Imagine this: night, January, cold wind blowing in from the bay. A small town at the edge of a vast forest. People know that by morning, fighting could begin. And someone—out in the dark, fast, never wasting a minute—drives nails, hauls timbers, and builds walls behind which others can hide. Almost none of these people were ever remembered. Their names never made it into textbooks. But without them, Seattle’s story might have ended very differently.
A Battle Everyone Doesn’t Know All About
On January 26, 1856, a battle took place in the tiny settlement of Seattle. Warrior units from several tribes attacked the town—back then it was very small: a few dozen houses, a sawmill, a pier. The U.S. warship USS Decatur was anchored in the bay and opened fire with its cannons. The fighting lasted for several hours. Two settlers were killed. Then everything fell silent.
This story is sometimes called the “Battle of Seattle.” In books about it, it’s usually told like this: there were “Indians” and there were “settlers,” there was a ship, there were shots. The end. But if you ask: who exactly built the blockhouse—the wooden fortification where women and children hid?—the answer is far more interesting than you might think.
People From Islands in the Middle of the Ocean
Long before Seattle became a city, trade ships sailed to these parts. They brought goods, traded them for furs and fish, and then moved on. Sailors and dockworkers from around the world worked on these ships. Many of them were from the Hawaiian Islands—back then they were called the “Sandwich Islands.” In English they were called kanaka (in Hawaiian, it simply means “person,” “human being”).
These workers were excellent sailors. They knew how to handle wood and rope, and they understood how to build—and repair—things. Fur-trading companies were eager to hire them. Over time, some of them settled along the shores of Puget Sound—an enormous inlet where Seattle sits today. They married women from local Indigenous communities: the Duwamish, the Squamish, and other tribes. They learned to speak in “Chinook jargon”—a mixed language used by everyone in the region to communicate with one another.
In the area now known as West Seattle, there was even a place with a speaking name—Kanaka Bay, “Kanaka Cove.” Those families lived there—neither fully Indigenous nor quite “settlers.” Something of their own: special and unlike anything else.
Hammers No One Heard
When it became clear in January 1856 that the attack was unavoidable, Seattle’s residents needed to fortify the town immediately. The blockhouse—a wooden building with thick walls and loopholes—was built by anyone who could hold a tool. And among those people were the kanaka.
Their names barely survived in records. Historians sometimes find notes in old documents like “Kanaka John” or “Hawaiian Jim”—but those aren’t real names. They were labels that officials used when they either didn’t want to or weren’t able to record someone else’s name correctly. Imagine if, in your school journal, you were written down not as “Masha” or “Anya,” but simply “Girl #3.” That would be insulting, wouldn’t it?
These people built the walls behind which others could hide. They stood watch. They translated—because they knew both the language of Indigenous peoples and the language of settlers. They were a bridge between two worlds at the most dangerous moment. And then history acted as if they had never been there.
Why It Matters to Remember the Voices That Were Forgotten
There’s a saying: “History is written by the victors.” It means that those who survived and grew stronger are usually the ones who get to tell how everything happened. And the voices of those who were nearby but didn’t become the “main character” are often lost.
Kānaka Maoli—this is the correct term for Native Hawaiians—played a major role in the history of the entire Pacific coast of North America. But in most books about Seattle, there’s not a word about them. Their bay has a different name now. Their names are not carved into monuments.
Today, historians and researchers—including descendants of those same families—are working to bring those voices back. They search old letters, ship logs, and church records. Sometimes they find a photograph or an individual name. Every such discovery is like a piece of a puzzle that returns part of the larger picture to its proper place.
It’s a bit like if you made a big drawing with friends, and then someone showed it at an exhibition and wrote only their own name underneath. Unfair. And it’s never too late to set it right.
A City Built by Everyone
Seattle’s story is the story of many people. The Duwamish—Indigenous peoples who lived here for thousands of years. Hawaiian sailors who arrived and stayed. Immigrants from different countries who searched for a new life. Together, with hammers, with hands, with words, they built the place we now call Seattle.
When we learn about forgotten people—those whose names didn’t make it into textbooks—we make history more honest. And a little kinder. Because every person who helped build something important deserves to be remembered. Even if they were driving nails in the dark, and no one saw.
