Alarm at Astoria.--Rumor of Indian Hostilities.--
Preparations for Defense.--Tragic Fate of the Tonquin.
THE sailing of the Tonquin, and the departure of Mr. David Stuart and
his detachment, had produced a striking effect on affairs at Astoria.
The natives who had swarmed about the place began immediately to drop
off, until at length not an Indian was to be seen. This, at first, was
attributed to the want of peltries with which to trade; but in a little
while the mystery was explained in a more alarming manner. A conspiracy
was said to be on foot among the neighboring tribes to make a combined
attack upon the white men, now that they were so reduced in number. For
this purpose there had been a gathering of warriors in a neighboring
bay, under pretext of fishing for sturgeon; and fleets of canoes were
expected to join them from the north and South. Even Comcomly, the
one-eyed chief, notwithstanding his professed friendship for Mr.
M’Dougal, was strongly suspected of being concerned in this general
combination.
Alarmed at rumors of this impending danger, the Astorians suspended
their regular labor, and set to work, with all haste, to throw up
temporary works for refuge and defense. In the course of a few days they
surrounded their dwelling-house and magazines with a picket fence
ninety feet square, flanked by two bastions, on which were mounted four
four-pounders. Every day they exercised themselves in the use of their
weapons, so as to qualify themselves for military duty, and at night
ensconced themselves in their fortress and posted sentinels, to guard
against surprise. In this way they hoped, even in case of attack, to be
able to hold out until the arrival of the party to be conducted by Mr.
Hunt across the Rocky Mountains, or until the return of the Tonquin. The
latter dependence, however, was doomed soon to be destroyed. Early in
August, a wandering band of savages from the Strait of Juan de Fuca made
their appearance at the mouth of the Columbia, where they came to fish
for sturgeon. They brought disastrous accounts of the Tonquin, which
were at first treated as fables, but which were too sadly confirmed by
a different tribe that arrived a few days subsequently. We shall relate
the circumstances of this melancholy affair as correctly as the casual
discrepancies in the statements that have reached us will permit.
We have already stated that the Tonquin set sail from the mouth of
the river on the fifth of June. The whole number of persons on board
amounted to twenty-three. In one of the outer bays they picked up,
from a fishing canoe, an Indian named Lamazee, who had already made
two voyages along the coast and knew something of the language of the
various tribes. He agreed to accompany them as interpreter.
Steering to the north, Captain Thorn arrived in a few days at
Vancouver’s Island, and anchored in the harbor of Neweetee, very much
against the advice of his Indian interpreter, who warned him against the
perfidious character of the natives of this part of the coast. Numbers
of canoes soon came off, bringing sea-otter skins to sell. It was too
late in the day to commence a traffic, but Mr. M’Kay, accompanied by a
few of the men, went on shore to a large village to visit Wicananish,
the chief of the surrounding territory, six of the natives remaining on
board as hostages. He was received with great professions of friendship,
entertained hospitably, and a couch of sea-otter skins prepared for him
in the dwelling of the chieftain, where he was prevailed upon to pass
the night.
In the morning, before Mr. M’Kay had returned to the ship, great numbers
of the natives came off in their canoes to trade, headed by two sons of
Wicananish. As they brought abundance of sea-otter skins, and there was
every appearance of a brisk trade, Captain Thorn did not wait for
the return of Mr. M’Kay, but spread his wares upon the deck, making a
tempting display of blankets, cloths, knives, beads, and fish-hooks,
expecting a prompt and profitable sale. The Indians, however, were
not so eager and simple as he had supposed, having learned the art of
bargaining and the value of merchandise from the casual traders along
the coast. They were guided, too, by a shrewd old chief named Nookamis,
who had grown gray in traffic with New England skippers, and prided
himself upon his acuteness. His opinion seemed to regulate the market.
When Captain Thorn made what he considered a liberal offer for an
otter-skin, the wily old Indian treated it with scorn, and asked more
than double. His comrades all took their cue from him, and not an
otter-skin was to be had at a reasonable rate.
The old fellow, however, overshot his mark, and mistook the character of
the man he was treating with. Thorn was a plain, straightforward sailor,
who never had two minds nor two prices in his dealings, was deficient in
patience and pliancy, and totally wanting in the chicanery of traffic.
He had a vast deal of stern but honest pride in his nature, and,
moreover, held the whole savage race in sovereign contempt. Abandoning
all further attempts, therefore, to bargain with his shuffling
customers, he thrust his hands into his pockets, and paced up and down
the deck in sullen silence. The cunning old Indian followed him to and
fro, holding out a sea-otter skin to him at every turn, and pestering
him to trade. Finding other means unavailing, he suddenly changed his
tone, and began to jeer and banter him upon the mean prices he offered.
This was too much for the patience of the captain, who was never
remarkable for relishing a joke, especially when at his own expense.
Turning suddenly upon his persecutor, he snatched the proffered
otter-skin from his hands, rubbed it in his face, and dismissed him
over the side of the ship with no very complimentary application to
accelerate his exit. He then kicked the peltries to the right and left
about the deck, and broke up the market in the most ignominious manner.
Old Nookamis made for shore in a furious passion, in which he was
joined by Shewish, one of the sons of Wicananish, who went off breathing
vengeance, and the ship was soon abandoned by the natives.
When Mr. M’Kay returned on board, the interpreter related what had
passed, and begged him to prevail upon the captain to make sail, as from
his knowledge of the temper and pride of the people of the place, he was
sure they would resent the indignity offered to one of their chiefs. Mr.
M’Kay, who himself possessed some experience of Indian character,
went to the captain, who was still pacing the deck in moody humor,
represented the danger to which his hasty act had exposed the vessel,
and urged him to weigh anchor. The captain made light of his counsels,
and pointed to his cannon and fire-arms as sufficient safeguard against
naked savages. Further remonstrances only provoked taunting replies and
sharp altercations. The day passed away without any signs of hostility,
and at night the captain retired as usual to his cabin, taking no more
than the usual precautions.
On the following morning, at daybreak, while the captain and Mr. M’Kay
were yet asleep, a canoe came alongside in which were twenty Indians,
commanded by young Shewish. They were unarmed, their aspect and demeanor
friendly, and they held up otter-skins, and made signs indicative of
a wish to trade. The caution enjoined by Mr. Astor, in respect to the
admission of Indians on board of the ship, had been neglected for some
time past, and the officer of the watch, perceiving those in the canoe
to be without weapons, and having received no orders to the contrary,
readily permitted them to mount the deck. Another canoe soon succeeded,
the crew of which was likewise admitted. In a little while other canoes
came off, and Indians were soon clambering into the vessel on all sides.
The officer of the watch now felt alarmed, and called to Captain Thorn
and Mr. M’Kay. By the time they came on deck, it was thronged with
Indians. The interpreter noticed to Mr. M’Kay that many of the natives
wore short mantles of skins, and intimated a suspicion that they were
secretly armed. Mr. M’Kay urged the captain to clear the ship and get
under way. He again made light of the advice; but the augmented swarm of
canoes about the ship, and the numbers still putting off from shore, at
length awakened his distrust, and he ordered some of the crew to weigh
anchor, while some were sent aloft to make sail.
The Indians now offered to trade with the captain on his own terms,
prompted, apparently, by the approaching departure of the ship.
Accordingly, a hurried trade was commenced. The main articles sought by
the savages in barter were knives; as fast as some were supplied they
moved off, and others succeeded. By degrees they were thus distributed
about the deck, and all with weapons.
The anchor was now nearly up, the sails were loose, and the captain,
in a loud and peremptory tone, ordered the ship to be cleared. In an
instant, a signal yell was given; it was echoed on every side, knives
and war-clubs were brandished in every direction, and the savages rushed
upon their marked victims.
The first that fell was Mr. Lewis, the ship’s clerk. He was leaning,
with folded arms, over a bale of blankets, engaged in bargaining, when
he received a deadly stab in the back, and fell down the companion-way.
Mr. M’Kay, who was seated on the taffrail, sprang on his feet, but was
instantly knocked down with a war-club and flung backwards into the sea,
where he was despatched by the women in the canoes.
In the meantime Captain Thorn made desperate fight against fearful odds.
He was a powerful as well as a resolute man, but he had come upon
deck without weapons. Shewish, the young chief singled him out as his
peculiar prey, and rushed upon him at the first outbreak. The captain
had barely time to draw a clasp-knife with one blow of which he laid
the young savage dead at his feet. Several of the stoutest followers
of Shewish now set upon him. He defended himself vigorously, dealing
crippling blows to right and left, and strewing the quarter-deck with
the slain and wounded. His object was to fight his way to the cabin,
where there were fire-arms; but he was hemmed in with foes, covered with
wounds, and faint with loss of blood. For an instant he leaned upon the
tiller wheel, when a blow from behind, with a war-club, felled him to
the deck, where he was despatched with knives and thrown overboard.
While this was transacting upon the quarter-deck, a chance-medley fight
was going on throughout the ship. The crew fought desperately with
knives, handspikes, and whatever weapon they could seize upon in the
moment of surprise. They were soon, however, overpowered by numbers, and
mercilessly butchered.
As to the seven who had been sent aloft to make sail, they contemplated
with horror the carnage that was going on below. Being destitute of
weapons, they let themselves down by the running rigging, in hopes
of getting between decks. One fell in the attempt, and was instantly
despatched; another received a death-blow in the back as he was
descending; a third, Stephen Weekes, the armorer, was mortally wounded
as he was getting down the hatchway.
The remaining four made good their retreat into the cabin, where they
found Mr. Lewis, still alive, though mortally wounded. Barricading the
cabin door, they broke holes through the companion-way, and, with the
muskets and ammunition which were at hand, opened a brisk fire that soon
cleared the deck.
Thus far the Indian interpreter, from whom these particulars are
derived, had been an eye-witness to the deadly conflict. He had taken no
part in it, and had been spared by the natives as being of their race.
In the confusion of the moment he took refuge with the rest, in the
canoes. The survivors of the crew now sallied forth, and discharged some
of the deck-guns, which did great execution among the canoes, and drove
all the savages to shore.
For the remainder of the day no one ventured to put off to the ship,
deterred by the effects of the fire-arms. The night passed away without
any further attempts on the part of the natives. When the day dawned,
the Tonquin still lay at anchor in the bay, her sails all loose and
flapping in the wind, and no one apparently on board of her. After a
time, some of the canoes ventured forth to reconnoitre, taking with them
the interpreter.
They paddled about her, keeping cautiously at a distance, but growing
more and more emboldened at seeing her quiet and lifeless. One man
at length made his appearance on the deck, and was recognized by the
interpreter as Mr. Lewis. He made friendly signs, and invited them on
board. It was long before they ventured to comply. Those who mounted
the deck met with no opposition; no one was to be seen on board; for Mr.
Lewis, after inviting them, had disappeared. Other canoes now pressed
forward to board the prize; the decks were soon crowded, and the sides
covered with clambering savages, all intent on plunder. In the midst
of their eagerness and exultation, the ship blew up with a tremendous
explosion. Arms, legs, and mutilated bodies were blown into the air, and
dreadful havoc was made in the surrounding canoes. The interpreter was
in the main-chains at the time of the explosion, and was thrown unhurt
into the water, where he succeeded in getting into one of the canoes.
According to his statement, the bay presented an awful spectacle after
the catastrophe. The ship had disappeared, but the bay was covered with
fragments of the wreck, with shattered canoes, and Indians swimming for
their lives, or struggling in the agonies of death; while those who had
escaped the danger remained aghast and stupefied, or made with frantic
panic for the shore. Upwards of a hundred savages were destroyed by the
explosion, many more were shockingly mutilated, and for days afterwards
the limbs and bodies of the slain were thrown upon the beach.
The inhabitants of Neweetee were overwhelmed with consternation at this
astounding calamity, which had burst upon them in the very moment of
triumph. The warriors sat mute and mournful, while the women filled
the air with loud lamentations. Their weeping and walling, however, was
suddenly changed into yells of fury at the sight of four unfortunate
white men, brought captive into the village. They had been driven on
shore in one of the ship’s boats, and taken at some distance along the
coast.
The interpreter was permitted to converse with them. They proved to
be the four brave fellows who had made such desperate defense from
the cabin. The interpreter gathered from them some of the particulars
already related. They told him further, that after they had beaten off
the enemy and cleared the ship, Lewis advised that they should slip
the cable and endeavor to get to sea. They declined to take his advice,
alleging that the wind set too strongly into the bay and would drive
them on shore. They resolved, as soon as it was dark, to put off quietly
in the ship’s boat, which they would be able to do unperceived, and to
coast along back to Astoria. They put their resolution into effect; but
Lewis refused to accompany them, being disabled by his wound, hopeless
of escape, and determined on a terrible revenge. On the voyage out, he
had repeatedly expressed a presentiment that he should die by his own
hands; thinking it highly probable that he should be engaged in some
contest with the natives, and being resolved, in case of extremity,
to commit suicide rather than be made a prisoner. He now declared his
intention to remain on board of the ship until daylight, to decoy as
many of the savages on board as possible, then to set fire to the powder
magazine, and terminate his life by a signal of vengeance. How well he
succeeded has been shown. His companions bade him a melancholy adieu,
and set off on their precarious expedition. They strove with might and
main to get out of the bay, but found it impossible to weather a point
of land, and were at length compelled to take shelter in a small cove,
where they hoped to remain concealed until the wind should be more
favorable. Exhausted by fatigue and watching, they fell into a sound
sleep, and in that state were surprised by the savages. Better had it
been for those unfortunate men had they remained with Lewis, and
shared his heroic death: as it was, they perished in a more painful and
protracted manner, being sacrificed by the natives to the manes of their
friends with all the lingering tortures of savage cruelty. Some time
after their death, the interpreter, who had remained a kind of prisoner
at large, effected his escape, and brought the tragical tidings to
Astoria.
Such is the melancholy story of the Tonquin, and such was the fate of
her brave but headstrong commander, and her adventurous crew. It is a
catastrophe that shows the importance, in all enterprises of moment,
to keep in mind the general instructions of the sagacious heads which
devise them. Mr. Astor was well aware of the perils to which ships
were exposed on this coast from quarrels with the natives, and from
perfidious attempts of the latter to surprise and capture them in
unguarded moments. He had repeatedly enjoined it upon Captain Thorn,
in conversation, and at parting, in his letter of instructions, to be
courteous and kind in his dealings with the savages, but by no means to
confide in their apparent friendship, nor to admit more than a few on
board of his ship at a time.
Had the deportment of Captain Thorn been properly regulated, the insult
so wounding to savage pride would never have been given. Had he enforced
the rule to admit but a few at a time, the savages would not have been
able to get the mastery. He was too irritable, however, to practice the
necessary self-command, and, having been nurtured in a proud contempt of
danger, thought it beneath him to manifest any fear of a crew of unarmed
savages.
With all his faults and foibles, we cannot but speak of him with esteem,
and deplore his untimely fate; for we remember him well in early life,
as a companion in pleasant scenes and joyous hours. When on shore, among
his friends, he was a frank, manly, sound-hearted sailor. On board
ship he evidently assumed the hardness of deportment and sternness of
demeanor which many deem essential to naval service. Throughout
the whole of the expedition, however, he showed himself loyal,
single-minded, straightforward, and fearless; and if the fate of
his vessel may be charged to his harshness and imprudence, we should
recollect that he paid for his error with his life.
The loss of the Tonquin was a grievous blow to the infant establishment
of Astoria, and one that threatened to bring after it a train of
disasters. The intelligence of it did not reach Mr. Astor until many
months afterwards. He felt it in all its force, and was aware that it
must cripple, if not entirely defeat, the great scheme of his ambition.
In his letters, written at the time, he speaks of it as “a calamity, the
length of which he could not foresee.” He indulged, however, in no
weak and vain lamentation, but sought to devise a prompt and efficient
remedy. The very same evening he appeared at the theatre with his usual
serenity of countenance. A friend, who knew the disastrous intelligence
he had received, expressed his astonishment that he could have calmness
of spirit sufficient for such a scene of light amusement. “What would
you have me do?” was his characteristic reply; “would you have me stay
at home and weep for what I cannot help?”