Morcan Books & Films

On his first ever voyage, young English seaman John Jewitt (pictured) had to personally identify and name the decapitated heads of 25 crewmates after Mowachaht warriors attacked his ship The Boston on a rare fine spring day in Nootka Sound, Vancouver Island, in 1803.

Drawing on Jewitt’s diary entries, authors Lance and James Morcan describe what happened in chilling detail that fateful day in their bestselling historical adventure Into the Americas (A novel based on a true story).

John Jewitt…as he looked in later years. Note the wound left by a tomahawk on his forehead.

The Boston had anchored in Nootka Sound to trade muskets to the local First Nations people in exchange for sea otter furs. The Mowachahts, led by their inspirational chief, Maquina, took exception to being ripped off by white traders and slaughtered The Boston’s captain and 24 of his crewmembers, beheading them in the style of the First Nations people of the Pacific Northwest.

In the following excerpt from the novel, readers learn how Jewitt coped with the immediate aftermath of the slaughter when, after emerging from below deck, he was confronted by the sight of 25 heads lined up in rows on the vessel’s deck. Incidentally, the scar on Jewitt’s forehead was the legacy of a tomahawk blow he received during the aforementioned Mowachaht attack. He was only spared because he was the armourer’s apprentice and Maquina recognised that he could be put to good use maintaining and repairing the tribe’s muskets.

Excerpt follows:

In the semi-gloom of the steerage below deck, John regained consciousness. He had no recollection of recent events and had no idea how he’d ended up in his present state, curled up in the foetus position at the foot of the steerage steps. Nor did he know how long he’d been there. All he knew was his head hurt like hell, and something warm was running down his cheek and into his mouth. It took a minute to two to work out it was his own blood he could taste.

The blood ran from the nasty gash left on his forehead after Peshwar had tried to remove his head with his tomahawk. A dim recollection of that incident flitted through his befuddled brain as his senses slowly returned.

John had to shield his eyes when, at the top of the steps, the hatch was flung open and bright sunlight flooded the steerage compartment. Squinting, he could just make out the grim features of Maquina peering down at him.

“You…gun-maker…come,” the chief ordered in faltering English.

John tried in vain to struggle to his feet.

“Come…now,” Maquina ordered, impatient.

Finally, John managed to stand up. He proceeded to pull himself painfully up the steerage steps.

Dazed and frightened, the young Englishman emerged from below. He looked around in horror at the carnage. The bodies of a dozen or more warriors lay where they’d fallen on the bloodstained deck. There was no sign of any of the brig’s crew.

Chief Maquina pushed his captive ahead of him until they reached the quarter deck. Here, John was met by a sight that would remain with him for the rest of his days.

The heads of 25 of his crewmates were lined up in neat rows that extended all the way across the bloody deck from the starboard rail to the port-side rail. Most were recognizable, some barely recognizable and a few not remotely recognizable.

It took a moment for the ghoulish sight to register in John’s brain. When it did, he tried to scream. Something stuck in his throat before he could let the scream out. It was his own vomit. He sank to his knees, retching, before finally disgorging the contents of his stomach on the deck.

John realized he must have blacked out. He came to, to find himself lying face-down in his own vomit. Strong hands were roughly pulling him to his feet.

It was only when he saw the grizzled remains of his crewmates again that he knew he hadn’t been dreaming. Trembling violently, he started to sink to his knees for the second time in as many minutes.

Maquina grabbed his prisoner by the shirt collar and held him upright. “Tell Maquina if all men of tall ship here.”

Still shaking violently, John forced himself to study his crewmates’ heads. The young man was able to hold it all together until he recognized the head of his friend William Ingraham. William’s eyes were open and seemed to be staring straight at him, almost accusingly. “Nooooo!” John wailed. Again, he doubled over and retched. Finally, he managed to pull himself together long enough to answer Maquina. “Yes…they are all accounted for.” It was a guess. He was too traumatized to conduct any kind of a headcount.

Maquina suspected John may be lying. “Name them,” he demanded.

“What?” John looked at the chief, totally bemused. The nightmare was growing worse by the minute.

Maquina motioned to a short warrior to bring Salter’s head to John. The warrior picked up the captain’s head and held it up to the prisoner’s face. Salter’s unseeing eyes stared back at John who had to turn away in horror…

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Into the Americas (A novel based on a true story) is available as an audiobook courtesy of Amazon’s Audible initiative. (Listening time: 14hrs. 2mins.).

For those who prefer the printed word, the paperback version is available via Harvard Book Store, Barnes & Noble, Waterstones UK & Europe bookstores, Amazon and via public libraries.

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