Pitching, and swinging, and dashed about in this fearful manner for
some time, the anchor was at length disengaged, and dragged along the
bottom with a grating noise, which, with the roaring of the rapid, and
the whistling of the wind through the rigging, formed a combination
of sounds that would have appalled the most resolute. The fog having
cleared away, we discovered a point projecting far into the river,
some two hundred yards below, towards which we were drifting
broadside, and rapidly nearing. The boats were got ready, to escape,
if possible, the impending catastrophe, when the vessel was suddenly
brought to with a tremendous jerk, and instantly swung round to the
tide. By this time, however, its strength was considerably abated, and
daylight soon appearing, I sent on an Esquimaux who had come on board,
with a note to the post, requesting that a pilot should be sent us
with the utmost despatch.

Meantime, seeing our way clear before us, we weighed anchor, and
advanced to within three miles of the establishment, when a boat was
seen approaching, rowed by six stout islanders. On coming along-side,
a rope was thrown to them, and made fast to the fore-stem. Four of the
men had scrambled on board, when a sudden blast swelled our sails, and
propelled us through the water with such force, that the fore-part
of the boat was torn away, leaving one of the men floundering in the
water, and the other clinging to the rope. The latter was dragged on
board, severely bruised; but the former remained in the water for at
least two hours, and would have perished before our eyes, had he not
got hold of a couple of oars, by which he managed to keep himself
afloat. We soon anchored opposite the post, and every exertion being
made to expedite the departure of the vessel, we were in the course of
a few days left to vegetate in quiet.