Columbus and Other Heroes of American Discovery

by N. D'Anvers

Early the next morning, when the crew of the Tonquin were still in their hammocks, a canoe full of Indians came alongside. Were these the prophesied avengers? Surely not! They were unarmed, and held up otter-skins in token of friendly intentions. They were allowed to climb on board, and so were a second party of twenty, who arrived immediately afterward.

A brisk trade was now begun; but as the officers turned over the skins offered to them, other canoes put off from the shore. The Tonquin was soon surrounded by them; its single ladder was quickly crowded with dusky warriors, who, pouring upon the deck in a steady stream, also produced skins, offering to trade with the captain on his own terms now, and implying, though not expressing, regret at the obstinacy of their representatives the day before. The chief things the natives wanted instead of their costly peltries were knives; and with an almost foolhardy recklessness, Thorn allowed them to appropriate a large number, in spite of the repeated warnings of his officers and the interpreter that treachery was intended. The only precaution taken was the telling-off of sailors to weigh anchor and make sail, the captain imagining that this would not be noticed, and that, having obtained his cargo of peltries, he could escape before the Indians had time to carry out any evil designs.

Never was a more terrible mistake made. The signal from the captain for the deck to be cleared was also that for the onslaught to be given. The knives just obtained, and the war-clubs already provided, were brandished on every side, and before they could defend themselves, many of the white men fell beneath the well-aimed blows.

The ship’s clerk was one of the first to fall, and among the next victims was a man named M’Kay, who was flung backward into one of the waiting canoes, and there hacked to pieces by the squaws, who were watching the affray with eager delight. Very brave was the defense made by Thorn himself, and at one time he seemed likely to escape. He had fought his way nearly to the cabin, where he had left his firearms, when loss of blood compelled him to lean for support upon the tiller wheel. He was instantly surrounded, flung upon the deck, and stabbed to death with his own knives.

All but four of the crew shared the fate of the officers. These four, who had been aloft making sail when the conflict began, succeeded in reaching the cabin, where they made a hasty defense. The firearms, which now came into play, soon cleared the deck, and an hour after the fatal admission of the redskins on board, not a sign of them was to be seen.

The interpreter, to whom we owe this narrative, had wisely taken no part in the struggle, and retired with the natives. He tells further how the night was passed on shore among them, and how, though they were still eager for further revenge, they were deterred from approaching the vessel by their dread of the firearms. Early the next morning, a canoe, bearing the interpreter among others, ventured cautiously to paddle within hail. A man presently appeared on deck, and made signs to the redskins to come on board. They hesitated, but, curiosity prevailing over fear, several of them climbed up the ladder. They were allowed to wander about unmolested. The white man they had seen had disappeared; and one by one other canoes crept from the shore, till, as on the day before, the sea was covered with them.

The savages who had first arrived called to their comrades to come on, for there was no danger and plenty of plunder. They were obeyed by all, even by the hitherto cautious interpreter. Eagerly were the bales of merchandise now plundered; wild were the gestures of delight at the strange articles found among them—But what was that? Was the ship moving, or what? An instant’s pause of expectation, and then the vessel blew up with a loud noise; the air was darkened with the bodies of the unhappy savages which fell in every direction, torn to a thousand fragments.

The interpreter again escaped as by a miracle. He was clinging to the main chains when the explosion took place, fell into the water, and swam to one of the canoes, in which he made his way back to the land, where crowds had already assembled, and met him with eager inquiries as to the cause of the terrible scene. He was still the center of an eager group when four white men were brought as prisoners into the village, who told how they had escaped from the Tonquin when Lewis, the man who had decoyed the natives on board, decided to blow up the ship. They had hoped to find their way to their comrades at Astoria, but they had been unable to get out of the bay; their boat was cast on shore, and they were soon seized by natives.

They were put to death with all the refinements of cruelty in which the Indians have ever been adepts; and not, as we have seen, until the interpreter managed to pay a visit to Astoria was the whole melancholy story known.

If the position of the Astorians was painful when it was supposed that the absence of the Tonquin would not be long protracted, we can imagine what it became now. The savage tribes around them, encouraged by the first success of their brothers of the North, and enraged at the terrible vengeance taken upon them, were more determined than ever to root out the hated white men from their land, and it appeared likely that they would accomplish their purpose, when M’Dougal hit upon a stratagem.