two territories, lying respectively north and south of the Magellan
Straits,—the Patagonian on the north, and the Fuegian on the south. No
two lands could exhibit a greater contrast than these,—the former with
its dry sterile treeless plains,—the latter almost entirely without
plains; and, excepting a portion of its eastern end, without one level
spot of an acre in breadth; but a grand chaos of humid forest-clad
ravines and snow-covered mountains. Yet these two dissimilar regions are
only separated by a narrow sea-channel,—deep, it is true; but so narrow,
that a cannon-shot may be projected from one shore to the other. Not
less dissimilar are the people who inhabit these opposite shores; and
one might fancy a strange picture of contrast presented in the Straits
of Magellan: on some projecting bluff on the northern shore, a stalwart
Patagonian, eight feet in height, with his ample guanaco-skin floating
from his shoulders, and his long spear towering ten feet above his
head;—on the southern promontory, the dwarfed and shrivelled figure of a
Fuegian,—scarce five feet tall,—with tiny bow and arrows in hand, and
shivering under his patch of greasy seal-skin!—and yet so near each
other, that the stentorian voice of the giant may thunder in the ears of
the dwarf; while the hen-like cackle of the latter may even reach those
of his colossal _vis-à-vis_!
Notwithstanding this proximity, there is no converse between them; for,
unlike as are their persons, they are not more dissimilar than their
thoughts, habits, and actions. The one is an aquatic animal, the other
essentially terrestrial; and, strange to say, in this peculiarity the
weaker creature has the advantage: since the Fuegian can cross in his
bark canoe to the territory of his gigantic neighbor, while the latter
has no canoe nor water-craft of any kind, and therefore never thinks of
extending his excursions to the “land of fire,” excepting at one very
narrow place where he has effected a crossing. In many other respects,
more particularly detailed elsewhere,—in their natural dispositions and
modes of life, these two peoples are equally dissimilar; and although
learned craniologists may prove from their skulls, that both belong to
one division of the human family, this fact proves also that craniology,
like anatomy, is but a blind guide in the illustration of scientific
truth,—whether the subject be the skull of a man or an animal. Despite
all the revelations of craniologic skill, an Indian of Patagonia bears
about the same resemblance to an Indian of Tierra del Fuego, as may be
found between a bull and a bluebottle!
Before proceeding to describe the modes of life practised by the
Patagonian giants, a word or two about the country they inhabit.
It may be generally described as occupying the whole southern part of
South America,—from the frontier of the Spanish settlements to the
Straits of Magellan,—and bounded east and west by the two great oceans.
Now, the most southern Spanish (Buenos-Ayrean) settlement is at the
mouth of Rio Negro; therefore, the Rio Negro—which is the largest river
south of the La Plata—may be taken as the northern boundary of
Patagonia. Not that the weak, vitiated Spanish American extends his sway
from the Atlantic to the Andes: on the contrary, the Indian aborigines,
under one name or another, are masters of the whole interior,—not only
to the north of the Rio Negro, but to the very shores of the Caribbean
Sea! Yes, the broad inland of South America, from Cape Horn to the sea
of the Antilles, is now, as it always has been, the domain of the Red
Indian; who, so far from having ever been reduced by conquest, has not
only resisted the power of the Spanish sword, and the blandishments of
the Spanish cross; but at this hour is encroaching, with constant and
rapid strides, upon the blood-stained territory wrested from him by that
_Christian conquest_!
And this is the man who is so rapidly to disappear from the face of the
earth! If so, it is not the puny Spaniard who is destined to push him
off. If he is to disappear, it will be at such a time, that no Spaniard
will be living to witness his extermination.
Let us take Patagonia proper, then, as bordered upon the north by the
Rio Negro, and extending from the Atlantic to the Pacific. In that
case it is a country of eight hundred miles in length, with a breadth
of at least two hundred,—a country larger than either France or Spain.
Patagonia is usually described as a continuation of the great plains,
known as the “Pampas,” which extend from the La Plata River to the
eastern slope of the Andes. This idea is altogether erroneous. It is
true that Patagonia is a country of plains,—excepting that portion of
it occupied by the Andes, which is, of course, a mountain tract, much
of it resembling Tierra del Fuego in character more than Patagonia.
Indeed, Patagonia proper can hardly be regarded as including this
mountain strip: since the Patagonian Indians only inhabit the plains
properly so called. These plains differ essentially from those of the
Pampas. The latter are based upon a calcareous formation: and produce
a rank, rich herbage,—here of gigantic thistles and wild
artichokes,—there of tall grasses; and, still nearer the mountains,
they are thinly covered with copses of low trees. The plains of
Patagonia on the other hand, are of tertiary formation, covered all
over with a shingly pebble of porphyry and basalt, and almost
destitute of vegetation. Here and there are some tufts of scanty grass
with a few stunted bushes in the valleys of the streams, but nothing
that can be called a tree. A surface drear and arid, in places mottled
with “salinas” or salt-lakes; with fresh water only found at long
intervals, and, when found, of scanty supply. There are many hilly
tracts, but nothing that can be called mountains,—excepting the
snow-covered Cordilleras in the west. The Patagonian plain is not
everywhere of equal elevation: it rises by steps, as you follow it
westward, beginning from the sea-level of the Atlantic shore; until,
having reached the _piedmont_ of the Andes, you still find yourself on
a plain, but one which is elevated three thousand feet above the point
from which you started. At all elevations, however, it presents the
same sterile aspect; and you perceive that Patagonia is a true
desert,—as much so as Atacama, in Peru, the desert of the Colorado in
the north, the “barren grounds” of Hudson’s Bay, the Sahara and
Kalahari, Gobi, or the steppe of Kaurezm. To the South-African deserts
it bears a more striking resemblance than to any of the others,—a
resemblance heightened by the presence of that most remarkable of
birds,—the ostrich. Two species stalk over the plains of
Patagonia,—the _struthio rhea_ and _struthio Darwinii_. The former
extends northward over the Pampas, but not southward to the Straits of
Magellan; the latter reaches the Straits, but is never seen upon the
Pampas. The ranges of both meet and overlap near the middle of the
Patagonian plain.
In addition to the ostrich, there are other large birds that frequent
the steppes of Patagonia. The great condor here crosses the continent,
and appears upon the Atlantic shores. He perches upon the cliffs of the
sea,—as well as those that overhang the inland streams,—and builds his
nest upon the bare rock. Two species of _polyborus_, or
vulture-eagles,—the “carrancha” and “chiniango,”—fly side by side with
the condor; and the black turkey-vultures are also denizens of this
desert land. The red puma, too, has his home here; the fox of Azara; and
several species of hawks and eagles.
With the exception of the first-mentioned—the ostrich—all these beasts
and birds are predatory creatures; and require flesh for their
subsistence. Where do they get it? Upon what do they all prey? Surely
not upon the ostrich: since this bird is bigger than any of the birds of
prey, and able to defend itself even against the great condor. There are
only one or two other species of birds upon which the eagles might
subsist,—a partridge and two kinds of plover; but the vultures could not
get a living out of partridges and plovers. Small quadrupeds are alike
scarce. There are only two or three species; and very small creatures
they are,—one a sort of mole, “terutero,” and several kinds of mice. The
latter are, indeed, numerous enough in some places,—swarming over the
ground in tracts so sterile, that it is difficult to understand upon
what they subsist. But vultures do not relish food, which they require
to kill for themselves. They are too indolent for that; and wherever
they are found, there must be some source of supply,—some large
quadrupeds to provide them with their favorite food,—carrion. Otherwise,
in this desert land, how should the ravenous puma maintain himself?—how
the vultures and vulture-eagles? and, above all, upon what does the
Patagonian himself subsist,—a man of such great bulk, as naturally to
require more than the ordinary amount of food? The answer to all these
questions, then, is, that a quadruped _does_ exist in the deserts of
Patagonia; which, if it furnish not all these creatures with their full
diet supplies, does a large proportion of it. This quadruped is the
_guanaco_.
Before proceeding to give an account of the guanaco, let us paint the
portrait of the Patagonian himself.
As already observed, he is nearly seven feet in height, without any
exaggeration in the way of a hat. He wears none, but suffers his long
black hair to hang loosely over his shoulders, or, more frequently,
gathers it into a knot or club upon the crown of his head. To keep it
from straggling into his eyes, he usually wears a narrow strap of
guanaco-skin around his forehead, or a plaited band of the hair of the
same animal; but, although possessing ostrich-feathers at discretion, he
rarely indulges in the fashion of wearing a plume,—he knows he is tall
enough without one. Over his shoulders, and hanging nearly to his heels,
he wears a loose mantle of guanaco skins; which is of sufficient width
to wrap round his body, and meet over his breast,—should he feel cold
enough to require it. But he is not of a chilly nature; and he often
throws this mantle entirely aside to give him the freedom of his arms;
or more generally ties a girdle round it, and leaves the upper part to
fall back from his shoulders, and hang down over the girdle. This
mantle—with the exception of a small pouch-like apron in front—is the
only “garment,” the Patagonian wears upon his body; but his lower limbs
have a covering of their own. These are encased in a sort of boots or
moccasons,—but differing from all other boots and moccasons, in the fact
of their being without _soles_! They are made of the same material as
the mantle,—that is, of the skin of the _guanaco_,—but sometimes also of
the skin of a horse’s shank,—for the Patagonian, like the Pampas Indian,
is in possession of this valuable animal.
This soleless boot covers the leg all round from below the knee, passing
over the top of the foot like a gaiter; it extends also around the heel,
and a little under it, but not so far as the instep, thus leaving the
greater part of the sole bare, and the toes peeping out in front! They
are, in reality, nothing more or less than gaiters, but gaiters of
_guanaco_-skin, with the hair turned outward, and worn, not over a pair
of boots or shoes, as gaiters usually are, but upon the naked shanks.
I have been thus particular in my description of the Patagonian
_chaussure_; but you will understand my reasons, when I tell you that,
from this trifling circumstance, not only has a vast territory of
country, but the people who inhabit it, obtained the appellation by
which both have long been known to the civilized world, that is,
_Patagonian_.
When the sailors who accompanied Magellan first saw these colossal men,
they noticed a peculiar circumstance in relation to their feet. The
flaps, or “uppers,” of the gaiters, extending loosely across the tops of
their feet, and exaggerated in breadth by the long hair that fringed out
from their edges, gave to these Indians the appearance of having paws or
“patas;” and the name _patagones_, or “duck-feet,” was given them by the
sailors,—ever prone to the bestowal of a ludicrous epithet. This name,
in a slightly altered form, they have borne ever since,—so that
Patagonia means the country of the _duck-footed_ men.
The gaiters of the Patagonians have their peculiar purpose. They are not
worn merely for the sake of keeping the legs warm, but also as a
protection against the thorny shrubs which in Patagonia, as in all
desert lands, are exceedingly abundant.
The mantle and moccasons, then, constitute the Patagonian’s costume; and
it does not differ so widely from that of his neighbor the Fuegian,—the
chief points of difference being in the size and material.
Of course the guanaco-skin is much larger than that of the common seal;
and a good Patagonian cloak would furnish “doublets” for a whole tribe
of the diminutive Fuegians. Perhaps his ample garment has something to
do in producing the exaggerated accounts that have been given of the
stature of the Patagonians. Certain it is, that a man thus apparelled
looks larger than he otherwise would do; and presents altogether a more
imposing appearance. The Caffre, in his civet-cat “kaross,” and the
Pawnee Indian, in his robe of shaggy buffalo-hide, loom very large upon
karroo and prairie,—much larger in appearance than they really are. It
is but natural, therefore, to suppose that the Patagonian, attired in
his guanaco mantle, and seen against the sky, standing upon the summit
of a conspicuous cliff, would present a truly gigantic appearance.
When first seen in this position he was on foot. It was in the year
1520,—before the Spaniards had set foot upon South-American soil,—and of
course before the horse became naturalized to that continent. In less
than thirty years afterward, he appeared upon these same cliffs
bestriding a steed: for this noble animal had extended his range over
the plains of America,—even at an earlier period than his European
owner. When the Spaniards, in their after-attempts at conquering the
Indians of the Pampas and those of the northern prairies, entered upon
these great plains, they encountered, to their great astonishment, their
red enemies upon horseback, brandishing long lances, and managing fiery
chargers with a skill equal to their own!
Among the earliest tribes that obtained possession of the horse, were
those of the Pampas: since the first of these animals that ran wild on
the plains of America were those landed in the La Plata expedition of
Mendoza,—whence they became scattered over the adjacent pampas of Buenos
Ayres.
From the banks of the La Plata, the horse passed rapidly southward to
the Straits of Magellan; and from that hour the Patagonian walked no
more. With the exception of a spur,—usually a sharp stick of wood, upon
his heel,—the only additional article of his “wear,” the horse has made
no change in his costume, nor in the fashion of his toilet. He still
paints his face, as Magellan first saw it,—with a white ring encircling
one eye, and a black or red one around the other; with one half of his
body colored black, and a white sun delineated upon it, while the other
half is white, forming the “ground” for a black moon! Scarce two
individuals, however, wear the same escutcheon; for the fashion of
having eyes, arms, and legs of two different colors—just as our
ancestors used to wear their doublets and hose—is that followed by the
Patagonians.
Notwithstanding this queer custom,—usually regarded as savage,—it would
be unjust to call the Patagonian a _savage_. If we overlook the
circumstance of his painting himself,—which, after all, is scarce more
absurd than numberless practices of civilized life,—if we excuse him for
too scantily covering the nakedness of his person, and relishing his
food a little “underdone,” we find little else, either in his habits or
his moral nature that would entitle him to be termed a savage. On the
contrary, from all the testimony that can be obtained,—in all the
intercourse which white men have had with him,—there is scarce an act
recorded, that would hinder his claim to being considered as civilized
as they. Honorable and amiable, brave and generous, he has ever proved
himself; and never has he exhibited those traits of vindictive ferocity
supposed to be characteristic of the untutored man. He has not even
harbored malice for the wrongs done him by the unprincipled adventurer
Magellan: who, in his treatment of these people, proved himself more of
a savage than they. But the Patagonian restrained his vengeance; and
apparently burying the outrage in oblivion, has ever since that time
treated the white man with a generous and dignified friendship. Those
who have been shipwrecked upon his solitary shores, have had no reason
to complain of the treatment they have received at his hands. He is
neither cannibal, nor yet barbarian,—but in truth a gentleman,—or, if
you prefer it, a _gentleman savage_.
But how does this gentleman maintain himself? We have already seen that
he is not a fisherman,—for he owns no species of boat; and without that
his chances of capturing fish would be slight and uncertain. We have
stated, moreover, that his country is a sterile desert; and so it
is,—producing only the scantiest of herbage; neither plant, nor tree,
that would furnish food; and incapable of being cultivated with any
success. But he does not attempt cultivation,—he has no knowledge of it;
nor is it likely he would feel the inclination, even if tempted by the
most fertile soil. Neither is he pastoral in his habits: he has no
flocks nor herds. The horse and dog are his only domestic animals; and
these he requires for other purposes than food. The former enables him
to pass easily over the wide tracts of his sterile land, and both assist
him in the chase,—which is his true and only calling. One of the chief
objects of his pursuit is the ostrich; and he eats the flesh of this
fine desert bird. He eats it, whenever he can procure it; but he could
not live solely upon such food: since he could not obtain it in
sufficient quantity; and were this bird the only means he had for
supplying his larder, he would soon be in danger of starvation. True,
the ostrich lays a great many eggs, and brings forth a large brood of
young; but there are a great many hungry mouths, and a great many large
stomachs among the Patagonian people. The ostrich could never supply
them all; and were it their only resource, the bird would soon disappear
from the plains of Patagonia, and, perhaps, the race of Patagonian
giants along with it.
Fortunately for the Patagonian, his country furnishes him with another
kind of game, from which he obtains a more sufficient supply; and that
is the guanaco. Behold yonder herd of stately creatures! There are
several hundreds of them in all. Their bodies are covered with long,
woolly hair of a reddish-brown color. If they had antlers upon their
heads, you might mistake them for stags,—for they are just about the
size of the male of the red deer. But they have no horns; and otherwise
they are unlike these animals,—in their long slender necks, and coat of
woolly hair. They are not deer of any kind,—they are _guanacos_. These,
then, are the herds of the Patagonian Indian; they are the game he
chiefly pursues; and their flesh the food, upon which he is mainly
subsisted.
I need not here give the natural history of the guanaco. Suffice it to
say that it is one of the four (perhaps five) species of _llamas_ or
“camel-sheep” peculiar to the continent of South America,—the other
three of which are the _vicuña_, the true _llama_, and the _paco_, or
_alpaca_. The llama and alpaca are domesticated; but the vicuña, the
most graceful of all, exists only in a wild state, like the guanaco. The
four kinds inhabit the table-lands of the Andes, from Colombia to Chili;
but the guanaco has extended its range across to the Atlantic side of
the continent: this only in the territory south of the La Plata River.
On the plains of Patagonia it is the characteristic quadruped: rarely
out of sight, and usually seen in herds of twenty or thirty individuals;
but sometimes in large droves, numbering as many as five hundred. There
the puma—after the Indian of course—is its greatest enemy,—and the
_débris_ of _his_ feast constitutes the food of the vultures and
vulture-eagles,—thus accounting for the presence of these great birds in
such a desert land.
The guanaco is among the shyest of quadrupeds; and its capture would be
difficult to any one unacquainted with its habits. But these betray them
to the skilled Patagonian hunter,—who is well acquainted with every fact
in the natural history of the animal.
The Patagonian mode of capturing these creatures is not without many
peculiarities in hunting practice. His first care is to find out their
whereabouts: for the haunts which the guanacos most affect are not the
level plains, where they might be seen from afar, but rather those
places where the ground is hilly or rolling. There they are to be met
with, ranged in extended lines along the sides of the hills, with an old
male keeping watch upon the summit of some eminence that overlooks the
flock. Should the sentinel espy any danger, or even suspect it, he gives
the alarm by uttering a shrill, whistling cry, somewhat resembling a
neigh. On hearing this well-known signal, the others at once take to
flight, and gallop straight for the side of some other hill,—where they
all halt in line, and stand waiting to see if they are followed. Very
often the first intimation which the hunter has of their presence, is by
hearing their strange signal of flight,—which may be described as a sort
of triangular cross between squealing, neighing, and whistling.
Shy as they are, and difficult to be approached, they have the strange
peculiarity of losing all their senses when put into confusion. On these
occasions they behave exactly like a flock of sheep: not knowing which
way to run; now dashing to one side, then to the other, and often
rushing into the very teeth of that danger from which they are trying to
escape!
Knowing their stupidity in this respect, the Patagonian hunter acts
accordingly. He does not go out to hunt the guanacos alone, but in
company with others of his tribe, the hunting-party often comprising the
whole tribe. Armed with their “chuzos,”—light cane spears of eighteen
feet in length,—and mounted on their well-trained steeds, they sally
forth from their encampment, and proceed to the favorite
pasturing-ground of the guanacos. Their purpose is, if possible, to
effect the “surround” of a whole herd; and to accomplish this, it is
necessary to proceed with great skill and caution. The animals are found
at length; and, by means of a deployment of dogs and horsemen, are
driven towards some hill which may be convenient to the pasture. The
instinct of the animal guiding it thither, renders this part of the
performance easy enough. On reaching the hill, the guanacos dash onward,
up to its summit; and there, halting in a compact crowd, make front
towards their pursuers. These meanwhile have galloped into a
circle,—surrounding the eminence or all sides; and, advancing upwards
amidst loud yells and the yelping of their dogs, close finally around
the herd, and rush forward to the attack.
The long chuzos do their work with rapidity; and, in a few minutes,
numbers of the guanacos lie lifeless among the rocks. The dogs, with
some men, form an outer circle of assailants; and should any guanacos
escape through the line of horsemen, they are seized upon by the dogs,
and pinned to the spot,—for it is another sheep-like trait in the
character of this animal, that the moment a dog—even though he be the
merest cur—seizes hold of it, it neither attempts further flight nor
resistence, but remains “pinned” to the spot as if under a paralysis of
terror. They sometimes give battle, however, though never to a dog; and
their mode of assault is by kicking behind them,—not with their hoofs as
horses do, but with the knee-joints, the hind legs being both raised at
once. Among themselves the males fight terrible battles: biting each
other with their teeth, and often inflicting cruel acerations.
Strange to say, when the guanacos are found solitary, or only two or
three together, they are far less shy than when assembled in large
herds. At such times, the feeling of curiosity seems stronger than that
of fear within them; and the hunter can easily approach within a dozen
paces of one, by simply cutting a few capers, or holding up something
that may be new to it,—such as a strip of colored rag, or some showy
article of any kind. It was by such devices that the Patagonian captured
these creatures, before possession of the horse enabled him to effect
their destruction in the more wholesale fashion of the “surround.”