But we were over-hasty in blessing this breeze, which before midnight grew to a violent gale:  and for two days we drove before it in much distress—­Obed and I taking turns at conning the ship, since Captain Wills had received an awkward blow between the shoulders from the swinging of a loose block, and lay below in considerable pain and occasionally spitting blood, which made us fear some inward hurt.  During the night of the 4th, the wind moderated; but the weather turning thick again, we were hardly reassured.

Early on the 6th Captain Wills appeared once more on deck and sent me below to get some sleep.  I believe indeed that, had fate allowed, I could have slept round the clock.  But at ten that morning a violent shock pitched me clean out of my berth.  The Independence was aground.

The place of our shipwreck you will find in 47 degrees 66 minutes N. lat., between Vancouver’s Cape Flattery and the mouth of the Columbia River, but nearer to the former.  Luckily the Independence had run in upon soft ground and at high water:  so that when the tide dropped she still held together, though badly shaken and gaping in all her lower seams.  To save her was out of the question.  We therefore made the best of our way ashore in the dense fog, taking with us all our guns and the best part of our ammunition, as well as provisions and a quantity of sails and spars for rigging up tents.  On no side of us could we see further than twenty paces.  Of the inhabitants of this dreary spot—­if indeed it had inhabitants—­we knew nothing.  So we first of all cleaned and loaded our firearms, and then set to work to light a fire and erect a shelter.  We had done better, as it turned out, to have divided our company, and told off a fairly strong party to protect the ship.  As it was, Captain Wills remained on board with three men to cut away and take down some of the heavier tackling.

We had set up one tent and were at work on the second, when I heard an exclamation from Margit, who stood by the big cauldron, a few paces off, cooking our dinner of salt pork.  Looking up I saw a ring of savages all about us on the edge of the fog.

They were brown undersized men, clothed for the most part in dirty blankets and armed with short lances shod with iron, though one or two carried muskets.  These last I soon discovered to be toens, or elders, of the tribe.  They stood and observed us with great gravity (indeed in all my acquaintance with them I never knew one to smile) and in absolute silence.  I could not tell how many the fog concealed.  They made no aggressive movement.

I called to Margit, bidding her leave the cauldron and walk quietly towards us; and she did so.  Almost at once a savage thrust his lance into the pot, drew out our dinner on the end of it, and laid it on the sand.  One of the toens then cut up the pork with his knife and handed the portions round, retaining a large lump for himself.