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

No doubt this was a heavy punishment, especially the water diet.

An incident occurred in that historic building, the Yesler cook house, never before published.

A big, powerful man named Emmick, generally known as “Californy,” was engaged one morning in a game of fisticuffs of more or less seriousness, when Bill Carr, a small man, stepped up and struck Emmick, who was too busy with his opponent just then to pay any attention to the impertinent meddler. Nevertheless he bided his time, although “Bill” made himself quite scarce and was nowhere to be seen when “Californy’s” bulky form cast a shadow on the sawdust. After a while, however, he grew more confident and returned to a favorite position in front of the fire in the old cook house. He was just comfortably settled when in came “Californy,” who pounced on him like a wildcat on a rabbit, stood him on his head and holding him by the heels “chucked” him up and down like a dasher on an old-fashioned churn, until Carr was much subdued, then left him to such reflections as were possible to an all but cracked cranium. It is safe to say he did not soon again meddle with strife.

This mode of punishment offers tempting possibilities in cases where the self-conceit of small people is offensively thrust upon their superiors.

The village of Seattle crept up the hill from the shore of Elliott Bay, by the laborious removal of the heavy forest, cutting, burning and grubbing of trees and stumps, grading and building of neat residences.

In the clearing of a certain piece of property between Fourth and Fifth streets, on Columbia, Seattle, now in the heart of the city, three pioneers participated in a somewhat unique experience. One of them, the irrepressible “Gard” or Gardner Kellogg, now well known as the very popular chief of the fire department of Seattle, has often told the story, which runs somewhat like this:

Mr. and Mrs. Gardner Kellogg were dining on a Sunday, with the latter’s sister and her husband, Mr. and Mrs. O. C. Shorey, as they often did, at their home on Third Avenue. It was a cold, drizzly day, but in spite of that “Gard” and Mr. Shorey walked out to the edge of the clearing, where the dense young fir trees still held the ground, and the former was soon pushing up a stump fire on his lots.

As he poked the fire a bright thought occurred to him and he observed to his companion that he believed it “would save a lot of hard work, digging out the roots, to bring up that old shell and put it under the stump.”

The “old shell” was one that had been thrown from the sloop-of-war “Decatur” during the Indian war, and had buried itself in the earth without exploding. In excavating for the Kellogg’s wood house it had been unearthed.

Mr. Shorey thought it might not be safe if some one should pass by: “O, nobody will come out this way this miserable day; it may not go off anyway,” was the answer.

So the shell was brought up and they dug under the roots of the stump, put it in and returned to the Shorey residence.

When they told what they had done, it was, agreed that it was extremely unlikely that anyone would take a pleasure walk in that direction on so gloomy a day.

Meanwhile a worthy citizen of the little burgh had gone roaming in search of his stray cow. As before stated, it was a chilly, damp day, and the man who was looking for his cow, Mr. Dexter Horton, for it was none other than he, seeing the fire, was moved to comfort himself with its genial warmth.

He advanced toward it and spread his hands benignantly as though blessing the man that invented fire, rubbed his palms together in a mute ecstasy of mellow satisfaction and then reversed his position, lifted his coat-tails and set his feet wide apart, even as a man doth at his own peaceful hearthstone. The radiant energy had not time to reach the marrow when a terrific explosion took place. It threw earth, roots and splinters, firebrands and coals, yards away, hurled the whilom fire-worshiper a considerable distance, cautioned him with a piece of hot iron that just missed his face, covered him with the debris, mystified and stupefied him, but fortunately did not inflict any permanent injury.

As he recovered the use of his faculties the idea gained upon him that it was a mean, low-down trick anyhow to blow up stumps that way. He was very much disgusted and refused very naturally to see anything funny about it; but as time passed by and he recovered from the shock, the ludicrous side appeared and he was content to let it be regarded as a pioneer pleasantry.

The innocent perpetrator of this amazing joke has no doubt laughed long and loud many times as he has pictured to himself the vast astonishment of his fellow townsman, and tells the story often, with the keenest relish, to appreciative listeners.

Yes, to be blown up by an old bomb-shell on a quiet Sunday afternoon, while resting beside a benevolent looking stump-fire that not even remotely suggested warlike demonstrations, was rather tough.

HOW BEAN’S POINT WAS NAMED

Opposite Alki Point was a fine prairie of about forty acres to which C. C. Terry at first laid claim. Some of the earliest settlers of the first mentioned locality crossed the water, taking their cattle, ploughed and planted potatoes on this prairie. Terry subsequently settled elsewhere and the place was settled on by a large man of about sixty years, a Nova Scotian, it was supposed, who bore the name of Bean. This lonely settler was a sort of spiritualist; in Fort Decatur, while one of a group around a stove, he leaned his arm on the wall and when a natural tremor resulted, insisted that the “spirits” did it. After the war he returned to his cabin and while in his bed, probably asleep, was shot and killed by an Indian. Since then the place has been known as Bean’s Point.

Dr. H. A. Smith, the happiest story-teller of pioneer days, relates in his “Early Reminiscences” how “Dick Atkins played the dickens with poor old Beaty’s appetite for cheese” in this engaging manner:

“One day when he (Dick Atkins) was merchandising on Commercial Street, Seattle, as successor to Horton & Denny, he laid a piece of cheese on the stove to fry for his dinner. A dozen loafers were around the stove and among them Mr. Beaty, remarkable principally for his appetite, big feet and good nature. And he on this occasion good-naturedly took the cheese from the stove and cooled and swallowed it without waiting to say grace, while Dick was in the back room, waiting on a customer. When the cheese was fairly out of sight, Beaty grew uneasy and skedadled up the street. When Atkins returned and found his cheese missing, and was told what became of it, he rushed to the door just in time to catch sight of Beaty’s coat-tail going into Dr. Williamson’s store. Without returning for his coat or hat, off he darted at full speed. Beaty had fairly got seated, when Dick stood before him and fairly screamed:

“‘Did you eat that cheese?’

“‘Wal – yes – but I didn’t think you’d care much.’

“‘Care! Care! good thunder, no! but I thought you might care, as I had just put a DOUBLE DOSE OF ARSENIC in it to kill rats.’

“‘Don’t say!’ exclaimed Beaty, jumping to his feet, ‘thought it tasted mighty queer; what can I do?’

“‘Come right along with me; there is only one thing that can save you.’

“And down the street they flew as fast as their feet would carry them. As soon as they had arrived at the store, Atkins drew off a pint of rancid fish-oil and handed it to Beaty saying, ‘Swallow it quick! Your life depends upon it!’

“Poor Beaty was too badly frightened to hesitate, and after a few gags, pauses and wry faces he handed back the cup, drained to the bitter dregs. ‘There now,’ said Dick, ‘go home and to bed, and if you are alive in the morning come around and report yourself.’

“After he was gone one of the spectators asked if the cheese was really poisoned.

“‘No,’ replied Dick, ‘and I intended telling the gormand it was not, but when I saw that look of gratitude come into his face as he handed back the empty cup, my heart failed me, and my revenge became my defeat.’ ‘No, gentlemen, Beaty is decidedly ahead in this little game. I never before was beaten at a game of cold bluff after having stacked the cards myself. I beg you to keep the matter quiet, gentlemen.’ But it was always hard for a dozen men to keep a secret.”

These same “Early Reminiscences” contain many a merry tale, some “thrice told” to the writer of this work, of the people who were familiar figures on the streets of Seattle and other settlements, in the long ago, among them two of the Rev. J. F. DeVore, with whom I was acquainted.

“When he lived in Steilacoom, at a time when that city was even smaller than it is now, a certain would-be bully declared, with an oath, that if it were not for the respect he had for the ‘cloth,’ he would let daylight through his portly ministerial carcass. Thereupon the ‘cloth’ was instantly stripped off and dashed upon the ground, accompanied with the remark, ‘The “cloth” never stands in the way of a good cause. I am in a condition, now sir, to be enlightened.’ But instead of attempting to shed any light into this luminary of the pulpit, whose eyes fairly blazed with a light not altogether of this world, the blustering bully lit out down the street at the top of his speed.”

The following has a perennial freshness, although I have heard it a number of times:

“When Olympia was a struggling village and much in need of a church, this portly, industrious man of many talents took upon himself the not overly pleasant task of raising subscriptions for the enterprise, and in his rounds called on Mr. Crosby, owner of the sawmill at Tumwater, and asked how much lumber he would contribute to the church. Mr. Crosby eyed the ‘cloth’ a moment and sarcastically replied, ‘As much as you, sir, will raft and take away between this and sundown.’ ‘Show me the pile!’ was the unexpected rejoinder. Then laying off his coat and beaver tile he waded in with an alacrity that fairly made Mr. Crosby’s hair bristle. All day, without stopping a moment, even for dinner, his tall, stalwart form bent under large loads of shingles, sheeting, siding, scantling, studding and lath, and even large sills and plates were rolled and tumbled into the bay with the agility of a giant, and before sundown Mr. Crosby had the proud satisfaction of seeing the ‘cloth’ triumphantly poling a raft toward Olympia containing lumber enough for a handsome church and a splendid parsonage besides.

“Mr. Crosby was heard to say a few days afterward that no ten men in his employ could, or would, have done that day’s work. Meeting the divine shortly afterwards, Mr. Crosby said, ‘Well, parson, you can handle more lumber between sunrise and dark than any man I ever saw.’

“‘Oh,’ said the parson, ‘I was working that day for my Maker.’

“Moral: Never trust pioneer preachers with your lumber pile, simply because they wear broadcloth coats, for most of them know how to take them off, and then they can work as well as pray.”

This conjuror with the pen has called up another well known personality of the earliest times in the following sketch and anecdote:

“Dr. Maynard was of medium size. He had blue eyes, a square forehead, a strong face and straight black hair, when worn short, but when worn long, as it was when whitened by the snows of many winters, it was quite curly and fell in ringlets over his shoulders. Add to this description, a long, gray beard, and you will see him as he appeared on our streets when on his last legs. When ‘half seas over,’ he overflowed with generous impulses, would give away anything within reach and was full of extravagant promises, many of which were out of his power to fulfill. He once owned Alki Point and sometimes would move there in order to ‘reform,’ but seldom remained longer than a month or six weeks. Alki Point was covered with huge logs and stumps, excepting a little cleared ground near the bay where the house stood. But when the doctor saw it through his telescopic wine-glasses it was transformed into a beautiful farm with broad meadows covered with lowing herds and prancing steeds whose ‘necks were clothed with thunder.’

“One day, in the fall of 1860, while viewing his farm through his favorite glasses, David Stanley, the venerable Salmon Bay hermit, happened along, when Maynard gave him a glowing description of his Alki Point farm as he himself beheld it just then, and wound up by proposing to take the old man in partnership, and offered him half of the fruit and farm stock for simply looking after it and keeping the fences in repair. The temptation to gain sudden riches was too much for even his unworldliness of mind, and he made no delay in embarking for Alki Point with all his worldly effects. His object in living alone, was, he said, to comply with the injunction to keep one’s self ‘unspotted from the world,’ but the doctor assured him that the change would not seriously interfere with his meditations, inasmuch as few people landed at Alki Point, notwithstanding its many attractions.

“The day of his departure for the Mecca of all his earthly hopes turned out very stormy. It was after dark before he reached the point, and on trying to land his boat filled with water. He lost many of his fowls and came near losing his life in the boiling surf. After getting himself and his ‘traps’ ashore, he built a fire, dried his blankets, fried some bacon, ate a hearty supper and turned in.

“The excitement of the day, however, prevented sleep, and he got up and sat by the fire till morning. As soon as it was light he strolled out to look at the stock, but to his surprise, only a bewildering maze of logs and interminable stumps were to be seen where he expected to behold broad fields and green pastures. The only thing he could find resembling stock were – to use his own language – ‘an old white horse, stiff in all his joints and blind in one eye, and a little, runty, scrubby, ornery, steer calf.’ After wandering about over and under logs till noon, he concluded he had missed the doctor’s farm, and returned to the beach with the intention of pulling further around, but seeing some men in a boat a short distance from shore, he hailed it and inquired for Dr. Maynard’s farm. Charley Plummer was one of the party and he told the old man that he had the honor of being already upon it. Stanley explained his object in being there, and after a fit of rib-breaking laughter, Mr. Plummer advised him to return to Salmon Bay as soon as possible, which he did the very next day.

“The old man had a keen sense of the ludicrous, and joined heartily in the laugh, saying he had been taken in a great many times in his life, but never in so laughable manner as on this occasion. A few days afterward as Charley Plummer was sitting in Dr. Maynard’s office the hermit put in an appearance. ‘Good afternoon, doctor,’ said he, with an air of profound respect. ‘Why, how do you do, Uncle Stanley, glad to see you – how does the poultry ranch prosper? By the way, have you moved to Alki Point yet?’ ‘O, yes, I took my traps, poultry and all, over there several days ago, and had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Plummer there. Did he mention the circumstances?’ ‘No,’ said the doctor, ‘he just came in. How did you find things?’

“‘To tell the truth, doctor, I couldn’t rest until I could see you and thank you from the bottom of my heart for the inestimable blessing you have conferred upon me.’

“At this demonstration of satisfaction uttered with an air of profound gratitude, the doctor leaned back complacently in his easy chair, while an expression of benignant self-approval illuminated his benevolent face.

“‘Yes,’ continued he, ‘I can never be sufficiently grateful for the benefit your generosity has already been to me individually, besides it bids fair to prove a signal triumph for religion and morality, and it may turn out to be a priceless contribution to science.’

“At the utterance of this unexpected ‘rhapsody’ the doctor turned with unalloyed delight, and seeing that the old man hesitated, he encouraged him by saying, ‘Go on, Uncle, go right along and tell all about it, although I can’t understand exactly how it can prove a triumph for religion or science.’

“‘Well,’ continued the old man with solemn countenance, ‘my orthodoxy has been a little shaky of late, in fact I have seriously doubted the heavenly origin of various forms of inspiration, but when I got to Alki Point and looked around my skepticism fell from my eyes as did the scales from the eyes of Saul of old.’

“‘Yes,’ interrupted the doctor, ‘the scenery over there is really grand and I have often felt devotional myself while contemplating the grand mountain scenery – ’

“‘Scenery? Well – yes, I suppose there is some scenery scattered around over there, but it isn’t that.’

“‘No, well what was it, uncle?’

“‘Why, sir, as I was saying, when I get a chance to fairly look around I was thoroughly satisfied that nothing but a miracle, in fact, nothing short of the ingenuity and power of the Almighty could possibly have piled up so many logs and stumps to the acre as I found on your farm.’

“Here the doctor’s face perceptibly lengthened and a very dry laugh, a sort of hysterical cross between a chuckle and a suppressed oath, escaped him, but before he had time to speak the old man went on:

“‘So much for the triumph of religion, but science, sir, will be under much weightier obligations to us when you and I succeed in making an honest living from the progeny of an old blind horse and a little, miserable runty steer calf.’

“This was too much for the doctor and springing to his feet he fairly shouted, ‘There, there, old man, not another word! come right along and I will stand treat for the whole town and we will never mention Alki Point again.’

“‘No, thank you,’ said the hermit, dryly, ‘I never indulge, and since you have been the means of my conversion you ought to be the last man in the world to lead me into temptation, besides our income from the blind horse and runty steer calf will hardly justify such extravagance.’

“Hat and cane in hand he got as far as the door, when Maynard called to him saying, ‘Look here, old man, I hope you’re not offended, and if you will say nothing about this little matter, I’ll doctor you the rest of your life for nothing.’

“After scratching his head a moment the hermit looked up and naively answered, ‘No, I’m not mad, only astonished, and as for your free medicine, if it is all as bitter as the free dose you have just given me, I don’t want any more of it,’ and he bowed himself out and was soon lost to the doctor’s longing gaze. With eyes still fixed on the door he exclaimed, ‘Blast my head if I thought the old crackling had so much dry humor in him. Come, Charley, let’s have something to brave our nerves.’”

Among the unfortunate victims of the drink habit in an early day was poor old Tom Jones. Nature had endowed him with a splendid physique, but he wrecked himself, traveling downward, until he barely lived from hand to mouth. He made a house on the old Conkling place, up the bay toward the Duwampsh River, his tarrying place. Having been absent from his customary haunts for a considerable time, it was reported that he was dead. In the village of Seattle, some marauder had been robbing henroosts and Tom Jones was accused of being the guilty party. Grandfather John Denny told one of his characteristic stories about being awakened by a great commotion in his henhouse, the lusty cocks crowing “Tom Jo-o-o-ones is dead! Tom Jo-o-o-ones is dead!” rejoicing greatly that they were henceforth safe.

D. T. Denny gathered up seven men and went to investigate the truth of the report of his demise. They found him rolled up in his blankets, in his bunk, not dead but helplessly sick. When they told him what they had come for – to hold an inquest over his dead body, the tears rolled down his withered face. They had him moved nearer town and cared for, but he finally went the way of all the earth.

Another of the army of the wretched was having an attack of the “devil’s trimmings,” as Grandfather John Denny called them, in front of a saloon one day and a group stood around waiting for him to “come to”; upon his showing signs of returning consciousness, all but one filed into the saloon to get a nerve bracer. D. T. Denny, who relates the incident, turned away, he being the only temperance man in the group.

CHAPTER III.

TRAILS OF COMMERCE

Samuel L. Simpson wrote this sympathetic poem concerning the old Hudson Bay Company’s steamer Beaver, the first steam vessel on the North Pacific Coast. She came out from London in 1836 and is well remembered by Puget Sound pioneers. In 1889 she went on the rocks in Burrard Inlet, British Columbia.

THE BEAVER’S REQUIEM“Forlorn in the lonesome North she lies,That never again will course the sea,All heedless of calm or stormy skies,Or the rocks to windward or a-lee;For her day is doneAnd her last port wonLet the wild, sad waves her minstrel be.“She will roam no more on the ocean trails,Where her floating scarf of black was seenLike a challenge proud to the shrieking galesBy the mighty shores of evergreen;For she lies at restWith a pulseless breastIn the rough sea’s clasp and all serene.“How the world has changed since she kissed the tideOf the storied Thames in the Georgian reign,And was pledged with wine as the bonny brideOf the West’s isle-gemmed barbaric main —With a dauntless formThat could breast the stormAs she wove the magic commercial chain.“For Science has gemmed her brow with starsFrom many and many a mystic field,And the nations have stood in crimsoned warsAnd thrones have fallen and empires reeledSince she sailed that dayFrom the Thames awayUnder God’s blue sky and St. George’s shield.“And the world to which, as a pioneer,She first came trailing her plume of smoke,Is beyond the dreams of the clearest seerThat ever in lofty symbols spoke —In the arts of peace,In all life’s increase,And all the gold-browed stress invoke.“A part of this was a work of hers,In a daring life of fifty years;But the sea-gulls now are her worshipers,Wheeling with cries more sad than tears,Where she lies aloneAnd the surges moan —And slowly the north sky glooms and clears.“And may we not think when the pale mists glide,Like the sheeted dead by that rocky shore,That we hear in the rising, rolling tideThe call of the captain’s ring once more?And it well might be,So forlorn is she,Where the weird winds sigh and wan birds soar.”

The development of the most easily reached natural resources was necessarily first.

The timber and fisheries were a boundless source of wealth in evidence.

As early as 1847, a sawmill run with power afforded by the falls of the Des Chutes at Tumwater, furnished lumber to settlers as a means of profit.

The first cargo was taken by the brig Orbit in 1850, to San Francisco, she being the first American merchant vessel in the carrying trade of Puget Sound. The brig George Emory followed suit; each carried a return cargo of goods for trade with the settlers and Indians.

At first the forest-fallers had no oxen to drag the timbers, after they were hewn, to the water’s edge, but rolled and hauled them by hand as far as practicable. It was in this manner that the brig Leonesa was loaded with piles at Alki in the winter of 1851-2, by the Dennys, Terry, Low, Boren and Bell.

Lee Terry brought a yoke of oxen to complete the work of loading, from Puyallup, on the beach, as there was no road through the heavy forest.

Several ships were loaded at Port Townsend, where the possession of three yoke of oxen gave them a decided advantage.

One ship, the G. W. Kendall, was sent from San Francisco to Puget Sound for ice. It is needless to say the captain did not get a cargo of that luxury; he reported that water did not freeze in Puget Sound and consoled the owner of the ship by returning with a valuable cargo of piles.

The cutting of logs to build houses and the grubbing of stumps to clear the land for gardens alternated with the cutting of piles. In the clearing of land, the Indians proved a great assistance; far from being lazy many of them were hard workers and would dig and delve day after day to remove the immense stumps of cedar and fir left after cutting the great trees. The settlers burned many by piling heaps of logs and brush on them, others by boring holes far into the wood and setting fire, while some were rent by charges of powder when it could be afforded.