In the spring an English syndicate mustered a regiment of fresh recruits, a man of spirit and agility was wanted to head an expedition into the mountains, and Peterson was offered the responsibility, as he had already gained fame as a daring adventurer. It was suggested to seek a new field, and a guide was secured to usher them along. First, however, was to hunt up an easy pass, and to accomplish this, a knot of fourteen men, headed by Peterson, was dispatched into the wilderness. They fought their way through murky vales and climbed moss-bearded brows, the day sunk behind the horizon and night wrapped them in darkness. Thus they continued; but, alas! the guide disappears. The others rambled through treacherous woods, thoughtless of any hazard. Hours were consumed climbing over angry logs and chasing through witching dingles, but the guide was neither heard nor sighted.
The thirteen brave were lost in the forest where gloomy giants stretched into a ghastly stillness, broken only by deceiving owls sailing over their heads on disconsolate wings. For eight days they wandered without a morsel to eat; grouse and pheasant were drumming through the air, and deer gambolled in listless droves, but only to whet their keen appetite. Their fire-locks were empty like their stomachs.
After darkness comes sunshine, and to their exhileration tumbled into an unknown mining camp. They were received as friends and immediately treated to a savory table. One of the unfortunates being so greedy for the palatable viands that he rose in the night to gormandize a heap of pan-cakes, left from supper, and shortly after fell juicy feed for the grave and worms.
A new plan was formulated, two Scotchmen were sent back to Victoria for provision, and the others remained at the camp. A couple of months elapsed, and twenty-four miners halted at the gold-seeking hamlet where the unlucky retinue joined them.
The company, now numbering thirty-four, resumed their pilgrimage in an easterly direction for nearly two hundred miles. The landscape swept up into jutting brows and gray-headed peaks, and the forest fringed into a scabby shrub of hungry appearance. The change in nature cast cold currents into their souls, but soon melted into delight. A beautiful stream grated their ears, and thither they flocked.
Nature was now sweetness and grandeur, and fortune seemed to smile from every leaf and twig. The blue heaven hung over them, here and there dipped with shades of purple; the sun sent down his wealth of beams to kiss their hardy cheeks; and the clear stream was busy making music as it tumbled down jeweled precipices to swell the deep. They drank hope and aspiration from the poetic environment, and each, as a loyal soldier, embarked his assigned duty with happiness in his heart. Gold was not doubted, before a month had slipped away, the precious metal glittered in rich veins.
A frontier mining camp, in the heart of savages, is a continuous scene of sunshine and storm, of joy and despair. Precaution must be the watchword of every individual, early and late; a careless step might betray them to the altar of cruel slaughter. The book-keeper had been appointed custodian of the fire arms, who, in a thoughtless way, or to satisfy his greed, bargained the ammunition to the Indians. Oh, terror! the happy camp was turned to a lake of blood. One sad night, in the early part of winter, the savages stealthily fell upon the camp, and like thieves entered the lodges, pointed their ill-gotten fire-pieces against innocent breasts, and quenched the light within.
Peterson and two Scotchmen escaped the murderous fire, naked they ran, not dissimilar to deer over the snow, the former dashed into the river where ten thousand pug devils, sitting in its bosom, bleeded his feet, and the latter chased down the bank of the stream as in an elopement from hell. After a month of severest suffering and hardship they reached the gate of safety—Victoria—blood-stained and scraggy, hardly able to combat the icy angel of death. The gold fever had ceased to ebb through their veins. The two Scotchmen returned to their dear fatherland, and Peterson built a boat and sailed for Stillaguamish where he sleeps in peace under the green turf, three miles from Stanwood.
Fred Landstone.—In Swedish, Fredrik Landsten, a man of nomadic spirit and fine intellect, was born in Sweden, and in the spring of manhood ascended the horizon of sea-faring exploits. In 1860 he landed at San Francisco, and a year later stept ashore at Port Discovery, Washington. A score of years on the rolling brine had changed his mind for terra firma. He resorted to logging camps and saw mills, working hard until 1876, when he retired on a piece of land three miles from Poulsbo, where he still resides, slowly wearing out the balance of his years.