Dreams of El Dorado

by H. W. Brands

  The next morning brought evidence that Thorn was right to think the Indians would relent. The canoes returned, and the Indians seemed chastened and willing to trade on Thorn’s terms. The captain let them aboard. But a local interpreter who had been enlisted by Thorn noticed that several of the Indians seemed to be hiding things under their shirts. The interpreter warned the partner, who in turn alerted Thorn. The captain scoffed but nonetheless ordered the crew to weigh anchor and make sail, both as a precaution and as a bargaining tactic. If the Indians thought Thorn was about to leave, he thought, they would be even more willing to trade.

  Trade wasn’t what they had in mind this day. At a shout from one of them, the Indians pulled knives and clubs from beneath their shirts and viciously assaulted the whites aboard the Tonquin. The ship’s clerk went down first, stabbed in the back. The partner suffered a grievous blow from one of the Indian clubs; he fell over the rail into the water, where he was quickly killed by Indian women in the canoes. Thorn fought back as best he could, but such was the surprise that he was armed only with a folding knife. He stabbed a leader of the Indians in the heart, killing him at once. But he was then overwhelmed by several other Indians, whose blows knocked him to the deck. The Indians leaped upon him and stabbed him to death. His body was tossed overboard.

  The remaining members of the crew fought desperately for their lives. With clasp knives and marlin spikes they wounded several of the Indians. But the Indians were better armed and too numerous, and one by one the crew members fell in their own blood.

  Yet a few managed to retreat to the ship’s cabin, where they barricaded themselves behind its locked door. They seized some muskets in the cabin and, smashing holes in the cabin wall, fired at the Indians on deck. This changed the balance in the fight, and the Indians leaped off the deck into the water to escape the bullets. They climbed into the canoes and backed away from the ship. Heartened, the surviving crew members emerged from the cabin and manned the ship’s cannons, which they trained on the canoes. Several volleys wreaked mayhem on the attackers, who fled for safety.

  The bay fell quiet. Even the wind died. The sails of the ship went slack. For several hours the vessel showed no signs of life. The Indians couldn’t tell if the whites had all succumbed of their wounds or were simply lying low. Night fell.

  At dawn the next day the Tonquin remained where she had been. The Indians grew curious and cautiously approached, hoping to seize its cargo. As they drew near, the ship’s clerk, who had survived his stab wound, appeared on deck. In gestures that betokened surrender, he invited them to come aboard. They did so—a few at first, then dozens and scores, each eager for his share of the booty. In their haste they failed to notice that the clerk had gone below.

  Suddenly a huge explosion blew the ship to pieces. Bodies of the Indians were hurled far into the air; severed arms and legs littered the surface of the water. Many were killed outright; others died of their wounds shortly or after lingering in pain.

  The explosion shocked and mystified the Indians who survived the carnage. But they recovered sufficiently to take their vengeance on four members of the crew who had slipped away from the ship during the night in a boat, hoping to make their way south to Astoria. The wind had been against them, and they had been forced ashore. Exhausted by their efforts and by the events of the day, they fell into a deep sleep. Before they awoke they were discovered by the Indians and taken captive. They were brought to the Indians’ village, where they lived long enough to tell their story to the Indian interpreter. They explained that during the night they had weighed their chances of escape. The clerk wanted them all to take the ship to sea and sail to Astoria. But the four crew members pointed out that the wind was in the wrong direction; it would simply drive them to shore. The four proposed escaping in the boat; the clerk, weakened from his wound, said they would have to go without him. In any event, he had plans for vengeance against the Indians. The four did leave, and the next day the clerk had his vengeance. After luring the Indians on board, he descended to the powder magazine. He touched a spark to the powder, killing himself and several score Indians.

  The surviving four didn’t live much longer—they were tortured and killed. Eventually the Indian interpreter carried the gruesome tale of the Tonquin and its spectacular demise to Astoria, where the remaining Astorians heard it and shuddered.

  6

  COMCOMLY’S DISMAY

  THE DESTRUCTION OF THE TONQUIN DEALT A HEAVY BLOW to the Astor project; it also revealed the simple but ineluctable theme of violence in the history of the American West: of humans killing one another in the struggle for control of Western resources. As time would prove, violence would be the defining characteristic of the West. When the violence diminished to the background level of the rest of the country, the West would no longer be the West but simply another part of America.

  At the moment, the loss of the Tonquin deprived the Astorians of transport for the furs they would acquire, and the loss of its cargo left them short of the wherewithal to pay for the furs. The grisly deaths of Thorn and the others spooked the survivors, causing them to eye Comcomly with grave distrust. At one point one of the partners at Astoria resorted to a stratagem whose consequences would haunt Americans in Oregon for generations. He summoned Comcomly and the other Chinook chiefs and told them he was of vengeful mind on account of the evil fate that had befallen the Tonquin. He warned them not to cross him and showed them a bottle. In the bottle, he said, was smallpox. The Indians knew about the disease: a smallpox epidemic had ravaged the coastal tribes a few years before, following a visit by another trading ship. If he uncorked the bottle, the partner said, smallpox would escape and devastate the Indians again. His hand was restrained for the moment, but if the Indians did the whites any harm, the smallpox would be unleashed.

  The Indian leaders swore their friendship. They would never harm the whites, they said. The bottle must never be uncorked.

  The partner nodded severely. The smallpox would remain in the bottle, but only so long as the Indians behaved themselves.

  DUNCAN MCDOUGALL HAD ANOTHER PLAN FOR DEALING with the Chinooks. McDougall was one of the Scots partners, and he thought to preach love rather than vengeance. Specifically, he asked Comcomly for the hand of his daughter in marriage. Perhaps McDougall really loved the girl; he would hardly be the first or last white man to take an Indian wife in the West, and some of the unions evinced great tenderness and durability. But practicality likely inspired the idea. Comcomly was a vital supplier of salmon, smelt and sturgeon to the fort, and whatever helped keep the fish coming would aid the enterprise.

  Comcomly, for his part, thought the plan a splendid one. A family connection to the Astorians and their supplies of trade goods would reinforce his position as the dominant chief of the Chinooks. The Americans eventually called Comcomly the “King of the Chinooks,” and like many another king he was pleased to employ matrimony in the service of his realm.

  The arrangements were made through emissaries. Comcomly, ever the shrewd bargainer, insisted on suitable compensation for delivering his beloved daughter. A deal was struck, and the great day dawned. Comcomly and the royal family crossed the Columbia from the Chinook village on the north bank to Astoria on the south in a fleet of canoes bedecked for the occasion. He wore a blue blanket and a red breech cloth; special paint accentuated his features and feathers adorned his head. The bride, too, was painted, according to Chinook marital custom, and anointed with oil; a beautiful pony awaited her at the landing of the canoes and carried her to the fort, where the bridegroom received her with appropriate gratitude and honor.

  The ceremony was followed by a honeymoon on the premises of the fort, as there was nowhere better for the newlyweds to go. Whether or not there was a meeting of hearts, the union served its commercial and political purpose. Comcomly became a regular presence at Astoria, visiting his daughter and advising his son-in-law on relations with the Chinooks and other tribes, on practical matters of supply, and on addi
tional questions important to the survival of the Astor enterprise. Comcomly particularly favored the blacksmith’s shop, and his requests for knives and axes caused the smith to set aside his current work to fill the chief’s order. Comcomly appreciated the consideration and became even more supportive of his son-in-law.

  YET THE UNDERLYING PROBLEMS OF ASTORIA PERSISTED. THE expected war between the United States and Britain broke out in June 1812, and the British promptly imposed a blockade on the American coast. The blockade prevented the timely dispatch of ships to replace the Tonquin and develop the Pacific trade. After one Astor vessel, the Lark, did get through the British cordon on the East Coast, it sank off Hawaii on the way to Oregon.

  The decline of Astoria’s fortunes, compounded by the onset of war, prompted Duncan McDougall to reassess his partnership with John Jacob Astor. McDougall had previously worked for the North West Company, and he concluded he might do so again. Indeed, in the denouement of what transpired, friends of Astor alleged that McDougall had plotted defection all along. Whether or not this was true, McDougall surreptitiously communicated with agents of the North West Company and hinted that he might be willing to deliver Astoria to them for a modest price, including a partnership for him in their company. McDougall’s interpretation of his contract with Astor allowed him to do this in case the Astor enterprise failed. McDougall now judged that failure was nigh. He rationalized that the sale of Astoria and its inventory to the North West Company would salvage for Astor as much as was possible under the circumstances.

  News from the war forced his hand. The North West men alerted him that a British warship was bound for the Columbia, with the goal of seizing Astoria for the British crown. McDougall reckoned that a sale at any price was better than a seizure, and he made the final arrangements with the Northwesters.

  The British warship arrived in due course. The officers and men expected to win a handsome prize of furs, which might be converted to cash and shared among them, according to the rules of warfare at the time. They were greatly annoyed to discover that there was no booty to seize, as the American goods now belonged to British subjects.

  More annoyed than the British crew was Comcomly. The old chief knew about the war between the Americans and the British, but he didn’t know about the sale of Astoria to the Northwesters. When the British warship arrived, Comcomly grew excited at the prospect of fighting the invaders at the side of his son-in-law. He explained how his warriors would kill the British. His men would conceal themselves in the woods that ran down to the shore, and when the British boats landed, the warriors would attack. The King George men would die before they could mount any resistance. It would be a glorious victory.

  McDougall explained that this could not be. The British must be treated as friends. There would be no resistance.

  Comcomly was mystified and disappointed. He returned to his longhouse convinced that he had erred in selecting a son-in-law. To all who would listen, he complained that he had thought his daughter was getting a brave chief for a husband, but instead she got an old woman.

  7

  THE WHITE-HEADED EAGLE

  IF JOHN JACOB ASTOR WAS NOT TO BE THE LORD OF THE Western fur trade, perhaps John McLoughlin would be. Astor later disputed the sale of Astoria, after the War of 1812 ended in the 1815 Treaty of Ghent, which stipulated a return to the status quo ante bellum. Astor reasonably contended that the transfer of Astoria to the North West Company was a forced sale, a de facto seizure. Yet he lost the argument, and the business. The ground beneath Astoria indeed reverted to American control, but the sale of the inventory and equipment was treated as a commercial transaction. More important, the suspension of the activities of Astor’s company allowed the North West Company to entrench itself all along the Columbia. Rooting the Northwesters out would have required a commercial and political war Astor might have been willing to wage if he had received the support of the U.S. government. But the government at that time was less solicitous of the welfare of American enterprise than the British government was of British enterprise, and when the administrations of James Madison and James Monroe ignored Astor’s requests for help, he dropped the project, leaving Oregon to the North West Company.

  The Northwesters had their own problems, starting with a nasty struggle with the Hudson’s Bay Company. The latter had deep roots in the history of British North America, dating from 1670, and powerful friends in the British government. The North West Company had been founded in 1779 to compete with the Hudson’s Bay Company, and during the next four decades the two companies battled for control of the fur trade of western Canada and the Oregon country. Tactics ranged from stealing equipment and bribing Indians to trapping out a region—creating a fur desert—and instigating physical violence. The violence at times rose to the level of irregular war. In 1816, in Canada’s Red River Colony, near where Winnipeg would grow up, Métis—mixed-race—employees and associates of the North West Company responded with outrage to a decision by the governor to ban the export of pemmican, a vital foodstuff in the fur trade. The decision was seen as a gift to the Hudson’s Bay Company and a heavy blow to the North West Company. A band of Métis seized an inventory of Hudson’s Bay pemmican, claiming that the Hudson’s Bay Company had stolen it from them. As they carried it off, they were challenged by a group of Bay Company men led by the colony’s new governor, the successor to the pemmican hoarder. Someone fired; then everyone fired. Within minutes, twenty-two people were dead, including the governor. The great majority of the dead were Bay Company men.

  John McLoughlin missed the Battle of Seven Oaks, as the affair was called. McLoughlin had worked for the North West Company for more than a decade, and he was on his way to Red River when he learned of the impending trouble. He slowed his pace long enough to avoid the bloodletting. But the episode convinced him, as it did many others on both sides of the fur-trade war, that things were getting out of control. The British government pressured the two companies to cease fire. The result was a shotgun marriage, effected in 1821, that retired the name North West Company and left the augmented Hudson’s Bay Company in sole command of the fur trade of western Canada and Oregon. The company’s Latin motto, Pro Pelle Cutem, translated as “A skin for a skin,” seemed apter than ever.

  THE MERGER MADE MCLOUGHLIN A PARTNER IN THE HUDSON’S Bay Company, and the company’s head, George Simpson, made McLoughlin the chief factor—director—for the Columbia district, which was to say Oregon. McLoughlin and Simpson traveled together down the Columbia to Astoria, where the North West Company continued to operate a trading post. But they decided that Astoria was the wrong place for the regional command post the company required. It was too far from the richest beaver streams of the upper Columbia, tempting Indians and trappers to sell their pelts to Americans coming across the Rockies from St. Louis. It lacked sufficient arable land to make the district self-supporting in foodstuffs, as the cost-cutting Simpson insisted and the empire-building McLoughlin desired.

  And it was on the wrong side of the Columbia River. By the early 1820s the only countries actively competing for title to Oregon were Britain and the United States. The Spanish had relinquished their claim in an 1819 treaty with the United States. Russia talked about expanding south from settlements in Alaska, but James Monroe in 1823 issued a statement warning all the European countries against planting new settlements or colonies in the Americas. Only later would Monroe’s statement be called the Monroe Doctrine, and its contemporary effect on Russian thinking is unclear. The Russians were stretched in America already; Monroe’s warning might have been superfluous. In any case, Russia never subsequently pressed a claim to Oregon.

  This left Britain and America. In the wake of their recent war, neither side sought a confrontation over Oregon, and so in 1818 they agreed to defer a decision. For ten years, nationals of both countries could conduct trade and other activities in Oregon without prejudice to the interests of either country. In 1828 the matter would be revisited.

  Neither J
ohn McLoughlin nor George Simpson—nor anyone else, for that matter—required much imagination to suppose that Oregon would one day be divided between Britain and the United States. The obvious geographical marker was the Columbia River, and the likely outcome was that Britain would get the north bank of the river and the United States the south. If this did occur, the Hudson’s Bay Company would lose whatever investment it made in a command post at Astoria.

  Consequently McLoughlin and Simpson chose a new site for the regional headquarters a hundred miles up the Columbia from Astoria. “From what I had seen of the country,” McLoughlin recalled later, “I formed the conclusion, from the mildness and salubrity of the climate, that this was the finest portion of North America that I had seen, for the residence of civilized man.” Fort Vancouver, named for George Vancouver, arose on the Columbia’s north bank a few miles above the point where the Willamette River enters the Columbia from the south. The site had magnificent vistas: the broad Columbia immediately in front, the Coast Range to the west, the Cascades to the east, with snow-covered Mount Hood towering five thousand feet above the ridgeline of the Cascades, themselves reaching six thousand feet.

  The new fort was erected on a plain above the river—at first not far enough above: it had to be relocated after some early flooding. As it matured it evolved into a small village, with some forty buildings surrounded by a wooden stockade twenty feet high, in the shape of a rectangle 750 feet long by 450 feet wide. The buildings included storage sheds, workshops, houses and barracks, a chapel, a school and other structures. Surrounding the fort were vegetable gardens, fields planted in wheat and potatoes, orchards and pastures. A dairy provided milk, a sawmill boards, a tannery leather, a shipyard boats. As the population based at the fort grew, additional housing was constructed outside the stockade.