SOUTHWARD BOUND
At half past eleven that morning Lang was aboard a train for
Concepcion.
He had made a hurried study of maps and timetables, visited the
consulate and induced the consular secretary to telephone to the
railway offices for him. His only chance lay in railway speed. The
line followed the coast southward to Puerto Montt, nearly eight
hundred miles, which he hoped to reach in a couple of days, allowing
for South American railway methods. From Puerto Montt he could surely
hire some sort of sailing craft for the indefinite remainder of the
distance.
Vainly he wished now that he had had another day with Morrison at
Panama. The valley of the glacier was between Punta Reale, which he
located on the map, and the tiny settlement of La Carolina, over a
hundred miles farther south. This was all the sailing guide he had;
but from Morrison’s account, and Carroll’s, the valley of the glacier
gate was sufficiently conspicuous so that no one skirting the coast
could pass it by.
Now that he was moving again, depending solely on himself, no longer
groping in the dark, courage and energy came back. He was gambling his
bottom dollar now. This expedition would take all the money he had
left; but he was ready to risk it all, and his life as well, rather
than be beaten. Speed was all he longed for now.
The speed was fairly satisfactory to Concepcion, where he had to
change trains, and wait half the night. Moving out through the gray
dawn, he saw that he was in a new sort of country. Away to the left
rose the mountains, steep, heavily timbered slopes, with now and
again, far away, a glimpse of an ice peak.
There were strips of stumpy clearings along the track, burned slashes,
backwoods farms, log cabins, berry bushes and rail fences, so that he
might have fancied himself in Vermont, but for the squat Chilenos and
brown Indians in ponchos that crowded the car, and the chatter of
Spanish and Araucanian mixing with the rattle of the slow-moving
train.
For there was not much speed now. They stopped interminably at
primitive stations, where there seemed no reason to stop at all. He
snatched a vile snack at a wayside eating house at noon; another at
dark, and night found them still jolting and clattering feebly down
the line to Valdivia.
It was cold in Valdivia, where again he had to wait for hours. He had
time to buy a heavy suit, boots, a woollen poncho, and, by an
afterthought, a small automatic pistol and a box of cartridges. It was
the first time Lang had ever carried weapons, and the hard lump at his
hip gave him an odd feeling of uneasiness and of adventure.
After Valdivia the railway frankly became a one-track frontier line,
the train a mixed one of freight and passenger coaches, slower than
ever. The mountains had come up closer and higher, veiled generally by
drifting mist, and it rained in torrents all one afternoon while they
trailed along the rusty pair of rails at a speed that seemed slow for
an omnibus.
Lang, fuming with impatience, could not talk with his fellow
passengers, who glanced at him with suspicion. He was already far
behind his planned schedule; he was hungry, thirsty, tired, nervous
and irritable. He tried to snatch a doze on the cane seats; he got out
and walked about at the endless stops to load lumber or cattle; and it
was almost with astonishment that he found himself actually and
finally deposited at Puerto Montt, the end of the railway, more than
three days after he had left Valparaiso.
It was evening and raining. He made his way over plank sidewalks into
the grubby little town, where he was surprised and relieved to find
German spoken as currently as Spanish. He could make more headway in
that language, and he established himself at one of the two hotels
which had a German manager, though he had unfortunately lapsed into
Chilean methods of hotel keeping.
It was too late for any researches that night, but his host reassured
him. At Valparaiso no one had ever heard of Punta Reale or La
Carolina, but here they knew all about it. The fishing fleet went to
La Carolina, and the German landlord was sure he would find plenty of
boats, plenty of men to take him.
Lang was haunted that night by visions of the _Chita_ tearing
southward under full power of gasoline; but cold calculation assured
him that he had a good start. It would take the power boat nearly a
week to get as far as this. A fast schooner with favoring winds ought
to land him at the glacier valley within three days, perhaps less.
Barring accidents, he had better than an even chance.
He was early at the straggling water front next morning, where he
found indeed plenty of small craft of various rig tied up at the
wooden wharf, while their owners lounged and smoked with carefree
indifference. Most of them spoke more or less German. In fact, Lang
learned that Puerto Montt was originally a settlement of German
immigrants, but these fishermen of the second generation had grown
South Americanized. A shake of the head, a “_No pues, señor_,” was
what he got in most cases. Some demanded an exorbitant hire for their
boats; others required a week to prepare for the voyage. Lang,
irritable with impatience, was growing discouraged, when he came upon
a young fisherman who, by his round fair face and blond hair, might
have been known to the experienced eye as a north European at a
hundred yards.
Lang came to terms with him almost immediately. Gustav Dorner had been
born at Puerto Montt, but he spoke German well, and owned a schooner
in partnership with his brother Henry. He would go to La Carolina, or
anywhere, for two hundred and fifty dollars in gold, Lang to provide
all supplies for the voyage, and could start the next morning. His
schooner, the _Condor_, might not be a flyer, but she looked seaworthy
and well kept, and, moreover, was not foul with fish like most of the
others, having been lately used for freighting Chiloe Island potatoes
up to Talhuna.
La Carolina was the reputed destination. The real objective Lang kept
to himself. When he sighted the glacier valley he could cut the voyage
short, and he surprised his crew by ordering them to lay in supplies
for three men for three weeks.
He allowed them to do the bargaining at the local stores for dried
meats, meal, flour, potatoes, all the American canned goods to be had.
He picked out himself a couple of spades and picks, an ax and hatchet,
a packet of blasting cartridges and fuse, a crowbar and drill, and
also a .44 caliber Winchester with two hundred cartridges. There was a
flurry of shopping, transporting goods, stowing them away, adjusting
the schooner’s gear, that lasted all that afternoon. Lang had been
mortally afraid that _mañana_ would prevail at the last; but he had
revived the latent Northern energy in his Chilean Germans, and at four
o’clock the next morning Gustav called at the hotel for him, according
to agreement.
The disk of the sun was not yet over the reddened Cordillera when they
were off, slipping down the channel behind Chiloe Island, with a
light, fair breeze—the last lap of the race, which Lang began to feel
confident now of winning.
All went smoothly and that first day was a delight. The sun shone with
springlike warmth; the breeze freshened, fair on the quarter, and the
_Condor_ made great speed, keeping down the inside channel, past one
huge, rocky, wooded island after another.
Lang got out his repeater and practiced with that unfamiliar weapon at
floating sticks and shore targets. Gustav, at the tiller beside him,
entertained him with stories of the Chilean frontier, and of how his
father had come to America to avoid conscription. They ate a cold
lunch on board and kept on till the light failed, and when they landed
for a night camp Gustav estimated that they had covered one hundred
and fifty kilometers.
Lang was jubilant. Another such day might almost end it. But the next
morning came up darkly over tossing, slate-colored water, with a
thrashing rain. It was what Lang came to know later as typical south
Chilean weather.
All that day he sat stiffened and drenched in his heavy poncho,
feeling the water drip down his neck from his hat, and wondering if he
would get pneumonia or rheumatism from this. But, to his surprise, he
felt strong with health and vitality, and even in high spirits, for
they were still making speed. The wind was from the west now, and
stronger. The boat plunged and heeled, flinging spray far over her
streaming decks. Gustav and Henry, at tiller and sheet, handled her
with the skill of jockeys, apparently unconscious of the weather, and
Lang’s heart warmed toward these patient, skillful, simple sailors.
The rain slackened in the afternoon, but it did not clear all day, and
that night they slept all together, huddled under the schooner’s deck,
with a tarpaulin over them.
Lang slept better than on shore, however, and was surprised to find
himself neither ill nor rheumatic the next morning. It was not
raining, but gray clouds drove low and heavy over the sky, gusts of
mist swept the sea, and a smart west wind blew, promising to
strengthen. Coming gustily through the gaps between the tangles of
outer islands, it drove the _Condor_ along at a great rate, an
increasing rate, and toward noon the two Germans took a reef in the
mainsail, with some blind assistance from the passenger.
The mountains rose very high here, white-tipped, most of them, and
that afternoon Lang espied a great white streak, dim through mist,
extending down the slope and splitting the dark cedar forests almost
to the coast line. It was a glacier—not the glacier he was seeking,
but the sight gave him a prospective thrill, and a couple of hours
later they sighted Punta Reale.
At the view of that huge, rocky headland reaching far out like a
barrier Lang felt that he was almost at the goal. It was a hard
obstacle to pass with that wind. The Germans, after some consultation,
wanted to land on one of the islands and wait for a shifting or a
slackening of the breeze. There was not sea room to beat far enough to
windward to clear the promontory.
Lang’s impatience rebelled. It might mean spending twelve hours
immobile. He spoke vehemently; he had his hand on the pistol, prepared
to use force, and the men obeyed the voice of authority. But within
the next hour Lang repented of his insistence.
They hauled as far into the wind as possible, making heavy weather of
it as they beat westward and ever so little ahead. Just off the
headland the breeze seemed to stiffen, coming in violent gusts. The
schooner made a great deal of leeway. She seemed certainly going
ashore. They were so close that Lang heard the crash and suck back of
the seas on that wall of black rock; he could see the crannies
spouting water as the waves retreated, and the frothing uprush again.
They were approaching it; then for minutes they seemed barely to hold
their own; then they were creeping away, thrashing and plunging, a
hundred yards farther, and then with a free sweep they began to run
down the other side of the headland with the wind once more
quartering.
Lang’s breath came freely again. His crew were smiling all over their
streaming faces. There was a long island to seaward now, giving much
shelter, and for a mile or two they ran in smooth water and with a
broken breeze.
A gap in the archipelago brought a gusty sweep, then there was shelter
again, and then another blast from the open sea. A long and lofty
island followed for more than a mile, and then a great opening.
The schooner rushed out of the shelter into the gap, and Lang never
knew how disaster came, so quick it was. Perhaps the steersman had a
moment of carelessness, after the sheltered run, and was not quick
enough to meet the great gust that whooped down from the open Pacific.
The boat heeled, went almost over. Henry sprang forward, and the next
moment the mast snapped close to the deck, and sail and rigging went
forward and overboard in a wild, flapping tangle.
It carried the young German with it. Lang caught a single glimpse of
him as he went under. Like lightning Gustav flung a line that fell
short, and they saw no more of him.
Gustav was thrusting a great knife into his hand, screaming to him to
cut. The schooner was drifting fast toward the shore, a short quarter
of a mile away. Together they slashed at the tackle that was dragging
the _Condor’s_ bows half under water, and the craft righted as the
sail tore loose and surged sinking alongside.
“This is the end!” Lang thought, following Gustav’s gaze toward the
shore. It was a long, sloping, gravelly beach, where the surf rushed
up and ran back, two hundred yards away now, so fast the wind was
driving them in.
But the shore was not the danger. It was a broken line of black
points, spouting white froth, that was hardly a hundred yards ahead—an
almost submerged sprinkle of barrier rocks that they could avoid only
by luck.
Long moments passed as the men clung to the uncontrollable hull,
before it became evident that she was going to strike fairly on the
reef. Lang threw off his heavy poncho, preparing to swim for it.
Gustav crept forward to the prow with a long, stout pole, evidently
with the insane idea of fending off.
The last moments of the approach seemed endlessly slow. Fascinated,
Lang watched that jagged black crag, almost within arm’s length. He
saw the water draw back, showing its wet, weed-grown sides, surge up
foaming to the top and again suck back, and then the _Condor_ smashed
with a terrific surge and shock.
Gustav was dashed helplessly forward, clean over and upon the crag,
and Lang saw a sudden flicker of crimson through the foam. The
schooner half recoiled, sticking on the rock, lifted to another wave
and smashed down again.
Lang hardly knew whether he jumped or was pitched overboard. He went
clear of the rock, battered by the waves, swimming with all his
strength, drawn back, floating, fighting, growing almost automatic,
till at last he felt solidity under his feet and rose gasping and
choking.