey, and much of their bedding also.
Father had been over to the cabin before, and taken the measurement.
"Eighteen feet square," he said, "that's a pretty good size, but I
don't see why you boys didn't build it higher; it's scant seven feet."
Yes, the walls were but seven feet high. When building, the logs ran
out, the sky was threatening and we had a race with the storm to get a
roof over our heads.
"But that's a good fireplace," he continued; "there must be pretty good
clay here to hold these round stones so firmly. And that's as good a
cat-and-clay chimney as I had in Ohio, only mine was taller, but I
don't see that it would draw any better than this." This one was just
nine feet high, but I said there was plenty of room to build it higher.
The floor was rough lumber, or had been when laid, but the stiff scrub
brush of twigs and strong arms of house cleaners had worn off the rough
till when cleaned it presented a quite creditable appearance. And the
walls! "Why, you have a good library on these walls; all the reading
matter right side up, too; the Tribune is a great paper, indeed; you
must have sent for it right away when you got here," and so I had, and
continued steadily for eighteen years, and thereby hangs a tale, which,
though a digression, I will tell before writing more about our visitors.
Eighteen years after my arrival from across the plains in October,
1852, I made my first trip to the "States," to our old home and to New
York. I had to go through the mud to the Columbia River, then out over
the dreaded bar to the Pacific Ocean, and to San Francisco, then on
a seven days' journey over the Central, Union Pacific and connecting
lines and sit bolt upright all the way—no sleeper cars then, no diners
either, that I remember seeing. I remember I started from Olympia
on this trip the first week in December. Mr. —— Woodward of Olympia
suggested that we gather all the varieties of flowers obtainable in
the open air and that I press them in the leaves of my pamphlets
(presently to be mentioned), and in that way to dry and press them, so
I might exhibit the product of our wonderful mild climate up to the
month of December. We succeeded in getting fifty-two varieties then in
bloom in the open air, and all were well dried and preserved when I
arrived at my original starting place, Eddyville, Iowa. Here, loving
friends, Mrs. Elizabeth Male (Aunt Lib, we call her now), and a little
sprightly youngster, Miss Molly Male, the well-known teacher in Tacoma,
artistically arranged my treasures on tinted paper ready for exhibition
upon my arrival in New York.
I had written an eighty-page pamphlet (long since out of print)[10],
descriptive of Washington Territory, and my friend E. T. Gunn, of the
Olympia Transcript, printed them—five thousand copies—most of which I
took with me. The late Beriah Brown gave me a letter of introduction to
his old-time friend, Horace Greeley, to whom I presented it, and was
kindly received and commended to Chairman Ely of the New York Farmer's
Club, and by him given an opportunity to exhibit my flowers, speak to
the club about our country and tell them about our climate. This little
talk was widely circulated through the proceedings of the club and
printed in a number of the great papers, among them the Tribune.
This coming to the notice of Jay Cooke, of Northern Pacific fame,
with his six power presses just started at Philadelphia to advertise
the Northern Pacific route, I was called to his presence and closely
questioned, and finally complimented by the remark that he "did
not think they could afford to have any opposition in the field of
advertising," took up my whole edition and sent them on their way to
his various financial agencies.
Our visitors were all soon at home with their tents up, their blankets
out airing, the camp fires lit and with an abandon truly refreshing
turned out like children from school to have a good time. The garden,
of course, was drawn upon and "such delicious vegetables I never saw
before," fell from a dozen lips, during the stay. That turnip patch was
planted in September. "Why, that beats anything I ever saw," father
said, and as insignificant an incident as it may seem, had a decided
effect upon the minds of the party. "Why, here they are growing in
November. At home (Iowa) they would by this time be frozen as solid as
a brick." "Why, these are the finest flavored potatoes I ever ate,"
said another. The little wife had a row of sweet peas growing nearby
the cabin that shed fragrance to the innermost corner and to the
tents, and supplied bouquets for the tables, and plenty of small talk
comparing them with those "in the States".
And so the little garden, the sweet peas, and other flowers wild and
cultivated, brought contentment among those who at first had had a
feeling of despondency and disappointment.
Didn't we have clam bakes? I should say! And didn't the women folks
come in loaded with berries? And, what, whoppers of huckleberry
puddings, and huckleberry pies and all sorts of good things that
ingenuity of the housewives could conjure up.
I had frequently seen deer trotting on the beach and told my visitors
so, but somehow they could not so readily find them—had been too
noisy—but soon a fat buck was bagged, and the cup of joy was full, the
feast was on.
My visitors could not understand, and neither could I, how it came that
a nearby island (Anderson) of a few sections in extent, could contain
a lake of clear, fresh water several hundred feet above tide level,
and that this lake should have neither inlet nor outlet. It was on the
margin of this lake that the first deer was killed and nearby where the
elder brother had staked his claim.
Mowich Man, an Indian whom I have known for many years, and, by
the way, one of those interfering with the survey of Muckleshute,
as related elsewhere, was then one of our neighbors, or at least,
frequently passed our cabin with his canoe and people. He was a great
hunter, a crack shot, and an all-round Indian of good parts, by the
standard applicable to his race. Many is the saddle of venison that
this man has brought me in the lapse of years. He was not a man of any
particular force of character, but his steadfast friendship has always
impressed me as to the worth, from our own standpoint, of the race to
which he belonged. While our friends were with us visiting, my Indian
friend came along and as usual brought a nice ham of venison to the
camp, and at my suggestion, went with the younger men of the visitors
to where their first exploit of hunting bore fruit. Our young men came
back with loud praise on their lips for the Indian hunter. There was
nothing specially noteworthy in the incident only as illustrating what,
to a great extent, was going on all over the settled portion of the
Territory leading up to a better understanding between the two races.
I can safely say that none of the pioneers was without what might be
designated as a favorite Indian, that is, an Indian who was particular
to gain the good will of his chosen friend, and in most cases would
assume, or custom would bring about, the adoption of the white man's
name and the Indian would ever afterwards be known by his new name.
Mowich Man, however, like Leschi, as we shall see later, while friendly
to the whites was possessed of a more independent spirit. Some of
Mowich Man's people were fine singers, and in fact his camp, or his
canoe if traveling, was always the center for song and merriment, but
it is a curious fact one seldom can get the Indian music by asking for
it, but rather must wait for its spontaneous outburst. But Indian songs
in those days came out from nearly every nook and corner and seemed to
pervade the whole country, so much that we often and often could hear
the songs and accompanying stroke of the paddle long before our eyes
would rest on the floating canoes.
Will the reader in his mind dwell on the hardships of the pioneers,
or will he rather look upon the brighter side, that the so-called
hardships were simply the drill that developed the manhood and
womanhood, to make better men and better women, because they had faced
a duty they could not shirk, and were thereby profited? Neither did
the pioneers as a class want to shirk a duty and those of the later
generation, who have poured out their sympathy for the hardships of the
poor pioneers may as well save some of it for the present generation,
the drones of the community that see no pleasure in the stern duties of
life. But I must have done with these reflections to resume my story,
now nearly ended, of the visitors at the island home and of the long
trip.
Never did kings or queens enjoy their palaces more, nor millionaires
their princely residences, than the humble immigrant party did the
cabin and tents in their free and luxurious life. Queens might have
their jewels, but did we not have ours? Did we not have our two babies,
"the nicest, smartest, cutest in all the world?" Did we not have a
profusion of fresh air to inhale at every breath, and appetites that
made every morsel of food of exquisite flavor?
But we were all far away from what all yet thought of as home, and
admonished that winter was coming on and that after a short season
of recreation and rest we must separate, each to his task, which we
did, and the great trip was ended. The actors separated; and now, as I
write, almost all have gone on that greater journey, in which the two
of us left are so soon to join.
FOOTNOTES:
[9] McNeil Island, twelve miles westerly as the crow flies from Tacoma.
[10] The last purchasable copy has recently been sold for twenty-five
dollars.