We Who Survived - 7 Meeting in Astoria

July 24, 1880

I have delayed writing any more of my story as I wanted to include all the memories of those we would be meeting at the reunion.

Oscar arrived a day early, so he stayed that first night with me. So along with him, my wife, Elizabeth, and I met up with the Albert Canfields when the Colombia docked on July 26th. Mr.
Joel Munson on his boat, the Magnet, had already made himself known to me, and we had moved our small overnight cases into his steamboat.

We spent several hours going from Portland to Astoria, and were dropped off outside the Occidental Hotel. “This here is where Mina and her husband work. Their hotel is a lot bigger than Susan and Augustus' place - Clatsop House Inn. So we thought it best to put you here. But you will meet up with the whole family later tonight at dinner.”

The five adults and two children were soon met by a small very garrulous woman who introduced herself as Mina Kimball Meglar (pictured above).  She like Albert had only been a baby during the massacre, so it wasn't a matter of any of us recognising each other. But she said she had heard a lot about us, and made us very welcome.

“How long have you been managing this splendid hotel?” put in my wife, Elizabeth.

“We've been here since 76, but before that we managed the Astoria House Hotel.”

“I noticed that you seem to have all sorts of foreigners here abouts. Is that because of the various
industries in this area?”

“Yes, when the oyster catchers became important, the best people to deal with them were the Chinese, and they came here in droves. I have a Chinese cook and also a couple who run the laundry. But I also have barbers from Prussia and Sweden. Another cook from Africa via Mexico – and lots more.”

“So who all from your family will be coming to dinner tonight?” I asked.

“Well you may remember my brother Nathan. He's a carpenter, and he will be bringing his wife, Lucia. Our other brother, Bryon, is a teamster and lives with our half brother, Thomas Jewett, who is also a teamster, but he decided not to come tonight. Bryon said he didn't have anything to add to the stories that we could tell you about the massacre. You've of course met Joel Munson, who is married to my sister Sarah Kimball, and then there will Susan and August Wirt. Do you remember Susan and Nathan at all? Susan was the oldest of us during the massacre. She was 15.”

“I remember the fuss when one of the Indians wanted to make her his bride,” I put in.

“That's just a story,” put in Mina indignantly. “He maybe wanted to do it, but she didn't want
him to, and he never did. People made out like they were married – but she told me it just was not true at all. I do hope you won't mention that when she's here, as she would be very upset.”

“No, of course not.”

Just before 6 the others arrived, making our dining numbers to 13, and we had introductions all around. The children were promised a special children's treat in the kitchen, organised by the
housekeeper, who was the Kimball family's half sister, Mary Jewett.

“Will you all raise a glass to welcome our guests,” said Augustus, and we all did.

Here is how I would describe Augustus. He is a wiry supple man, rather light and firmly knit in the joints. A shrewd German face twinkling blue eyes, narrow temples and long bald forehead, above the thin red-whiskered cheeks, make up his profile.

“Now, Mr. Young,” said Susan Wirt, “as you have been researching and preparing for writing your
book, I am sure you know all about us, but we really know very little about you. What happened to you after we all parted in Vancouver?”

“We stayed at Fort Vancouver for a few days, but soon afterwards boarded a barge to Oregon City. We were put on the river bank to hustle for ourselves, for food, shelter and some type of work for our livelihood. After a few hours my father found a small slab shanty with one room in it. That night we slept the sleep of the weary and worn out!”

“We all know how that feels,” put in Alexander.

“My brother and I secured a contract cutting wood for one dollar a cord. We also found work that
first winter in sawmills, while my father made patterns for a foundry and also helped build a mill for Dr. McLaughlin in Oregon City. We also sold tools we'd made by hand, some of metal, others of wood. We were paid for our labors in paper script; that is, the merchants would issue paper saying it was good for one or five dollars, as the case may be, to the bearer, but when we would present this paper they would shave it about one-third, selling their goods at two prices.

“We all did odd jobs to see the family through the winter, and then in May '48 we moved to a small
house in the Tualatin Valley to work for Walter Pomeroy.”

“Did you make a land claim?” asked Nathan.

“A year later my parents settled on two Donation Land Claim plots totaling 642 acres and my brother and I continued working the farm in Cedar Mills with our father for the next few years. Dad died in 1855, at age 67. Mom died in 1865 at age 74.”

“I'm sorry to hear that,” put in Oscar. “I remember that I respected your parents who seemed to keep
their emotions very much in control over these very hard times.”

“I can remember my father getting very heated at Mr. Smith,” I said, “but I won't go into that now.

“In 1856 I married my neighbor, Elizabeth and we have eight living children, all pretty much grown up
by now. Elizabeth is a respected midwife, seeing to the births of at least fifty babies in the area.”

“And what about your brother. What does he do now?”asked Sarah.

“He lost his wife, and didn't want to stay in the area because of too many memories, so he moved with his son to Klickitat, not that far from where we were before, fairly near The Dalles. His son Joseph who is 23 is farming with him. He said to give his best respects to you all.”

“Thank you for that, and return the compliment, won't you. Are you a farmer too?” asked Nathan.

“In 1869 I formed a partnership with William Everson, and we bought the Jones Lumber Company mill and 160 acres of timber from Justus Jones and his family, who had settled the original Land Claim on the property.

“Do you still live there?” asked Mina.

“No. In 1874 I sold my interest in the sawmill and purchased 280 acres of land across the Cornell Road, where we're in the process of building a bigger house and converted the old house into a small general store and became the postmaster for the area.”

“Now it's your turn, Oscar. Why did you move back north? I thought California was a wonderful place to live,” asked Elizabeth.

“It is a beautiful place, and my folks are still there, and some of my sisters, but I wanted a rougher
life, and remembered the area where we are now as being particularly beautiful.”

“Where is it exactly?” put in Lucia.

“Near Coer d'alene, on the Spokane River. I don't know if you knew it or not, but when we went to Sonoma County in California, I was a gold miner. Anyway, this area around here has been reported to be rich in minerals including gold, and so far it is pretty much untapped wealth. So I am farming at the moment, but I can tell you that I will take some of my free time to see what I can discover.”

“And how about you Albert? Are you going to be a gold miner too?” asked Sarah.

“I pretty much just want to be near Oscar. We were pretty close all the time, and it wasn't the same back in Analy once he had gone a few years ago.”

“And do you have a family, Oscar?” asked Joel.

“I do indeed. My wife is called Cynthia and we have eight children ranging in ages from 14 down to
one.”

Before long, our splendid meal was over and we sent our thanks and congratulations to the cooks, and retired to the lounge to continue with our conversation.

“Well, I know that we all came here to help you remember about the things that happened at the massacre, so you can write your story, Mr. Young, “ said Susan.

“Anyway, I will happily tell you about what happened to me after the massacre. Our family went to
Oregon City for the rest of that winter. Bachelors and widowers from all over the valley came to Oregon City to select wives from among the women who had escaped being killed. Our mother married John Jewett, a widower with eight children. With our five, this made 13 children in the family and then they had two more. We stayed on his farm until we married. My future husband, Augustus, went prospecting for gold to California in the fall of '48 and he came home with $3,000. We moved to Shoalwater Bay, Washington and lived there for seven years.

“At the time of the massacre, Pa was shot in the arm, so he went up into the loft with the Sager
children. But when the children needed water, he dressed up to look like an Indian and went down to the pump to get some. The Indians killed him the next day.” 

Oscar then took up the story.

“To start with everything about the Whitman Mission was going on as usual on that day. Three or four men including our father were dressing the beef in the barnyard. All at once several shots were fired, and upon getting out of the house I saw men running, father among them, and the Indians were shooting at them. Father had on a white shirt, and I could see that his arm was broken at the elbow, for it was red with blood, and his arm was swinging back and forth. He succeeded in getting into the
schoolhouse, where there were several children, and there he stayed all night.

“On the following day, driven to desperation with his suffering and those of the sick children with
him, he resolved to procure some water from a stream which ran near by. He had not gone far before an Indian saw him, and he was shot down and killed instantly.”

“That's not quite how I remember it,”said Susan.

“Well, you can have your turn later. It's mine now,” said Oscar.

“When I saw the massacre going on I got my father’s rifle and was going up into the garret, intending
to shoot out of a hole. The house was built out of brick, a foot square, one of which had been left out and a glass put in, and it was through this opening I intended to do some shooting. I well knew they
would not burn the building. A woman who was there took the gun away from me, saying it would not do to shoot an Indian, for if I did they would kill us all. I said: `They will do that anyway, and I want to kill some first.’

“I have always thought that one thing that saved my life was being a great friend of Steven Manson,
my chum. He was a half breed and a Catholic, and they were all right with the Indians. He told me a great many times to stay with him and the Indians wouldn't hurt me. They killed Francis Sager, who was only a year or two older than me. That made me think they would soon kill me.

“About a week afterward, I was in the room when they tomahawked Crockett Bewley and jerked him out on the floor. Afterward I saw a piece of his skull, the shape of a half-dollar, lying on the floor. Meanwhile all of us were enduring such agony as seldom falls to the lot of humanity to suffer.”

“You don't have to give all the grizzly details,” put in his sister Mina.

“We were compelled to work for the Indians. Our feelings were continually harrowed by the terrible
sights which everywhere met our eyes, in going back and forth between the houses, carrying water from the stream, or in moving in any direction whatever, for the dead were not removed until the setting in of decay made it necessary for the Indians themselves.

“The bodies or pieces of them, lay scattered all around, an arm here and a leg there. Some of the men had their breasts open and their hearts taken out. I saw two Indians each with a stick and a human heart stuck upon it, which they showed to the women, and told them they belonged to their husbands, and that they were going to eat them. I don’t think they did, but I don't know.”

“Nathan, please don't say those things,” put in his wife Lucia.

“The women were forced to work making clothes for them.  Bedding, sheets and window curtains
were made up into garments for the devils.

“As to the cause of the massacre, it is pretty hard to tell, as there were so many indirect causes at
work that could produce a revolution among the Indians, that it would be unfair to name any particular one as the direct cause. The last cause was a season of sickness among the Indians; the measles were brought among them by an immigrant train.  Three, four and five would die in a day, and sometimes more, and their remains would be brought there in the evening to have coffins made for them. I have seen as many as seven dead Indians hanging across the fence, the same
as you would hang a sack of wheat, waiting for coffins."

(to be continued)