CHAPTER XI.
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 pretex 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?"