All doubt about our being in the mouth of a river was put an end to by finding that, during the last of the ebb, the water was nearly fresh. This discovery was hailed by us all with a pleasure which persons only familiar with the well-watered and verdant fields of England cannot fully comprehend.
Our success afforded me a welcome opportunity of testifying to Captain Fitzroy my grateful recollection of his personal kindness; and I determined, with Captain Wickham's permission, to call this new river after his name, thus perpetuating, by the most durable of monuments, the services and the career of one, in whom, with rare and enviable prodigality, are mingled the daring of the seaman, the accomplishments of the student, and the graces of the Christian--of whose calm fortitude in the hour of impending danger, or whose habitual carefulness for the interests of all under his command, if I forbear to speak, I am silent because, while I recognise their existence, and perceive how much they exalt the character they adorn, I feel, too, that they have elevated it above, either the need, or the reach of any eulogy within my power to offer!
I felt pretty confident that the first rush of the tide upon its reflux would be violent, and had made preparation accordingly. In the first watch these anticipations were realized, and I was roused from a momentary doze by a loud roaring, which I at once recognized to be the voice of thunder, heralding the advancing tide.
TIDE-BORE.
The night was pitch dark, and though I instinctively turned my eyes towards the offing, I could see nothing, but as each anxious moment passed away, the fearful voice of the waters sounded nearer and nearer, and within less time than I have occupied in the narration, the full force of the rush of tide coming on like a wall, several feet high, and bringing our anchor away with it, was upon us. The cable thus slackened, the yawl sheered, and was thrown violently upon her broadside in the midst of it, and had it not been for the shores lashed to each mast, she must inevitably have capsized. The whaleboat fared better; being lighter she was the sooner afloat, and besides her buoyant bow was the better able to receive and resist the shock. When the tide slacked we returned to the deep water off Escape Point, and spent the remainder of the night in quiet, I would fain hope, so far as most of us were concerned, not without a thankful remembrance of Him, whose merciful providence had been so recently manifested in our behalf!
ASCENT OF THE FITZROY.
February 27.
Leaving Mr. Tarrant in charge of the yawl, I proceeded with Mr. Helpman to trace the river, immediately after daylight. Against the last of the ebb tide, and with the thermometer at 80 degrees, we contrived to reach a spot two miles beyond Point Escape before noon. From Point Escape upwards, there appeared to be, at low-water, no regular channel; the bed of the river assumed the aspect of an extensive flat of mud, intersected with small rivulets or streams that served to drain it. No signs of human habitation were seen along its banks, which divided by numerous small creeks, and thickly fringed with the unfailing mangrove, stretched away in level and drear monotony, only broken towards the west by land of inconsiderable elevation. The circling flight of the ever-wary curlew, and the shrill cry of the plover, now first disturbed in their accustomed territory, alone vouched for the presence of animal life in that vast solitude, the effect of which they heightened, rather than removed!
RETURN ON FOOT.
Finding the further ascent almost if not altogether impracticable at the present state of the tide, I ordered the boat back to Point Escape, and landed, accompanied by Mr. Helpman, and a seaman, intending to return on foot.