When researching the history of Fort Steilacoom, you meet a lot of interesting characters. My new favorite is Lt. Theodore Talbot.
Talbot might seem like an odd choice. He was the original lieutenant for Company L, the military unit that stayed in Vancouver while Company M founded Fort Steilacoom.
But he left both a journal and dozens of letters, which provide irreplaceable insights that humanize the arrival of the US Army in the Pacific Northwest. Like many officers in the first wave, he remained unmarried until his death. He seems to have mostly focused oh his mother and sisters, and was passionate about writing them a stream of letters.
Here are some things we know, or know more about, because of his letters and journals:
What the officers thought of their mission to the Pacific Northwest: Founding Army posts in the Pacific Northwest was not a prestige assignment. Talbot wrote that it was “terra incognita or a genteel Botany Bay for Army Officers.”
They were all together at 2 p.m. Friday, Nov. 10, 1848, when the government transport the Massachusetts sailed from Governor’s Island in New York with Companies L and M.
Talbot, who had seen combat during the Mexican War, wrote, “I have never undertaken any expedition, so promising in itself, with a fainter heart than the present one, but the total separation from all held dearest and most cherished in life is indeed more than enough to steep the stoutest heart in sadness.”
Washington might as well have been on the other side of the world. And Talbot’s most cherished seem to have been his mother and sisters; that’s a good thing for us because his letters home provide unique insights into the first US Army days in the Pacific Northwest.
The downward spiral of the original commanding officer: The senior officer and commander of Company L was Major John Hatheway; the commander of Company M—the unit that would establish Fort Steilacoom—was Capt. Bennett Hill.
Many men who served at Forts Vancouver and Steilacoom went on to serve famously in the U.S. Civil War. Not Hatheway. He never made it to the event.
We don’t know what Hatheway’s frequent intoxication meant to his men. He was tried for alcoholism during the Mexican War, so his situation must have appeared in public—but as we’ll discuss in a moment, he had friends who gave him more chances and he stayed in the Army.
About a year after he helped select the site for Fort Steilacoom, in 1850, Hatheway twice tried to kill himself. Of the first attempt, Talbot wrote, “It was done, as I see it stated in the newspapers, whilst laboring under delirium tremens…He had been in this condition for several days.”
Reading between the lines, it sounds like a servant had been assigned to keep an eye on him, but the servant wasn’t there and Hatheway got ahold of a razor. The servant returned and sounded an alarm so men in adjacent rooms could stop him. “Fortunately, his ignorance of anatomy saved him for he had given himself two terrible gashes, but in such a manner as to cut merely the thick muscles of the neck,” Talbot wrote.
Hatheway had to be stopped again in October, and it’s unknown what else went on because the only reason we know this is that the first incident made the newspapers in Oregon. Talbot had to apologize to his family for not mentioning it sooner: “I as well as other officers had promised him not to mention it in our letters, in the vain hope that the circumstance might be concealed from his friends.”
Talbot’s mother must have written something that rang true, for he echoed her words: “As you say, it was unfortunate that he was sent out here (to the Pacific Northwest), where there are many temptations and none of the restraints that exist elsewhere.”
In this sense, maybe it’s unfortunate that he was a popular and well-liked man, for the Army did not hold him accountable for drunkenness during the Mexican War. “He escaped dismission by a mere quibble in consequence partly, no doubt, of his popularity among his brother officers,” Talbot said.
One wonders what would have happened if he had been dismissed or the issue addressed more forcefully. Maybe he would have dealt with his alcoholism and lived—the example of Ulysses Grant comes to mind.
But that’s not what happened. When Hatheway left the Pacific Northwest—and escaped the eyes of his servant and fellow officers—he slashed his throat and died in a New York hotel room.
The popularity of their ship: The Massachusetts is worth talking about because the first soldiers to serve at Fort Steilacoom experienced the latest in 19th-century high tech. People along the route made a fuss whenever this new-fangled vehicle came to port. The Massachusetts had a screw propeller powered by a steam engine.
Having any propeller at all was a new thing. Steam engines weren’t new, but had first been used to turn paddlewheels. With the new technology, the steam engine turned a shaft connected to a propeller that pushed against the water. There were a lot of advantages. Part of a paddlewheel always rises above the water, while a propeller stayed submerged—thus more efficient and protected from weather. With more efficiency, you needed less coal.
Screw propeller technology was about a decade old by the time the soldiers set sail. The U.S. Navy had launched the first screw-propeller warship only five years earlier.
What the journey was like: It took only two days for the ship to hit rough seas. Talbot mentions most officers were seasick; he’s silent on the regular troops. A week in, Talbot chronicles, “Found most of our baggage in the store room injured by the salt water,” with no further details.
Later in the journal, Talbot shares an interesting fact: the ship was under orders to use coal only around the Equator and the Straits of Magellan. The ship had no authority to buy more coal. With steam, it could go nine knots an hour; with sails, four or five.
Of the daily routine, Fry wrote, “All of the ordinary military duties which the limited space would permit were performed. The companies were regularly paraded, inspected, mustered, and drilled at the manual of arms. Guard-mounting was conducted in due form and guard duty rigidly performed. Sunday inspections were rather more thorough than in garrison. The Episcopal service was read by the captain of the ship.”
Ship’s captain Wool provided each officer with a stateroom, not enjoyed by the front-line troops, of course. Wool provided waiters for the cabins and meals for the officers at what Fry called “a very reasonable rate.” Every two or three officers had their own servant—not a slave, but someone to employ. Many West Pointers came from a privileged class and expected no less.
Meeting locals and hearing about the Gold Rush:
Right before entering the treacherous Straits of Magellan, the crew of a small brig signaled that they wanted to talk. They were concerned about a leak; the Massachusetts crew told them it wasn’t as bad as it looked and they could make a run to a nearby port. During these exchanges, the officers heard something that would change their journey: gold had been discovered in California.
After passing through the frigid Straits, the ship stopped on Jan. 24 at Cape Froward, the southernmost spot in mainland South America. Officers got off the ship, enjoyed land, and visited natives. One of the most amusing stories in Talbot’s writings comes from this stop:
“The women were very much pleased with our drummer boys, especially little Shaft, an old squaw offering to suckle him, at which he felt himself much insulted,” Talbot wrote.
The ship resupplied at Valparaiso, Chile, for six days. There, soldiers learned more about the gold discovery. They spoke with men who had been in the fields. This led Hatheway and others to decide that for their next stop, they would avoid San Francisco—fearing crew and soldiers would desert with gold fever.
Surely many officers enjoyed themselves in Chile. Talbot went straight to the reading room to catch up on news. One evening a local resident sailed up to the Massachusetts with Lt. John Gibson, son of a Pennsylvania Supreme Court judge, who had apparently got drunk on another ship and been knocked down by the captain. Gibson caused a ruckus and was arrested.
A few days later, Hatheway and Hill asked Talbot to tell Gibson to transfer, or they’d bring charges. Gibson replied he’d take his chances. We don’t know the details but by May, the charges were lifted, and we will hear from both Hill and Gibson later on in this story.
A big splash in Oahu: When the Massachusetts set sail from Chile on Feb. 15, 1849, they went not to California but the Sandwich Islands—today’s Hawaii. The captain didn’t want to go and put his protest in writing, but Hatheway held firm.
The Massachusetts arrived on April 9, 1849. Hatheway wrote that people onshore looked astonished because the sea was calm, yet the ship moved—thanks to its propeller. Talbot wrote they were the center of attention for days:
“These Islanders are accomplished swimmers and dozens of them, both men and women, were in the water entirely nude, diving under the ship and the propeller, in order to make a more thorough inspection of this new wonder.”
One wonders what the German and Irish soldiers made of such a scene! Perhaps it confirmed the wisdom of emigrating to America.
A day later, a Hawaiian leader sent word that there were to be no more swimmers under the boat.
Officers enjoyed social calls, played billiards, and danced among Natives and settlers. Among those fascinated by the ship was 15-year-old Prince Alexander Liholiho, who would be a king himself many years later. The teen visited several times and spoke with the captain. He confided he’d love to travel but there were concerns he’d catch disease.
His father arrived with more fuss. King Kamehameha III was just one of many people in a royal procession of boats visited on a stormy Monday morning. Given the weather, the king sent word not to expect ceremony or drills. It’s unclear how much the regular troops saw, but the officers did.
The crew hoisted the Hawaiian flag and sailed the king out 10 miles so he could experience a steamer firsthand.
“The King, who is quite a connoisseur in naval matters, was highly interested…On leaving, he had himself rowed round the Ship, in order to obtain a full view of her fine proportions,” Talbot wrote.
The next day, the king sent a formal thank-you letter. Talbot signed off to his family with, “Emerging from the shadow of Royalty, I remember ever, your affectionate brother Theo. Talbot.”
Talbot reports that one evening, he strolled through Oahu with Hill. They visited native homes, noted the gardens, and saw books. In one home, a girl sang in her language to the tune of Auld Lang Syne.
A few years later, when Hill became ill at Fort Steilacoom, he took his medical leave in Hawaii.
Gibson, the man once loaded on drunk in Chile, would be in command of Fort Steilacoom while Hill rested.
Epilogue: This is just some of what we know thanks to Talbot’s letters and journal. I don’t know if he knew future generations would pore over his writings as a rare record of the time. But we do, and are grateful.
Talbot served in the Civil War, but due to health became an aide, not a commander. Tuberculosis claimed him in 1862 at the age of 36.
