February, 1811, while sailing on the high seas, a man named Joe Lapierre fell from the mainmast-head overboard, the ship at the time going eight knots—a boat was instantly lowered: in the mean time a hen-coop, binnacle, and some boards were thrown into the water, but he failed to get hold of anything, and soon fell a good mile or more astern. When picked up he was in a state of insensibility, and the crew made all possible haste to reach the ship; but, as they were approaching, the captain, in a peremptory tone, ordered them back to pick up the hen-coop, binnacle, and boards, before they came alongside, or put the man on board. The boat obeyed orders, went back again, picked up all, and returned to the ship at the end of fifty-two minutes—yet life was not quite extinct, for, after applying the usual remedies of salt, warm blankets, and friction, Lapierre revived.
But to return to the subject of Calpo's report—the conduct of Captain Thorn throughout, coupled with the fact of his having left Astoria without a {158} single officer on board his ship, led strongly to the conclusion that all was not right, and that the reports in circulation might ultimately prove true. The facts above stated I myself witnessed—fifty others witnessed them also: they cannot be denied nor gainsaid—yet such was the man who enjoyed Mr. Astor's unbounded confidence.
Various and conflicting were the reports that had from time to time reached Astoria respecting the fate of the Tonquin; yet all agreed in the main point—that is, in her destruction. She had also passed, by some months, the time of her expected return, so that there remained but little doubt of her fate; yet, subsequently to Calpo's statement, nothing transpired to add to our fears for a month or two, although during that time various individ-
