SAIL HO!
_Jan. 8._ Some Indians ascended Table Mountain, near us, this morning,
where they obtain an extensive view of the Strait, and returned with
the report that a vessel was coming into the bay from the south-west.
Immediately the whole camp was in commotion, and the loud cry of
“Barko Americana! Barko Americana!” rang from tent to tent. Troops
of savages were soon mounted on their horses, and galloping off at
full speed to meet the coming stranger. Nothing seems to excite such
jubilant feelings as the approach of a vessel to their shores, and I
must confess that on this occasion my heart partook largely of the
general joy, though my emotions were excited by very different motives
from those of the crowd. They longed for tobacco, rum, and fire-arms;
we longed for news from the civilized world, for news from home. Hope
filled us with unutterable joy.
My companion mounted a horse and went down to the shore with the
Indians, while I remained to guard the tent. At evening Mr. Arms
returned and reported that the vessel was a French brig from
Valparaiso, bound to Havre; that three of the American sailors who
had so long been in Santa Maria’s clan had succeeded in getting on
board and shipping for France; and that the captain had received him
very courteously, and kindly offered us a free passage in his brig: a
generous offer, for which both we and our patrons and friends at home
will ever thank him.
Thus the first vessel we have seen has come and gone without a letter
or a paper from our dear country, or “a wish or a thought” from friends
who are dear to us as life. This is tantalizing, but we bear it
patiently, for it is one of the conditions of our mission to Patagonia.
“Though the vision tarry” we will wait for it, because it will come in
due time. We are not prepared to leave this country as yet, even by
the very favorable opportunity now offered us. We wish to meet other
Indian tribes, if possible, and to learn more of the country and of
the condition of its people, trusting that when our work shall have
been done, the good Lord will send us a direct conveyance back to our
country and friends. So we wait the will of our Master.
_Jan. 9._ We set out this morning before sunrise, to visit the French
brig. Found multitudes of natives on the shore, where they had spent
the night in the open air. As the wind was high and the sea rough, no
boat was sent to the shore from the brig, and about 8 +A.M.+ she was
under sail and wafted out of the harbor. Just as her sails were being
unfurled, two vessels were descried at a great distance coming in from
the east. This caused shouts of transport among the Indians, and a new
thrill of joy ran through my heart, for I said now surely we shall have
tidings from the outer world, and from our native land. So we all sat
down upon the banks of the Strait, determined to wait the arrival of
these vessels. Wind and tide opposed the progress of the schooners, and
they were long in beating up into the bay. Meanwhile I wrote a pencil
note to Mr. Arms, informing him of the approaching vessels and telling
him not to be anxious for me, as it was probable I should be obliged to
remain over night in order to communicate with them. This note I gave
to an Indian, bidding him to speed with it to Mr. Arms. Off he went at
full gallop and was soon out of sight.
It was almost sunset when the first schooner arrived and dropped her
anchor within hailing distance from the shore. I at once hailed the
vessel in English, and the captain sent his boat and brought me on
board. I introduced myself and told him the cause of our visit to this
country and our present condition among the Indians. I enquired for
letters, papers and news, but he replied that he had no letters and no
news, as he had been long at sea. He was from New Bedford, Mass. Soon
the second schooner, the Peruvian, of Boston, came up and anchored
outside of us, and I hailed her from the deck of the first. The captain
invited me cordially to come on board the Peruvian, but as it was
near night, the wind strong and the sea rough, it seemed imprudent to
attempt boarding her. She was reported bound for the Society Islands,
and the New Bedford vessel for the Sandwich Islands, carrying a cargo
of New England rum.
Having had no bread and no vegetables for nearly two months, I asked
the captain if he would sell us a few pounds of sea biscuit and a
few other edibles. He replied that he had nothing to spare; that
his voyage had been long and unfortunate, and that he must keep what
provisions he had. I then suggested that he might desire to replenish
his store of meat by trading a little with the Indians, of whom there
were many on shore. To this he objected, saying he did not like the
looks of these savages, and that he would have nothing to do with them.
Finding my suggestions rebuffed, and being very hungry, having eaten
nothing since sunrise, and thinking I might get some food among the
savages on shore, I asked the captain if he would be so kind as to
return me to the beach. To this he said no, for it was quite rough and
he had taken in his boats for the night.
I then said, “Very well, I am on board, and if you will allow me to
sleep on the transom and set me on shore in the morning, all will be
right.” So we went below to the cabin, where I hoped to see a table
spread for supper. But as no table was laid I reasoned that all hands
had eaten before I went on board; but the steward, for what reason I
know not, on clearing off the supper table, had left a plate, with
one pancake on it. Now we are forbidden to covet, but I found it hard
to suppress my desire to eat that cake. Still I held back till near
bed-time, trying hard to entertain the captain with conversation,
especially on matters pertaining to his profession as a seaman and on
my experiences of Patagonian life, hoping that my remarks on these
experiences in the matter of eating would be rightly interpreted. At
last forbearance seemed to cease to be a virtue, and I became desperate
and burst out with “Captain, I am very hungry; I have eaten nothing
since morning, and have eaten nothing made of flour for many weeks. I
see a cake on your table and with your permission I would like to eat
it.” He gave his consent, and immediately called out, “Steward! here,
bring on some grub; this man is hungry,” In rushed the steward with
a plate of “cold junk” (salt beef) and another of “hard-tack” (sea
biscuit). The feast was sweeter to my taste than the best Thanksgiving
dinner I ever ate, though it might have been sweeter still. I thanked
the captain for my delicious repast and lay down on the transom for the
night.
_Jan. 10._ Early this morning I awoke, and taking leave of the captain
and the vessel, went on shore with the mate, mounted my horse, and
with an Indian attendant sped over the plains to our little home, to
breakfast with Mr. Arms on hot soup and boiled guanaco.
Before leaving the beach, I saw the Peruvian under sail and seeking a
safer anchorage about a mile further up the bay. Hundreds of Indians
slept on the shore during the night, hoping to open a trade with the
vessels, and there they will remain, though half starved, for a week,
should the schooners remain so long.
Captain Congo put a new guanaco robe with a fine piece of venison
into my hands, as I landed this morning, wishing me to send them as
a present to the captain of the schooner in his name. This I did,
committing them to the charge of the mate who returned with the boat to
the vessel.
On board the New Bedford schooner yesterday, I met the three American
sailors who had succeeded in getting off to the French brig the day
before. The brig meeting this schooner coming into the bay, the master
requested the captain of the American vessel to take these men, which
he did. I found them divested of their Indian dress, washed, shaved,
and comfortably clad in the attire of seamen. All this cleansing and
clothing had been kindly done for them on board the French vessel,
and their appearance was so much improved I did not recognize them
at first, and when they addressed me by name I enquired where they
had seen me. The poor fellows were much elated at the opportunity of
leaving these now dreaded shores.
_Jan. 11._ The cry of “Barko!” again rang through the camp this
morning, and Mr. Arms took horse and went down to the Strait. On his
arrival he found the sail to be one of the schooners, which attempted
to sail yesterday morning and was driven back by a strong head-wind.
The Queen and her party have all come down and pitched with us, so that
we now have a camp of some 700 around us.
Last evening, about sunset, Captain Congo, with the large troop left at
Gregory’s Bay when I returned in the morning, came up from the sea in a
remarkably jubilant mood. The Indian who headed the train had an empty
flour-barrel before him, lying across the neck of his horse. On this
cask he was drumming with great energy, and shouting, “Americana barko
bono! Americana barko bono!” while the whole line of Indians joined in
the refrain, shouting, laughing, and making the welkin ring with their
jubilation.
We were sitting in our little tent and looking at the long line in
“Indian file,” when the drummer rode up in front of us, bent over and
tossed like a quoit a sea-biscuit into our tent. Another and another
followed and performed the same act, until we seemed in danger of a
surfeit. We were surprised, and could in no wise account for this
liberal shower of food, falling like manna from heaven. I had left
a ship that morning without a piece of bread or a grain of rice in
my pocket. How then had these savages succeeded in obtaining such a
supply? It is a riddle which we cannot interpret. We can only thank the
Lord for giving us, “without money and without price,” that which we
vainly sought with money, and which we would not have refused even at a
dollar a pound.
We invited Captain Congo and the Spanish Indian into our tent to-day,
to inquire more at length of them about the country and the people.
These men tell us that they have travelled all over Patagonia, and
their descriptions accorded so nearly with our maps that we were
satisfied that they had seen what they reported. We first requested
them to tell us what they knew of the Atlantic coast in going north
from the Strait. They first mentioned a river and a harbor where
vessels sometimes anchor, giving the number of days occupied by the
Indians in reaching that place. This we conclude to be Port Gallegas.
Next came Santa Cruz, which they named distinctly. After this, and
in a given number of days, they reached the small river which flows
into Port St. Julian. Next, after many days, they reached Port Desire,
with its river of considerable volume, and the _débris_ of its ancient
fort and settlement, once occupied by the Spaniards. Further on they
mentioned a great gulf, or a deep indenture of the coast, which must be
St. George’s Gulf. Still further north was another river of much water,
which must be the Chuput, and after long ramblings, and fording of some
smaller streams, they came in sight of the settlements in the region of
the Rio Negro.
In going up the coast they described much zigzagging to avoid obstacles
and to find fording places on the rivers. Their descriptions seemed
credible in a remarkable degree, as they accorded so nearly with the
map which was before us.
Having thus followed our guides along the Atlantic coast, where we had
data and way-marks to detect errors, we next requested them to lead us
through the interior, which, to all the world beside the Patagonian, is
a _terra incognita_, and a land of romantic conjecture.
They assured us that they had explored all that region, that in some
parts there was “much grass, much ostrich, much guanaco, much lion,”
with some other quadrupeds and a few birds. They also said that in one
place there was a great salt desert, with here and there lakes and
ponds of water, and we understood them to speak of regions of sand and
of something which we suppose to be volcanic ashes and other plutonic
products.
We then took them farther west, to the mountain ranges and spurs,
inquiring if the Indians had ever gone to the bases and foot-hills of
the great mountains. They assured us that they had, and that there were
woodlands and swamps which they could not penetrate, that the mountains
were high and rugged and bold, and that they were often covered with
snow, so that horses could find no grass, and that Indus would be very
cold and hungry and could not get over the mountains. All this they
acted out with energetic gesticulation, so that we could not mistake
them.
We then inquired as to the probable number of inhabitants in the whole
country. Santa Rio says there are three nations inhabiting this land,
speaking different languages and of different habits of life.
On the northern borders are what he called the Oucas tribe, numbering
several thousands. These live in tents of skin like the southern clans,
and are partly agricultural and partly nomadic. They have horned
cattle, horses, and sheep, and they also cultivate the earth to some
extent. Occasionally they remove to short distances to obtain grass for
their cattle when it is exhausted near them.
South of this region he again speaks of the great desert as covered
in some parts with thorns and prickly shrubs, so thick as to render
travelling very tedious. Still further south is the nation with whom
we live, occupying the open country from the Atlantic to the western
hills, and south to the Magellan Strait. These are sometimes called the
Santa Cruz nation, and number about a thousand. All these, he tells us,
we have met except one clan of a few hundreds, who are still hunting
far to the north. The other tribe is called the Port Famine tribe, few
in number, a mixed and inferior race, mostly wanderers from Tierra
del Fuego. With this clan we may include all the miserable savages of
Tierra del Fuego and of the western coast of Patagonia.
This account of the inhabitants of this great and wild country, with
its islands and smaller islets, may be approximately correct or it
may be erroneous. I give it as received on the best authority we now
have. But our data are few and our sources of information imperfect. If
corrected by further researches we shall be glad.
About the immortality of the soul and the character of the future
state, subjects which we brought forward in this conversation, we find
their notions somewhat similar to those of the North American Indians.
They believe in the existence of the soul after death, and in a
distinction between the good and bad. When a good Indian dies they say
he will go to a land where there is no night, no winter, no pain, and
no death, but where there is constant sunshine and eternal beauty, and
where all will be supplied with fine horses and with everything which
the heart desires; but as there will be no hunger or thirst there will
be no need of hunting and striving for food. When the bad Indian dies,
they say he will descend deep to an evil land, filled with darkness and
barrenness and thorns, where there is much fighting and sorrow.
We could not feel sure that these crude notions of the future state,
with its rewards and punishments, originated with the Patagonian
savages. It seems more probable that they are the result of imperfect
information on the Christian religion communicated to them by sailors
or Spaniards with whom they have come in contact.
We could not find that they have any distinct notions of a Supreme
Being who created and who sustains and governs all things. When we
called their attention to tangible objects, as mountains, waters, the
sun, moon, etc., and inquired who made all these things, their minds
seemed utterly blank, as if it were a subject on which they had never
bestowed a passing thought. As yet we have seen nothing which appeared
like religious worship among them. One day, while riding out in company
with Captain Louis, on coming to a clump of bushes he dismounted, and
with his knife cut off a portion of his horse’s mane, rolled it into a
little wisp, dug a hole among the bushes and carefully buried it. He
then remounted his horse and we rode on without explanation, so that I
was left only to conjecture as to the meaning of the act.
On inquiring how they would like to have American teachers come and
teach them to read and write, as we did, and to instruct them in all
things useful and good, they seemed delighted with the idea, and said
it was “much bono.” And when we suggested the thought of building
a large mission-house at Gregory’s Bay, where their children might
remain and be instructed while the parents roamed for sustenance
for themselves and their horses, they became much animated with the
subject, and said that the Indians would all leave their children with
the Americans, and would come now and then to see them and bring them
“much guanaco and much mantle.”
They seemed very anxious to know if missionaries would be sent, and how
many moons it would be before they would come; also whether they would
build “casa grande”--a large tent--with many other things relating to
the subject. Of course we could make them no definite promise, but we
thought it well to put these questions in order to ascertain their
minds with regard to them though they little understood their import,
in order to have something to report to the friends of missions in the
United States.
From our conversation with these chiefs to-day we despair of ever
being able to reach the western coast by land in the vicinity of the
peninsula of Tres Montes, and we can only wait the developments of
Providence as to our future course.
Soon after this conversation our camp was again set in motion by the
cry “Barko! Barko!” On inquiry we were assured that a vessel was coming
in from the east. I therefore took a spy-glass, and mounting a horse
with Captain Congo, ascended the hill behind our camp for observation.
But as no vessel was to be seen from this point, we concluded that it
was a false report, and Congo said on descending to the camp: “Ingus
hablao much mentair”--Indians tell many lies.
_Jan. 12._ A memorable day. We were aroused early this morning by the
Indians, who came to assure us that a vessel had actually come into the
bay. On arising we found large numbers of the savages preparing to go
down to the shore, and we therefore concluded, as it afterwards proved,
that this was not a false alarm.
I mounted a horse already prepared for me, and with the great Congo
and others rushed down to the bay. On our arrival we found that the
vessel had not anchored, but was a considerable distance off and slowly
approaching the harbor. With Congo and a number of petty chiefs I
then rode some distance up the shore to obtain a nearer view of the
schooner. On approaching opposite us and seeing a troop of Indians on
horseback, the British flag was displayed, a gun fired, the vessel hove
to, and a boat lowered and headed for the shore. As the boat neared the
land I hailed her in the English tongue, “Boat ahoy!”
A well dressed gentleman in the stern of the boat sprang to his feet
as if a shell had exploded alongside, and called out, “_Who? What do I
hear?_ My mother tongue in this strange land?” I instantly introduced
myself to the gentleman, and he as quickly returned the compliment, “H.
Penny, of Liverpool, England, owner of the schooner Sappho and cargo,
bound to Mazatlan, California.” I invited him to beach the boat and
come on shore. He inquired if it were safe to land among these wild
savages, as he had heard that they were giants, very treacherous, and
cannibals withal. Having assured him that there was no danger, the boat
was brought to land and he leaped on shore. He then inquired earnestly
as to our situation and life among this people, and I gave him the
principal facts briefly. He remarked that as the vessel approached the
bay they had descried a troop of Indians on horseback, and feeling a
curiosity to get a nearer view of them, he had ordered his vessel to
be hove to and a boat to be lowered that he might approach the shore
cautiously to reconnoitre, not dreaming of finding men of his own race
and tongue. He furthermore said he had brought several small presents
in his boat to give him access to the savages in case he should deem
it safe to land. On asking him what presents he had, he mentioned a
box of raisins, some nuts, prunes, handkerchiefs, and a few bottles of
rum or gin. These intoxicants I begged him to conceal, as their use by
the savages would be sure to make trouble, and might end in the loss
of our lives. To this request Mr. Penny assented readily, and leaving
the bottles in the boat, he ordered the other articles to be brought
on shore. He then wished me to distribute them among the Indians at
my discretion, pressing a liberal share upon my companion and myself.
I then seated all the Indians in ranks upon the grass, opened the
packages and distributed to every one his due portion. The Indians
laughed and shouted and fell to eating the fruits with gusto and many
grunts, making altogether a grotesque scene.
Captain Congo then presented through me a nice guanaco robe to Mr.
Penny, which was accepted with many expressions of gratitude. Meanwhile
Mr. Penny invited me to go on board the Sappho, remarking, “You will
be highly pleased with my captain; he is a missionary man, a good
Christian, and a communicant of the Church of England.” I cheerfully
accepted the invitation and went on board. Mr. Penny introduced me to
Captain M. M. Melward, of Liverpool, adding a few remarks on the object
of our visit to Patagonia, and our state and circumstances among the
Indians. The captain’s reception was very cordial. He grasped my hand,
and said, while tears started from his eyes, “My dear friend, what can
I do for you? My ship’s stores are at your disposal; command me what
you will and you shall have it.” His tenderness and generosity were
very touching, and he showed himself at once all that Mr. Penny had
declared him to be. He expressed a true interest and sympathy in our
work, and assured me that it would be a pleasure to him if he could be
of any service to us.
I was invited to lunch with him and Mr. Penny, and then urged to
take liberally of the ship’s stores, to carry up to our camp; but I
declined taking anything considerable, as an abundance of edibles would
excite the cupidity of the Indians and lead them to feel that they were
no longer under obligations to feed us; and then we did not care to
add much to our baggage; so I took a few sea-biscuits, a pound or two
of salt pork, and, by the earnest recommendation of Mr. Penny, a few
pounds of oatmeal to cook in our soup.
The day was not yet spent, nor even half of it. Our good friends
expressing a wish to see our quarters in the camp, I invited them to
accompany me thither, to which they readily assented. The schooner
having been brought to a good anchorage, sails furled and everything
made snug, we took boat for the shore, where the Indians had been
accumulating for hours, to the number of several hundreds. Signifying
our desire for horses, two were immediately offered to the owner and
the captain, and we mounted and galloped off, a large troop of savages
accompanying us with a multitude of dogs. Mr. Penny, who is young and
elastic, and who has travelled among the American Indians in Mexico,
California, and other parts, was a bold rider, greatly diverting the
natives by his feats of skill, such as turning in his saddle and
riding sidewise, first on one side, then on the other, then riding
on his knees in the saddle, then standing upright on his feet, with
other feats of agility. All this was done while our horses were on
a full gallop and with the dexterity of a circus rider. Meanwhile
Captain Melward kept close by my side, seeming a little nervous at
the appearance of the rude natives. As they rushed this way and that,
coming close to us with savage boldness, the captain drew closer to
me and asked if these fellows were not treacherous. I assured him we
had felt no fear while among them, though we were entirely in their
power. At length we arrived at the camp; the strangers were introduced
to Mr. Arms, and after a little conversation we invited them to dine
with us, our frugal table having been spread with the production (not
productions) of the country. In our humble canvas tent the merchant
and traveller and the English navigator sat down with two obscure
American missionaries to a Patagonian dinner, with the addition of
sea-biscuit--a delicious luxury to us--just received from the schooner.
The scene was not unworthy of a sketch-book.
The sympathies of the kind-hearted captain seemed much enlisted on our
account. I heard him say to Mr. Penny in an undertone, “This is _too_
hard.”
With renewed expressions of kindness and assurances of desire to assist
us to a greater extent than they had done, these friendly gentlemen
bade us good-bye and left our tent in season to return to the Sappho
before dark.
The experiences of the day have indeed been among the pleasantest of
our sojourn in this land.
_Jan. 13._ About ten o’clock last evening, after we had retired, some
one called at our tent door for admittance. We immediately arose, and
lo! Mr. Penny had returned and was calling for shelter and lodging.
On entering our tent he informed us that when they reached the shore
the wind was so boisterous and the sea ran so high that he feared to
venture out in the boat, and proposed to remain on land till after
sunset, supposing that the wind would then abate. But the captain,
fearing for the safety of his vessel, had succeeded with no little risk
in getting on board.
There was, however, no abatement of the wind, and as the sea increased
its rage the boat could not return for him. He must spend the night
in the open air, with the prospect of a storm before morning, or seek
to reach the shelter of our tent. He had no horse and no guide at
command, and for a time was unable to persuade an Indian to bring him
up to us. At length, however, for a considerable compensation, a sturdy
savage consented to take him behind him on his horse and bring him up.
Two other Indians kept them company. On the way the guide left the
main trail and turned aside to a clump of bushes. Here he dismounted,
ordered Mr. Penny to dismount, and then began an attempt to rifle his
pockets. Mr. Penny was alarmed, and urged the Indian to remount and
proceed, but he was stubborn, and seemed determined to possess himself
of a brace of pistols which he felt in his pockets. Mr. Penny kept his
hands on them, and finally succeeded in satisfying the man with several
other articles, especially his silk pocket handkerchief, which having
made into a rude turban, he bound it upon his bushy head, remounted
his horse, took the Liverpool merchant up behind him, and brought him
safely to our door.
It is fortunate that Mr. Penny did not attempt to use his pistols in
this unhappy moment of excitement. Had he done so, instead of proving
a protection, they would undoubtedly have cost him his life. Had he
dispatched this savage, there were two more near by, who were no doubt
watching the affair in the dark, and who would have avenged the act
instantly; or even had he succeeded in dispatching them all, he would
have been left alone and helpless in the night and in the wilderness,
with no one to guide him back to his vessel or forward to our camp, and
on the next day he would have been sure to fall into the hands of the
savages.
And just here it may be proper to remark that from personal experience,
observation, and reflection, I have been led to the firm conviction
that carrying weapons, whether at home or abroad, whether travelling
in civilized or savage countries, is seldom a protection of life,
but the contrary. Among savages the armed man is watched, suspected,
feared, and this jealous fear often provokes attack. As with nations,
so with individuals, arming on one side leads to arming on the other
side, suspicion excites suspicion, fear awakens fear, and intimidation
provokes intimidation, until blow responds to blow, and there is war in
the wigwam, in the camp, and in the field.
When selecting an outfit in Boston and New York, some of our kindest
friends advised us to take arms as protectors in times of emergency and
danger. This counsel we rejected and went unarmed, and as unprotected
as children. And this weakness we believe to be our strength. This
defenceless condition is our defence. This lack of fire-arms is as “a
wall of fire round about us.”
But to return to our guest. We were truly glad to receive Mr. Penny
again to our quarters, small and simple as they were, for though he was
brave and cheerful, his situation was very uncomfortable. The night was
gloomy, the wind blew, the clouds thickened and darkened, and a great
storm was impending. He was separated from his vessel and captain, not
knowing what would befall them, and utterly unable at this time to get
on board.
In a short time after his arrival the rain fell in torrents and the
night gathered blackness. Had we not been partly protected by the hills
behind us from the careering winds our tent would probably have been
blown down, leaving us exposed to the storm. As it was we were kindly
shielded. The storm has raged on through the day, so that there was no
going out till late in the afternoon, and Mr. Penny was shut up with us
until 6 +P.M.+ The rain and wind now so far abated that he proposed,
though late in the day, to return to the Strait and make another
attempt to go on board. Accordingly horses were made ready, and my
companion, attended by an Indian guide, accompanied him to the shore.
At dark a messenger came to our tent with our saddles and bridles, and
informed me that Mr. Arms had sent back the horses which he and Mr.
Penny had ridden down, and that he would sleep on board the schooner.
A large number of our Indians remain on the shore notwithstanding the
storm, exposed day and night to the rain and cold, and half starved
withal, all for the hope of obtaining rum and tobacco. The bare hope
of getting a plug of the weed or a bottle of the fire-water would keep
them on the beach, I believe, till they had well nigh perished from
exposure.
Captain Congo returned to the camp this evening looking downcast and
disconcerted. He was on board the Sappho all last night and most of
to-day, and he was terribly sea-sick. He appears gloomy and cross, as
if some strange thing had happened to him; he complains of the vessel
and all on board.
_Jan. 14._ The rain continued to fall heavily during the night and for
some time this morning. This has been much the severest storm we have
had since our arrival in the country, and it has rendered our fragile
habitation somewhat uncomfortable. We saw the Sappho beating out of
the bay this forenoon, she having been delayed two days through my
invitation to the captain and owner to visit our lodge.
Near noon Mr. Arms returned, bringing a box of raisins, which Mr. Penny
urged us to accept. On his arrival he told me that, in going down to
the beach last evening, they met Congo with his train returning to the
camp, that the chief seized Mr. Penny’s horse by the reins in great
anger, and threatened to take it from under him. Mr. Penny was now a
prisoner, and Congo refused to let him go until he had promised to
return the guanaco robe he had presented him, and also to give him
a number of articles which he specified from his vessel. The late
independent English merchant was now fast in the grip of a Patagonian
savage, with no alternative but to comply with his conditions.
This base conduct on the part of Congo was occasioned by his
dissatisfaction at not receiving as liberal a supply of tobacco as
he wanted, and which he expected in return for the mantle he had
presented to Mr. Penny. It so happened that there was no tobacco in the
cargo of the Sappho except in the form of cigars, but these, though
offered freely, would not satisfy him. He must have tobacco in plugs
or the return of the robe. This Mr. Penny promised to return by Mr.
Arms, together with various other articles to please the chief. This
arrangement being concluded, Congo released his prisoner to go on his
way. But his wrath had been much inflamed, for in addition to his
failure to get the tobacco he had been roughly handled by the Sappho
for twenty-four hours. It was pitch, jerk, plunge, roll, all night long
and nearly all day, without regard to his chiefship. It was humiliating
to his dignity and it stirred up his bile. So he cursed the bark,
captain, crew, and all the English.
As we had several good mantles in our tent, Mr. Arms, on his return
this morning, refused to take Mr. Penny’s from him, promising to give
Congo one of ours and to see that he was satisfied. This he attempted
to do, but the chief was dissatisfied and sullen, and no explanation
would conciliate his feelings. He utterly refused to take the mantle
or anything else as an equivalent, and complained of the schooner as
“malo” and the English as “liars.” Thus we were in trouble, and darker
clouds than those of the storm seemed gathering around us.
It was hard to make the savages see that there was no lie on the part
of the Englishman, or that we were not accomplices in a plot to deceive
and cajole them.
As the debate went on the Indians came out of their wigwams in numbers
and became noisy, some taking one side and some the other. At this
point we thought it prudent to retire and remain silent, committing the
disposal of the case into the hands of Him who restrains the wrath of
man. We had done all we could to explain, to soothe, and to satisfy,
and we quietly awaited the events which might follow.
The Indians had a long and noisy debate, and then all was still. The
parties had retired to their lodges, and we were quiet until near
night. Before sundown Congo came to see us with a changed countenance.
His feelings were much softened, and he now entered into a familiar
and pleasant conversation as aforetime, and finally listened to an
explanation of the whole matter with calmness, and quietly received the
mantle which had been offered him.
As his temper had been greatly irritated by the rolling of the vessel
and his sickness, we told him that the schooner was not in fault,
because the water made her roll. He replied, “Then the water is malo.”
“No,” we rejoined, “the water cannot keep still because the wind
agitates it.” “Then,” said he, “the wind is malo;” and here the matter
rested.
This is but an example of the darkness of the savage mind. So ignorant
and so infatuated are these savages that, as we have been told, when
the wind blows strongly from the wrong direction they will take swords
and knives and go out to fight it.
Just at dark our friend Louis came quietly and cautioned us to make all
as secure as possible, to remove our effects to the centre of the tent
and watch them, as he said he had heard some of the Indians “hablao
malo”--talk bad--and say they will come in the night, cut through our
tent with their knives, and rob us of our goods. This he illustrated
by earnest gestures and by drawing his knife down the canvas. But we
say with the Psalmist, “I will both lay me down in peace and sleep, for
thou, Lord, only makest me to dwell in safety.”