Blazing the Way; Or, True Stories, Songs and Sketches of Puget Sound

When any special legislative aid was desired for this section, John Denny was certain to be selected to obtain it; by his efforts mainly the Territorial University was located at this place.

He passed his long and active life almost wholly upon the frontiers of civilization, not from any aversion to the refinements and restraints of social life, for few men possessed higher social qualities or had in any greater degree the nicer instincts of a gentleman – he held a patent of nobility under the signet of the Almighty, and his intercourse with others was ever marked by a courtesy which betokened not only self-respect but a due regard for the rights and opinions of others. He was impelled by as noble ambition as ever sought the conquest of empire or the achievement of personal glory – the subduing of the unoccupied portions of his country to the uses of man, with the patriotic purpose of extending his country’s glory and augmenting its resources.

His first care in every settlement was to establish and promote education, religion and morality as the only true foundation of social as well as individual prosperity, and with all his courage and manly strength he rarely, if ever, was drawn into a lawsuit.

John Denny was of that noble race of men, now nearly extinct, who formed the vanguard of Western civilization and were the founders of empire. Their day is over, their vocation ended, because the limit of their enterprise has been reached. Among the compeers of the same stock were Dick Johnson, Harrison, Lincoln, Harden and others famous in the history of the country, who only excelled him in historic note by biding their opportunities in waiting to reap the fruits of the harvest which they had planted. He was the peer of the best in all the elements of manhood, of heart and brain. In all circumstances and surroundings he was a recognized leader of men, and would have been so honored and so commanded that leading place in public history had he waited for the development of the social institutions which he helped to plant in the Western states, now the seat of empire. All who entered his presence were instinctively impressed by his manhood. Yet no man was less pretentious or more unostentatious in his intercourse with others.

He reverenced his manhood, and felt himself here among men his brethren under the eye of a common Father.

He felt that he was bound to work for all like a brother and like a son.

So he was brave, so he was true, so his integrity was unsullied, so not a stain dims his memory; so he rebuked vice and detested meanness and hated with a cordial hate all falsehood, all dishonesty and all trickery; so he was the chivalrous champion of the innocent and oppressed; so he was gentle and merciful, because he was working among a vast family as a brother “recognizing the Great Father, Who sits over all, Who is forever Truth and forever Love.”

Such words as these were said of him at the time of his death, when the impressions of his personality were fresh in the minds of the people.

He entered into rest July 28th, 1875.

It is within my recollection that the keen criticisms and droll anecdotes of John Denny were often repeated by his hearers. The power with which he swayed an audience was something wonderful to behold; the burning enthusiasm which his oratory kindled, inciting to action, the waves of convulsive laughter his wit evoked were abundant evidence of his influence.

In repartee, he excelled. At one time when A. A. Denny was a member of the Territorial Legislature, John Denny was on his way to the capital to interview him, doubtless concerning some important measure; he received the hospitality of a settler who was a stranger to him and moreover very curious with regard to the traveler’s identity and occupation. At last this questioning brought forth the remarkable statement that he, John Denny, had a son in the lunatic ass-ylum in Olympia whom he intended visiting.

The questioner delightedly related it afterward, laughing heartily at the compliment paid to the Legislature.

In a published sketch a personal friend says: “He was so full of humor that it was impossible to conceal it, and his very presence became a mirth-provoking contagion absolutely irresistible in its effects.

“Let him come when he would, everybody was ready to drop everything else to listen to a story from Uncle John.

“He went home to the States during the war, via the Isthmus of Panama. On the trip down from San Francisco the steamer ran on a rock and stuck fast. Of course, there was a great fright and excitement, many crying out ‘We shall all be drowned,’ ‘Lord save us!’ etc. Amid it all Uncle John coolly took in the chances of the situation, and when a little quiet had been restored so he could be heard by all in the cabin, he said: ‘Well, I reckon there was a fair bargain between me and the steamship company to carry me down to Panama, and they’ve got their cash for it, and now if they let me drown out here in this ornery corner, where I can’t have a decent funeral, I’ll sue ’em for damages, and bust the consarned old company all to flinders.’

“This had the effect to divert the passengers, and helped to prevent a panic, and not a life was lost.

“In early life he had been a Whig and in Illinois had fought many a hard battle with the common enemy. He had represented his district repeatedly in the legislature of that state, and he used to tell with pride, and a good deal of satisfaction, how one day a handful of the Whigs, Old Abe and himself among the number, broke a quorum of the house by jumping from a second-story window, thereby preventing the passage of a bill which was obnoxious to the Whigs.

“The Democrats had been watching their opportunity, and having secured a quorum with but few of the Whigs in the house, locked the doors and proposed to put their measure through. But the Whigs nipped the little game in the manner related.”

After Lincoln had become President and John Denny had crossed the Plains and pioneered it in Oregon and Washington Territories, the latter visited the national capital on important business.

While there Mr. Denny attended a presidential reception and tested his old friend’s memory in this way: Forbidding his name to be announced, he advanced in the line and gave his hand to President Lincoln, then essayed to pass on. Lincoln tightened his grasp and said, “No you don’t, John Denny; you come around back here and we’ll have a talk after a while.”

On the stump he was perfectly at home, never coming off second best. His ready wit and tactics were sure to stand him in hand at the needed moment.

In one of the early campaigns of Washington Territory, which was a triangular combat waged by Republicans, Democrats and “Bolters,” John Denny, who was then a Republican, became one of the third party. At a political meeting which was held in Seattle, at which I was present, a young man recently from the East and quite dandyish, a Republican and a lawyer, made quite a high-sounding speech; after he sat down John Denny advanced to speak.

He began very coolly to point out how they had been deceived by the rascally Republican representative in his previous term of office, and suddenly pointing his long, lean forefinger directly at the preceding speaker, his voice gathering great force and intensity, he electrified the audience by saying, “And no little huckleberry lawyer can blind us to the facts in the case.”

The audience roared, the “huckleberry lawyer’s” face was scarlet and his curly locks fairly bristled with embarrassment. The hearers were captivated and listened approvingly to a round scoring of the opponents of the “bolters.”

He was a fearless advocate of temperance, or prohibition rather, of woman suffragists when they were weak, few and scoffed at, an abolitionist and a determined enemy of tobacco. I have seen him take his namesake among the grandchildren between his aged knees and say, “Don’t ever eat tobacco, John; your grandfather wishes he had never touched it.” His oft-repeated advice was heeded by this grandson, who never uses it in any form.

He was tall, slender, with snow-white hair and a speaking countenance full of the most glowing intelligence.

When the news came to the little village of Seattle that he had returned from Washington City, where he had been laboring to secure an appropriation for the Territorial University, two of his little grandchildren ran up the hill to meet him; he took off his high silk hat, his silvery hair shining in the fair sunlight and smiled a greeting, as they grasped either hand and fairly led him to their home.

A beautiful tribute from the friend before quoted closes this brief and inadequate sketch:

“He sleeps out yonder midway between the lakes (Washington and Union), where the shadows of the Cascades in the early morning fall upon the rounded mound of earth that marks his resting place, and the shadows of the Olympics in the early evening rest lovingly and caressingly on the same spot; there, where the song birds of the forest and the wild flowers and gentle zephyrs, laden with the perfume of the fir and cedar, pay a constant tribute to departed goodness and true worth.”

SARAH LATIMER DENNY

The subject of this sketch was a Tennessean of an ancestry notable for staying qualities, religious steadfastness and solid character, as well as gracious and kindly bearing.

On her father’s side she traced descent from the martyr, Hugh Latimer, and although none of the name have been called to die at the stake in the latter days, Washington Latimer, nephew of Sarah Latimer Denny, was truly a martyr to principle, dying in Andersonville prison during the Rebellion.

The prevailing sentiment of the family was patriotic and strongly in favor of the abolition movement.

One of the granddaughters pleasurably recalls the vision of Joseph Latimer, father of Sarah, sitting in his dooryard, under the boughs of a great Balm of Gilead tree, reading his Bible.

Left to be the helper of her mother when very young, by the marriage of her elder sister, she quickly became a competent manager in household affairs, sensible of her responsibilities, being of a grave and quiet disposition.

She soon married a young Baptist minister, Richard Freeman Boren, whose conversion and call to the ministry were clear and decided. His first sermon was preached in the sitting room of a private house, where were assembled, among others, a number of his gay and pleasure-loving companions, whom he fearlessly exhorted to a holy life.

His hands were busy with his trade of cabinetmaking a part of the time, for the support of his family, although he rode from place to place to preach.

A few years of earnest Christian work, devoted affection and service to his family and he passed away to his reward, leaving the young widow with three little children, the youngest but eighteen months old.

In her old age she often reverted to their brief, happy life together, testifying that he never spoke a cross word to her.

She told of his premonition of death and her own remarkable dream immediately preceding that event.

While yet in apparently perfect health he disposed of all his tools, saying that he would not need them any more.

One night, toward morning, she dreamed that she saw a horse saddled and bridled at the gate and some one said to her that she must mount and ride to see her husband, who was very sick; she obeyed, in her dream, riding over a strange road, crossing a swollen stream at one point.

At daylight she awoke; a horse with side-saddle on was waiting and a messenger called her to go to her husband, as he was dangerously ill at a distant house. Exactly as in her dream she was conducted, she traversed the road and crossed the swollen stream to reach the place where he lay, stricken with a fatal malady.

After his death she returned to her father’s house, but the family migrated from Tennessee to Illinois, spent their first winter in Sangamon County, afterward settling in Knox County.

There the brave young pioneer took up her abode in a log cabin on a piece of land which she purchased with the proceeds of her own hard toil.

The cabin was built without nails, of either oak or black walnut logs, it is not now known, with oak clapboards, braces and weight-poles and puncheon floor. There was one window without glass, a stick and clay mortar chimney, and a large, cheerful fireplace where the backlogs and fore-sticks held pyramids of dancing, ruddy flames, and the good cooking was done in the good old way.

By industry and thrift everything was turned to account. The ground was made to yield wheat, corn and flax; the last was taken through the whole process of manufacture into bed and table linen on the spot. Sheep were raised, the wool sheared, carded, spun, dyed and woven, all by hand, by this indefatigable worker, just as did many others of her time.

They made almost every article of clothing they wore, besides cloth for sale.

Great, soft, warm feather beds comforted them in the cold Illinois winters, the contents of which were plucked from the home flock of geese.

As soon as the children were old enough, they assisted in planting corn and other crops.

The domestic supplies were almost entirely of home production and manufacture. Soap for washing owed its existence to the ash-hopper and scrap-kettle, and the soap-boiling was an important and necessary process. The modern housewife would consider herself much afflicted if she had to do such work.

And the sugar-making, which had its pleasant side, the sugar camp and its merry tenants.

About half a mile from the cabin stood the sugar maple grove to which this energetic provider went to tap the trees, collect the sap and finally boil the same until the “sugaring off.” A considerable event it was, with which they began the busy season.

One of the daughters of Sarah Latimer Denny remembers that when a little child she went with her mother to the sugar camp where they spent the night. Resting on a bed of leaves, she listened to her mother as she sang an old camp meeting hymn, “Wrestling Jacob,” while she toiled, mending the fire and stirring the sap, all night long under dim stars sprinkled in the naked branches overhead.

Other memories of childish satisfaction hold visions of the early breakfast when “Uncle John” came to see his widowed sister, who, with affectionate hospitality, set the “Johnny-cake” to bake on a board before the fire, made chocolate, fried the chicken and served them with snowy biscuits and translucent preserves.

For the huge fireplace, huge lengths of logs, for the backlogs, were cut, which required three persons to roll in place.

Cracking walnuts on the generous hearth helped to beguile the long winter evenings. A master might have beheld a worthy subject in the merry children and their mother thus occupied.

If other light were needed than the ruddy gleams the fire gave, it was furnished by a lard lamp hung by a chain and staple in the wall, or one of a pallid company of dipped candles.

Sometimes there were unwelcome visitors bent on helping themselves to the best the farm afforded; one day a wolf chased a chicken up into the chimney corner of the Boren cabin, to the consternation of the small children. Wolves also attacked the sheep alongside the cabin at the very moment when one of the family was trying to catch some lambs; such savage boldness brought hearty and justifiable screams from the young shepherdess thus engaged.

The products of the garden attached to this cabin are remembered as wonderful in richness and variety; the melons, squashes, pumpkins, etc., the fragrant garden herbs, the dill and caraway seeds for the famous seedcakes carried in grandmothers’ pockets or “reticules.” In addition to these, the wild fruits and game; haws, persimmons, grapes, plums, deer and wild turkey; the medicinal herbs, bone-set and blood-root; the nut trees heavily laden in autumn, all ministered to the comfort and health of the pioneers.

The mistress was known for her generous hospitality then, and throughout her life. In visiting and treating the sick she distanced educated practitioners in success. Never a violent partisan, she was yet a steadfast friend. One daughter has said that she never knew any one who came so near loving her neighbor as herself. Just, reasonable, kind, ever ready with sympathetic and wholesome advice, it was applicably said of her, “She openeth her mouth with wisdom and in her tongue is the law of kindness.”

As the years went by the children were sent to school, the youngest becoming a teacher.

Toilsome years they were, but doubtless full of rich reward.

Afterward, while yet in the prime of life, she married John Denny, a Kentuckian and pioneer of Indiana, Illinois and finally of Oregon and Washington.

With this new alliance new fields of effort and usefulness opened before her. The unusual occurrence of a widowed mother and her two daughters marrying a widower and his two sons made this new tie exceeding strong. With them, as before stated, she crossed the plains and “pioneered it” in Oregon among the Waldo Hills, from whence she moved to Seattle on Puget Sound with her husband and little daughter, Loretta Denny, in 1859.

The shadow of pioneer days was scarcely receding, the place was a little straggling village and much remained of beginnings. As before in all other places, her busy hands found much to do; many a pair of warm stockings and mittens from her swift needles found their way into the possession of the numerous grand and great-grandchildren. In peaceful latter days she sat in a cozy corner with knitting basket at hand, her Bible in easy reach.

Her mind was clear and vigorous and she enjoyed reading and conversing upon topics old and new.

Her cottage home with its blooming plants, of which “Grandmother’s calla,” with its frequent, huge, snowy spathes, was much admired, outside the graceful laburnum tree and sweet-scented roses, was a place that became a Mecca to the tired feet and weary hearts of her kins-folk and acquaintances.

With devoted, filial affection her youngest daughter, S. Loretta Denny, remained with her until she entered into rest, February 10th, 1888.

CHAPTER III.

DAVID THOMAS DENNY

David Thomas Denny was the first of the name to set foot upon the shores of Puget Sound. Born in Putnam County, Indiana, March 17th, 1832, he was nineteen years of age when he crossed the plains with his father’s company in 1851. He is a descendant of an ancient family, English and Scotch, who moved to Ireland and thence to America, settling in Berk’s County, Pa. His father was John Denny, a notable man in his time, a soldier of 1812, and a volunteer under William Henry Harrison.

The long, rough and toilsome journey across the plains was a schooling for the subsequent trials of pioneer life. Young as he was, he stood in the very forefront, the outmost skirmish line of his advancing detachment of the great army moving West. The anxious watch, the roughest toil, the reconnaissance fell to his lot. He drove a four-horse team, stood guard at night, alternately sleeping on the ground, under the wagon, hunted for game to aid in their sustenance, and, briefly, served his company in many ways with the energy and faithfulness which characterized his subsequent career.

With his party he reached Portland in August, 1851; from thence, with J. N. Low, he made his way to Olympia on Puget Sound, where he arrived footsore and weary, they having traveled on foot the Hudson Bay Company’s trail from the Columbia River. From Olympia, with Low, Lee Terry, Captain Fay and others, he journeyed in an open boat to Duwampsh Head, which has suffered many changes of name, where they camped, sleeping under the boughs of a great cedar tree the first night, September 25th, 1851.

The next day Denny, Terry and Low made use of the skill and knowledge of the native inhabitants by hiring two young Indians to take them up the Duwampsh River in their canoe. He was left to spend the following night with the two Indians, as his companions had wandered so far away that they could not return, but remained at an Indian camp farther up the river. On the 28th they were reunited and returned to their first camp, from which they removed the same day to Alki Point.

A cabin was commenced and after a time, Low and Terry returned to Portland, leaving David Thomas Denny, nineteen years of age, the only white person on Elliott Bay. There were then swarms of Indians on the Sound.

For three weeks he held this outpost of civilization, a part of the time being far from well. So impressed was he with the defenselessness of the situation that he expressed himself as “sorry” when his friends landed from the schooner “Exact” at Alki Point on the 13th of November, 1851. No doubt realizing that an irretrievable step had been taken, he tried to reassure them by explaining that “the cabin was unfinished and that they would not be comfortable.” Many incidents of his early experience are recorded in this volume elsewhere.

He was married on the 23rd of January, 1853, to Miss Louisa Boren, one of the most intelligent, courageous and devoted of pioneer women. They were the first white couple married in Seattle. He was an explorer of the eastern side of Elliott Bay, but was detained at home in the cabin by lameness occasioned by a cut on his foot, when A. A. Denny, W. N. Bell and C. D. Boren took their claims, so had fourth choice.

For this reason his claim awaited the growth of the town of Seattle many years, but finally became very valuable.

It was early discovered by the settlers that he was a conscientious man; so well established was this fact that he was known by the sobriquet of “Honest Dave.”

Like all the other pioneers, he turned his hand to any useful thing that was available, cutting and hewing timber for export, clearing a farm, hauling wood, tending cattle, anything honorable; being an advocate of total abstinence and prohibition, he never kept a saloon.

He has done all in his power to discountenance the sale and use of intoxicants, the baleful effects of which were manifest among both whites and Indians.

Every movement in the early days seems to have been fraught with danger. D. T. Denny traveled in a canoe with two Indians from the Seattle settlement in July, 1852, to Bush’s Prairie, back of Olympia, to purchase cattle for A. A. Denny, carrying two hundred dollars in gold for that purpose. He risked his life in so doing, as he afterward learned that the Indians thought of killing him and taking the money, but for some unknown reason decided not to do the deed.

He was a volunteer during the Indian war of 1855-6, in Company C, and with his company was not far distant when Lieut. Slaughter was killed, with several others. Those who survived the attack were rescued by this company.

On the morning of the battle of Seattle, he was standing guard near Fort Decatur; the most thrilling moment of the day to him was probably that in which he helped his wife and child into the fort as they fled from the Indians.

Although obliged to fight the Indians in self-defense in their warlike moods, yet he was ever their true friend and esteemed by them as such. He learned to speak the native tongue fluently, in such manner as to be able to converse with all the neighboring tribes, and unnumbered times, through years of disappointment, sorrow and trouble, they sought his advice and sympathy.

For a quarter of a century the hand-to-hand struggle went on by the pioneer and his family, to conquer the wilds, win a subsistence and obtain education.

By thrift and enterprise they attained independence, and as they went along helped to lay the foundations of many institutions and enterprises of which the commonwealth is now justly proud.

David Thomas Denny possessed the gifts and abilities of a typical pioneer; a good shot, his trusty rifle provided welcome articles of food; he could make, mend and invent useful and necessary things for pioneer work; it was a day, in fact, when “Adam delved” and “Eve” did likewise, and no man was too fine a “gentleman” to do any sort of work that was required.

Having the confidence of the community, he was called upon to fill many positions of trust; he was a member of the first Board of Trustees of Seattle, Treasurer of King County, Regent of the Territorial University, Probate Judge, School Director, etc., etc.

Although a Republican and an abolitionist, he did not consider every Democrat a traitor, and thereby incurred the enmity of some. Party feeling ran high.