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

I see a world of spirits bright,
Who taste the pleasures there;
They all are robed in spotless white,
And conqu’ring palms they bear.”

HESTER L. MERCER

When a child I often visited this good pioneer woman – so faithful, cheerful, kind, self-forgetful.

With busy hands she toiled from morning to night, scarcely sitting down without some house-wifely task to occupy her while she chatted.

Of a very lively disposition, her laugh was frequent and merry.

A more generous, frank and warm-hearted nature was hard to find, the demands made upon it were many and such as to exhaust a shallow one. Her experiences were varied and thrilling, as the following account from the Seattle Post-Intelligencer of November 13th, 1897, will show:

“There is something in the life of this pioneer woman that makes a lasting impression upon the minds of those who consider it. Mrs. Mercer’s general life differed somewhat from the lives of many pioneer women in that she was always a pioneer. Many had given up an existence in the thickly settled portions of the east to accept the burdensome, half-civilized life of the west. They had at least once known the joys of civilization. It was not so with Mrs. Mercer. She was a pioneer from the time she was ushered into the world.

“She was born in Kentucky. Go back 75 years in the life of that state and you will get something of its early history. Those who lived there that long ago were pioneers. Her father and mother were Jesse and Elizabeth Ward. They were of that staunch, sturdy people that struggled to obtain a home and accumulate a little fortune in the southern country. Jesse Ward at the age of 18 joined a regiment of Kentucky volunteers which was a part of Jackson’s army at the defense of New Orleans in 1814.

“Mrs. Mercer was born in Hartford, the county seat of Ohio county, Kentucky. She was but a little tot when her mother died.

“Her father married again, and children, issues of the second marriage, had been born before Mr. Ward and his family said good-bye to old Kentucky or in reality, young Kentucky, and moved to Arkansas. That was in 1845. There they lived until 1853 and Hester Mercer had a chance of proving her true womanhood. The family had settled near Batesville, Independence county. At that time the county had much virgin soil and it was not a hard matter to figure up the population of the state. Mrs. Mercer seemed to be the head of the family. While the male members of the family were at work clearing land and establishing what they thought would be a permanent home, she was busily occupied in making clothes for herself and others of the family. And what a task it was in those days to make clothes. Crude machinery, in the settled states of the east, turned out with what was considered wonderful rapidity, cloth for garments. But the common people of the West knew nothing of the details of such luxuries.

“Mrs. Mercer, then Hester Ward, took the wool from the sheep, cleaned it, wove it, dyed the cloth, cut and made it into clothing for her father and brothers. When she wanted a gown she could have it, that is, after she had gone into the fields, picked the necessary cotton, developed it into dress goods and turned the goods into a garment.

“Mr. D. B. Ward, a half brother of Mrs. Mercer, has in his possession pieces of the goods out of which she made her gowns when a girl.

“In 1853, Mr. Ward, having heard so much of the great opportunities that were offered to the pioneer who would accept life in the far West, started with his family and a party of other pioneers across the great Western plains. Stories without end could be told of the adventures and incidents, the results of that long journey. There were nine children of Mr. Ward in his party. The start was made March 9, 1853, and on September 30, Waldo Hills, near Salem, Oregon, was reached.

“The Indians, of course, figured in the life of the Wards while they were crossing the plains, just as they seemed to come into the life of every other band of pioneers that undertook the journey. When about eight miles, by the emigrant route, east of the North Platte, Mr. Ward’s party encountered a big band of Arapahoes. Every one was a warrior. They were in full war regalia and dangling from their belts were dozens of scalps. They had been in battle with their enemies, the Blackfeet and Snake River Indians the day before. Crowned with victory, they were on their way home to celebrate.

“The Ward party had been resting in the woods and were about breaking camp to continue their journey when the Indian braves made their appearance. They insisted that they were friendly, but their behavior was not wholly consistent. They crowded in and about the wagons, wanted this and that and finally became impudent because their requests were denied.

“The Ward party had an old bugler with them; when he placed his lips to the bugle something that bordered on music came from the instrument. While the Indians were making their presence known the old bugler grabbed up his bugle and let out several blasts, which echoed and re-echoed around. The leaves trembled, the trees seemed to shake and the Indian braves, who did not fear an encounter with a thousand Blackfeet, were dumbfounded. Their heads went up in the air, the ears of their horses shot forward. The leader of the braves murmured a few words in his native tongue and then like the wind those 400 braves were gone. If the Great White Father had appeared, as they probably expected he would, he would have had to travel many miles to find the Arapahoes.

“The Ward party was soon out of the woods, when they met another band. The old chief was with them. He was mounted on a white mule and produced a copy of a treaty with the government to show that his people loved the white men.

“Down in the valley through which the pioneers were compelled to travel they saw many little tents. Other Indians were camped there. The old chief and his party accompanied the emigrants. Every Indian showed an ugly disposition. The emigrants were compelled to stop in the midst of the tents in the valley. The old chief explained through an interpreter that his people had just come back from a great battle. They were hungry, he said, and wanted food and the emigrants would have to give it to them, for were not these whites, he said, passing through the sacred land of the Indian?

“The Ward party was a small one, it could muster but 22 men. Each man was well armed, but the Indians were mixing up with them and it would have been impossible to get together for united action. It was necessary to submit to the wishes of the Indians. Bacon, sugar, flour and crackers were given up and the old chief divided them among his people.

“While this division was being made young braves were busying themselves by annoying the members of the party. Among the white people was a young woman who had charge of two horses attached to a light covered wagon. Several of the braves took a fancy to her. They gave the whites to understand that any woman who could drive horses was all right and must not go any farther. Mr. Ward and his men had a hard time keeping the Indians from stealing the girl. Once they crowded about her and for a time it was thought she would be taken by force. The white men and several of the women went to her rescue. Mrs. Mercer was in the rescue party. She shoved the Indians right and left and in the end the girl was rescued and smuggled into a closed wagon, where she remained concealed for some hours.

“Another young woman in the party had beautiful auburn hair. An Indian warrior took a fancy to her, thought she was the finest woman he had ever seen, and said that his people would compromise if she were given to him for a wife. Again there was trouble and the girl had to be hidden in a closed wagon.

“The Indians kept up their annoyance of the party for some time, but finally their hunger got the better of them and they sat down to eat the food which the Ward party had under compulsion given them.

“The Indian chief consented that the white people should take their departure. They were quick to do so and were soon some distance from the Indian camp.

“After the Wards reached Oregon, Hester settled down to pioneer life with the other members of the family, but in the fall of 1859, Thomas Mercer, then probate judge of King county, Washington Territory, wooed and won her and they were married. The wedding was one of the important affairs of early days. Rev. Daniel Bagley, of this city, performed the ceremony. After Mr. and Mrs. Mercer came to Seattle they took up their residence in a little house on First Avenue, near Washington Street. The Mercer home at present occupies a block of the old donation claim. The home is on Lombard Street between Prospect and Villard Avenues.

“When Mr. and Mrs. Mercer came to Seattle, John Denny and wife and James Campbell and wife accompanied them. The three families swelled the population to thirteen families.

“D. B. Ward, a half brother of Mrs. Mercer, also came with them.

“‘Seattle was not a very big city in those days,’ said Mr. Ward recently in discussing the matter. ‘I remember that soon after my arrival I thought I would take a walk up in the woods. I went to the church, which stood where at present is the Boston National Bank building. I found windows filled with little holes. It was a great mystery to me. I went down town and made inquiry about it and was told that every hole represented a bullet fired by the Indians during the fight three years before.’

“Mrs. Mercer was a woman of many grand qualities; she never permitted any suffering to go on about her if she were in a position to relieve it. She was a good friend of the poor and did many kind acts of which the world knew but little.”

In the latter years of her life she was a patient, uncomplaining invalid, and finally entered into rest on the 12th of November, 1897, having lived in Seattle for thirty-nine years. She was buried with honor and affection; the pallbearers were old pioneers averaging a forty years’ residence in the same place; D. T. Denny, the longest, being one of the founders, for forty-five years; they were Dexter Horton, T. D. Hinckley, D. T. Denny, Edgar Bryan, David Kellogg and Hans Nelson.

Mr. Mercer, at the age of 84 (in 1897), still survives her, passing a peaceful old age in the midst of relatives and friends.

CHAPTER IX.

DR. HENRY A. SMITH, THE BRILLIANT WRITER

This well known pioneer joined the “mighty nation moving west” in 1852. From Portland, the wayside inn of weary travelers, he pushed on to Puget Sound, settling in 1853 on Elliott Bay, at a place known for many years as Smith’s Cove.

Being a gifted writer he has made numerous contributions to northwestern literature, both in prose and poetry.

In a rarely entertaining set of papers entitled “Early Reminiscences,” he brings vividly to the minds of his readers the “good old times” on Elliott Bay, as he describes the manner of life, personal adventure, odd characters and striking environment of the first decade of settlement. In them he relates that after the White River massacre, he conveyed his mother to a place of safety, by night, in a boat with muffled oars.

To quote his own words: “Early the next morning I persuaded James Broad and Charley Williamson, a couple of harum-scarum run-away sailors, to accompany me to my ranch in the cove, where we remained two weeks securing crops. We always kept our rifles near us while working in the field, so as to be ready for emergencies, and brave as they seemed their faces several times blanched white as they sprang for their guns on hearing brush crack near them, usually caused by deer. One morning on going to the field where we were digging potatoes, we found fresh moccasin tracks, and judged from the difference in the size of the tracks that at least half a dozen savages had paid the field a visit during the night. As nothing had been disturbed we concluded that they were waiting in ambush for us and accordingly we retired to the side of the field farthest from the woods and began work, keeping a sharp lookout the while. Soon we heard a cracking in the brush and a noise that sounded like the snapping of a flintlock. We grabbed our rifles and rushed into the woods where we heard the noise, so as to have the trees for shelter, and if possible to draw a bead on the enemy. On reaching shelter, the crackling sound receded toward Salmon Bay. But fearing a surprise if we followed the sound of retreat, we concluded to reach the Bay by way of a trail that led to it, but higher up; we reached the water just in time to see five redskins land in a canoe, on the opposite side of the Bay where the Crooks’ barn now stands. After that I had hard work to keep the runaways until the crop was secured, and did so only by keeping one of them secreted in the nearest brush constantly on guard. At night we barred the doors and slept in the attic, hauling the ladder up after us. Sometimes, when the boys told blood-curdling stories until they became panicky by their own eloquence, we slept in the woods, but that was not often.

“In this way the crops were all saved, cellared and stacked, only to be destroyed afterward by the torch of the common enemy.

“Twice the house was fired before it was finally consumed, and each time I happened to arrive in time to extinguish the flames, the incendiaries evidently having taken to their heels as soon as the torch was applied.”

While yet new to the country he met with an adventure not uncommon to the earliest settlers in the great forest, recorded as follows:

“I once had a little experience, but a very amusing one, of being ‘lost.’ In the summer of 1854, I concluded to make a trail to Seattle. Up to that time I had ridden to the city in a ‘Chinook buggy.’ One bright morning I took a compass and started for Seattle on as nearly a straight line as possible. After an hour’s travel the sun was hid by clouds and the compass had to be entirely relied upon for the right course. This was tedious business, for the woods had never been burned, and the old fallen timber was almost impassable. About noon I noticed to my utter astonishment, that the compass had reversed its poles. I knew that beds of mineral would sometimes cause a variation of the needle and was delighted at the thought of discovering a valuable iron mine so near salt water. A good deal of time was spent in breaking bushes and thoroughly marking the spot so that there would be no difficulty in finding it again, and from that on I broke bushes as I walked, so as to be able to easily retrace my steps. From that place I followed the compass reversed, calculating, as I walked, the number of ships that would load annually at Seattle with pig-iron, and the amount of ground that would be eventually covered at the cove with furnaces, rolling mills, foundries, tool manufacturing establishments, etc.

“As night came on I became satisfied that I had traveled too far to the east, and had passed Seattle, and the prospect of spending a night in the woods knocked my iron calculations into pi. Soon, however, I was delighted to see a clearing ahead, and a shake-built shanty that I concluded must be the ranch that Mr. Nagle had commenced improving some time before, and which, I had understood, lay between Seattle and Lake Washington. When I reached the fence surrounding the improvements, I seated myself on one of the top rails for a seat and to ponder the advisability of remaining with my new neighbor over night, or going on to town. While sitting thus, I could not help contrasting his improvements with my own. The size of the clearing was the same, the house was a good deal like mine, the only seeming difference was that the front of his faced the west, whereas the front of mine faced the east. While puzzling over this strange coincidence, my own mother came out of the house to feed the poultry that had commenced going to roost, in a rookery for all the world like my own, only facing the wrong way. ‘In the name of all that’s wonderful!’ I thought, ‘what is she doing here? and how did she get here ahead of me?’ Just then the world took a spin around, my ranch wheeled into line, and, lo! I was sitting on my own fence, and had been looking at my own improvements without knowing them.” And from this he draws a moral and adorns the tale with the philosophic conclusion that people cannot see and think alike owing to their point of view, and we therefore must be charitable.

Until accustomed to it and schooled in wood-craft, the mighty and amazing forest was bewildering and mysterious to the adventurous settler; however, they soon learned how not to lose themselves in its labyrinthine depths.

Dr. Smith is a past master in description, as will be seen by this word-picture of a fire in a vast pitchy and resinous mass of combustible material. I have witnessed many, each a magnificent display.

“Washington beats the world for variety and magnificence of awe inspiring mountains and other scenery. I have seen old ocean in her wildest moods, have beheld the western prairie on fire by night, when the long, waving lines of flame flared and flashed their red light against the low, fleecy clouds till they blossomed into roseate beauty, looking like vast spectral flower gardens, majestically sweeping through the heavens; have been in the valley of the river Platte, when all the windows of the sky and a good many doors opened at once and the cloud-masked batteries of the invisible hosts of the air volleyed and thundered till the earth fairly reeled beneath the terrific cannonade that tore its quivering bosom with red-hot bombs until awe-stricken humanity shriveled into utter nothingness in the presence of the mad fury of the mightiest forces of nature. But for magnificence of sublime imagery and awe-inspiring grandeur a forest fire raging among the gigantic firs and towering cedars that mantle the shores of Puget Sound, surpasses anything I have ever beheld, and absolutely baffles all attempts at description. It has to be seen to be comprehended. The grandest display of forest pyrotechnics is witnessed when an extensive tract that has been partly cleared by logging is purposely or accidentally fired. When thus partly cleared, all the tops of the fir, cedar, spruce, pine and hemlock trees felled for their lumber remain on the ground, their boughs fairly reeking with balsam. All inferior trees are left standing, and in early days when only the very choicest logs would be accepted by the mills, about one-third would be left untouched, and then the trees would stand thicker, mightier, taller than in the average forest of the eastern and middle states.

“I once witnessed the firing of a two thousand acre tract thus logged over. It was noon in the month of August, and not a breath of air moved the most delicate ferns on the hillsides. The birds had hushed their songs for their midday siesta, and the babbling brook at our feet had grown less garrulous, as if in sympathy with the rest of nature, when the torch was applied. A dozen or more neighbors had come together to witness the exhibition of the unchained element about to hold high carnival in the amphitheater of the hills, and each one posted himself, rifle in hand, in some conspicuous place at least a quarter of a mile from the slashing in order to get a shot at any wild animal fleeing from the ‘wrath to come.’

“The tract was fired simultaneously on all sides by siwashes, who rapidly circled it with long brands, followed closely by rivers of flame in hot pursuit.

“As soon as the fire worked its way to the massive winrows of dry brush, piled in making roads in every direction, a circular wall of solid flame rose half way to the tops of the tall trees. Soon the rising of the heated air caused strong currents of cooler air to set in from every side. The air currents soon increased to cyclones. Then began a race of the towering, billowy, surging walls of fire for the center. Driven furiously on by these ever-increasing, eddying, and fiercely contending tornadoes, the flames lolled and rolled and swayed and leaped, rising higher and higher, until one vast, circular tidal wave of liquid fire rolled in and met at the center with the whirl and roar of pandemoniac thunder and shot up in a spiral and rapidly revolving red-hot cone, a thousand feet in mid-air, out of whose flaring and crater-like apex poured dense volumes of tarry smoke, spreading out on every side, like unfolding curtains of night, till the sun was darkened and the moon was turned to blood and the stars seemed literally raining from heaven, as glowing firebrands that had been carried up by the fierce tornado of swirling flame and carried to immense distances by upper air currents, fell back in showers to the ground. The vast tract, but a few moments before as quiet as a sleeping infant in its cradle, was now one vast arena of seething, roaring, raging flame. The long, lithe limbs of the tall cedars were tossing wildly about, while the strong limbs of the sturdier firs and hemlocks were freely gyrating like the sinewy arms of mighty giant athletes engaged in mortal combat. Ever and anon their lower, pitch-dripping branches would ignite from the fervent heat below, when the flames would rush to the very tops with the roar of contending thunders and shoot upward in bright silvery volumes from five to seven hundred feet, or double the height of the trees themselves. Hundreds of these fire-volumes flaring and flaming in quick succession and sometimes many of them simultaneously, in conjunction with the weird eclipse-like darkness that veiled the heavens, rendered the scene one of awful grandeur never to be forgotten.

“So absorbed were we all in the preternatural war of the fiercely contending elements that we forgot our guns, our game and ourselves.

“The burnt district, after darkness set in, was wild and weird in the extreme. The dry bark to the very tops of the tall trees was on fire and constantly falling off in large flakes, and the air was filled ever and anon with dense showers of golden stars, while the trees in the environs seemed to move about through the fitful shadows like grim brobdignags clad in sheeny armor.”