Blazing the Way; Or, True Stories, Songs and Sketches of Puget Sound. Denny Emily Inez

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СКАЧАТЬ Lake, a somewhat eccentric character, had one of the hairbreadth escapes fall to his share of the terrible times. He was slightly wounded in an attack on the Cox home on White River. Joe was standing in the open door when an Indian not far away from the cabin, seeing him, held his ramrod on the ground for a rest, placed his gun across it and fired at Joe; the bullet penetrated the clothing and just grazed his shoulder. A man inside the cabin reached up for a gun which hung over the door; the Indian saw the movement and guessing its purpose made haste to depart.

      The occupants of the Cox residence hurriedly gathered themselves and indispensable effects, and embarking in a canoe, with energetic paddling, aided by the current, sped swiftly down the river into the Bay and safely reached the fort.

      Beside the Decatur, a solitary sailing vessel, the Bark Brontes, was anchored in the harbor.

      Those to engage in the battle were the detachments of men from the Decatur, under Lieutenants Drake, Hughes, Morris and Phelps, ninety-six men and eighteen marines, leaving a small number on board.

      A volunteer three months’ company of settlers of whom C. C. Hewitt was Captain, Wm. Gilliam, First Lieutenant, D. T. Denny, Corporal and Robert Olliver, Sergeant, aided in the defense.

      A number of the settlers had received friendly warning and were expecting the attack, some having made as many as three removals from their claims, each time approaching nearer to the fort.

      Mr. and Mrs. D. T. Denny forsook their cabin in the wilderness and spent an anxious night at the home of W. N. Bell, which was a mile or more from the settlement, and the following day moved in to occupy a house near A. A. Denny’s, where the Frye block now stands. From thence they moved again to a little frame house near the fort.

      Yoke-Yakeman, an Indian who had worked for A. A. Denny and was nicknamed “Denny Jim,” played an important part as a spy in a council of the hostiles and gave the warning to Captain Gansevoort of the Decatur of the impending battle.

      Mr. and Mrs. Blaine, the pioneer M. E. minister, and his wife, who was the first school teacher of Seattle, went on board the man-of-war on the 22nd of January, 1856, with their infant son, from their home situated where the Boston Block now stands.

      On the morning of the 26th, while not yet arisen, she was urging her husband to get a boat so that she might go ashore; he demurred, parleying, with his hand upon the doorknob. Just then they heard the following dialogue:

      Mr. H. L. Yesler (who had come aboard in some haste): “Captain, a klootchman says there are lots of Indians back of Tom Pepper’s house.”

      Captain Gansevoort (who was lying in his berth): “John bring me my boots.”

      H. L. Yesler: “Never mind Captain, just send the lieutenant with the howitzer.”

      Captain G.: “No sir! Where my men go, I go too John bring me my boots.”

      And thus the ball opened; a shell was dropped in the neighborhood of “Tom Pepper’s house” with the effect to arouse the whole horde of savages, perhaps a thousand, gathered in the woods back of the town.

      Unearthly yells of Indians and brisk firing of musketry followed; the battle raged until noon, when there was a lull.

      A volume of personal experiences might be written, but I will give here but a few incidents. To a number of the settlers who were about breakfasting, it was a time of breathless terror; they must flee for their lives to the fort. The bullets from unseen foes whistled over their heads and the distance traversed to the fort was the longest journey of their lives. It was remembered afterward that some very amusing things took place in the midst of fright and flight. One man, rising late and not fully attired, donned his wife’s red flannel petticoat instead of the bifurcated garment that usually graced his limbs. The “pants” were not handy and the petticoat was put on in a trice.

      Louisa Boren Denny, my mother, was alone with her child about two years old, in the little frame house, a short distance from the fort. She was engaged in baking biscuits when hearing the shots and yells of the Indians she looked out to see the marines from the Decatur swarming up out of their boats onto Yesler’s wharf and concluded it was best to retire in good order. With provident foresight she snatched the pan from the oven and turned the biscuits into her apron, picked up the child, Emily Inez Denny, with her free hand and hurried out, leaving the premises to their fate. Fortunately her husband, David T. Denny, who had been standing guard, met her in the midst of the flying bullets and assisted her, speedily, into the friendly fort.

      A terrible day it was for all those who were called upon to endure the anxiety and suspense that hovered within those walls; perhaps the moment that tried them most was when the report was circulated that all would be burned alive as the Indians would shoot arrows carrying fire on the roof of cedar shingles or heap combustibles against the walls near the ground and thus set fire to the building. To prevent the latter maneuver, the walls were banked with earth all around.

      But the Indians kept at a respectful distance, the rifle-balls and shells were not to their taste and it is not their way to fight in the open.

      A tragic incident was the death of Milton Holgate. Francis McNatt, a tall man, stood in the door of the fort with one hand up on the frame and Jim Broad beside him; Milton Holgate stood a little back of McNatt, and the bullet from a savage’s gun passed either over or under the uplifted arm of McNatt, striking the boy between the eyes.

      Quite a number of women and children were taken on board the two ships in the harbor, but my mother remained in the fort.

      The battle was again renewed and fiercely fought in the afternoon.

      Toward evening the Indians prepared to burn the town, but a brisk dropping of shells from the big guns of the Decatur dispersed them and they departed for cooler regions, burning houses on the outskirts of the settlement as they retreated toward the Duwamish River.

      Leschi, the leader, threatened to return in a month with his bands and annihilate the place. In view of other possible attacks, a second block house was built and the forest side of the town barricaded.

      Fort Decatur was a two-story building, forty feet square; the upper story was partitioned off into small rooms, where a half dozen or more families lived until it was safe or convenient to return to their distant homes. Each had a stove on which to cook, and water was carried from a well inside the stockade.

      There were a number of children thus shut in, who enlivened the grim walls with their shifting shadows, awakened mirth by their playfulness or touched the hearts of their elders by their pathos.

      Like a ray of sunlight in a gloomy interior was little Sam Neely, a great pet, a sociable, affectionate little fellow, visiting about from corner to corner, always sure of attention and a kindly welcome. The marines from the man-of-war spoiled him without stint. One of the Sergeants gave his mother a half worn uniform, which she skilfully re-made, gold braid, buttons and all, for little Sam. How proud he was, with everybody calling him the “Little Sergeant;” whenever he approached a loquacious group, some one was sure to say, “Well, Sergeant, what’s the news?”

      When the day came for the Neely family to move out of the fort, his mother was very busy and meals uncertain.

      He finally appealed to a friend, who had before proven herself capable of sympathy, for something to appease his gnawing hunger, and she promptly gave him a bowl of bread and milk. Down he sat and ate with much relish; as he drained the last drop he observed, “I was just so hungry, I didn’t know how hungry I was.”

      Poor little Sam was drowned in the Duwampsh River the same year, and buried on its banks.

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