Loss
of "Port Gordon" March 3rd, 1889
February
27th, 1889
The
"Port Gordon" is gone and I have lost everything but myself.
She went ashore as far as I can ascertain about 50 miles
of (sic) Cape Flattery on Wednesday morning at daybreak.
Just after striking, attempts were made for the boats,
but the surf broke on board and swept nearly everything
away, the wreck of the wheel, wheelbox, binnacles, etc.
Caught my legs on the iron rods of poop rail and for the
moment I thought they were at least severed from my body.
I managed to scramble on forecastle somehow, where all
the rest were assembled, when Garcia, the Mexican volunteered
to swim ashore with a line, vain and fatal attempt. He
was caught by the undertow and taken right to sea. I then
pointed out to them the advisability of desisting from
further attempts meantime as it was about high water (and)
to get rafts made of what they could get. I then called
to the boatswain to come aft with me to see and secure
some provisions if possible.
We
got after much scrambling only to find the entire cabin
gutted with all the wreckage floating about. I ventured
down and secured some small tins. Bye and bye (sic) the
time came from another attempt to get a line ashore which
fortunately proved successful and by this and two hatches
the great part were landed, one exception being a man
(Campbell) who was washed away and drowned. The cook and
steward died after landing. Smith (Chief Officer) was
the last to leave the ship before me but he had only got
half ashore when the line of communication parted, he
swam ashore and apparently hope for myself was gone.
The
first inclination was to risk swimming but after the horrors
of the day, coupled with fact of darkness coming on and
a rising tide, besides my legs being disabled, I decided
to remain by the wreck. How the dreadful night passed
I scarcely know, the greater part of the time I was wrapped
up inside the foretopmast staysail with the sea sweeping
at times right over me. How grateful was I to see daylight
at last, but alas it only made hope give way to despair,
for not a living soul could I see on the beach. I hailed
and rang the bell, apparently they had given me up. Thus
the weary day wore on and meanwhile as the masts were
still standing I scrambled into the foretop. Somewhere
about noon I at last discerned some Indians congregate
on the beach and light a fire.
Conceive
my horror to fancy I might be saved from one horro to
the more horrible one of having my ribs roasted for a
feast, for these Indians bear a dreadful name. From their
antics later on, I began to gather hope and as low water
approached at 4 p.m. they ventured out a considerable
way. I knew the time had now come to make the attempt,
so getting down from the top I stripped and lowered myself
down the ship's side and struck out. Fortunately I had
hit on the proper time, as in place of getting into the
undertow I was carried by the first roller well clear
of the ship. The Indians now came boldly and grasped me,
but my strength was exhausted and they got me on shore
quite helpless. I was carried to the fire, stripped of
my single wet garment and put into some of their warm
ones when I was not long in coming round.
My first cry was for water as my throat was burning with
thirst and on opening my eyes they lighted on two of the
crew, who gave me the intelligence that the others had
left. They had hailed the ship at daybreak but I never
heard them, these two being unable to follow. In about
an hour's time the Indians asked me to their village (one
could speak a little English) and being unable to move
I was carried about three miles and then put into a canoe
and landed here. It proved a dreadful night of rain so
it was well they removed me to shelter.
I cannot speak too highly of the kindness of the Indians
but with aching bones, bruised and lacerated it has been
a time of agony. Smith I understand has gone north with
the others. I have sent a note to him as I do not think
he can reach anywhere in that direction. My duty is of
course to save all I can, but I could do nothing and today
the ship is reported to have gone to pieces, so my intention
is to try if possible to reach the Indian reservation
about 14 miles from here and if possible to get cross
country to Olympia thence by train to Tacoma. Should I
succeed in this I suppose I'll be called upon to account
for my conduct, but that gives me no concern. I want to
reach Home (sic). If I could get a pair of boots or anything
to cover my feet I daresay I could scramble along. I will
endeavor to post this as soon as I reach civilization
(sic) and meantime I hope to reach home in about three
weeks. It will be cross country to New York and likely
by Anchor or State Line to Greenock.
Signed
W. Gibb
Quinanet Indian Encampment
This
account is hand written by Captain William Gibb Master
of the "Port Gordon" Grandfather of Anne Gibb Smith (nee
Turreff)
Captain
Gibb successfully made the journey home to Glasgow and
lived till his eighties circua 1930. He informed the Geographical
Society of the Indians kindness who up till that time
had been thought to be cannibals.
Not
mentioned in his account is one scary moment when he was
taken ashore, to see a large pot boiling which he thought
was for himself. But it turned out the savory smell was
the ship's pig which had been washed ashore!
