Repairing the _Spray's_ sails--Savages and an obstreperous anchor-A
spider-fight--An encounter with Black Pedro--A visit to the steamship
_Colombia_,--On the defensive against a fleet of canoes--A record of
voyages through the strait--A chance cargo of tallow.
I was determined to rely on my own small resources to repair the
damages of the great gale which drove me southward toward the Horn,
after I had passed from the Strait of Magellan out into the Pacific.
So when I had got back into the strait, by way of Cockburn Channel, I
did not proceed eastward for help at the Sandy Point settlement, but
turning again into the northwestward reach of the strait, set to work
with my palm and needle at every opportunity, when at anchor and when
sailing. It was slow work; but little by little the squaresail on the
boom expanded to the dimensions of a serviceable mainsail with a peak
to it and a leech besides. If it was not the best-setting sail afloat,
it was at least very strongly made and would stand a hard blow. A
ship, meeting the _Spray_ long afterward, reported her as wearing a
mainsail of some improved design and patent reefer, but that was not
the case.
The _Spray_ for a few days after the storm enjoyed fine weather, and
made fair time through the strait for the distance of twenty miles,
which, in these days of many adversities, I called a long run. The
weather, I say, was fine for a few days; but it brought little rest.
Care for the safety of my vessel, and even for my own life, was in no
wise lessened by the absence of heavy weather. Indeed, the peril was
even greater, inasmuch as the savages on comparatively fine days
ventured forth on their marauding excursions, and in boisterous
weather disappeared from sight, their wretched canoes being frail and
undeserving the name of craft at all. This being so, I now enjoyed
gales of wind as never before, and the _Spray_ was never long without
them during her struggles about Cape Horn. I became in a measure
inured to the life, and began to think that one more trip through the
strait, if perchance the sloop should be blown off again, would make me
the aggressor, and put the Fuegians entirely on the defensive. This
feeling was forcibly borne in on me at Snug Bay, where I anchored at
gray morning after passing Cape Froward, to find, when broad day
appeared, that two canoes which I had eluded by sailing all night were
now entering the same bay stealthily under the shadow of the high
headland. They were well manned, and the savages were well armed with
spears and bows. At a shot from my rifle across the bows, both turned
aside into a small creek out of range. In danger now of being flanked
by the savages in the bush close aboard, I was obliged to hoist the
sails, which I had barely lowered, and make across to the opposite
side of the strait, a distance of six miles. But now I was put to my
wit's end as to how I should weigh anchor, for through an accident to
the windlass right here I could not budge it. However, I set all sail
and filled away, first hauling short by hand. The sloop carried her
anchor away, as though it was meant to be always towed in this way
underfoot, and with it she towed a ton or more of kelp from a reef in
the bay, the wind blowing a wholesale breeze.
Meanwhile I worked till blood started from my fingers, and with one
eye over my shoulder for savages, I watched at the same time, and sent
a bullet whistling whenever I saw a limb or a twig move; for I kept a
gun always at hand, and an Indian appearing then within range would
have been taken as a declaration of war. As it was, however, my own
blood was all that was spilt--and from the trifling accident of
sometimes breaking the flesh against a cleat or a pin which came in
the way when I was in haste. Sea-cuts in my hands from pulling on
hard, wet ropes were sometimes painful and often bled freely; but
these healed when I finally got away from the strait into fine
weather.
After clearing Snug Bay I hauled the sloop to the wind, repaired the
windlass, and hove the anchor to the hawse, catted it, and then
stretched across to a port of refuge under a high mountain about six
miles away, and came to in nine fathoms close under the face of a
perpendicular cliff. Here my own voice answered back, and I named the
place "Echo Mountain." Seeing dead trees farther along where the shore
was broken, I made a landing for fuel, taking, besides my ax, a rifle,
which on these days I never left far from hand; but I saw no living
thing here, except a small spider, which had nested in a dry log that
I boated to the sloop. The conduct of this insect interested me now
more than anything else around the wild place. In my cabin it met,
oddly enough, a spider of its own size and species that had come all
the way from Boston--a very civil little chap, too, but mighty spry.
Well, the Fuegian threw up its antennae for a fight; but my little
Bostonian downed it at once, then broke its legs, and pulled them off,
one by one, so dexterously that in less than three minutes from the
time the battle began the Fuegian spider didn't know itself from a
fly.
I made haste the following morning to be under way after a night of
wakefulness on the weird shore. Before weighing anchor, however, I
prepared a cup of warm coffee over a smart wood fire in my great
Montevideo stove. In the same fire was cremated the Fuegian spider,
slain the day before by the little warrior from Boston, which a Scots
lady at Cape Town long after named "Bruce" upon hearing of its prowess
at Echo Mountain. The _Spray_ now reached away for Coffee Island,
which I sighted on my birthday, February 20,1896.
[Illustration: "Yammerschooner"]
There she encountered another gale, that brought her in the lee of
great Charles Island for shelter. On a bluff point on Charles were
signal-fires, and a tribe of savages, mustered here since my first
trip through the strait, manned their canoes to put off for the sloop.
It was not prudent to come to, the anchorage being within bow-shot of
the shore, which was thickly wooded; but I made signs that one canoe
might come alongside, while the sloop ranged about under sail in the
lee of the land. The others I motioned to keep off, and incidentally
laid a smart Martini-Henry rifle in sight, close at hand, on the top
of the cabin. In the canoe that came alongside, crying their
never-ending begging word "yammerschooner," were two squaws and one
Indian, the hardest specimens of humanity I had ever seen in any of my
travels. "Yammerschooner" was their plaint when they pushed off from
the shore, and "yammerschooner" it was when they got alongside. The
squaws beckoned for food, while the Indian, a black-visaged savage,
stood sulkily as if he took no interest at all in the matter, but on
my turning my back for some biscuits and jerked beef for the squaws,
the "buck" sprang on deck and confronted me, saying in Spanish jargon
that we had met before. I thought I recognized the tone of his
"yammerschooner," and his full beard identified him as the Black Pedro
whom, it was true, I had met before. "Where are the rest of the crew?"
he asked, as he looked uneasily around, expecting hands, maybe, to
come out of the fore-scuttle and deal him his just deserts for many
murders. "About three weeks ago," said he, "when you passed up here, I
saw three men on board. Where are the other two?" I answered him
briefly that the same crew was still on board. "But," said he, "I see
you are doing all the work," and with a leer he added, as he glanced
at the mainsail, "hombre valiente." I explained that I did all the
work in the day, while the rest of the crew slept, so that they would
be fresh to watch for Indians at night. I was interested in the subtle
cunning of this savage, knowing him, as I did, better perhaps than he
was aware. Even had I not been advised before I sailed from Sandy
Point, I should have measured him for an arch-villain now. Moreover,
one of the squaws, with that spark of kindliness which is somehow
found in the breast of even the lowest savage, warned me by a sign to
be on my guard, or Black Pedro would do me harm. There was no need of
the warning, however, for I was on my guard from the first, and at
that moment held a smart revolver in my hand ready for instant
service.
"When you sailed through here before," he said, "you fired a shot at
me," adding with some warmth that it was "muy malo." I affected not to
understand, and said, "You have lived at Sandy Point, have you not I"
He answered frankly, "Yes," and appeared delighted to meet one who had
come from the dear old place. "At the mission?" I queried. "Why, yes,"
he replied, stepping forward as if to embrace an old friend. I
motioned him back, for I did not share his flattering humor. "And you
know Captain Pedro Samblich?" continued I. "Yes," said the villain,
who had killed a kinsman of Samblich--"yes, indeed; he is a great
friend of mine." "I know it," said I. Samblich had told me to shoot
him on sight. Pointing to my rifle on the cabin, he wanted to know how
many times it fired. "Cuantos?" said he. When I explained to him that
that gun kept right on shooting, his jaw fell, and he spoke of getting
away. I did not hinder him from going. I gave the squaws biscuits and
beef, and one of them gave me several lumps of tallow in exchange, and
I think it worth mentioning that she did not offer me the smallest
pieces, but with some extra trouble handed me the largest of all the
pieces in the canoe. No Christian could have done more. Before pushing
off from the sloop the cunning savage asked for matches, and made as
if to reach with the end of his spear the box I was about to give him;
but I held it toward him on the muzzle of my rifle, the one that "kept
on shooting." The chap picked the box off the gun gingerly enough, to
be sure, but he jumped when I said, "Quedao [Look out]," at which the
squaws laughed and seemed not at all displeased. Perhaps the wretch
had clubbed them that morning for not gathering mussels enough for his
breakfast. There was a good understanding among us all.
From Charles Island the _Spray_ crossed over to Fortescue Bay, where
she anchored and spent a comfortable night under the lee of high land,
while the wind howled outside. The bay was deserted now. They were
Fortescue Indians whom I had seen at the island, and I felt quite sure
they could not follow the _Spray_ in the present hard blow. Not to
neglect a precaution, however, I sprinkled tacks on deck before I
turned in.
On the following day the loneliness of the place was broken by the
appearance of a great steamship, making for the anchorage with a lofty
bearing. She was no Diego craft. I knew the sheer, the model, and the
poise. I threw out my flag, and directly saw the Stars and Stripes
flung to the breeze from the great ship.
The wind had then abated, and toward night the savages made their
appearance from the island, going direct to the steamer to
"yammerschooner." Then they came to the _Spray_ to beg more, or to
steal all, declaring that they got nothing from the steamer. Black
Pedro here came alongside again. My own brother could not have been
more delighted to see me, and he begged me to lend him my rifle to
shoot a guanaco for me in the morning. I assured the fellow that if I
remained there another day I would lend him the gun, but I had no mind
to remain. I gave him a cooper's draw-knife and some other small
implements which would be of service in canoe-making, and bade him be
off.
Under the cover of darkness that night I went to the steamer, which I
found to be the _Colombia,_ Captain Henderson, from New York, bound
for San Francisco. I carried all my guns along with me, in case it
should be necessary to fight my way back. In the chief mate of the
_Colombia,_ Mr. Hannibal, I found an old friend, and he referred
affectionately to days in Manila when we were there together, he in
the _Southern Cross_ and I in the _Northern Light,_ both ships as
beautiful as their names.
The _Colombia_ had an abundance of fresh stores on board. The captain
gave his steward some order, and I remember that the guileless young
man asked me if I could manage, besides other things, a few cans of
milk and a cheese. When I offered my Montevideo gold for the supplies,
the captain roared like a lion and told me to put my money up. It was
a glorious outfit of provisions of all kinds that I got.
[Illustration: A contrast in lighting--the electric lights of the
_Colombia_ and the canoe fires of the Fortescue Indians.]
Returning to the _Spray_, where I found all secure, I prepared for an
early start in the morning. It was agreed that the steamer should blow
her whistle for me if first on the move. I watched the steamer, off
and on, through the night for the pleasure alone of seeing her
electric lights, a pleasing sight in contrast to the ordinary Fuegian
canoe with a brand of fire in it. The sloop was the first under way,
but the _Colombia_, soon following, passed, and saluted as she went
by. Had the captain given me his steamer, his company would have been
no worse off than they were two or three months later. I read
afterward, in a late California paper, "The _Colombia_ will be a total
loss." On her second trip to Panama she was wrecked on the rocks of
the California coast.
The _Spray_ was then beating against wind and current, as usual in the
strait. At this point the tides from the Atlantic and the Pacific
meet, and in the strait, as on the outside coast, their meeting makes
a commotion of whirlpools and combers that in a gale of wind is
dangerous to canoes and other frail craft.
A few miles farther along was a large steamer ashore, bottom up.
Passing this place, the sloop ran into a streak of light wind, and
then--a most remarkable condition for strait weather--it fell entirely
calm. Signal-fires sprang up at once on all sides, and then more than
twenty canoes hove in sight, all heading for the _Spray_. As they came
within hail, their savage crews cried, "Amigo yammerschooner," "Anclas
aqui," "Bueno puerto aqui," and like scraps of Spanish mixed with
their own jargon. I had no thought of anchoring in their "good port."
I hoisted the sloop's flag and fired a gun, all of which they might
construe as a friendly salute or an invitation to come on. They drew
up in a semicircle, but kept outside of eighty yards, which in
self-defense would have been the death-line.
In their mosquito fleet was a ship's boat stolen probably from a
murdered crew. Six savages paddled this rather awkwardly with the
blades of oars which had been broken off. Two of the savages standing
erect wore sea-boots, and this sustained the suspicion that they had
fallen upon some luckless ship's crew, and also added a hint that they
had already visited the _Spray's_ deck, and would now, if they could,
try her again. Their sea-boots, I have no doubt, would have protected
their feet and rendered carpet-tacks harmless. Paddling clumsily, they
passed down the strait at a distance of a hundred yards from the
sloop, in an offhand manner and as if bound to Fortescue Bay. This I
judged to be a piece of strategy, and so kept a sharp lookout over a
small island which soon came in range between them and the sloop,
completely hiding them from view, and toward which the _Spray_ was now
drifting helplessly with the tide, and with every prospect of going on
the rocks, for there was no anchorage, at least, none that my cables
would reach. And, sure enough, I soon saw a movement in the grass just
on top of the island, which is called Bonet Island and is one hundred
and thirty-six feet high. I fired several shots over the place, but
saw no other sign of the savages. It was they that had moved the
grass, for as the sloop swept past the island, the rebound of the tide
carrying her clear, there on the other side was the boat, surely
enough exposing their cunning and treachery. A stiff breeze, coming up
suddenly, now scattered the canoes while it extricated the sloop from
a dangerous position, albeit the wind, though friendly, was still
ahead.
The _Spray_, flogging against current and wind, made Borgia Bay on the
following afternoon, and cast anchor there for the second time. I
would now, if I could, describe the moonlit scene on the strait at
midnight after I had cleared the savages and Bonet Island. A heavy
cloud-bank that had swept across the sky then cleared away, and the
night became suddenly as light as day, or nearly so. A high mountain
was mirrored in the channel ahead, and the _Spray_ sailing along with
her shadow was as two sloops on the sea.
[Illustration: Records of passages through the strait at the head of
Borgia Bay. Note.--On a small bush nearer the water there was a board
bearing several other inscriptions, to which were added the words
"Sloop _Spray_, March, 1896"]
The sloop being moored, I threw out my skiff, and with ax and gun
landed at the head of the cove, and filled a barrel of water from a
stream. Then, as before, there was no sign of Indians at the place.
Finding it quite deserted, I rambled about near the beach for an hour
or more. The fine weather seemed, somehow, to add loneliness to the
place, and when I came upon a spot where a grave was marked I went no
farther. Returning to the head of the cove, I came to a sort of
Calvary, it appeared to me, where navigators, carrying their cross,
had each set one up as a beacon to others coming after. They had
anchored here and gone on, all except the one under the little mound.
One of the simple marks, curiously enough, had been left there by the
steamship _Colimbia_, sister ship to the _Colombia_, my neighbor of
that morning.
I read the names of many other vessels; some of them I copied in my
journal, others were illegible. Many of the crosses had decayed and
fallen, and many a hand that put them there I had known, many a hand
now still. The air of depression was about the place, and I hurried
back to the sloop to forget myself again in the voyage.
Early the next morning I stood out from Borgia Bay, and off Cape Quod,
where the wind fell light, I moored the sloop by kelp in twenty
fathoms of water, and held her there a few hours against a three-knot
current. That night I anchored in Langara Cove, a few miles farther
along, where on the following day I discovered wreckage and goods
washed up from the sea. I worked all day now, salving and boating off
a cargo to the sloop. The bulk of the goods was tallow in casks and in
lumps from which the casks had broken away; and embedded in the
seaweed was a barrel of wine, which I also towed alongside. I hoisted
them all in with the throat-halyards, which I took to the windlass.
The weight of some of the casks was a little over eight hundred
pounds.
[Illustration: Salving wreckage.]
There were no Indians about Langara; evidently there had not been any
since the great gale which had washed the wreckage on shore. Probably
it was the same gale that drove the _Spray_ off Cape Horn, from March
3 to 8. Hundreds of tons of kelp had been torn from beds in deep water
and rolled up into ridges on the beach. A specimen stalk which I found
entire, roots, leaves, and all, measured one hundred and thirty-one
feet in length. At this place I filled a barrel of water at night, and
on the following day sailed with a fair wind at last.
I had not sailed far, however, when I came abreast of more tallow in a
small cove, where I anchored, and boated off as before. It rained and
snowed hard all that day, and it was no light work carrying tallow in
my arms over the boulders on the beach. But I worked on till the
_Spray_ was loaded with a full cargo. I was happy then in the prospect
of doing a good business farther along on the voyage, for the habits
of an old trader would come to the surface. I sailed from the cove
about noon, greased from top to toe, while my vessel was tallowed from
keelson to truck. My cabin, as well as the hold and deck, was stowed
full of tallow, and all were thoroughly smeared.