We had crossed the two great states of Illinois and Iowa, over hundreds of miles of unoccupied prairie land as rich as anything that ever "lay out of doors," on our way from Indiana to Oregon in search of land on which to make a home. Here, at what we might call the end of our rope, we had found the land, but with conditions that seemed almost too adverse to overcome.

It was a discouraging outlook, even if there had been roads. Such timber! It seemed an appalling undertaking to clear this land, the greater part of it being covered with a heavy growth of balm and alder trees and a thick tangle of underbrush besides. When we fell asleep that night, it was without visions of new-found wealth. And yet later I did tackle a quarter-section of that heaviest timber land, and never let up until the last tree, log, stump, and root had disappeared, though of course, not all cleared off by my own hands.

If we could have known what was coming four months later, we would have remained, in spite of our discouragement, and searched the valley diligently for the choicest locations. For in October following there came the first immigrants over the Natchess Pa.s.s Trail into Washington.

They located in a body over nearly the whole valley, and before the year was ended had made a rough wagon road out to the prairies and to Steilacoom, the county seat.

We lingered at the mouth of the river in doubt as to what best to do. My thoughts went back to wife and baby in the lonely cabin on the Columbia River, and again to that bargain we had made before marriage, that we were going to be farmers. How could we be farmers if we did not have land? Under the donation act we could hold three hundred and twenty acres, but we must live on it for four years; it behooved us to look out and secure our location before the act expired, which would occur the following year.

With misgivings and doubts, on the fourth day Oliver and I loaded our outfit into our skiff and floated out on the receding tide, whither, we did not know.

As we drew off from the mouth of the Puyallup River, numerous parties of Indians were in sight. Some were trolling for salmon, with a lone Indian in the bow of each canoe; others with poles were fishing for smelt; still others with nets seemed waiting for fisherman's luck.

Other parties were pa.s.sing, those in each canoe singing a plaintive chant in minor key, accompanied by heavy strokes of the paddle handles against the sides of the canoe, as if to keep time. There were some fine voices to be heard, and though there were but slight variations in the sounds or words, the Indians seemed never to tire in repeating, and I must confess we never tired of listening.

During the afternoon, after we had traveled some twenty miles, we saw ahead of us larger waters, into which we entered, finding ourselves in a bay five or six miles wide, with no very certain prospect of a camping place. Just then we espied a cl.u.s.ter of cabins and houses on a point to the east. There we made a landing, at what is now known as Alki Point, though it then bore the pretentious name of New York.

We soon pushed on to the east sh.o.r.e, where the steam from a sawmill served as a guide, and landed at a point that cannot be far from the western limit of the present Pioneer Place, in Seattle, near where the totem pole now stands.

As we were not looking for a mill site or town site, we pushed on next day. We had gone but a few miles when a favorable breeze sprang up, bringing with it visions of a happy time sailing; but behind us lay a long stretch of open waters several miles wide, and ahead we could see no visible shelter and no lessening of width; consequently the breeze was not entirely welcome. In a short time the breeze stiffened, and we began to realize that we were in danger. We were afraid to attempt a landing on the surf-beaten sh.o.r.e; but finally, the wind increasing, the clouds lowering, and the rain coming down in torrents, we had to take the risk. Letting down the sail, we headed our frail craft towards the sh.o.r.e. Fortune favored us, for we found a good sandy beach upon which to land, though we got a thorough drenching while so doing.

[Ill.u.s.tration: _Brown Bros._

A rich haul of salmon.]

Here we were compelled to remain two or three days in a dismal camp, until the weather became more favorable. Then launching our boat, we pulled for the head of Whidbey's Island, a few miles to the northwest.

Now I have a fish story to tell. I have always been shy about telling it, lest some smart fellow should up and say I was drawing on my imagination: I am not.

When we had broken camp and were sailing along, we heard a dull sound like that often heard from the tide rips. As we rested on our oars, we could see that there was a disturbance in the water and that it was moving toward us. It extended as far as we could see, in the direction we were going. The sound increased and became like the roar of a heavy fall of rain or hail on water, and we became aware that it was a vast school of fish moving south, while millions were seemingly dancing on the surface of the water or leaping in the air.

We could feel the fish striking against the boat in such vast numbers that they fairly moved it. The leap in the air was so high that we tried tipping the boat to catch some as they fell back, and sure enough, here and there one would drop into the boat. We soon discovered some Indians following the school. They quickly loaded their canoes by using the barbed pole and throwing the impaled fish into their canoes. With an improvised net we too soon obtained all we wanted.

When we began to go on we were embarra.s.sed by the ma.s.s of fish moving in the water. As far as we could see there was no end to the school ahead of us; but we finally got clear of the moving ma.s.s and reached the island sh.o.r.e in safety, only to become weather-bound in the wilds once more.

This camp did not prove so dreary as the last one, although it was more exposed to the swell of the big waters and the sweep of the wind. To the north we had a view of thirty miles or more, to where horizon and water blended, leaving it doubtful whether land was in sight or not. As we afterwards ascertained, we could see the famous San Juan Island, later the bone of contention between our government and Great Britain, when the northern boundary of the United States was settled.

Port Townsend lay some ten miles from our camp, but was shut out from view by an intervening headland. We did not know the exact location of the town. Like the lost hunters, "we knew where we were, but we didn't know where any place else was." Not lost ourselves, the world was lost from us.

Three ships pa.s.sed us while we were at this camp, one coming from out of s.p.a.ce, as it seemed, a mere speck, and growing to a full-fledged deep-sea vessel, with all sails set, scudding before the wind. The other two were gracefully beating their way out against the stiff breeze to the open waters beyond. What prettier sight is there than a full-rigged vessel with all sails spread! The enthusiasm that rose as we gazed at the ships, coupled with a spirit of adventure, prompted us to go farther.

[Ill.u.s.tration: A deep-sea vessel sailing before the wind.]

It was a calm, beautiful day when we reached Port Townsend. Distance lends enchantment, the old adage says; but in this case the nearer we approached to the place, the greater our admiration. The shining, pebbly beach in front, the clear, level spot adjoining, with the beautiful open and comparatively level plateau in the background, and two or three vessels at anchor in the foreground, made a picture of a perfect city site.

Upon closer examination of the little town we found that the first impression, gained from a distance, was illusory. Many shacks and camps, at first mistaken for the white men's houses, were found to be occupied by natives. They were a drunken, rascally rabble, spending their gains from the sale of fish and oil in a debauch that would last as long as their money held out.

This seemed to be a more stalwart race of Indians than those to the south, doubtless from the buffeting received in the larger waters. They would often go out even to the open sea on their fishing excursions in canoes manned by thirty men or more.

After spending two or three days exploring the country, we turned back to the bay where lay the seven ships we had seen near Steilacoom. We remembered the timber camps, the bustle and stir of the little new village, and the activity that we saw there, greater than anywhere else on the waters of the Sound. Most of all, my thoughts would go on to the little cabin on the Columbia River.

Three days sufficed to land us back in the bay we sought, but the ships were gone. Not a sailing craft of any kind was in sight of the little town, though the building activity was going on as before.

The memory of those ships, however, remained with us and determined our minds on the important question where the trade center was to be. We decided therefore that our new home should be near Steilacoom, and we finally staked out a claim on an island not far from that place.

Once the claim had been decided upon, my next desire naturally was to get home to my family. The expedition had taken thirty days, and of course there had been no news from my wife, nor had I been able to send back any word to her.

FOOTNOTES:

[6] Are you afraid of the rapid water?

[7] I will stay with you.

[Ill.u.s.tration: On the trail again with Buck and Dandy.]

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

MOVING FROM THE COLUMBIA TO PUGET SOUND

"CAN I get home tonight?" I asked myself.

It was an afternoon of the last week of June, in 1853, and the sun was yet high. I was well up the left bank of the Cowlitz River; how far I could not tell, for there were no milestones on the crooked, half-obstructed trail leading downstream. At best it would be a race with the sun, but the days were long, and the twilight was long, and I would camp that much nearer home if I made haste.

My pack had been discarded on the Sound. I had neither coat nor blanket.

I wore a heavy woolen shirt, a slouch hat, and worn shoes; both hat and shoes gave ample ventilation. Socks I had none; neither had I suspenders, an improvised belt taking their place. I was dressed for the race and was eager for the trial. At Olympia I had parted with my brother, who had returned to stay at the claims we had taken, while I was to go home for the wife and baby, to remove them to our new home.

I did not particularly mind the camping, but I did not fancy the idea of lying out so near home if by extra exertion I could reach the cabin before night. There was no friendly ox to snug up to for warmth, as in so many of the bivouacs on the plains; but I had matches, and there were many mossy places for a bed under the friendly shelter of drooping cedars. We never thought of catching cold from lying on the ground or on cedar boughs, or from getting a good drenching.

After all, the cabin could not be reached, as the trail could not be followed at night. Slackening pace at nightfall to cool my system gradually, I finally made my camp and slept as soundly as if on a bed of down. My consolation was that the night was short and I could see to travel by three o'clock.

I do not look upon those years of camp and cabin life as years of hardship. To be sure, our food was plain as well as our dress; our hours of labor were long and the labor itself was frequently severe; the pioneers appeared rough and uncouth. Yet underlying all this there ran a vein of good cheer, of hopefulness. We never watched for the sun to go down, or for the seven o'clock whistle, or for the boss to quicken our steps. The days were always too short, and interest in our work was always unabated.

The cabin could not be seen until the trail came quite near it. When I caught sight of a curl of smoke I knew I was almost there. Then I saw the cabin and a little lady in almost bloomer dress milking the cow. She never finished milking that cow, nor did she ever milk any cow when her husband was at home.

There were so many things to talk about that we could scarcely tell where to begin or when to stop. Much of the conversation naturally centered on the question of our moving to a new home.

"Why, at Olympia, eggs were a dollar a dozen. I saw them selling at that. The b.u.t.ter you have there would bring you a dollar a pound as fast as you could weigh it out. I saw stuff they called b.u.t.ter sell for that.

Potatoes are selling for three dollars a bushel and onions at four.

Everything the farmer raises sells high."

"Who buys?"