Having eaten our cold lunch, we left Wappatoo Island to the dominion of its wild hogs, and took again to our boat. It was a drizzly, cheerless day. The clouds ran fast from the south-west, and obscured the sun. The wind fell in irregular gusts upon the water, and made it difficult to keep our boat afloat. But we had a sturdy old Sandwich Islander at one oar, and some four or five able-bodied Indians at others, and despite winds and waves, slept that night a dozen miles below the Cowelitz. Thus far below Vancouver, the Columbia was generally more than one thousand yards wide, girded on either side by mountains rising very generally, from the water side, two or three thousand feet in height, and covered with dense forests of pine and fir. These mountains are used by the Chinooks as burial-places. During the epidemic fever of 1832, which almost swept this {270} portion of the Columbia valley of its inhabitants, vast numbers of the dead were placed among them. They were usually wrapped in skins, placed in the canoes, and hung from the boughs of trees six or eight feet from the ground. Thousands of these were seen.[84]
They hung in groups near the water side. One of them had a canoe inverted over the one containing the dead, and lashed tightly to it. We were often driven close to the shore by the heavy wind, and always noticed that these sepulchral canoes were perforated at the bottom. I was informed that this is always done for the twofold purpose of letting out the water which the rains may deposit in them, and of preventing their ever being used again by the living.
The 3rd was a boisterous day. The southerly winds drove in a heavy tide from the Pacific, and lashed the Columbia into foam; but by keeping under the windward shore, we made steady progress till sunset, when the increased expanse of the river indicated that we were about fifteen miles from the sea. The wind died away, and we pushed on rapidly; but the darkness was so great that we lost our course, and grounded upon a sand-bar three miles to the {271} north of Tongue Point.[85] After considerable trouble, we succeeded in getting off, steered to the northern shore, and in half an hour were again in deep water. But “the ship, the ship,” was on every tongue. Was it above or below Tongue Point? If the latter, we could not reach it that night, for the wind freshened again every instant, and the waves grew angry and fearful, and dashed into the boat at every sweep of the paddles.
We were beginning to calculate our prospects of another hour’s breathing when the shadowy outline of the ship was brought between us and the open horizon of the mouth of the river, a half mile below us. The oars struck fast and powerfully now, and the frail boat shot over the whitened waves for a few minutes, and lay dancing and surging under the lee of the noble “Vancouver.” A rope was hastily thrown us, and we stood upon her beautiful deck, manifestly barely saved from a watery grave. For now the sounding waves broke awfully all around us. Captain Duncan received us very kindly, and introduced us immediately to the cordial hospitalities of his cabin. The next morning we dropped down to Astoria, and anchored one hundred {272} yards from the shore. The captain and passengers landed about ten o’clock; and as I felt peculiar interest in the spot, immortalized no less by the genius of Irving than the enterprize of John Jacob Astor, I spent my time very industriously in exploring it.
The site of this place is three quarters of a mile above the point of land between the Columbia and Clatsop Bay. It is a hillside, formerly covered with a very heavy forest. The space which has been cleared may amount to four acres. It is rendered too wet for cultivation by numberless springs bursting from the surface. The back ground is still a forest rising over lofty hills; in the foreground is the Columbia, and the broken pine hills of the opposite shore. The Pacific opens in the west.
Astoria has passed away; nothing is left of its buildings but an old batten cedar door; nothing remaining of its bastions and pickets, but half a dozen of the latter, tottering among the underbrush. While scrambling over the grounds, we came upon the trunk of an immense tree, long since prostrated, which measured between six and seven fathoms in circumference. No information {273} could be obtained as to the length of time it had been decaying.
The Hudson’s Bay Company are in possession, and call the post Fort George. They have erected three log buildings, and occupy them with a clerk,[86] who acts as a telegraph keeper of events at the mouth of the river. If a vessel arrives, or is seen laying off and on, information of the fact is sent to Vancouver, with all the rapidity which can be extracted from arms and paddles.
This individual also carries on a limited trade with the Chinook and Clatsop Indians; such is his influence over them, that he bears among the Company’s gentlemen the very distinguished title of “King of the Chinooks.” He is a fine, lusty, companionable fellow, and I am disposed to believe, wears the crown with quite as little injury to his subjects as to himself.
In the afternoon we bade adieu to Astoria, and dropped down toward Cape Disappointment.—The channel of the river runs from the fort in a north-western direction to the point of the Cape, and thence close under it in a south-westerly course the distance of four miles, where it crosses the bar. The wind was quite baffling while we {274} were crossing to the northern side; and we consequently began to anticipate a long residence in Baker’s Bay.[87] But as we neared the Cape, a delightful breeze sprang up in the east, filled every sail, and drove the stately ship through the heavy seas and swells most merrily.
The lead is dipping, and the sailors are chanting each measure as they take it; we approach the bar; the soundings decrease; every shout grows more and more awful! the keel of the Vancouver is within fifteen inches of the bar! Every breath is suspended, and every eye fixed on the leads, as they are quickly thrown again! They sink; and the chant for five fathoms enables us to breathe freely. We have passed the bar; Captain Duncan grasps his passengers by the hand warmly, and congratulates them at having escaped being lost in those wild waters, where many a noble ship and brave heart have sunk together and for ever.