Departure From the Sandwich Islands.--Misunderstandings--
Miseries of a Suspicious Man.--Arrival at the Columbia--
Dangerous Service.--Gloomy Apprehensions--Bars and
Breakers.--Perils of the Ship. Disasters of a Boat’s Crew.--
Burial of a Sandwich Islander.
IT was on the 28th of February that the Tonquin set sail from the
Sandwich Islands. For two days the wind was contrary, and the vessel was
detained in their neighborhood; at length a favorable breeze sprang up,
and in a little while the rich groves, green hills, and snowy peaks of
those happy islands one after another sank from sight, or melted into
the blue distance, and the Tonquin ploughed her course towards the
sterner regions of the Pacific.
The misunderstandings between the captain and his passengers still
continued; or rather, increased in gravity. By his altercations and his
moody humors, he had cut himself off from all community of thought, or
freedom of conversation with them. He disdained to ask questions as
to their proceedings, and could only guess at the meaning of their
movements, and in so doing indulged in conjectures and suspicions, which
produced the most whimsical self-torment.
Thus, in one of his disputes with them, relative to the goods on board,
some of the packages of which they wished to open, to take out articles
of clothing for the men or presents for the natives, he was so harsh and
peremptory that they lost all patience, and hinted that they were the
strongest party, and might reduce him to a very ridiculous dilemma, by
taking from him the command.
A thought now flashed across the captain’s mind that they really had
a plan to depose him, and that, having picked up some information at
Owyhee, possibly of war between the United States and England, they
meant to alter the destination of the voyage; perhaps to seize upon ship
and cargo for their own use.
Once having conceived this suspicion, everything went to foster it. They
had distributed fire-arms among some of their men, a common precaution
among the fur traders when mingling with the natives. This, however,
looked like preparation. Then several of the partners and clerks and
some of the men, being Scotsmen, were acquainted with the Gaelic, and
held long conversations together in that language. These conversations
were considered by the captain of a “mysterious and unwarranted nature,”
and related, no doubt, to some foul conspiracy that was brewing among
them. He frankly avows such suspicions, in his letter to Mr. Astor, but
intimates that he stood ready to resist any treasonous outbreak; and
seems to think that the evidence of preparation on his part had an
effect in overawing the conspirators.
The fact is, as we have since been informed by one of the parties, it
was a mischievous pleasure with some of the partners and clerks, who
were young men, to play upon the suspicious temper and splenetic humors
of the captain. To this we may ascribe many of their whimsical pranks
and absurd propositions, and, above all, their mysterious colloquies in
Gaelic.
In this sore and irritable mood did the captain pursue his course,
keeping a wary eye on every movement, and bristling up whenever the
detested sound of the Gaelic language grated upon his ear. Nothing
occurred, however, materially to disturb the residue of the voyage
excepting a violent storm; and on the twenty-second of March, the
Tonquin arrived at the mouth of the Oregon, or Columbia River.
The aspect of the river and the adjacent coast was wild and dangerous.
The mouth of the Columbia is upwards of four miles wide with a peninsula
and promontory on one side, and a long low spit of land on the other;
between which a sand bar and chain of breakers almost block the
entrance. The interior of the country rises into successive ranges
of mountains, which, at the time of the arrival of the Tonquin, were
covered with snow.
A fresh wind from the northwest sent a rough tumbling sea upon the
coast, which broke upon the bar in furious surges, and extended a sheet
of foam almost across the mouth of the river. Under these circumstances
the captain did not think it prudent to approach within three leagues,
until the bar should be sounded and the channel ascertained. Mr.
Fox, the chief mate, was ordered to this service in the whaleboat,
accompanied by John Martin, an old seaman, who had formerly visited the
river, and by three Canadians. Fox requested to have regular sailors to
man the boat, but the captain would not spare them from the service of
the ship, and supposed the Canadians, being expert boatmen on lakes
and rivers, were competent to the service, especially when directed and
aided by Fox and Martin. Fox seems to have lost all firmness of spirit
on the occasion, and to have regarded the service with a misgiving
heart. He came to the partners for sympathy, knowing their differences
with the captain, and the tears were in his eyes as he represented
his case. “I am sent off,” said he, “without seamen to man my boat,
in boisterous weather, and on the most dangerous part of the northwest
coast. My uncle was lost a few years ago on this same bar, and I am now
going to lay my bones alongside of his.” The partners sympathized in his
apprehensions, and remonstrated with the captain. The latter, however,
was not to be moved. He had been displeased with Mr. Fox in the earlier
part of the voyage, considering him indolent and inactive; and probably
thought his present repugnance arose from a want of true nautical
spirit. The interference of the partners in the business of the ship,
also, was not calculated to have a favorable effect on a stickler
for authority like himself, especially in his actual state of feeling
towards them.
At one o’clock, P.M., therefore, Fox and his comrades set off in
the whaleboat, which is represented as small in size, and crazy in
condition. All eyes were strained after the little bark as it pulled for
shore, rising and sinking with the huge rolling waves, until it entered,
a mere speck, among the foaming breakers, and was soon lost to view.
Evening set in, night succeeded and passed away, and morning returned,
but without the return of the boat.
As the wind had moderated, the ship stood near to the land, so as to
command a view of the river’s mouth. Nothing was to be seen but a wild
chaos of tumbling waves breaking upon the bar, and apparently forming a
foaming barrier from shore to shore. Towards night the ship again stood
out to gain sea-room, and a gloom was visible in every countenance. The
captain himself shared in the general anxiety, and probably repented
of his peremptory orders. Another weary and watchful night succeeded,
during which the wind subsided, and the weather became serene.
On the following day, the ship having drifted near the land, anchored
in fourteen fathoms water, to the northward of the long peninsula or
promontory which forms the north side of the entrance, and is called
Cape Disappointment. The pinnace was then manned, and two of the
partners, Mr. David Stuart and Mr. M’Kay, set off in the hope of
learning something of the fate of the whaleboat. The surf, however,
broke with such violence along the shore that they could find no landing
place. Several of the natives appeared on the beach and made signs to
them to row round the cape, but they thought it most prudent to return
to the ship.
The wind now springing up, the Tonquin got under way, and stood in to
seek the channel; but was again deterred by the frightful aspect of
the breakers, from venturing within a league. Here she hove to; and
Mr. Mumford, the second mate, was despatched with four hands, in the
pinnace, to sound across the channel until he should find four fathoms
depth. The pinnace entered among the breakers, but was near being lost,
and with difficulty got back to the ship. The captain insisted that
Mr. Mumford had steered too much to the southward. He now turned to Mr.
Aiken, an able mariner, destined to command the schooner intended
for the coasting trade, and ordered him, together with John Coles,
sail-maker, Stephen Weekes, armorer, and two Sandwich Islanders, to
proceed ahead and take soundings, while the ship should follow under
easy sail. In this way they proceeded until Aiken had ascertained the
channel, when signal was given from the ship for him to return on board.
He was then within pistol shot, but so furious was the current, and
tumultuous the breakers, that the boat became unmanageable, and was
hurried away, the crew crying out piteously for assistance. In a
few moments she could not be seen from the ship’s deck. Some of the
passengers climbed to the mizzen top, and beheld her still struggling to
reach the ship; but shortly after she broached broadside to the waves,
and her case seemed desperate. The attention of those on board of the
ship was now called to their own safety. They were in shallow water; the
vessel struck repeatedly, the waves broke over her, and there was danger
of her foundering. At length she got into seven fathoms water, and the
wind lulling, and the night coming on, cast anchor. With the darkness
their anxieties increased. The wind whistled, the sea roared, the gloom
was only broken by the ghastly glare of the foaming breakers, the
minds of the seamen were full of dreary apprehensions, and some of them
fancied they heard the cries of their lost comrades mingling with
the uproar of the elements. For a time, too, the rapidly ebbing tide
threatened to sweep them from their precarious anchorage. At length the
reflux of the tide, and the springing up of the wind, enabled them to
quit their dangerous situation and take shelter in a small bay within
Cape Disappointment, where they rode in safety during the residue of a
stormy night, and enjoyed a brief interval of refreshing sleep.
With the light of day returned their cares and anxieties. They looked
out from the mast-head over a wild coast, and wilder sea, but could
discover no trace of the two boats and their crews that were missing.
Several of the natives came on board with peltries, but there was no
disposition to trade. They were interrogated by signs after the lost
boats, but could not understand the inquiries.
Parties now Went on shore and scoured the neighborhood. One of these
was headed by the captain. They had not proceeded far when they beheld a
person at a distance in civilized garb. As he drew near he proved to
be Weekes, the armorer. There was a burst of joy, for it was hoped his
comrades were near at hand. His story, however, was one of disaster. He
and his companions had found it impossible to govern their boat, having
no rudder, and being beset by rapid and whirling currents and boisterous
surges. After long struggling they had let her go at the mercy of
the waves, tossing about, sometimes with her bow, sometimes with her
broadside to the surges, threatened each instant with destruction, yet
repeatedly escaping, until a huge sea broke over and swamped her. Weekes
was overwhelmed by the broiling waves, but emerging above the surface,
looked round for his companions. Aiken and Coles were not to be seen;
near him were the two Sandwich Islanders, stripping themselves of their
clothing that they might swim more freely. He did the same, and the boat
floating near to him he seized hold of it. The two islanders joined him,
and, uniting their forces, they succeeded in turning the boat upon her
keel; then bearing down her stern and rocking her, they forced out
so much water that she was able to bear the weight of a man without
sinking. One of the islanders now got in, and in a little while bailed
out the water with his hands. The other swam about and collected the
oars, and they all three got once more on board.
By this time the tide had swept them beyond the breakers, and Weekes
called on his companions to row for land. They were so chilled and
benumbed by the cold, however, that they lost all heart, and absolutely
refused. Weekes was equally chilled, but had superior sagacity and
self-command. He counteracted the tendency to drowsiness and stupor
which cold produces by keeping himself in constant exercise; and
seeing that the vessel was advancing, and that everything depended upon
himself, he set to work to scull the boat clear of the bar, and into
quiet water.
Toward midnight one of the poor islanders expired; his companion threw
himself on his corpse and could not be persuaded to leave him. The
dismal night wore away amidst these horrors: as the day dawned, Weekes
found himself near the land. He steered directly for it, and at length,
with the aid of the surf, ran his boat high upon a sandy beach.
Finding that one of the Sandwich Islanders yet gave signs of life, he
aided him to leave the boat, and set out with him towards the adjacent
woods. The poor fellow, however, was too feeble to follow him, and
Weekes was soon obliged to abandon him to his fate and provide for his
own safety. Falling upon a beaten path, he pursued it, and after a few
hours came to a part of the coast, where, to his surprise and joy, he
beheld the ship at anchor and was met by the captain and his party.
After Weekes had related his adventures, three parties were despatched
to beat up the coast in search of the unfortunate islander. They
returned at night without success, though they had used the utmost
diligence. On the following day the search was resumed, and the poor
fellow was at length discovered lying beneath a group of rocks, his
legs swollen, his feet torn and bloody from walking through bushes and
briars, and himself half-dead with cold, hunger, and fatigue. Weekes and
this islander were the only survivors of the crew of the jolly-boat, and
no trace was ever discovered of Fox and his party. Thus eight men were
lost on the first approach to the coast; a commencement that cast a
gloom over the spirits of the whole party, and was regarded by some of
the superstitious as an omen that boded no good to the enterprise.
Towards night the Sandwich Islanders went on shore, to bury the body of
their unfortunate countryman who had perished in the boat. On arriving
at the place where it had been left, they dug a grave in the sand, in
which they deposited the corpse, with a biscuit under one of the arms,
some lard under the chin, and a small quantity of tobacco, as provisions
for its journey in the land of spirits. Having covered the body with
sand and flints, they kneeled along the grave in a double row, with
their faces turned to the east, while one who officiated as a priest
sprinkled them with water from a hat. In so doing he recited a kind of
prayer or invocation, to which, at intervals, the others made responses.
Such were the simple rites performed by these poor savages at the grave
of their comrade on the shores of a strange land; and when these were
done, they rose and returned in silence to the ship, without once
casting a look behind.