Humboldt County was an isolated community. Sea steamers were both infrequent and uncertain, with ten days or two weeks and more between arrivals. There were no roads to the interior, but there were trails, and they were often threatened by treacherous Indians. The Indians living near us on Mad River were peaceful, but the mountain Indians were dangerous, and we never knew when we were really safe. In Arcata we had one stone building, a store, and sometimes the frightened would resort to it at night. In times of peace, settlers lived on Mad River, on Redwood Creek, and on the Bald Hills, where they herded their cattle. One by one they were killed or driven in until there was not a white person living between the bay and Trinity River. Mail carriers were shot down, and the young men of Arcata were often called upon at night to nurse the wounded. We also organized a military company, and a night duty was drilling our men on the plaza or up past the gruesome graveyard. My command was never called out for service, but I had some fortunate escapes from being waylaid. I walked around the bay one morning; a few hours later a man was ambushed on the road.
On one occasion I narrowly escaped participation in warfare. In August, 1862, there had been outrages by daring Indian bands, killing unprotected men close to town. Once a few of us followed the tracks of a party and traced the marauders across Mad River and toward a small prairie known to our leader, Ousley the saddler. As we passed along a small road he caught the sign. A whiff of a shred of cotton cloth caught on a bush denoted a smoky native. A crushed fern, still moist, told him they had lately passed. At his direction we took to the woods and crawled quietly toward the near-by prairie. Our orders were to wait the signal. If the band we expected to find was not too large, we should be given the word to attack. If there were too many for us, we should back out and go to town for help. We soon heard them plainly as they made camp. We found about three times our number, and we retired very quietly and made for the nearest farmhouse that had a team.
In town many were anxious to volunteer. My mother did not want me to go, and I must confess I was in full accord with her point of view. I therefore served as commissary, collecting and preparing quantities of bread, bacon, and cheese for a breakfast and distributing a packed bag to each soldier. The attack at daylight resulted in one death to our command and a number to the Indians. It was followed up, and a few days later the band was almost annihilated. The plunder recovered proved them guilty of many late attacks. This was toward the end of the Indian war that had for so many years been disastrous to the community, and which in many of its aspects was deeply pathetic. Originally the Indian population was large. The coast Indians were spoken of as Diggers, and inferior in character. They were generally peaceful and friendly while the mountain dwellers were inclined to hostility. As a whole they did not represent a very high type of humanity, and all seemed to take to the vices rather than to the virtues of the white race, which was by no means represented at its best. A few unprincipled whites were always ready to stir up trouble and the Indians were treacherous and when antagonized they killed the innocent rather than the guilty, for they were cowards and took the fewest possible chances. I have known an Indian hater who seemed to think the only good Indian was a dead one go unmolested through an entire campaign, while a friendly old man was shot from behind while milking his cow. The town was near the edge of the woods and no one was secure. The fine character whom we greatly respected,—the debater of original pronunciation,—who had never wronged a human being of any race, was shot down from the woods quite near the plaza.
The regular army was useless in protection or punishment. Their regulations and methods did not fit. They made fine plans, but they failed to work. They would locate the enemy and detail detachments to move from various points to surround and capture the foe, but when they got there the bushes were bare. Finally battalions of mountaineers were organized among men who knew Indian ways and were their equals in cunning. They soon satisfied the hostiles that they would be better off on the reservations that were provided and the war was at an end.
It was to the credit of Humboldt County that in the final settlement of the contest the rights of the Indians were quite fairly considered and the reservations set aside for their residence were of valuable land well situated and fitted for the purpose. Hoopa Valley, on the Trinity, was purchased from its settlers and constituted a reservation protected by Fort Gaston and a garrison. It was my pleasure to revisit the scene of my boyhood experience and assist in the transfer largely conducted through the leadership of Austin Wiley, the editor and owner of the Humboldt Times. He was subsequently made Superintendent of Indian Affairs for the state of California, and as his clerk I helped in the administration. When I visited the Smith River reservation, to which the Bay Indians had been sent, I was hailed with joy as "Major's pappoose," whom they remembered of old. (My father was always called Major.)
Among the warm friendships formed at this time two stand out. Two boys of about my age were to achieve brilliant careers. Very early I became intimate with Alexander Brizard, a clerk in the store of F. Roskill, a Russian. He was my companion in the adventure of following the Indian marauders, and my associate in the church choir and the debating club. In 1863 he joined a fellow clerk in establishing a modest business concern, the firm being known as A. Brizard & Co.; the unnamed partner was James Alexander Campbell Van Rossum, a Hollander. They prospered amazingly. Van Rossum died early, Brizard became the leading merchant of northern California, and his sons still continue the chain of stores that grew from the small beginning. He was a strong, fine character.
The other boy, very near to me, was John J. DeHaven, who was first a printer, then a lawyer, then a State Senator, then a Congressman, and finally a U.S. District Judge. He was very able and distinguished himself in every place in life to which he advanced.
In 1861, when my father had become superintendent of a Nevada County gold mine, he left me to run the post-office, cut the timothy hay, and manage a logging-camp. It was wartime and I had a longing to enlist. One day I received a letter from him, and as I tore it open a startling sentence caught my eye, "Your commission will come by the next steamer." I caught my breath and south particulars. It informed me that Senator Sargent, his close friend, had secured for me the appointment of Register of the Land Office at Humboldt.
