|
One Pioneer Family's
Story of War in the White River Valley
By Stan Flewelling
[Last quarter's issue of the White River Journal featured the story of
the Jones family as they journeyed to settle the White River Valley in
1854-55. It was based primarily on correspondence left by Harvey and
Eliza Jane Jones. The following article concludes their tragic tale, and
is based mostly on the memoirs of Dr. John Icilius King, Eliza's son
(Harvey's stepson), who wrote of them some 50 years later. The
manuscript was prepared for Ezra Meeker, who used much of it in his book
Pioneer Reminiscences of Puget Sound. King's original manuscript is in
the Washington State Historical Society archives.]
 |
Olive Jones (4), Percival Jones (2), and
John King (7), three children whose lives were forever changed by the
war over lands and sovereignty in 1855.
|
|
WRVM#3033
|
Editor's note: As you read, you are cautioned to remember that this
article is the account of one family's losses during a war concerning
land and freedom. Losses occurred on both sides, the greater
depravations suffered by Native Americans. The Jones/King family tragedy
should be weighed against the taking of Native American lives and lands.
Through the grim summer of 1855, the fledgling White River settlement
was rife with tension. Native American residents were distraught by the
demands and limitations of new treaties that had been contrived by
territorial authorities on behalf of the US government. Most of the
pacts, including the Point Elliot Treaty which nominally included the
"Stkamish" people of the lower White River, were still
unratified. But pioneer settlers kept streaming into the region,
claiming and developing vast plots of land as their own, in blatant
disregard of those whose ancestors had inhabited the sector for
generations. Already, clashes were erupting east of the Cascade
Mountains.
It was no wonder, then, that many White River settlers foresaw trouble.
They petitioned the command at Ft. Steilacoom for more protection, but
when their request was forwarded to Olympia, officials took it lightly.
From mid-July on, Allen Porter made a habit of sleeping in the woods
away from his cabin, which was on the plateau near today's Enumclaw. On
the morning of September 28, Porter charged down to William and
Elizabeth Brannan's farm, his clothes and skin shredded. His place had
been attacked, he shrieked, and he'd barely escaped with his life
through the thorny brush. The entire settlement was alerted, and most of
the White River neighbors fled to Seattle for protection. The Jones
family was among the handful that did not go.
The people of Seattle were alarmed enough to begin work on a blockhouse,
and were greatly relieved when the US Sloop-of-War Decatur arrived in
Elliot Bay. Meanwhile, Acting Governor Mason decided to assess the
situation in the farmlands himself, and set out from Olympia with a
contingent of soldiers. He spoke with several Indian leaders in the
upper White River region and concluded that it was all a mistake. He was
reassured that there was nothing to be alarmed about, and went to
Seattle to say so. Gradually, White River farmers filtered back to their
claims in mid-October.
Attack
Indian neighbors often visited the settlers' homes, so it
wasn't unusual when a local leader known as "Nelson" dropped
in to see the Jones family on Friday morning, October 26, 1855. Harvey
Jones was out working on the farm. That day Nelson stayed unusually long
and was especially quiet, his cool demeanor evident even to young Johnny
King, who hadn't yet turned seven. Eliza Jane Jones went about her
household chores, skirting around the man as she worked, nervously
trying to converse with him.
Nelson remained sullen. When he finally rose to leave, as Johnny later
remembered it, he said in mixed English and jargon, "It would not
be very long until Indian be gone and white man have all the land around
here." The family shared the story of Nelson's visit with Harvey
when he returned, and they spent an uneasy evening wondering what to
make of the man's remark.
Two days later at sunrise, Harvey lay bedridden with pleurisy. The rest
of the family sat down to breakfast along with their hired hand, Enos
Cooper, who had worked for them along the Overland Trail. Cooper had
filed a land claim of his own several miles downstream.
A noise at the door something like a guttural throat clearing, a Native
way to request entry, announced the presence of an Indian visitor. As
Eliza got up, all three of her curious offspring, Johnny, Olive and
Percival, bounded to her side. She opened the door and they saw the
visitor standing peculiarly to the side. He moved even further back as
the portal widened.
Map drawn by John I. King and sent with his
manuscript
to Ezra Meeker, July, 1903. Note his marks for
the Jones and King house
locations.
Then Johnny and his mother simultaneously saw a second Indian at the
corner of the family's log storehouse, about thirty feet away. He was
pointing a gun straight at them. Eliza screamed and slammed the door,
securing it as she shoved the children away. An explosion of gunfire
followed at the front of the house, skewing and splintering its wood
siding and glazed windows. Glancing out one of the windows, Johnny saw
at least a dozen Native men involved in the siege.
Eliza grabbed her husband's seven-shooter and attempted to return fire.
But it was futile, and she soon turned all her energy toward sheltering
the children. Hustling them into the back bedroom, as far from peril as
possible, she made them huddle under a feather mattress. It was
protection from the force of a flintlock musket-ball. Eliza left the
room to join Cooper's defense as bullets continued to rip all around.
Feeling too confined, Johnny King crawled from beneath the mattress to
the main part of the house. His ill stepfather leaned weakly at the
doorway of the other bedroom. The man suddenly staggered, uttering,
"Oh God, I am shot!" "Oh, Harvey, don't say so,"
cried Eliza as she rushed to support him while he slumped to their bed.
Johnny scurried back to his hiding place and heard a horrifying scenario
through the room partition. "His prayers and advice were mingled
with her sobs," he wrote years later. "After a time his moans
ceased and I knew that he was dead."
John I. King's 1903 sketch of the Jones
family home
at the White River settlement.
Eliza Jones and Enos Cooper were now desperate. She advised him to try
to escape. Cooper retreated to the back room where the children were
hiding, pried open the window, leaped out cautiously, and was gone.
Soon the firing waned and the children heard strange footsteps inside
the house. They were discovered by the intruders and taken outside.
Their mother was nowhere in sight. Nelson sat on a tree stump just a few
feet from the door, and by Johnny's observation, he was directing the
activities of the others.
What happened next is somewhat in question. One version, widely
circulated in its day, held that Johnny placed himself between his
step-siblings and Nelson, boldly defying the Indian to fire. "I
will, and kill you all," was the supposed retort, and though Nelson
aimed his rifle at the boy three times and pulled the trigger, it would
not shoot. Johnny, so goes the tale, "quailed not" and Nelson
finally told him, "Take your brother and sister over to Mr. Thomas,
that they be cared for, as I cannot kill you."
The more likely rendition-and the one John King told later in life-was
that Nelson was sympathetic, quietly assuring Johnny he would protect
them. The assailants went about torching the Jones home, then Nelson
ordered all but one of them to move on. He placed the three children in
this man's care, telling Johnny that they would be taken safely to the
Thomas home, where the boy had attended school the previous summer.
Nelson left. The unknown Indian, apparently disgruntled with this duty,
eventually started out toward the southeast with the three children in
tow. Johnny was alarmed-the Thomases lived to the north. He protested
and tried to pull away. After a brief struggle of wills, the man
suddenly let go of Johnny's hand, muttered something in disgust, and
stalked off. The children were now alone in the wild.
Wilderness
Appraising things as well as he could, Johnny decided to go
to closer neighbors for help. The Thomas home was at least two miles
away, but the Brannans lived about a mile to the south. Starting in that
direction, Johnny called out pleadingly for Mr. Cooper. The echo of his
own voice resounding through the woods spooked him. Afraid that hostile
Indians might still be nearby, he trudged on as quietly as he could. But
it wasn't so easy to quiet the younger ones, who were just under age
four and two respectively. They could hardly keep up, and were
understandably whimpery. Johnny hid them under some low brush, told them
to stay put, and went on by himself.
As he approached the clearing around the Brannan home, he was
disheartened to see another catastrophe. The cabin door was open,
windows broken, and smashed furniture strewn about. Feather beds and
pillows had been ripped open, the remnants swirling around in the
breeze. Observing no one, Johnny retreated to the children's hiding
place without closer investigation.
The three returned to the smoldering ruins of their home. Their
breakfast had been interrupted and they were hungry. Johnny soon found a
solution. Inside the log storehouse were potatoes and tubs of butter
that had not yet been taken to market. The storehouse, too, had been
burned, which roasted some of the potatoes and melted the butter in its
charred containers. Johnny made a crude but satisfying meal out of the
potatoes, spreading them with the streaming butter.
As they finished eating and wandered around the property, still hoping
to find Mr. Cooper, a friendly sign of life appeared. A half-grown
puppy, their favorite pet, emerged from behind the barn and bounced
noisily toward them. The children were elated and played with him for a
while, but Johnny soon realized that the pup would eventually give them
away. Reluctantly, he grabbed a stick and scared the animal off.
What followed was even more difficult, the greatest dilemma of Johnny
King's life. Wandering about a hundred feet southwest of the house, he
found his mother crumpled on the ground. She was still alive, but weak
and badly injured. He dropped hopefully beside her as she gasped her
gratitude that all three children were still safe. Then, mustering her
remaining strength, she chided him for not yet escaping. She told him to
take the younger ones and go to the Thomases at once. No, he wouldn't
leave her, Johnny retorted. She insisted that he must. She couldn't
live, she said, and he might save himself and his siblings if he went.
Tearfully he rose, turned resolutely away, and led Olive and Percival
back into the dark forest.
By the time the threesome reached the Thomas farm, the afternoon was
fading and they were all exhausted. No one was home. A little further
beyond was the Moses and Nancy Kirkland family farm. Again, no one was
there except for a furious dog that wouldn't let them near the house. To
the homeless orphans wandering through a hostile wilderness, the cold
night at hand, it seemed like everything familiar, caring, and
protective had vanished.
 |
Tom Wiletchtid in his now famous portrait.
He holds the walking stick sent to him years later, as an honorific gift
from the then-grown boy he saved, Dr. John King.
|
|
WRVM# 178
|
Rescue
Lacking any other option, Johnny retraced their steps. His
sister understood the need to stay quiet, but the baby couldn't be
consoled. He was tired and cranky and fussed constantly. Johnny knew
that the noise was a constant jeopardy, and tried to carry his brother
piggyback as far as he could. Stumbling back along the path, he saw a
lone Indian coming in their direction. He pushed the younger ones into
hiding, returned to the path, and then recognized the man. It was Tom
Wiletchtid, a friend and occasional hired hand of the Thomases. Johnny
shared his story of the day's events, but Wiletchtid already suspected
what had happened. He led them to the safety of his shelter-probably a
temporary campsite not far from the Thomas place.
There, Tom's female relatives offered the children food and tried to
comfort them. The youngsters ate eagerly, but wouldn't let the women
come near. A bear skin was spread on the ground for them to lay on, and
they were soon asleep. When "the moon was high," as Tom
reportedly expressed it, he woke Johnny, helped him load his sleepy
siblings into a dugout, covered them over, and paddled toward Seattle,
some 30 winding miles downstream. Wiletchtid's sister, who accompanied
them, said later that Johnny bravely "stood up and warned all
[white] persons whom he saw not to shoot." At the mouth of the
Duwamish River, the children were given over to another Indian known as
"Dave," who was a more familiar figure around Elliot Bay. He
delivered them to the Decatur.
Word of the siege on the White River settlement had already reached
skittish Seattle citizens the previous evening. The Kirkland family,
their daughter and son-in-law (William and Elizabeth Cox), and Joe Lake
(who had been visiting them) arrived in two canoes, worn out from a
frantic flight from White River. They, too, had been attacked on Sunday
morning. The warning bays of their dogs saved their lives. Shots chased
them as they escaped, and a bullet blew through Mr. Lake's coat, grazing
his arm. Everyone assumed that all the other White River settlers were
dead, or nearly so.
Johnny King's eyewitness account riveted and shocked the community. That
same afternoon, a regiment of 40 volunteer soldiers and four Native
American guides, all commanded by Captain Christopher C. Hewitt, started
up toward White River to investigate. They returned four days later with
gruesome reports of the devastation. The Cox home had been vandalized.
The Jones home was indeed burned down, Harvey Jones' charred remains
found inside. Eliza Jane Jones' body lay nearby, shot and disfigured.
Enos Cooper was gunned down just 150 yards from the house.
More atrocities were found at the Brannan home, and at the King home,
which lay east of the Jones property and was also burned. Altogether,
seven adult settlers and two infants (three, in some reports) had been
killed. There was evidence of several Native American casualties as
well. The dead settlers were identified, autopsied, and buried. Once
everyone was accounted for, the mystery remained what had befallen 6
year-old George A. King, son of George E. and Mary King (and occasional
playmate of Johnny King, though they were not related). As it turned
out, the boy had witnessed the awful deaths of his parents, then was
spared and sheltered by a Puyallup Indian. Once this was known,
authorities at Ft. Steilacoom launched fervent negotiations for his
return.
Back in Seattle, the Jones children were placed in the temporary custody
of a series of families, including the Russells and Neelys from White
River. Virtually every King County family had taken refuge in the town,
counting on its blockhouses and the warship anchored in its harbor for
protection. Olive and Percival Jones stayed close to their guardians,
but much of the time, Johnny King was given the freedom to bunk on board
the Decatur, coming ashore each day. Callous crewmen hailed him as a
little hero, and as their story spread, the children were admired and
pitied by everyone around. John Smail, Eliza Jones' brother who had
accompanied them part-way on the Overland Trail, was contacted in
California, and asked to come take custody of them.
Long before his uncle's arrival, Johnny saw the town mourn the death of
Lt. William A. Slaughter, the popular soldier whose company was ambushed
in early December at the Brannan property, adjacent to the Jones farm.
On January 26, 1856, he witnessed the celebrated "Battle of
Seattle." [A one-day battle fought between combined Native American
forces and Seattle settlers - decisively won by the fire of the Navy
sloop of war, Decator, carrying Johnny King.] It was a traumatic day for
the already shell-shocked youngster. In early February, news arrived
that young George King had been returned to Ft. Steilacoom. He, too, was
put in the custody of other families (including Ezra Meeker's) and
eventually sent east to be raised in Connecticut.
Return
In late May, John Smail arrived in Seattle. Puget Sound area
hostilities, at that point, were mostly over. On the 31st, Smail went
upriver to the scene of his sister's death. Two days later, he and the
children were on board the Decatur as it embarked for San Francisco. The
voyage became an adventure in itself when the ship was thrashed by a
storm off the Oregon coast. But they arrived safely on June 12, staying
in a hotel until another ship could take them on the next stage in their
long journey to the Midwest.
A local newspaper got hold of the children's story and ran it as a big
feature article. "No one can look young King in the face without
feeling that he is a noble and gallant boy," exclaimed the writer,
suggesting that the government should give him a West Point education.
The least the local population could do, said the article, was to throw
a benefit for the young orphans. This was arranged at the American
Theatre for the night of July 3, 1856, and after the usual program of
short plays, songs, and dances was over, the children were brought on
stage. Once they were introduced to the crowd, many miners among them,
"a perfect storm of gold and silver coin was showered upon the
stage." The kids proceeded to gather up the treasure while the
delighted audience cheered. The cash, combined with box office profits,
amounted to $185, a significant gift in those days. The story of
"The Oregon (Territory) Orphans" continued to spread from city
to city across the country.
On July 5, the travelers left for Panama, then on to New York and an
emotional reunion with their kinfolk in Wisconsin. The two younger
children remained with their dad's relatives there. Johnny King was
taken to northeastern Ohio to live with his own father's relatives.
Eight years later, he received the heartbreaking news that both his
half-siblings had died of diphtheria.
King eventually studied medicine, married, and took up a practice near
his home. Dr. John I. King was always eager to share stories about the
paramount adventure of his life, and occasionally wrote letters to the
Washington State Historical Society and the Seattle Post-Intelligencer.
He seemed driven to connect with people who would remember his family's
saga and want to hear more. At last, in 1903, Ezra Meeker contacted him,
requesting the manuscript on which most of this story is based.
In letters to Meeker, King said he held no grudge against the Indians.
"Then as always, many innocent ones suffered with the wrong doers
on both sides," he observed. "[Indians] resisted what they
considered to be encroachments upon their territory. . . . It was at
that time, as it would be now, if some more powerful people should come
along and say to us 'Your farms suit us well, move on.' Wouldn't you
fight! I think so."
In 1905, nearly 50 years after their wartime encounter, Dr. King and Tom
Wiletchtid regained contact through extraordinary coincidence and a
mutual friend. The grateful doctor sent letters to Tom, and the gift of
a cane that John Smail had purchased in Panama. Throughout the years,
White River Valley settlers still revered "Indian Tom"
Wiletchtid as a friend and hero, even as they developed a modern
community near his home.
King died in Ohio in 1912. Wiletchtid died near Auburn in 1914, the last
known survivor of the White River conflict. The gift cane, which he
treasured, eventually came into the White River Valley Museum
collection, where it remains on display.
Stan Flewelling
|
Journal Archives
