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THE WAR OF '55.
An Interesting Chapter of Early Day Oregon History. The Battle of Hungry Hill as Seen from a Distance-- Some Hard Riding Done by an Indian Veteran. (Written for the Sunday Oregonian) It
was the early part of October 1855, and the newly settled valleys of
Southern Oregon had received their second trial of savage warfare. Two
years before, the tribes of Rogue River had come with torch and
scalping knife, but that war ended and peace had been purchased,
apparently. The Indians were supposed to be on their reservation, when
suddenly they proved to be on the war path. Savage atrocity never
showed more hideously than it has done in those Rogue River wars. The
story of the murder of families and burning of homes has been told time
and again, but incidents of that time possess interest that never have
been told before.
Several companies of volunteers had been mustered into the territorial service, and it became an important question how they should be supplied with ammunition to carry on the war. In the early stages of life in a new country there is always considerable powder and lead kept in country stores, but trouble had been brewing for some time; the Indians had been laying in supplies, for though they might be barred from buying in person there were always men vile enough to trade with savages, or low enough to become their intermediaries and aid them in such purchase. The settlers had been making purchases of ammunition, and the stores were out of stock. The commissary general of that time and place was General M. M. McCarver, who was making his way south to the scene of war. Word had met him near Eugene that there had been fighting and more was expected, and the stock of ammunition was decidedly low. He had talked matters over, and had reached the conclusion that the only way was to send off, beyond the theater of war, to purchase powder, caps and lead where the excitement had not reached. At that time Scottsburg was a place of some importance and had five or six well-stocked trading houses. It was decided to send a messenger to Scottsburg and lose no time. THE GEORGE STOCK OF HORSES.
Sunday Oregonian, Portland, March 4, 1888, page 1 At Eugene
McCarver found a young man named P. F. Castleman, known to be active
and energetic, who was stopping there a few days waiting for something
to turn up. The quartermaster found his man, and found him "willing,"
then he said: "Have you got a good horse?" At that time Lute Savage, at
Salem, owned the famous "George" stallion, a horse with white points
and some white in face, but with a solid sorrel color. These were
features all "George horses" were apt to carry, and Castleman had a nag
that was thoroughly "George." Sometime there should be written a
history of the George stock, for it was a famous family of horses. For
many years it was a regular thing for "Old George" himself to run
three-quarter-mile races, and after a while there came enough George
colts to take the track as his successors. The country was full of
"George horses" in the '50s, and they could run or walk or plow or haul
a carriage. It was the nearest to a "horse of all work" the farmers of
Oregon have ever known. Old George and all his stock were tough as old Jos. Bagstock.
They were ugly to a certain point, or they wouldn't have been so tough
and such flyers. Castleman had a George horse, in its prime, and he
smiled sarcastically when McCarver asked that question. Of course he
had a good horse, so he fed his beast while McCarver wrote his
instructions and was soon ready, for McCarver insisted that he must
"start instanter."
It was the middle of the afternoon when the sorrel was saddled and brought round, and Castleman took the road for Scottsburg. He got to Cartwright's for supper, fed "Billy," and night was creeping down upon the world when they climbed the spurs of the Calapooia Range. It deepened as they reached the summit, and with only the glitter of stars now and then glimpsing between the treetops, they went down and down towards the Umpqua. The timber was heavy along Pass Creek, the road was heavy, and the same fact held true of all the road they traveled until they finally reached Scottsburg. In those days roads were scarcely more than trails, and man and horse needed a double stock of senses to find their way through the mountain passes or on the dizzy trail that went down the Umpqua. Occasionally there were streams to ford and only starlight, and little of that, to do it by. The George horse had a rider made to suit, and they held on. When morning dawned the scene had changed to the banks of the Umpqua. Within twenty-one hours' time man and horse had covered the distance of ninety miles from Eugene to Scottsburg. Before taking rest or food Castleman had called the merchants together and laid the matter before them. Of course he had credentials to show them, but they were not quite as good as any ordinary citizen's verbal promise to pay. FOR COUNTRY, NOT FOR COIN!
The merchants
took the matter under consideration and promised to give their answer
the next morning. Castleman had ridden day and night, and made no
change of horses. His George horse had brought him the ninety miles in
less than twenty hours' actual time, and while stopping to feed he had
not stopped to rest. The horse was put in a stable, and his rider found
a bed in the hotel. The merchants realized the gravity of the situation
and even felt insecurity as to the fate of Scottsburg, should the war
go on and the Indians be successful. In such case there was nothing to
hinder a raid down the Umpqua to that place.
McCarver represented the territorial government, which was supposed to represent the United States of America, but in fact it did not represent anything so stable and permanent, and however furnished supplies had no assurance of payment. These facts were canvassed and fully understood, and then the half-dozen merchants of Scottsburg took a patriotic view of the question and determined, as good citizens and loyal men, to each one furnish his proportion of a mule load of ammunition for the purpose of protecting the threatened settlements. There was no speculation in their eye, and they preferred to keep their wares on their shelves. They did their part as loyal men without expectation of repayment. Castleman was to meet Gen. McCarver at Roseburg, so the same forenoon he took what he could carry of the ammunition and returned by the river trail, leaving the pack animal to follow more leisurely. A man was two days making the journey with the pack animal, but Castleman started about 10 o'clock and made the journey to Roseburg the same day. The George horse was equal to the occasion. There was need of haste, because much depended on having a supply of ammunition. If McCarver could know what to depend on he could make his arrangements accordingly, so Castleman and his sorrel rode back in haste to give the needed information. AMMUNITION IN GOOD TIME.
Arrived at
Roseburg, he found the rough clatter of war in the ascendant, news
coming in continually for more assistance and for supplies. There was a
rumor, rather well defined, that a battle was in progress south of
Umpqua, and that the men were becoming short of ammunition. This
dilemma was disheartening, because there was only a hope to secure
supplies from the mouth of the Umpqua, and that was uncertain when the
territory had no cash in hand and practically no credit to bank upon.
But the return of Castleman gave assurance that a temporary supply was
forthcoming and would answer the present emergency, or last until a
stock of ammunition could be provided from more reliable sources. The
next question was: to get the horse load on the way from Scottsburg
delivered to the troops in the field. Castleman had a good rest, and
Billy, the sorrel, was keen for another ride by the time he was called
on for it. The second day the pack horse from Scottsburg put in an
appearance, and it was determined to forward his load to the seat of
war without delay. P. F. Castleman, having made a successful journey to
secure ammunition, was selected as a proper man to finish the work; the
man and horse were becoming important factors in the pending war.
Between Umpqua and Rogue River valleys there rises a cross-range known as Umpqua Mountain that has formed one of the most formidable obstacles to travel from the beginning. From Roseburg the roads were passable until they reached this mountain. There they entered a canyon, climbing its ravines, occasionally surmounting small precipices and fording somewhere near a hundred times a foaming creek that rushes down its chasms. It is a beautiful place to study nature in by day, at one's leisure, but might affright an ordinary soul by night, with only clouds to deepen the heavy blackness of its grand old forests. Castleman was provided with an assistant; they drove off through the winding hills of beautiful Umpqua in the early morning and reached Canyonville at dusk. Here they rested, got a fresh pack horse for the dead load of powder, borrowed or bought a lantern, and struck into the fearful canyon as the edge of night was being drawn over the listless world. It was rather a debatable land, this Umpqua Mountain and its canyon, because it formed the divide between the scenes of war and peace. There was no reason why Indians should not lie in ambush where a thousand hiding places offered them security, and slay and plunder at their own sweet will. A FORTUNATE SUPERSTITION.
True, there was no ostensible reason why Indians
could not occupy the canyon and ambush unhappy wayfarers, but there
happened to be known to the whites who were intimate with their life
and traditions, a scrap of history that was probably preserved from the
records of the Hudson's Bay Company. It is well known that Indians fear
any spot that has been a scene of carnage and the dead. They never pass
where a battle has been fought and their dead have lain. Very
fortunately for the whites, such a tradition attaches to the Umpqua
Canyon. The story is worth preserving, as a bit of legendary lore, that
once upon a time the Hudson's Bay Company took exceptions to the
continual robbery and treachery perpetrated by these savages and gave
them a thorough whipping in a battle fought in this terrible pass. The
Indians lost many killed as well as wounded. They recognized from that
day the Hudson's Bay Company as their masters and were glad to make
terms with them, but this discomfiture made them more savage than ever
towards other whites. As a result of their superstitious ideas they
found some other trail through the Umpqua Mountains, where they need
not run the risk of meeting the ghosts of their friends who were slain
in battle. It may not be safe to predicate entirely on such
superstitions, and place implicit faith in savage bigotry, but knowing
this ancient legend and understanding Indian habits, Castleman
determined to make the trip by night.
A NIGHT JOURNEY.
While it was
currently said that no Indian ever went through the canyon, yet our
travelers took wise precautions. They had a lantern with them, to light
the way in the worst places and often had need of it. Their road lay
for three miles up the bed of the creek and then went back and forth in
continual crossings of the stream. At several places, rocky ledges
crossed the ravine, over which the water leaped in cascades, and up
which the rider had to clamber as he could. They groped their way
through the Stygian blackness, with occasional misgivings that a savage
might "be drawing a bead" on them as they did so. They had had word
that a several days' fight was going on and that ammunition was
becoming scarce. It was possible that they might run out of powder and
lead. Knowing this, these men crept on, making slow headway but sure.
While it was necessary to supply the volunteers, it was also very
important not to let the savages become owners of that precious load.
They might be watching for it; they might have their white allies on
the lookout, and there were suspicions that wicked white men were their
accomplices. If so, what more feasible than the savages being kept
informed of all their actions and a party of them in ambuscade waiting
their coming? It was hardly probable that any fear of the shades of
their ancestors who were killed of yore would prevent the taking of two
scalps and 200 pounds of powder.
At daybreak the "ammunition train" arrived at Hardy Elliff's place on Cow Creek, south of the canyon. Here they met some of the heroes who had been in the recent battle, for there had been a hard-fought field at the classically named elevation known as Hungry Hill, where a lot of men had been wounded and a few killed, but they had the hardly earned satisfaction of knowing the Indians had the worst of it. Hardy Elliff had a stockade in the beautiful little valley of Cow Creek. When Castleman reached there he met a detachment of the volunteers who were in search of him--at least they were in search of ammunition. He was glad to turn over his whole train of one cayuse-load to them and go to bed with a clear conscience. Billy, the sorrel nag, had been on the road enough to earn a rest, so for a brief time horse and rider retired from active pursuits of either war or peace and enlisted under "balmy sleep." The battle of Hungry Hill had been fought the day before, while the small ammunition train was on the way from Roseburg to Canyonville. The volunteers had covered themselves with laurels (that grow abundantly in the Grave Creek Hills) and retired to rest on them at the also classically named "Six-Bit House," situated on the waters of Wolf Creek, about ten miles from Elliff's stockade. Just then the log house styled thus had become a hospital, where several surgeons were in charge of twenty to twenty-five men who had been wounded in the battle of Hungry Hill. THE SIX-BIT HOUSE.
The above is
not an Indian name, but the reader will be surprised to see how near it
comes to being so when he learns its true history. Once upon a time the
whites had sat in judgment on an Indian and had pronounced sentence of
death on him for some act of robbery that was only the last of many
such. They found him incorrigible, so they pronounced sentence of death
on him there, at Six-Bit House. It was about to be executed, when a
white man, who stood by and lived near, accosted the Indian with a dun.
He said: "You owe me six bits and I want my money." At that day six
bits was not much money, and the fellow's neighbors were surprised at
his tenacity of purpose in claiming it at such--for the Indian at
least--a solemn moment. But the Indian was equal to the occasion and
will go down in history for his answer. Turning to his creditor, with
every feature wreathed with scorn, the savage improved the opportunity
his coming fate afforded to free his mind. He said: "You dog, you are
so contemptible as to be able to come to a man who is about to die with
your demand for six bits. Wait, you hound, until I am dead, and if you
can find six bits about me you are welcome to it." Then they swung him
off and named it the "Six-Bit House." The Indian's memory is embalmed
in the speech he made, and his creditor's seems to be remembered in the
same connection. It is well enough to preserve these scraps of history
as we go along for some coming Homer to use when he wants to write an
Oregon Iliad.
When he was rested, Castleman went on to the aforementioned Six-Bit House to see how the war was progressing. It was a rather rainy morning as he rode up to the camp--for there was a military encampment there of some importance, consisting of four or five companies and 300 or 400 of Oregon volunteers. When he arrived it was raining a little, but Capt. Jonathan Keeney of Lane County had his men out for exercise, and the visitor came up just as they performed a rather remarkable feat of arms. When the war broke out Mr. Hiram Smith of Portland was going through Rogue River Valley with three or four ox teams heavily loaded with provisions. The exception being a barrel that contained a suitable provision against a rainy day, as Capt. Keeney no doubt thought, but not classed ordinarily as provisions for army use. He had been obliged to abandon his wagons to save his life, or had left part of the load to more easily haul the rest. The military had sent an escort for the goods the Indians had not destroyed, and much of the merchandise, being actually provisions intended for the mines, came in good time and place to satisfy the wants of the troops then in the field. They had been rather surprised to discover in the contents of the cask alluded to a very agreeable quantity of peach brandy. When Castleman drew up the "awkward squad" of Keeney's command were resting on their arms, while a detail passed along the line with a bucketful of this peach brandy, dealing a tin cupful to each man. They were taking to military drill in the kindest manner possible. Rough Campaigning in the Wilds of Southern Oregon.
The Battle on South Umpqua--An Important Historical Fact Now Told for the First Time--Causes Leading to the Umpqua Raid. PART II. After the
battle of Hungry Hill the Indians scattered for awhile, making the
trails and highways of all the Rogue River region dangerous and doing
harm wherever they could waylay an unfortunate traveler, slay a miner
in his camp or ambush a pack train or a wagon train on the road. The
battle had been a drawn game and there was no sign of giving in on
their part. The carrying of dispatches was a dangerous trade, as
Castleman found when he went on a mission from the Six-Bit House to
Jacksonville for the quartermaster general, John F. Miller. It was too
dangerous to travel the usual route through Rogue River Valley, so he
struck over the mountains for Vannoy's Ferry, at the mouth of
Applegate, and from there up Applegate Valley until opposite
Jacksonville, then over the mountain wall by a pack trail to that
place. On his return he came near to being ambushed when nearly home,
or the Six-Bit House. When passing an ash swale a bullet went whizzing
close to him, and a mark on the pommel of his saddle dates from that
time. The sorrel horse took him out of fire in a short time and he
arrived safe.
INDIANS INVADE UMPQUA.
Sunday Oregonian, Portland, March 11, 1888, page 2 For some weeks
the war was quiet. The Indians had drawn the troops off down Rogue
River to the Meadows, and held them there, with an impassable river
between the forces, stationary for two months. In the meantime, P. F.
Castleman was made assistant quartermaster, and stationed at Roseburg.
Time passed on and quietness reigned until December 1st, when word came
to Roseburg that Indians were burning houses on the South Umpqua. The
Indians were supposed to be at the Meadows, a hundred miles away, and
none had been seen or heard of in the Cow Creek country or the Grave
Creek Hills for a long time. Some travelers, who came from the south,
heard firing a little way off the road, where Mr. Rice (father of Judge
Rice, well known at Portland) had his land claim. The Rice family were
fortified and had a stockade five miles from Roseburg, where they felt
safe against any ordinary foe. It was not supposed that there were any
Indians in northern Rogue River Valley, much less in the Umpqua; the
men of the family were out at their work on the farm when the Indians
stole upon them and fired from the adjoining woods. They broke an arm
for Mr. Rice's brother, but he was able to escape. The men all ran for
the stockade, with the Indians pell-mell after them, and so near that
they had barely time to get within and bar the doors to keep them out.
Then there was a state of siege; the Indians fired on the stockade, and
travelers who heard their firing reported the same at Roseburg. They
heard the Indian war-whoop mixing with rifle shots, and needed no
explanation of what was the matter. They reported a massacre, but the
Rice family were prepared for just such an attack, and having all got
in the stockade went coolly about their work of preparing for defense.
The Indians were at the Meadows, a hundred miles, at least, from Roseburg, and had got almost the entire force of volunteers then in the field opposite them. They probably wanted to break up the siege and draw off the soldiers so they could return to their own country. For this purpose they detailed a force of nearly forty picked warriors to make a diversion. These two score of braves had made their way through the intervening wilderness, and were at their devilish work in South Umpqua, trying to commit atrocities enough to draw away the troops and set the whole Indian force at liberty. The excitement at Roseburg was beyond expression. The most exaggerated reports were in circulation; rumor fed on what it heard and grew apace. The security they had enjoyed had made men careless. Castleman handed his revolver to Dr. Danforth as he rode off to the war, and there were few left in the town. There had been received from below [i.e., from the north] a supply of old-fashioned government yagers, and these Gen. McCarver caused to be distributed among citizens. What to do and how to do it was more of a question than anyone could answer. McCarver had his horse saddled and tied at his door, and when he was asked the reason, said he wished to be ready to load women and children on it when the savages attacked the town and carry them out of danger. This incident is a fair sample of the state of mind people were in. The sun got low and no news came from Rice's stockade and no force was organized to go there and see what assistance could be rendered. It was late in the afternoon when Pat Day [James "Pat" Day], then sheriff of Umpqua County, and P. F. Castleman agreed to go on a scout by themselves and learn what was going on as well as see what could be done. NIGHT SCOUTING IN UMPQUA.
The two men mounted their horses and rode out of town. They first went to John Kelly's
place (the same John Kelly now of Lane County and lately a United
States official of rank in Portland). They found him guarding his
horses in the corral. His place was only a mile or mile and a half from
Roseburg. He said he would turn the horses loose whenever the Indians
came near, and while they were catching the animals he would manage to
escape. They told him their mission and he crossed them over the South
Umpqua in a canoe. Their horses were well broken, so they swam them
alongside while the canoe was paddled across and made the trip in
safety. It was getting dark and the rivers were all up and filled their
banks full. Pat Day knew the country well and acted as pilot to Rice's
farm. They came to Lookingglass Creek after dark; there was a moon to
light the stream, which was a long way out of its banks. The shores
were lined with alders and the wagon road had cut out its track
through these, so there was a silvery streak of open water to indicate
the roadway. Their horses were swept down out of their depth by the
swift current and swam among the tangled bushes that lined the shores.
It was not an easy route by day and was decidedly perilous by night or
even by moonlight. By hook or by crook they managed to get across and a
short distance up the creek came to Gage's stockade, for every man who
remained on his place had taken precautions to "fort up." They yelled
to let them know who it was. They found several families there and
refreshed themselves with a cup of coffee before starting on. Gage told
them that he had heard firing towards Rice's all the afternoon, but it
had stopped at sundown. What it meant they could not tell, but
evidently the Indians had gone away. If they had succeeded in capturing
the place, they would have burned the house and as there was no blaze
they thought the Indians had gone off. Evidently the savages had
received a check and were gone to their camp, wherever that might be.
SOME HEROIC WOMEN.
The pioneer
history of Oregon will show that many of the women of that time were
brave, and sometimes braver than the men. At Gage's there were several
men, and they were willing to join the scout on the night march. One of
the women said, "Let all go but one. He can fire from one side and I
will defend this porthole. The other women can help load, and we have
guns enough." She was not alone in her glory. The other women stood
valiantly for self-defense, and some of them said all the men could go.
The pity of it is that the veracious chronicler cannot give the names
of these brave mothers of pioneer Oregon. It is worthwhile being
particular in this recital, as the parties concerned were all early
settlers in Umpqua, and many of them are living there in honored age
today. The names that will appear will be of men who are there today,
or their children are there in their place. They took the women at
their word, and enlisted for their further march Ed Gage and Wm.
Dillard. Kent was a neighbor of Rice's, so they rode on through the
dusky night to his place. There they found John Richards, John Fisher,
Jesse Roberts, M. McCully, J. B. Nichols, ------ McCloud, Jeptha Green,
Billy Booth, ------ Bellew and James Burnett. These men were on an
independent scout and gladly joined the sheriff's party.
The little company made an informal organization before they started forth on their night march. Castleman had the rank of captain in the volunteer service, so they all deferred to him. Pat Day was sheriff of the county, and a clever fellow generally, so he ranked as next in command. They followed the trail of the Indians up Ten Mile Creek. It was marked by burning houses, barns, stacks and straw. Wherever a match could light a blaze they had made a fire. The people had fled in terror before their approach. Their track was so fresh that some of the houses and buildings were not half burned. They crossed a divide to the waters of Olallie Creek [now called Olalla Creek], a branch of Lookingglass. Here they came up with the savages and actually saw them setting the incendiary torch to the house and premises of a settler. They lay down and hid while the blaze burned and watched to find the camp of the hostiles. AT McCULLY'S STOCKADE.
After sending
two scouts, who understood the lay of the land, to track the Indians to
their camp, the company stopped to rest awhile. In due time the two
scouts joined them and made their report. They actually tracked the
Indians to a camp they had made in a bend of the Olallie. They waited
until all was quiet and then crept into the camp and found them all
asleep. They thoroughly learned the location and surroundings and came
away chock full of information.
It was considered necessary to have more help, for the savages were more than two to one, and were evidently picked men who were sent on a hazardous expedition. McCully had a stockade on Lookingglass, and they went there, knowing that Sergeant Tom Holland, of Capt. Bailey's company of volunteers, with a force of twenty or twenty-five men were forted up there. This squad had been left to guard the entrance of the Umpqua via Camas Prairie, the very entrance that probably the Indians had entered by. When they arrived, and had yelled awhile to let the volunteers know who they were, the bars were let down and they entered and were made welcome. When they had time to inquire what the men were doing there, and why they did not render protection to the settlers whose barns they had seen burning all day around them, the answer was that they had not force enough to fight the Indians, and thought it was no use trying. They told the newcomers they could go if they wished, and were answered that they most assuredly should do so. While there was timidity in the leadership, many of the men stepped forward and expressed their willingness to take a hand, and the public mind was soon made up to make a move, and not to stand on the order of their going, but go quickly. Many of the volunteers were hugely disgusted at the day's experience. The Indians knew where they were forted up and had visited them repeatedly during the day, hurling all sorts of challenges at them and daring them to fight. They offered to fight the soldiers in the woods or in the open country. They spoke Chinook fluently and some of them were familiarly known as "pet Indians," because they had been living among the settlers and sometimes worked on the farm and were treated as one of the family. It seemed impossible that these men should forget civilized ways so soon, and be willing to burn, destroy, outrage and mutilate the very families they had received the kindest treatment from. These spoke very fair English and hurled their epithets and challenges at the volunteers in the worst language they had learned from their lately white associates. Holland stood his ground with stoical disregard of insults, whether they were phrased in classic Chinook or couched in the coarsest of billingsgate. He coolly said the Indians were too many for them. It was dangerous out there, and safety lay behind the stockade. To be sure, there were three savages for two white men, but men who understood Indian war could have routed the Indians very easily and soon. There were no conveniences for sleep inside the stockade, so the men kept warm and stayed awake, consulting and planning the campaign. About 4 o'clock they started out to execute their plans. There were about forty men in the party, and they were divided into three separate commands. Castleman, being the only commissioned officer, was tacitly acknowledged as the captain. He had fifteen men. Pat Day had ten men, making twenty-five settlers who were in arms for that occasion only. Holland was out with fifteen volunteers, having left a small force in the stockade. It was dark as Erebus, and not particularly warm, when the men started through the trackless woods. A NIGHT ATTACK.
The two scouts
had tracked the Indians to a bend in Olallie Creek, which naturally
possessed all the advantages of defense and fortification. This camp
was across a divide, and not more than two miles from the stockade.
Following a local guide who knew the country, they crept cautiously
along through the woods, until they were only half a mile distant from
the Indian stronghold, and then they stopped to arrange a plan of
action. The Indians had no fear of attack. They had bulldozed the
volunteers during the day to their heart's content, and felt satisfied
that no motive they could imagine would be able to draw them from the
friendly shelter of their strong stockade.
They did not deem it possible that other troops, or force, could be raised to attack them, and had gone to sleep, feeling so secure that the scouts had penetrated their stronghold and taken an inventory of the surrounding circumstances, retiring without a suspicion of their presence remaining behind. It was agreed that Castleman, with his fifteen citizen soldiers, or settlers, should make a detour to the left and approach the Indian camp along the creek, from a flanking position on that side. Pat Day, with ten settlers, was to attack them in front, and strike at the moment Castleman got in range. Holland was to make a detour on the right, cross the Olallie below their stronghold and be in readiness to pick them off as they tried to swim the swift-flowing creek. A log lay for 100 feet in front of their camping place. Castleman was to flank this log and Pat Day was to charge up to it. They were to wait long enough to let Holland get into position across the creek and then make a simultaneous charge. That success would follow such a well-laid scheme was certain, if each party would act well its part. Another issue [of the Oregonian] will tell the story of the rush and war-whoop, the yells and charging of the whites and the discomfiture of the enemy. It was a gallant fight, and the wonder is that as gallant a fight and so important a battle was never told before. The reason may be that the laurels were won by settlers and not by enlisted soldiers. We shall see! A Graphic Night Scene in an Indian Camp.
A little way above Roseburg,
Lookingglass Creek comes in from the southwest. John Kelly had ferried
the two scouts over the South Umpqua, just below Lookingglass; there
they forded and swam it and went up the creek a mile or so to Gage's
stockade; then southerly to Kent's place; thence they followed the
blazing track of the Indians over to the stockade, where Sergeant
Holland and his men were forted up on the Lookingglass. The Olallie and
Ten Mile creeks are affluents of Lookingglass, and when they finally
had decided to attack the Indians they had to cross a low divide, to
where last Sunday's account left them, only half a mile from the camp
of the hostiles.Third and Final Chapter of the Story of the War-- A Brave and Hot Fight and a Decided Victory. Gathered suddenly together here were forty men, organized as a fighting force and about to attack by night a force of victorious savages in their own fort. Only at dusk, a few hours before, two men mounted their horses and left Roseburg to see what the Indians were about. They found others on their way, and during the night had come into command of a force of forty men, who had never met together before, had never smelled powder in battle, and were literally strangers to each other. The Indians had been destroying homes, burning property, killing all they came across, and were flushed with victory. Holland's men enlisted from the Willamette, in Lane County, and the others had come together by chance. It was hazardous for so ill-disciplined a force to try to carry on war under such circumstances. The arrangement decided on what [it] was that each party should attack, as stated in the last issue. Castleman, with fifteen men, went up the creek and was to crawl up to within rifle shot of the Indian camp and lie there until daybreak. Holland was to go down the creek, cross over and come up back of their camp, to take the Indians as they retreated and were swimming the stream. Pat Day was to attack in front. All were to be in position, to lie still until daybreak, and be ready for simultaneous assault on the enemy's works. It was then after 4 o'clock in the wintry morning, and daylight did not come until nearly 7. Each party had two hours almost to get into position. It looked as if the battle was well planned. "THE DEVIL TO PAY."
Sunday Oregonian, Portland, March 18, 1888, page 2 Castleman led
the way with his squad of citizens, and went cautiously clambering over
logs and through brush in the necessary direction. The moon was down by
this time; even the stars were clouded, but they knew their way by
woodsman's craft. It would seem as if there was no chance for mistake
or reason for failure, but while Castleman and his fifteen were making
their way successfully, the others were lagging by the way. Each party
started on its march at the same time. Holland's men got into a
depression where he concluded to wait. "If they come here we will fight
them until ---- freezes over," is the classical remark handed down. Pat
Day got started with his men, and when part way concluded to wait and
see what would happen. Neither knew where the others were. It seems as
if Castleman's presence had been their stimulus. Only for his acts and
words to inspire them, they would not have met together that night, and
certainly would never have taken the war path. When he was gone the
inspiration he gave was wanting.
They hesitated and waited, and neither of the leaders gave an order for the march. Of course the men all waited for this word. There were twenty-five men, leaning on their rifles or lying on the ground, and there they stood or lay until time was wasted that was invaluable. Perhaps they thought they would wait where they were an hour or so and there would yet be time enough to reach their appointed rendezvous. Whatever was in their minds, there was no motion in their feet. After half or three-quarters of an hour of this patient inaction, a brilliant idea took possession of Sheriff Day. He raised his rifle and fired it off. The echoes of its reverberations had not died away before a response came from the Indian camp in the near distance. The war-whoop was yelled from forty demonic throats; guns were fired; bedlam was let loose; yells and counter yells; cursings and shouts; gunshots and death howls rang through that neck of woods in a manner that Olallie Creek, it is hoped, will never hear again. This pandemonium sounded: As if the fiends from heaven that fell,
Scott's brilliant imagery was never better justified
by human perversity than when these forty savage throats were let loose
by the discharge of Pat Day's unhappy rifle.Had pealed the banner cry of hell. CREEPING ON THE FOE.
The Spartan
band reached the shores of Olallie Creek and then turned towards the
Indian camp. This was located in a sharp bend, and across the
semicircle of land there lay a large fir tree fully 100 feet long. The
situation was as if the creek took the form of a bent bow, and the log
represented the string held taut from end to end. Castleman was so
intent on his progress and so taken up with watching the foe that he
stood almost at the end of the log, and not over forty yards from the
Indian campfire before he recognized the danger of his position. He
crouched close to the ground and literally crept along from tree to
tree and log to log, when suddenly the scene burst upon him. He raised
to look around and there the Indians were, not a stone's throw away
from him. The scene would have been entrancing had it been but a stage
effect and not a place of danger. The dawn was just brightening the
far-off east. The Indians had awakened early--long before day--and were
preparing their breakfast with a view to renewing the burning and
slaughter of the day before. By sunrise they would have been at their
deviltry again. There were three blazing fires inside the log. The bend
they occupied had been once a thicket. The forest had been cleared from
the front of the log by settlers, but there were a few trees near the
creek. Among them were tied a number of horses they had taken from the
settlers. In front of them were heaps of all sorts of plunder, for
there had been method in their madness. Before they applied the torch
they had plundered the premises and loaded on the captured horses the
stolen goods. A glance took in all this, and more. It is said that
Indians make small fires. This was an exception to that rule, for there
were three fires blazing high. It had been a cold and wintry night;
after the moon went down the stars were out; there came dark clouds and
rain. The snowfall had plastered the face of nature with patches. They
were gathered close around the fire, keeping warm. Coffee pots were
steaming, and the fragrance of the breeze was varied by the smell of
bacon frying. They had plundered the settlement and were feasting on
the few delicacies the region afforded. To the forty braves there was a
single squaw. The woman was the life of the camp; she danced and dang
and talked and raved in a very passion of glee, and all the men
responded to her sayings and doings with peals of generous laughter. To
see their blazing fires, the dancing, gleeful Jezebel, the painted
warriors and hear the shrieks of laughter that went the rounds would
make a first-class act or scene on the boards of a theater. Alas for
Castleman! He took the scene in, and could not say how long before they
would take him in.
THE FATAL SIGNAL GUN.
It was while he
stood, not over forty paces from this glowing scene, that the
demoralized Pat Day discharged the gun. Then the game was all up. The
Indians knew, of course, that white men were on their track. The raised
the war-whoop, and every man of them rushed for his gun. It required
but a moment's time to convert that merry scene of feasting, glee and
revelry into a pandemonium of war. Fortunately for our friends, the
enemy had returned full of confidence and, emboldened with victory, and
had acted very carelessly. It was moonlight when they "turned in," and
they had thrown down their guns where rain and snow had fallen later,
and a number of them were useless through the succeeding battle.
Seizing their rifles the Indians instantly turned them to the front.
Then they saw the small force at Castleman's back rushing for the log.
When the fatal gun gave them away, he looked behind for his men, not
doubting that all were close after, but there were only six in sight:
I. D. Bennett, Ed Gage, Jeptha Green, Isaac Bailey, Wm. Dillard and Ben
Kent. The latter was a boy of 15, who had joined them at his father's
place. He was buckling on the family revolver when his father
remonstrated that he might be attacked and need arms, so the lad took
his squirrel gun and went off to the war like a hero of the olden time.
The other eight turned up soon after, but just then were behind shelter and could not be seen. There was no refuge nearer Castleman than the creek bank, and that would have proved a deathtrap. Brave men think quickly in times of emergency. A commander has to think for all. Hardly had the sound of that unfortunate signal gun been lost when the leader shouted in stentorian tones: "Take the log, boys; take the log!" Then, crouching low, he led the rush toward it. The rest came later, and, before the Indians could find their guns and take possession, the little band of whites had seized and held the fort. What had been their strongest defense now became the Indians' greatest danger. The capture of the log was not made without some loss. A rifle ball struck their captain as he went crouching along, entered the side, ranged the ribs, and went out at the right thigh. Another rifle ball went so near Burnett, who was following close behind, that the concussion stunned him; with a leap in the air he fell over on his head. Castleman was wounded then, but saw it and thought his friend was dead. He shouted to him and he instantly was up again and did valiant service through the fight. When he gave the order "Take the log," the seven rushed forward and in an instant were in possession. Thinking his end was come, the captain made the best of himself. His lower limbs were paralyzed, but his arms were all right. Above all, his voice was in full volume. He shouted to his men to make all the noise they could and make believe there were a thousand of them. So they loaded and fired, and yelled and shouted, and their leader, who had got midway of the log, lay there, loading and firing over the log, and doing his full share of the vocal performance. There was something decidedly amusing in the situation just then, for all its murderous horrors, for Castleman candidly avers that he was twice as brave because he thought his time was short. That he was mortally hurt he did not doubt. The blood was flowing fast, and his lower half was devoid of feeling. As he saw no hope for himself his motive became to render all possible aid to his companions. So he cheered them on, and his shouts roused the manly blood of even Holland's men, so far away. Before many minutes were gone the whole force was close at hand, and the battle assumed much larger and more satisfactory proportions. Credit must be given to two men in particular who led this charge. One of these was John Sumner of Linn County, a member of Bailey's company of volunteers. The other was J. B. Nichols, one of the citizens of Umpqua who took part in the campaign. When the firing reached their respective squads they started, broke ranks and made for the scene of conflict. The rest only needed a leader, and soon all were at their work. Two men who knew the country well had been elected as guides for Holland's party. Not being able to induce him to take position across the creek, they led the way themselves, hoping the rest would follow. They also did their part well, but their names cannot be given. BATTLE INCIDENTS.
The few men who
held the long log had the advantage that their guns were in good order.
At their leader's call they made night hideous with their share of
shouting, so that soon their whereabouts became known to all the rest.
These shouts and cheers proved that they held their own and
reinforcements poured in from all sides. The eight who lagged behind
when the charge was made became a flanking party and poured in shots
from up the creek, sheltered by forest trees. It was black as night
where the assailants were, while the savages stood in the glare of the
great campfires they had made and could not put out. Those who held the
log loaded and fired from behind it, only raising a head above it long
enough to take swift aim. Only one man had a revolver, and one gun was
disabled in the beginning. The wounded man loaded his gun and could sit
up to get a sight over the log while he could not stand. He was also
shielded by three saplings that grew beside the log on the other side,
but an Indian was behind the same saplings, trying to make his gun go
off. Fortunately, it had become thoroughly wet, and the charge would
not leave the gun. He put a fresh cap occasionally, then would suddenly
lean over the log without taking aim and snap at Castleman, who lay
helpless so near him that the savage could have clubbed him if he had
dared to expose himself that much. This was not a pleasant ordeal,
exactly, but the fresh caps exploded and the charge did not, so there
was no harm done. A man's nerves don't endure such experience very
calmly. The fellow could see where the wounded man's gun was loaded and
had every advantage. At last, Castleman called to Burnett: "I say, Jim,
can't you give his scoundrel his dose?" Burnett watched his chance and
the next time the Indian got ready to fire he shot him. The ball hit
him in the bowels and the wretch went off howling like a Minnesota
blizzard. Then the boys laughed and jeered back at the Indians, for all
this time shooting was interspersed with interchange of verbal
compliments. There was lots of fun mixed in with the scrimmage all the
while. One of the funniest features was that their captain, supposing
that his time had certainly come, took desperate chances all the while
to make the most of what life was left in him.
EXCHANGE OF COMPLIMENTS.
Shouting to his
men he said: "Boys, don't use your revolvers; keep them until the
rascals charge on us, and then give them Hail Columbia!" Of course, the
Indians knew nothing of the want of revolvers, and took this bluff in
good earnest. Continuing this advice he said: "Don't all fire at once,
but half hold your fire while the others load." One of the savages was
a "pet Indian," known as "Cow Creek Tom." This fellow was able to
understand English and could talk it fairly well. While Castleman was
shouting to the men what to do, this "Charley" yelled back: "Yes, G-d
d--n you, and while you are doing that we will kill you and cut you up
in a thousand pieces and lay you out on that log." Here was a nice
thing for a man to keep in mind who thought his time was come in any
event, and knew what to expect if the whites lost the battle and left
the natives in possession of the field. He knew it was no idle boast
they uttered, for many a time during that horrible year they had
perpetrated barbarities no civilized tongue could recite or decent pen
could write. Just before that time they had waylaid a man well known in
the settlements. What torture he endured was never known, but his flesh
was found hung up in strips on the surrounding bushes. This battle
fiend could use glibly the worst epithets the meanest of white ruffians
had invented, and while this conflict raged he did use them with
horrible emphasis. The scene was worse than "hell let loose" while it
lasted, and it did not last long either, but it seemed much longer than
it really was. The Indians could not understand the situation, and were
at a disadvantage. The firing of guns and shouts from a distance
worried them. The men with Pat Day and Holland, as soon as they
realized the fact that their comrades were under fire and in danger,
yelled out a war-whoop of their own to let them know they were coming,
and fired a few guns. This shouting grew nearer, and the Indians did
not understand its meaning.
A BRAVE YOUNGSTER.
When young Ben
Kent left home it was rather against his father's wishes. He was not
well armed and there was only a revolver left to protect the home and
family. The lad had a squirrel gun, a light rifle of his own, and,
shouldering this, he went off for a bigger campaign than he had
bargained for. When they charged on the log Ben was there among the
first. He fired once and then managed to choke his gun. Finding it
difficult to get a good purchase on his ramrod whilst lying down, he
got on his feet and was trying to force down the ball while standing,
unmindful of bullets, when the captain sharply called to him to lie
low. The boy dodged behind the log just in time, for as he got out of
range the bullets went whizzing by his standing ground, and several
scalped the log in front of him. The fellow chafed terribly at having
to be still while others could give battle, but the load was caught
just in the muzzle of rifle and no force he could use was able to shove
it down. He asked permission to fire it off, but that would surely have
burst the gun, so he was told to lie still, and did so. If living, he
is now a man in life's prime, and will perhaps be amused to see his
boyish escapade recited after so many years. So will others, who, like
Burnett, are becoming grey in years, but it is a verifiable incident of
Indian war times that is being recited and should be put in shape as a
chapter of genuine pioneer history. Time flies quickly in great
emergencies. When bullets are flying, minutes and even seconds decide
the destiny of lives. The men of the Umpqua were sterling stuff, and
the women were as true as steel. There is no other record of so
important a battle having been decided under such circumstances, with
men who were neither disciplined nor enlisted.
THE TOTAL ROUT.
The combined
attack, when it finally was accomplished, proved too much for the
Siwash contingent. It was fire all around, and an occasional shot may
have come from the two guides who were in their position across the
creek. The two score of braves yelled a parting war-whoop and fell back
in great disorder. They were routed and whipped and discomfited, so
that they had no chance of exit but to cross Olallie Creek and leave
their dead behind. When the war was over the whites learned some
further particulars they did not know before. They knew that their
victory was complete and they had only one man wounded, while the
Indians suffered severely. Had the battle been fought as originally
planned, it should have exterminated the last one of that wicked band
of Siwashes. Had Pat Day come up in front and Holland been posted with
twenty men across the creek, there could hardly an Indian have escaped
to tell the story. The two men who reached the other side of the creek
and took the Indian camp in the rear found that "discretion was the
better part of valor" before the fight was over. The Indians crossed
the creek in retreat, as it was supposed they would, and these two men
stood behind great fir trees, as quiet as needs be to let them pass.
They could have killed a man apiece easily enough, but their own fate
would have been certain death. With their rifles discharged they would
have been powerless and the savages could and would have killed them,
beyond all question. They simply proved the wisdom of the original plan
of battle.
YET THE SHOT WAS FORTUNATE.
Before the
final act was finished all the men found their way to the front and
covered themselves with glory to some extent. After all, it was rather
fortunate than otherwise that Pat Day fired his gun. It was--to use a
gambling phrase--"eagle bird by chance." [apparently a current term for a lucky shot]. Considered
as an independent act, it was worse than folly, against all discipline,
and blindly idiotic. No reason could be given to excuse it. Happening
as it did--coming when no hope of victory could be expected--it
precipitated a conflict that finally drew all the force to the scene of
action and wrought out a defeat for the hostiles. Had Castleman been
seen at first and held at bay, it is very doubtful if he and his men
could have escaped and victory have been an impossibility. It might
have ended far otherwise. The failure to act as planned and agreed was
almost an abandonment of the first company to their fate. Perhaps the
gun was intentionally discharged for the purpose of recalling them and
to announce the failure of those behind to act their promised parts. It
proved fortunate to some extent. It is not necessary to pronounce
judgment on those who were lacking, as would be done to men disciplined
and trained in the art of war. They were raw recruits or settlers
merely picked up for the occasion. Bravery is not always consistent.
That these men possessed courage was proved by the way they joined in
the fight when the emergency came. Some men have an unreasoning
fearlessness that takes them through "moving accidents by flood and
field" as fearlessly as they would hunt a squirrel or tree a coon. Such
a man led them on and received almost his death wound in so doing.
Savages are fearless because bigoted and ignorant. The timidity that
checks civilized humanity is tempered with reasoning courage. It often
proves to be well-balanced bravery that on trial can hold in check the
courage of savages and beasts.
TROPHIES OF THE BATTLE.
When the last
Siwash had decamped and the field was clear the settlers entered the
Indian camp and took an inventory of the supplies on hand. They had
robbed first and burned afterwards. The settlers recognized many
articles of clothing they had lost, and took possession of the whole.
There were many horses tied inside the bend of the creek, and a few of
these were the worse for the bullets that flew among them. One or two
were killed, but the satisfaction of saving the remainder was great.
The squaws of the Rogue River tribes were losers of many dresses and
some finery, probably intended for their use. The goods of the settlers
were in piles, and the whirling snows of midnight had wet them where
they lay.
Castleman's wound was not merely dangerous but was considered fatal. He was strong and well vigorous when shot, and such men die hard. They made a rude litter and took him to a temporary hospital, fitted up for the season. There he lay for weeks and months, groaning with pain and suffering intensely. Time is the great healer, and gradually time wrought a cure and brought partial relief. Long weeks grew into weary months before the winter passed away and the vigorous, ruddy-hued man that had been shot down in December left the hospital. In his place there went forth from its gates a pale, thin, wan creature, whose steps were feeble and whose eye was dulled by long confinement and much endurance of pain. Time continued to work his cure, and in time he has become three score, always carrying with him painful reminders of that night encounter on the South Umpqua, and never receiving the least compensation, or even recognition, that his services and sufferings had been worth anything to his country. This small battle was pronounced by Governor Curry the first victory of a decided character the whites had achieved over the Indians, and was hailed as a good omen. The settlers recovered most of their plundered effects and all their horses. The volunteers who participated in the battle were some of them so greatly in need of clothing that they were glad to recruit their wardrobes from the captured goods found in the Indian camp. The supplies the territorial government was able to offer were not sufficient to keep our soldiers in the field decently clad, and no reasonable recognition or compensation has ever been made for their services. PHILIP F. CASTLEMAN.--Those who now make the trip in the palatial car across the continent from the populous cities and thickly settled districts of the union, and view the Pacific Northwest in its present development, can but faintly realize the dangers and privations the sturdy pioneers experienced in reaching here, nor yet understand the troubles they had with the red man who then roamed its confines at will, and knew no law save what pleased the savage heart the best. They often meet among its residents not a few upon whom the snows of many winters have fallen--and fallen while braving the inconveniences of pioneer life. They see in them the man or woman whose years are well-nigh ended, with no evidences that the passing one has a history and a record which ofttimes is not only that of a pioneer, but one who undertook many a dangerous task in order to reclaim and build up this, the fairest section of America. Among those who might pass unnoticed, except that he is a man of years, with kindly look and gentlemanly bearing, is the gentleman whose name heads this article, and who well might occupy a place with heroes. He was born on May 17, 1827, near Hodginsville, Kentucky, his ancestors being of Revolutionary fame. He received what education could be secured at the common schools of that time, which were not of the best, the term being usually three months in the year, and the distance to the old log schoolhouse being sometimes as much as four miles. The instructors were not always well educated; but, with application and a determination to know something, he was enabled to surmount the difficulties and instill into his mind a good understanding of his textbooks. He then attended a nine-months' term in the village of Hodginsville, where he forged ahead with great rapidity. On the closing of the term, he received a fine recommendation from his tutor, W. H. Fenton, now a leading lawyer of New York City, which, together with his general bearing, enabled him to secure a school at a hamlet called Bacon Creek, located some ten miles from his home. Here as a pedagogue he gave such general satisfaction that his refusal to teach a second term, although having been offered increased inducements, was greatly regretted by all. He had caught the California gold fever, and to the new El Dorado must go. He left home on May 3, 1849, and went to Aetna Furnace, Hart County, and there joined a company of eighteen others under the leadership of C. W. Churchill. Their trip across the continent was attended not only with sickness but death, the whole party being afflicted more or less with cholera. Seven of the nineteen succumbed to its ravages before reaching the Rocky Mountains. Theirs was not the only company which suffered in a like manner; for in many camps could be seen the dead, dying and almost helpless suffering emigrants; and all along the route there was a graveyard at nearly every camping place. Our subject was not an exception; for he had several attacks of the disease. At times, when able, he took his turn with the rest as doctor, nurse, cook, teamster and herdsman. After a long, weary and distressful journey, the welcome Rockies were at last reached, when in the change of climate better health was experienced until nearing the Sierra Nevadas, when several of the party, including our subject, the latter very severely, were taken down with mountain fever. Proceeding onward under these many disadvantages, they at last reached Sacramento in November of the year of starting, having been nearly six months on the road. His first experience as a miner was at Bidwell's Bar, on Feather River. His experience here convinced him that the miner's life was not at all times what the gold-fever-stricken Easterner pictures before leaving home for the diggings, and, thinking he could do better in Sacramento City, left for that place. About two or three weeks after his arrival there, he entered the employ of a baker at a monthly salary of $250. This position he retained through the winter and until spring, when he again concluded to try mining, and left for Redding Diggings, in the Upper Sacramento Valley. After his arrival he was induced to retrace his steps as far as Stony Creek (now Monroeville), where he erected a house for other parties, which was the first built at that point, and which he conducted as a hotel for some time. He again went to the mines, only to leave them in a short time on account of a severe illness, returning to the valley and buying an interest in what was then called Mundy's ranch. In 1851 he disposed of those interests and left for Oregon, settling at a point near where Eugene now stands. There he erected a sawmill, and later on built a mill on Bear Creek, the fruits of whose saws were the first lumber sawed in Southern Oregon, thus making him the pioneer in that enterprise in that section of the state. In 1853 he sold out and went to Rogue River, and in partnership with Milton Lindley built and ran a sawmill at Phoenix. In the fall of that year, while still retaining his interest in the milling enterprise, he left for the East via the Nicaragua route, hoping to avoid the many hours of sickness he had known on the plains in reaching here. But in this he reckoned wrongly; for through seasickness he hardly knew a well day while on the ocean blue. After visiting his old home and friends, he went to New York and studied daguerreotyping until he had become conversant with the mysteries of the art, when he purchased a photographic outfit and materials and took passage once more by sea for ''Webfoot'' via Panama. After his arrival here he began taking pictures; and such were the first ones taken in Southern Oregon and Northern California, making him the pioneer photographer in that section. During the early part of October, 1855, while he was in Eugene, the news came of the outbreak of the Indians on Rogue River. Believing the protection of the settlers' homes and families paramount to all other duties, he at once began the organization of a company of volunteers. Before the brave men enlisted could perfect arrangements to depart for the scenes of hostilities, General McCarver, who was on his way to the field of action, arrived at Eugene and wanted a messenger who would go to Scottsburg to procure ammunition, as his stock was rather low. In pioneer days that place was of considerable importance, having five or six well-stocked trading houses. Castleman was recommended to him as one who could make the perilous trip if anyone could. Upon his being approached in the matter, he volunteered to undertake the mission, and on receipt of his instructions departed for his destination, reaching there in twenty-one hours. The distance being ninety-one miles and over mountains, and the roads being nothing but trails, this was wonderfully quick time. On arriving at Scottsburg, he delivered his dispatches to the merchants of that place, who agreed to comply with the request therein--such being for a mule load of ammunition. Taking upon his horse a portion of the same, and packing the balance upon the mule and placing it in charge of another, he left by the river trail for Roseburg, where he was to meet McCarver, covering the distance of over a hundred miles in twenty-four hours, the ammunition coming in two days after. The next step in the conduct of the war was to get the ammunition into the hostile country, and into the hands of its sturdy pioneer defenders; and again Castleman was selected to accomplish another dangerous task. The route which he had to take led through the Umpqua Cañon, which by the way is one of the most magnificent stretches of scenery the world affords, and which the lover of nature never tires of gazing upon; but it was at this time hardly calculated to touch the poetic chord in one when its recesses and mountain crests contained the camp-fires of the howling savage, who thirsted for the white man's blood and was eager for his scalp. He, however, after an all-night's ride in darkness, succeeded in reaching Hardy Elliff's without accident or molestation, at sunrise the next morning, where he found some of the heroes of the Battle of Hungry Hill, which had been fought the day previous. Here he turned over to the volunteers the ammunition consigned to his care. On his return to Roseburg he was appointed assistant quartermaster-general for meritorious conduct, with his station at that place. Late in October the Indians congregated at the Meadows, on Rogue River, and prepared their camp for defense. To this point the troops made their way and laid siege to the rudely constructed fortifications. Tiring of this, and wishing to break the siege, the red devils selected a force of forty picked warriors and sent them out to terrorize the country. Making their way through the wilderness to the South Umpqua, they inaugurated their fiendish work by the burning of the settlers' houses, and laying waste all they could. On the first day of November, the news reached Roseburg; and the most exaggerated reports were pouring in, causing the wildest excitement. Pat Day, then sheriff of Douglas County, and Castleman agreed to go on a scout by themselves and learn what they could. They first went to Honorable John Kelly's, who lived one mile south of Roseburg, who took them across the South Umpqua in a canoe, their horses swimming after them. They then started for Rice's farm, where the Indians were reported to be hard at work. They came to Lookingglass Creek, which was a long way out of its banks, and was difficult to ford in the daytime, much more so in the dark, it being night by the time they reached there. They finally got across and were soon at Gage's stockade, where they refreshed themselves. Gage told them that he had heard firing at Rice's all day, and that it had finally stopped about sundown. At Gage's two men joined Castleman and Pat Day; and from there they went to a Mr. Kent's, where they next stopped, and where about a dozen more men gladly joined the party. Castleman, holding the rank of assistant quartermaster in the volunteer service, was made leader of the company. Following the trail of the savages up Ten Mile Creek, which was marked by devastation on every hand, they crossed a divide to the waters of Olallie Creek, and, coming up with the savages, actually saw them firing the house of a settler. They hid and waited for developments. They sent two scouts after the Indians, who tracked them to a bend in the Olallie. They waited until the Indians turned in and were asleep, and then crept into their camp. Getting all the information they desired, they returned to their own camp and reported. The savages being more than two to one it was deemed best not to attack them until they got some help. They went to McCully's stockade and got a reinforcement of twenty-five men, they being a portion of Captain Bailey's company, and under Orderly Sergeant Tom Holland. Castleman, being a higher officer, was tacitly acknowledged captain. It was very dark when they set out for the Indian encampment, following a local guide, who knew the country, creeping continuously along until they were only half a mile distant from the Indian stronghold; and there they halted and held a council of war. The Indians, who had tantalized the volunteers during the previous day at the stockade, had no fear of an attack, and were consequently very careless. The plan of action decided on was this: Castleman, with fifteen men, was to approach the Indian camp from the left along the creek. Pat Day, with ten men, was to attack them then in front. Tom Holland, with fifteen men, was to make a detour on the right, crossing the Olallie below their camp, and pick them off as they tried to swim the creek. Each party was to be in readiness at their appointed stations, to make a simultaneous attack at daybreak. As it was then but four o'clock, and daylight did not come until near seven, each party had ample time to gain their respective stations. Castleman with his squad started at once for his post and reached it. Holland's men got into a slight depression, and he concluded to wait there. Pat Day, when part way to his post, concluded to wait and see what would happen. The Indian camp was in a bend of Olallie Creek, between the creek and an immense fir log which lay just behind them. Castleman and his band were making for this fallen monarch of the forest; and he stood almost at the end of it before he realized the extreme danger of his position. He raised to look around him; and there were the painted devils, who were already up sitting around their blazing fires, cooking their breakfast and keeping warm. It was while he stood there within a stone's throw of the savages that Pat Day fired his gun. Instantly they raised the war whoop; and every redskin seized his gun. But fortunately they had thrown them down carelessly, where rain and snow had fallen later; and a number of them were unfit for use. Castleman looked behind, expecting to see all his men close to him; but only six were in sight. The other eight soon turned up. Hardly had the sound of that gun been lost when Castleman shouted: "Take the log, boys; take the log!" and, crouching, he led the rush for it. But, while rushing for the log, Castleman received a shot which entered his side, ranged the ribs and went out over the right hip. His lower limbs were paralyzed; but his arms were all right. He shouted to his men to make all the noise they could, and make the Indians think there were a thousand of them. They loaded and fired and shouted in turn. Their leader lay on the ground, loading and firing over the log. Firmly believing that his end had come, he determined to render as much assistance to his comrades as possible, regardless of himself. Before many minutes had elapsed, the whole force was at hand; and the battle assumed much larger proportions. As soon as the firing began, both of the other squads joined Castleman. The eight of Castleman's squad who lagged behind when he made the charge became a flanking party and did valiant work. It was dark where the assailants were, while the savages stood in the full glare of their campfires. An Indian stood behind some saplings so close to Castleman that he could have clubbed him with the butt of his gun, had he dared to have exposed himself so much. He was vainly endeavoring to make his gun go off, which fortunately for Castleman had got wet; and the charge would not leave the gun. He would occasionally put on a fresh cap, until finally a bullet from Jim Burnett's gun went crashing through his abdomen, sending him howling to the rear. While Castleman was making the most of the life that was left in him, loading and firing and shouting to his men what to do, a "pet Indian," known as "Cow Creek Tom," who could speak English fairly well, yelled back: "Yes, G-- d--- you, and while you are doing that we will kill you and cut you up in a thousand pieces, and lay you out on that log." That was no idle threat to keep in mind. He knew that if the Indians captured him they would do some such horrible thing. The battle was an awfully fierce one while it lasted. But the combined attack was too much for the Siwash element, and giving a parting war whoop, they fell back in great disorder, completely routed, and unable to carry away their dead. After the battle was over the whites proceeded to take an inventory of what they had captured. They recovered much of the property which had been stolen by the Indians, and recaptured many horses that had been taken the day before. Castleman's wound was not only dangerous, but was considered necessarily fatal. He was carried away on a rude litter to McCully's stockade, where he suffered the most excruciating pain for some weeks, when he was taken to a hospital near Roseburg, where he remained several months. When able to leave it, he was but a mere shadow of his former self; and from that day to this he has carried painful reminders of that terrible night on the South Umpqua, receiving no compensation nor even recognition that his services had been worth anything to his country. After leaving the hospital, he was commissioned assistant commissary of subsistence, with the rank of captain. This took him to Eugene, where he remained until peace was restored. After the close of the Indian war he bought a drove of hogs and several ox teams, loading the teams with produce, and drove them through to Southern Oregon, where he disposed of them, also selling his interest in the mill business. In the following winter he, in company with Lewis Ward, bought a pack train of B. F. Dowell, and packed produce from the Willamette Valley to the Southern Oregon mines. In the winter of 1857 Castleman sold his pack train and bought a livery stable at Eugene, which he and Ward owned until the summer of 1858. At that time T. Chase bought Ward's interest in the business, after which Castleman and Chase carried on the business until 1862, when they both went to Walla Walla and carried on the same business until 1865. They then sold out their business; and Chase returned to Eugene. In 1862 Castleman, leaving the business in charge of his partner, went to the Salmon River mines, but returned in the fall and moved his family to Walla Walla and engaged in photography. After the mines were discovered at Boise, he and Mr. John Duval took a stock of goods from Walla Walla to Placerville in the winter of 1863. Often during the trip they traveled through seven feet of snow, and came near losing their lives. In 1865 he sold out in Boise and returned to Walla Walla, where he again carried on photography until 1867, when he moved with his family to Eugene. Soon after this he returned East on a visit to his mother and family, his father having died in the meantime. While in the East he bought a large tract of land, and built a sawmill on it. But, circumstances not being as favorable as he had anticipated, he disposed of it and returned to Oregon, satisfied to remain, living one year at Eugene, one year at Tillamook, and about eight years on a farm in Yamhill County, which he sold, removing to Portland in 1878, where he has since resided. Mr. Castleman has been quite an extensive speculator, and has always been willing to engage in any honorable enterprise. He is a public-spirited and generous man, and has done much to develop the country. He has been an extensive stock-dealer, and is now interested in a fine hop ranch near Eugene. He has lived a busy and eventful life, and enjoys the confidence, honor and respect of all who know him. Mr. Castleman has long been identified with the Indian War Veterans Association of the Pacific Northwest, and at present is the vice-grand commander of of the grand encampment. During its sessions, or in the councils of the subordinate camp to which he belongs, he has been an ardent advocate of the publication of such a work as is now in the hands of the reader; and the interest manifested by him resulted in the formation of the company which has carried forward these volumes to completion, and in which he has been a member and one very active in the collection of data and historic matter. He was married in 1856 to Mrs. I. J. Evans. Their union was blessed with five children, Euretta F., now the wife of J. A. Campbell, of Berkeley, California; Stephen F., deceased; Mary E., who died in infancy; Anna B., now Mrs. W. H. Gaines, of Portland, Oregon; and William R., who is at present at home with his parents. Mrs. I. J. Castleman was born December 28, 1834, in Stark County, Ohio. Her parents, B. F. and C. S. Davis, moved to Marshall County, Indiana, where they lived several years. In 1847 they emigrated to Oregon and settled near Eugene. In 1850 Miss Davis was married to G. W. Evans, who died in 1853. They were blessed with two children, Frances E., now the wife of T. Patterson, and George W., who is now a resident of Yamhill County. Mrs. Evans was married to Philip F. Castleman March 18, 1856. North Pacific History Company, History of the Pacific Northwest, 1889, volume 2, pages 246-249 Philip F. Castleman.
Philip F. Castleman, an Oregon pioneer, who died at Berkeley, Cal.,
March 24, was born near Hodginsville, Ky., May 17, 1827, and his
ancestors had a part in the Revolutionary War. On May 3, 1849, he
joined a company of 18 in Hart County, Kentucky, and started to
California, arriving at Sacramento in November, and soon after began
mining on Bidwell's Bar, but finding that he could do better by getting
employment in Sacramento, he left the mines and went into the employ of
a baker at a salary of $250 a month. In 1851 he left California for
Oregon and settled near Eugene and erected a sawmill, the first south
of Salem. In 1855-56 he was a volunteer in the Rogue River Indian war
and rendered most effective service until he was wounded. After
recovering he engaged in business in Eugene, Walla Walla and points in
Idaho for a number of years. In 1878 he became a resident of Portland,
remaining until 1903, when he removed to Berkeley. Mr. Castleman was
married to Mrs. Ianthe J. Evans in 1856. Three children survive, Mrs.
Euretta F. Campbell, the widow of the late Judge J. A. Campbell, of
Berkeley, Cal.; Mrs. Anna B. Gaines and William R. Castleman, now
residents of Portland. He was buried on March 28 at Roseburg.
Oregonian, Portland, April 2, 1913, page 12 Last revised April 20, 2018 |
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