NINE YEARS NORTH
Uniontown (now Arcata) had enjoyed the early lead among the Humboldt Bay
towns. The first consideration had been the facility in supplying the
mines on the Trinity and the Klamath. All goods were transported by
pack-trains, and the trails over the mountains were nearer the head of
the bay. But soon lumber became the leading industry, and the mills were
at Eureka on deep water at the center of the bay, making that the
natural shipping point. It grew rapidly, outstripping its rival, and
also capturing the county-seat.
Arcata struggled valiantly, but it was useless. Her geographical
position was against her. In an election she shamelessly stuffed the
ballot box, but Eureka went to the legislature and won her point.
Arcata had the most beautiful location and its people were very
ambitious. In fruitless effort to sustain its lead, the town had built a
pier almost two miles in length to a slough navigable to ocean steamers.
A single horse drew a flat car carrying passengers and freight. It was
the nearest approach to a railroad in the state of California at the
time of our arrival on that lovely morning in 1855.
We disembarked from the ancient craft and were soon leisurely pursuing
our way toward the enterprising town at the other end of the track. It
seemed that we were met by the entire population; for the arrival of the
steamer with mail and passengers was the exciting event of the month.
The station was near the southwest corner of the plaza, which we crossed
diagonally to the post-office, housed in the building that had been my
father's store until he sold out the year before, when he was elected to
the Assembly. Murdock's Hall was in the second story, and a little way
north stood a zinc house that was to be our home. It had been shipped
first to San Francisco and then to Humboldt. Its plan and architecture
were the acme of simplicity. There were three rooms tandem, each with a
door in the exact middle, so that if all the doors were open a bullet
would be unimpeded in passing through. To add to the social atmosphere,
a front porch, open at both ends, extended across the whole front. A
horseman could, and in fact often did, ride across it. My brother and I
occupied a chamber over the post-office, and he became adept in going to
sleep on the parlor sofa every night and later going to bed in the store
without waking, dodging all obstructing objects and undressing while
sound asleep.
We were quite comfortable in this joke of a house. But we had no pump;
all the water we used I brought from a spring in the edge of the woods,
the one found by the Gregg party on the night of Christmas, 1849. The
first time I visited it and dipped my bucket in the sunken barrel that
protected it I had a shock. Before leaving San Francisco, being a
sentimental youth and knowing little of what Humboldt offered, I bought
two pots of fragrant flowers--heliotrope and a musk-plant--bringing them
on the steamer with no little difficulty. As I dipped into the barrel I
noticed that it was surrounded by a solid mass of musk-plants growing
wild. The misapprehension was at least no greater than that which
prompted some full-grown man to ship a zinc house to the one spot in the
world where the most readily splitting lumber was plentiful.
One of the sights shown to the newcomer was a two-story house built
before the era of the sawmill. It was built of split lumber from a
single redwood tree--and enough remained to fence the lot! Within a
stone's throw from the musk-plant spring was a standing redwood, with
its heart burned out, in which thirteen men had slept one night, just to
boast of it. Later, in my time, a shingle-maker had occupied the tree
all one winter, both as a residence and as a shop where he made shingles
for the trade.
We had a very pleasant home and were comfortable and happy. We had a
horse, cows, rabbits, and pigeons. Our garden furnished berries and
vegetables in plenty. The Indians sold fish, and I provided at first
rabbits and then ducks and geese. One delicious addition to our table
was novel to us. As a part of the redwood's undergrowth was a tall bush
that in its season yielded a luscious and enormous berry called the
salmon-berry. It was much like a raspberry, generally salmon in color,
very juicy and delicate, approximating an inch and a half in diameter.
Armed with a long pole, a short section of a butt limb forming a sort of
shepherd's crook, I would pull down the heavily laden branches and after
a few moments in the edge of the woods would be provided with a dessert
fit for any queen, and so appropriate for my mother.
California in those early days seemed wholly dependent on the foreign
markets. Flour came from Chile, "Haxall" being the common brand; cheese
from Holland and Switzerland; cordials, sardines, and prunes from
France; ale and porter from England; olives from Spain; whiskey from
Scotland. Boston supplied us with crackers, Philadelphia sent us boots,
and New Orleans furnished us with sugar and molasses.
The stores that supplied the mines carried almost
everything--provisions, clothing, dry goods, and certainly wet goods. At
every store there was found an open barrel of whiskey, with a convenient
glass sampler that would yield through the bunghole a fair-sized drink
to test the quality. One day I went into a store where a clever Chinaman
was employed. He had printed numerous placards announcing the stock. I
noticed a fresh one that seemed incongruous. It read, "Codfish and
Cologne Water." I said, "What's the idea?" He smilingly replied, "You
see its place? I hang it over the whiskey-barrel. Some time man come to
steal a drink. I no see him; he read sign, he laugh, I hear him, I see
him."
There was no school in the town when we came. It troubled my mother that
my brother and sister must be without lessons. Several other small
children were deprived of opportunity. In the emergency we cleaned out a
room in the store, formerly occupied by a county officer, and I
organized a very primary school. I was almost fifteen, but the children
were good and manageable. I did not have very many, and fortunately I
was not called upon to teach very long. There came to town a clever man,
Robert Desty. He wanted to teach. There was no school building, but he
built one all by his own hands. He suggested that I give up my school
and become a pupil of his. I was very glad to do it. He was a good and
ingenious teacher. I enjoyed his lessons about six months, and then felt
I must help my father. My stopping was the only graduation in my
experience.
My father was an inveterate trader, and the year after our coming he
joined with another venturer in buying the standing crop of wheat in
Hoopa Valley, on the Trinity River. I went up to help in the harvesting,
being charged with the weighing of the sacked grain. It was a fine
experience for an innocent Yankee boy. We lived out of doors, following
the threshers from farm to farm, eating under an oak tree and sleeping
on the fragrant straw-piles. I was also the butt of about the wildest
lot of jokers ever assembled. They were good-natured, but it was their
concerted effort to see how much I could stand in the way of highly
flavored stories at mealtime. It was fun for them, besides they felt it
would be a service to knock out some of the Boston "sissiness." I do not
doubt it was. They never quite drove me away from the table.
In the meantime I had a great good time. It was a very beautiful spot
and all was new and strange. There were many Indians, and they were
interesting. They lived in rancherias of puncheons along the river. Each
group of dwellings had a musical name. One village was called Matiltin,
another Savanalta. The children swam like so many ducks, and each
village had its sweathouse from which every adult, to keep in health and
condition, would plunge into the swiftly flowing river. They lived on
salmon, fresh or dried, and on grass-seed cakes cooked on heated stones.
They were handsome specimens physically and were good workers. The river
was not bridged, but it was not deep and canoes were plenty. If none
were seen on the side which you chanced to find yourself, you had only
to call, "Wanus, matil!" (Come, boat!) and one would come. If in a
hurry, "Holish!" would expedite the service.
The Indian language was fascinating and musical. "Iaquay" was the word
of friendly greeting. "Aliquor" was Indian, "Waugee" was white man,
"Chick" was the general word for money. When "Waugee-chick" was
mentioned, it meant gold or silver; if "Aliquor-chick," reference was
made to the spiral quill-like shells which served as their currency,
their value increasing rapidly by the length. [Footnote: In the Hawaiian
Islands short shells of this variety are strung for beads, but have
little value.] There are frequent combined words. "Hutla" is night,
"Wha" is the sun; "Hutla-wha" is the moon--the night-sun. If an Indian
wishes to ask where you are going, he will say, "Ta hunt tow ingya?"
"Teena scoia" is very good. "Skeena" is too small. "Semastolon" is a
young woman; if she is considered beautiful, "Clane nuquum" describes
her.
The Indians were very friendly and hospitable. If I wanted an
account-book that was on the other side of the river, they would not
bother for a canoe, but swim over with it, using-one hand and holding
the book high in the air. I found they had settled habits and usages
that seemed peculiar to them. If one of their number died, they did not
like it referred to; they wished for no condolence. "Indian die, Indian
no talk," was their expression.
It was a wonder to me that in a valley connected with civilization by
only a trail there should be found McCormick's reapers and Pitt's
threshers. Parts too large for a mule's pack had been cut in two and
afterwards reunited. By some dint of ingenuity even a millstone had been
hauled over the roadless mountains. The wheat we harvested was ground at
the Hoopa mill and the flour was shipped to the Trinity and Klamath
mines.
All the week we harvested vigorously, and on Sunday we devoted most of
the day to visiting the watermelon patches and sampling the product. Of
course, we spent a portion of the day in washing our few clothes,
usually swimming and splashing in the river until they were dry.
The valley was long and narrow, with mountains on both sides so high
that the day was materially shortened in the morning and at night. The
tardy sun was ardent when he came, but disturbed us little. The nights
were blissful--beds so soft and sweet and a canopy so beautiful! In the
morning we awoke to the tender call of cooing doves, and very soon lined
up for breakfast in the perfectly ventilated out-of-doors. Happy days
they were! Wise and genial Captain Snyder, Sonnichsen, the patient cook,
Jim Brock, happy tormentor--how clearly they revisit the glimpses of the
moon!
Returning to Uniontown, I resumed my placid, busy life, helping in the
garden, around the house, and in the post-office. My father was wise in
his treatment. Boylike I would say, "Father, what shall I do?" He would
answer, "Look around and find out. I'll not always be here to tell
you." Thrown on my own resources, I had no trouble in finding enough to
do, and I was sufficiently normal and indolent to be in no danger of
finding too much.
The post-office is a harborer of secrets and romance. The postmaster and
his assistants alone know "Who's Who." A character of a packer, tall,
straight, and bearded, always called Joe the Marine, would steal in and
call for comely letters addressed to James Ashhurst, Esq. Robert Desty
was found to be Mons. Robert d'Esti Mauville. A blacksmith whose letters
were commonly addressed to C.E. Bigelow was found entitled to one
inscribed C.E.D.L.B. Bigelow. Asked what his full name was, he
replied, "Charles Edward Decatur La Fitte Butterfield Bigelow." And,
mind you, he was a _blacksmith_! His christening entitled him to it all,
but he felt that all he could afford was what he commonly used.
Phonetics have a distinct value. Uncertain of spelling, one can fall
back on remembered sound. I found a letter addressed to "Sanerzay." I
had no difficulty in determining that San Jose was intended. Hard labor
was suggested when someone wrote "Youchiyer." The letter found its
resting-place in Ukiah.
Among my miscellaneous occupations was the pasturage of mules about to
start on the return trip to the mines. We had a farm and logging-claim
on the outskirts of town which afforded a good farewell bite of grass,
and at night I would turn loose twenty to forty mules and their beloved
bell-mare to feed and fight mosquitoes. Early the next morning I would
saddle my charger and go and bring them to the packing corral. Never
shall I forget a surprise given me one morning. I had a tall, awkward
mare, and was loping over the field looking for my charges. An innocent
little rabbit scuttled across Kate's path and she stopped in her tracks
as her feet landed. I was gazing for the mule train and I did not stop.
I sailed over her head, still grasping the bridle reins, which, attached
to the bit, I also had to overleap, so that the next moment I found
myself standing erect with the reins between my legs, holding on to a
horse behind me still standing in her arrested tracks. Remounting, I
soon found the frisky mules and started them toward misery. Driven into
the corral where their freight had been divided into packs of from one
hundred to one hundred and fifty pounds, they were one by one saddled,
cinched, and packed. A small mule would seem to be unequal to carrying
two side-packs, each consisting of three fifty-pound sacks of flour, and
perhaps a case of boots for a top-pack. But protests of groans and
grunts would be unavailing. Two swarthy Mexicans, by dint of cleverly
thrown ropes and the "diamond hitch," would soon have in place all that
the traffic would bear, and the small Indian boy on the mother of the
train, bearing a tinkling bell, would lead them on their way to Salmon
River or to Orleans Bar.
Another frequent duty was the preparation of the hall for some public
function. It might be a dance, a political meeting, or some theatrical
performance. Different treatment would be required, but all would
include cleaning and lighting. At a dance it was floor-scrubbing,
filling the camphene lamps, and making up beds for the babies to be
later deposited by their dancing mothers. Very likely I would tend door
and later join in the dance, which commonly continued until morning.
Politics interested me. In the Frémont campaign of 1856 my father was
one of four Republicans in the county, and was by no means popular. He
lived to see Humboldt County record a six hundred majority for the
Republican ticket. Some of our local legislative candidates surprised
and inspired me by their eloquence and unexpected knowledge and ability.
It was good to find that men read and thought, even when they lived in
the woods and had little encouragement.
Occasionally we had quite good theatrical performances. Very early I
recall a thespian named Thoman, who was supported by a Julia Pelby. They
vastly pleased an uncritical audience. I was doorkeeper, notwithstanding
that Thoman doubted if I was "hefty" enough. "Little Lotta" Crabtree was
charming. Her mother traveled with her. Between performances she played
with her dolls. She danced gracefully and sang fascinatingly such songs
as "I'm the covey what sings." Another prime favorite was Joe Murphy,
Irish comedian and violinist, pleasing in both roles. I remember a
singing comedian who bewailed his sad estate:
"For now I have nothing but rags to my back,
My boots scarce cover my toes,
While my pants are patched with an old flour-sack,
To jibe with the rest of my clo'es."
The singing-school was pleasure-yielding, its greatest joy being
incidental. When I could cut ahead of a chum taking a girl home and
shamelessly trip him up with a stretched rope and get back to the
drugstore and be curled up in the woodbox when he reached his final
destination, I am afraid I took unholy joy.
Not long after coming we started a public library. Mother and I covered
all the books, this being considered an economical necessity. Somewhat
later Arcata formed a debating society that was really a helpful
influence. It engaged quite a wide range of membership, and we discussed
almost everything. Some of our members were fluent of speech from long
participation in Methodist experience meetings. Others were self-trained
even to pronunciation. One man of good mind, always said "here_dit_ary."
He had read French history and often referred to the _Gridironists_ of
France. I have an idea he was the original of the man whom Bret Harte
made refer to the Greek hero as "old Ashheels." Our meetings were open,
and among the visitors I recall a clerk of a commander in the Indian
war. He afterwards became lieutenant-governor of the state, and later a
senator from Nevada--John P. Jones.
An especial pleasure were the thoroughness and zest with which we
celebrated the Fourth of July. The grown-ups did well in the daylight
hours, when the procession, the oration, and the reading of the
Declaration were in order; but with the shades of night the fireworks
would have been inadequate but for the activity of the boys. The town
was built around a handsome plaza, probably copied from Sonoma as an
incident of the Wood sojourn. On the highest point in the center a fine
flagstaff one hundred and twenty feet high was proudly crowned by a
liberty-cap. This elevated plateau was the field of our display. On a
spot not too near the flagstaff we planned for a spectacular center of
flame. During the day we gathered material for an enormous bonfire. Huge
casks formed the base and inflammable material of all kinds reached high
in the air. At dark we fired the pile. But the chief interest was
centered in hundreds of balls of twine, soaked in camphene, which we
lighted and threw rapidly from hand to hand all over the plaza. We could
not hold on to them long, but we didn't need to. They came flying from
every direction and were caught from the ground and sent back before
they had a chance to burn. The noise and excitement can be easily
imagined. Blackened and weary boys kept it up till the bonfire was out
and the balls had grown too small to pick up. Nothing interfered with
our celebrations. When the Indians were "bad" we forsook the redwoods
and built our speaker's stand and lunch tables and benches out in the
open beyond firing distance.
Our garden was quite creditable. Vegetables were plentiful and my
flower-beds, though formal, were pleasing. Stock-raising was very
interesting. One year I had the satisfaction of breaking three heifers
and raising their calves. My brother showed more enterprise, for he
induced a plump young mother of the herd to allow him to ride her when
he drove the rest to pasture.
Upon our arrival in Uniontown we found the only church was the
Methodist. We at once attended, and I joined the Sunday-school. My
teacher was a periodically reformed boatman. When he fell from grace he
was taken in hand by the Sons of Temperance, which I had also joined.
"Morning Star Division, No. 106," was never short of material to work
on. My first editorial experience was on its spicy little written
journal. I went through the chairs and became "Worthy Patriarch" while
still a boy. The church was mostly served by first-termers, not
especially inspiring. I recall one good man who seemed to have no other
qualification for the office. He frankly admitted that he had worked in
a mill and in a lumber-yard, and said he liked preaching "better than
anything he'd ever been at." He was very sincere and honest. He had a
uniform lead in prayer: "O Lord, we thank thee that it is as well with
us as what it is." The sentiment was admirable, but somehow the manner
grated. When the presiding elder came around we had a relief. He was
wide-awake and witty. One night he read the passage of Scripture where
they all began with one accord to make excuses. One said: "I have
married a wife and cannot come." The elder, looking up, said, "Why
didn't the pesky fool bring her with him?"
In the process of time the Presbyterians started a church, and I went
there; swept out, trimmed the lamps, and sang in the choir. The preacher
was an educated man, and out of the pulpit was kind and reasonable; but
he persisted that "Good deeds were but as filthy rags." I didn't believe
it and I didn't like it. The staid pastor had but little recreation, and
I am afraid I was always glad that Ulrica Schumacher, the frisky sister
of the gunsmith, almost always beat him at chess.
He was succeeded by a man I loved, and I wonder I did not join his
church. We were good friends and used to go out trout-fishing together.
He was a delightful man, but when he was in the pulpit he shrank and
shriveled. The danger of Presbyterianism passed when he expressed his
doubt whether it would be best for my mother to partake of communion, as
she had all her life in the Unitarian church. She was willing, but
waited his approval. My mother was the most saintly of women, absolutely
unselfish and self-sacrificing, and it shocked me that any belief or
lack of belief should exclude her from a Christian communion.
When my father, in one of his numerous trades, bought out the only
tinshop and put me in charge he changed my life and endangered my
disposition. The tinsmith left the county and I was left with the tools
and the material, the only tinsmith in Humboldt County. How I struggled
and bungled! I could make stovepipe by the mile, but it was a long time
before I could double-seam a copper bottom onto a tin wash-boiler. I
lived to construct quite a decent traveling oilcan for a Eureka sawmill,
but such triumphs come through mental anguish and burned fingers. No
doubt the experience extended my desultory education.
The taking over of the tinshop was doubly disappointing, since I really
wanted to go into the office of the _Northern Californian_ and become a
printer and journalist. That job I turned over to Bret Harte, who was
clever and cultivated, but had not yet "caught on." Leon Chevret, the
French hotelkeeper, said of him to a lawyer of his acquaintance, "Bret
Harte, he have the Napoleonic nose, the nose of genius; also, like many
of you professional men, his debts trouble him very little."
There were many interesting characters among the residents of the town
and county. At times there came to play the violin at our dances one
Seth Kinman, a buckskin-clad hunter. He became nationally famous when he
fashioned and presented elkhorn chairs to Buchanan and several
succeeding Presidents. They were ingenious and beautiful, and he himself
was most picturesque.
One of our originals was a shiftless and merry Iowan to whose name was
added by courtesy the prefix "Dr." He had a small farm in the outskirts.
Gates hung from a single hinge and nothing was kept in repair. He
preferred to use his time in persuading nature to joke. A single
cucumber grown into a glass bottle till it could not get out was worth
more than a salable crop, and a single cock whose comb had grown around
an inserted pullet breastbone, until he seemed the precursor of a new
breed of horned roosters, was better than much poultry. He reached his
highest fame in the cure of his afflicted wife. She languished in bed
and he diagnosed her illness as resulting from the fact that she was
"hidebound." His house he had never had time to complete. The rafters
were unobstructed by ceiling, so she was favorably situated for
treatment. He fixed a lasso under her arms, threw the end around a
rafter, and proceeded to loosen her refractory hide.
One of our leading merchants was a deacon in the Methodist church and so
enjoyed the patronage of his brother parishioners. One of them came in
one day and asked the paying price of eggs. The deacon told him "sixty
cents a dozen."
"What are sail-needles?"
"Five cents apiece."
The brother produced an egg and proposed a swap. It was smilingly
accepted and the egg added to the pile of stock.
The brother lingered and finally drawled, "Deacon, it's customary, isn't
it, to _treat_ a buyer?"
"It is; what will you take?" laughingly replied the deacon.
"Sherry is nice."
The deacon poured out the sherry and handed it to his customer, who
hesitated and timidly remarked that sherry was improved by a raw egg.
The amused deacon turned around and took from the egg-pile the identical
one he had received. As the brother broke it into his glass he noticed
it had an extra yolk. After enjoying his drink, he handed back the empty
glass and said: "Deacon, that egg had a double yolk; don't you think you
ought to give me another sail-needle?"
When Thomas Starr King was electrifying the state in support of the
Sanitary Commission (the Red Cross of the Civil War), Arcata caught the
fever and in November, 1862, held a great meeting at the Presbyterian
church. Our leading ministers and lawyers appealed with power and
surprising subscriptions followed. Mr. Coddington, our wealthiest
citizen, started the list with three hundred dollars and ten dollars a
month during the war. Others followed, giving according to their
ability. One man gave for himself, as well as for his wife and all his
children. On taking his seat and speaking to his wife, he jumped up and
added one dollar for the new baby that he had forgotten. When money gave
out other belongings were sacrificed. One man gave twenty-five bushels
of wheat, another ten cords of wood, another his saddle, another a gun.
A notary gave twenty dollars in fees. A cattleman brought down the house
when he said, "I have no money, but I will give a cow, and a calf a
month as long as the war lasts." The following day it was my joy as
secretary to auction off the merchandise. When all was forwarded to San
Francisco we were told we had won first honors, averaging over
twenty-five dollars for each voter in the town.
One interesting circumstance was the consignment to me of the first
shipments of two novelties that afterward became very common. The
discovery of coal-oil and the utilization of kerosene for lighting date
back to about 1859. The first coal-oil lamps that came to Humboldt were
sent to me for display and introduction. Likewise, about 1860, a Grover
& Baker sewing-machine was sent up for me to exhibit. By way of showing
its capabilities, I sewed the necessary number of yard-widths of the
length of Murdock's Hall to make a new ceiling, of which it chanced to
stand in need.
Humboldt County was an isolated community. Sea steamers were both
infrequent and uncertain, with ten days or two weeks and more between
arrivals. There were no roads to the interior, but there were trails,
and they were often threatened by treacherous Indians. The Indians
living near us on Mad River were peaceful, but the mountain Indians were
dangerous, and we never knew when we were really safe. In Arcata we had
one stone building, a store, and sometimes the frightened would resort
to it at night. In times of peace, settlers lived on Mad River, on
Redwood Creek, and on the Bald Hills, where they herded their cattle.
One by one they were killed or driven in until there was not a white
person living between the bay and Trinity River. Mail carriers were shot
down, and the young men of Arcata were often called upon at night to
nurse the wounded. We also organized a military company, and a night
duty was drilling our men on the plaza or up past the gruesome
graveyard. My command was never called out for service, but I had some
fortunate escapes from being waylaid. I walked around the bay one
morning; a few hours later a man was ambushed on the road.
On one occasion I narrowly escaped participation in warfare. In August,
1862, there had been outrages by daring Indian bands, killing
unprotected men close to town. Once a few of us followed the tracks of a
party and traced the marauders across Mad River and toward a small
prairie known to our leader, Ousley the saddler. As we passed along a
small road he caught the sign. A whiff of a shred of cotton cloth caught
on a bush denoted a smoky native. A crushed fern, still moist, told him
they had lately passed. At his direction we took to the woods and
crawled quietly toward the near-by prairie. Our orders were to wait the
signal. If the band we expected to find was not too large, we should be
given the word to attack. If there were too many for us, we should back
out and go to town for help. We soon heard them plainly as they made
camp. We found about three times our number, and we retired very quietly
and made for the nearest farmhouse that had a team.
In town many were anxious to volunteer. My mother did not want me to go,
and I must confess I was in full accord with her point of view. I
therefore served as commissary, collecting and preparing quantities of
bread, bacon, and cheese for a breakfast and distributing a packed bag
to each soldier. The attack at daylight resulted in one death to our
command and a number to the Indians. It was followed up, and a few days
later the band was almost annihilated. The plunder recovered proved them
guilty of many late attacks. This was toward the end of the Indian war
that had for so many years been disastrous to the community, and which
in many of its aspects was deeply pathetic. Originally the Indian
population was large. The coast Indians were spoken of as Diggers, and
inferior in character. They were generally peaceful and friendly while
the mountain dwellers were inclined to hostility. As a whole they did
not represent a very high type of humanity, and all seemed to take to
the vices rather than to the virtues of the white race, which was by no
means represented at its best. A few unprincipled whites were always
ready to stir up trouble and the Indians were treacherous and when
antagonized they killed the innocent rather than the guilty, for they
were cowards and took the fewest possible chances. I have known an
Indian hater who seemed to think the only good Indian was a dead one go
unmolested through an entire campaign, while a friendly old man was shot
from behind while milking his cow. The town was near the edge of the
woods and no one was secure. The fine character whom we greatly
respected,--the debater of original pronunciation,--who had never
wronged a human being of any race, was shot down from the woods quite
near the plaza.
The regular army was useless in protection or punishment. Their
regulations and methods did not fit. They made fine plans, but they
failed to work. They would locate the enemy and detail detachments to
move from various points to surround and capture the foe, but when they
got there the bushes were bare. Finally battalions of mountaineers were
organized among men who knew Indian ways and were their equals in
cunning. They soon satisfied the hostiles that they would be better off
on the reservations that were provided and the war was at an end.
It was to the credit of Humboldt County that in the final settlement of
the contest the rights of the Indians were quite fairly considered and
the reservations set aside for their residence were of valuable land
well situated and fitted for the purpose. Hoopa Valley, on the Trinity,
was purchased from its settlers and constituted a reservation protected
by Fort Gaston and a garrison. It was my pleasure to revisit the scene
of my boyhood experience and assist in the transfer largely conducted
through the leadership of Austin Wiley, the editor and owner of the
_Humboldt Times_. He was subsequently made Superintendent of Indian
Affairs for the state of California, and as his clerk I helped in the
administration. When I visited the Smith River reservation, to which the
Bay Indians had been sent, I was hailed with joy as "Major's pappoose,"
whom they remembered of old. (My father was always called Major.)
Among the warm friendships formed at this time two stand out. Two boys
of about my age were to achieve brilliant careers. Very early I became
intimate with Alexander Brizard, a clerk in the store of F. Roskill, a
Russian. He was my companion in the adventure of following the Indian
marauders, and my associate in the church choir and the debating club.
In 1863 he joined a fellow clerk in establishing a modest business
concern, the firm being known as A. Brizard & Co.; the unnamed partner
was James Alexander Campbell Van Rossum, a Hollander. They prospered
amazingly. Van Rossum died early, Brizard became the leading merchant of
northern California, and his sons still continue the chain of stores
that grew from the small beginning. He was a strong, fine character.
The other boy, very near to me, was John J. DeHaven, who was first a
printer, then a lawyer, then a State Senator, then a Congressman, and
finally a U.S. District Judge. He was very able and distinguished
himself in every place in life to which he advanced.
In 1861, when my father had become superintendent of a Nevada County
gold mine, he left me to run the post-office, cut the timothy hay, and
manage a logging-camp. It was wartime and I had a longing to enlist. One
day I received a letter from him, and as I tore it open a startling
sentence caught my eye, "Your commission will come by the next steamer."
I caught my breath and south particulars. It informed me that Senator
Sargent, his close friend, had secured for me the appointment of
Register of the Land Office at Humboldt.
[Illustration: Presidential Commission as Registrar of the Land Office
at Humboldt, California]
There had been a vacancy for some time, resulting from reduction in the
pay from $3000 in gold to $500 in greenbacks, together with commissions,
which were few. My father thought it would be good experience for me and
advised my acceptance. And so at twenty-two I became a Federal
officeholder. The commission from President Lincoln is the most
treasured feature of the incident. I learned some valuable lessons. The
honor was great and the position was responsible, but I soon felt
constrained to resign, to accept a place as quartermaster's clerk, where
I had more pay with more work. I was stationed at Fort Humboldt, where
Grant spent a few uncomfortable months in 1854. It was an experience
very different from any I had ever had. Army accounting is wholly unlike
civilian, books being dispensed with and accounts of all kinds being
made in quadruplicate. I shed quantities of red ink and made my monthly
papers appear well. I had no responsibility and obeyed orders, but I
could not be wholly comfortable when I covered in all the grain that
every mule was entitled to when I had judicial knowledge that he had
been turned out to grass. Nor could I believe that the full amount of
cordwood allowed officers was consumed when fires were infrequent. I was
only sure that it was paid for. Aside from these ethical informalities
the life was socially agreeable, and there is glamour in the military.
My period of service was not very long. My father had settled in San
Francisco and the family had joined him. I was lonely, and when my
friend, the new Superintendent of Indian Affairs, offered me employment
I forsook Fort Humboldt and took up my residence in the city by the
Golden Gate.