Supped at the "Three Crowns" with Phineas Golding our supercargo, and so
aboard, my leave being up, and work enough and over to get the ship
ready for sea. A long voyage before us of four, or it may be of five
years. Meeting our supercargo at the owner's, I had deemed him a quiet,
well-behaved young man; I now find him a slashing blade, ever ready with
his fist, or his sword, as with his pen,--hot in dispute, and always
eager to bring a quarrel to the arbitration of one of the former. How
differently do men appear when in presence of those they serve and when
out of their sight! There exists One out of whose sight we cannot
escape. How comes it that we do not always bear that truth in mind?
Are we more afraid of a fellow-creature than of the Maker and Judge of
all the world? I said thus much to Phineas Golding. He replied with an
oath, which caused me to feel that I had been casting pearls before
swine. And yet I was right, surely; for by speaking the truth boldly on
fitting occasions, I do hold that the truth will in the end prevail, and
may be conquer the unbeliever's heart. On one thing, therefore, I am
resolved, to go on as I have begun, and speak the truth always with
earnestness of purpose.
Of my other shipmates I will speak a word. The master Simon Fuller, is
grave man, the snows of nearly sixty winters settling on his head. He
has made many voyages, and seems a fit man to command men. The first
mate, too, James Festing, is every inch a seaman, but somewhat handy
with his fist, a rope's end, or a marline spike, or, truth to say,
whatever lies nearest, and withal not over choice in his words when
angered, or desirous of getting work done smartly. Of myself, as second
mate, it becometh me not to speak. I have been five years at sea, am a
fair navigator, and an average seaman. I fear God, and strive to do my
duty, though not always succeeding. Our ship's company muster
thirty-five good men, I hope, all told fore and aft. The ship, as is
requisite, is well armed, with six guns with swivels on the quarters,
and muskets, pikes, axes, and cutlasses for all hands. We have to visit
many strange places and strange people, and we must expect often and
again to fight for our lives with the savages. Phineas Golding rejoices
in adventure, and says such chiefly induced him to leave home. He has
never before been at sea, and dreams not of the troubles in store for
him.
_June_.--We have taken our departure from the land, which is even now
sinking astern, a strong breeze blowing from the north-east.
_July_.--We have touched at Madeira, belonging to the Portingalls, as
the old voyagers call them. They are a suspicious people, though civil
when not angered. I witnessed some public exhibitions, which I was told
were religious. I cannot suppose that such performances are acceptable
to our Lord and Master, or He would surely have ordered such. But it
becomes not me, after so slight acquaintance with a people, to pass much
censure on their customs, though I see not how to approve them.
Crossing the Line, we had a usual Father Neptune and his Tritons on
board. Tony Hinks, our boatswain, was Neptune. He and his mates
severely handled some of the men who had shown ill manners or bad
tempers, tarring their faces, and shaving their chins with rusty hoops.
Phineas vowed that he would not be so treated, but had to succumb,
escaping with a thorough sousing from a dozen buckets. Phineas vows
vengeance on the boatswain; but I warn him that Tony Hinks followed but
the custom of the sea, and is not a man over whom it would be easy to
get an advantage, for he boasts that he always sleeps with one eye open.
We have touched at Rio, the chief town in the Brazils. From what I saw,
I should take the people to be heathens, such as I have read of in Roman
and Grecian history; but they say that they are Christians. One thing
is certain, that if they desire to keep the sabbath holy, they have a
curious way of so doing. Still I say, it would be easy to sail from
place to place and to condemn all we visit unheard. One thought occurs
to me: "Look to it that we fall not into like errors."
Proceeding south before rounding Cape Horn, we again made the land, and
standing in, anchored the ship in a sheltered cove. It was the southern
part of that region known as Patagonia. The captain, with Phineas
Golding and I, with a crew of eight men, well armed, took the long boat
and went ashore. The aspect of the country was not pleasant; rocks, and
trees, and marshes, but no signs of cultivation. Suddenly from among
the rocks some creatures appeared watching us. "Are they men or are
they baboons?" asked Phineas, levelling his musket; but the master held
back his arm. They approaching slowly and with hesitation, we
discovered that they were human beings, though marvellously ill-favoured
in aspect. Their skin, which seemed of a dark brown, was covered with
dirt, and their faces, which were flat with high cheek-bones, were
besmeared with red and yellow ochre. Their long black coarse hair
hanging down straight over their shoulders, their small twinkling
bleared eyes peeping out between it, like two hot coals. They had
spears in their hands and short clubs. They were nearly naked, their
chief garment consisting in a piece of sealskin, which they wore on the
side whence the wind blew. Again Phineas was about to shoot in very
wantonness.
"What's the harm?" he asked. "We have no chance of trading with such
people; and if we were to kill a few, what would it matter?"
"They have souls, Master Golding," said I, for I could not keep silence;
"and souls, I have learned, are precious things."
A scornful laugh was his reply, and he still kept his musket ready, as
if to fire. The savages, however, seemed in no way afraid, but lifted
up their hands, and made as if they too had muskets; and when we laughed
they laughed, and when we shook our fists they shook theirs; and so we
discovered that, though hideous, they were a harmless race, and great
mimics. They readily accepted beads, and knives, and coloured
handkerchiefs, and such like things.
These people, we learn from Tony Hinks, who has before been on the coast
(indeed where has he not been?) are different from the tribes of
Patagonians who inhabit the country to the north as far as the Spanish
settlements. These latter are a fierce race, often of large stature,
though not giants, as some suppose, and dress in skins and ride on
horseback. Again, there are other tribes whose dwellings are among the
marshes and inlets of the sea up the Straits of Magellan. They move
about only in their canoes, living on shell-fish, seals' flesh, and
fish, their habits being more filthy and disgusting even than are those
of our present friends. Phineas laughs at the notion of their being our
fellow-creatures, and says that they must have sprung from apes; but
Tony, who has seen many strange people, says that he would not give a
fig for the supercargo's opinion, for that he has known white men become
almost as brutish in their appearance, and much more brutish in their
manners, just from living a few years among born savages, cut off from
all communication with their fellow whites. A little practical
experience often shows the folly of these would-be philosophers.
On the Pacific coast of this end of America are found the unsubdued
tribes of the Araucanians in vast numbers, so that in this one small
portion of the continent are many hundred thousand savages, all lying in
the midnight of heathen darkness.
Phineas observes that it is a pity they cannot be swept away, and
civilised men, with whom it would be an advantage to trade, introduced
in their stead. He esteems men in proportion as they are able to
exchange gold dust, ivory, spices or precious stones, not knowing their
value, for glass beads and Brummagem knives and needles. I cannot help
thinking that all those savages have immortal souls, and regretting that
they should be allowed to pass away from this life without having the
light of gospel truth set before them. Year after year passes by,
thousands are swept away, and still darkness dense as ever broods over
the land.
Once more we are under weigh. With a fair breeze gliding over a long
heavy swell, we pass Cape Horn, which stands out boldly into the blue
waters, and enter the mighty Pacific. Tony Hinks tells us that, though
peaceable enough at times, he has seen here as fierce gales and heavy
seas as ever sent tall ships to the bottom. Grant that we do not
encounter the loss and disaster met with by Lord Anson, whose voyage I
have been reading. Hitherto a kind Providence has favoured us, and we
are standing up along the coast of Chili, the lofty Andes rising blue
and distinct against the sky in the distance.