Part 32

The road over the mountains is always dangerous, clinging as it does to the edge of mighty precipices and upon the sides of mountain cliffs, and only trained mules can be used on the journey. During the winter season the winds are often so strong as to blow the mules with their burdens over the precipices, and leave them as food for the condors that are always soaring around. These birds know the dangerous passes, and keep guard with the expectation of seeing some traveller or mule go tumbling over the cliffs. Cowhide bridges, the construction of which is not satisfactory to nervous men, stretch across the ravines after the manner of modern suspension-bridges, and a floor or path, made of the branches of trees lashed together with hides, and just wide enough for a mule to pass, is laid. Travellers usually dismount and lead their mules when they cross these fragile structures, for the hide ropes which are intended to keep people from stepping off do not look very secure. The oscillation of these bridges is very great, and a man who is accustomed to giddiness will want to lie down before he gets half-way over. It is remarkable that so few accidents happen, and when they do occur it is usually because a traveller is reckless or a mule is green. The foxes sometimes gnaw the hides, but no accidents have occurred from this cause for many years.

The journey on mule-back usually takes five days of travel, at the rate of twenty or thirty miles a day, but good riders, with relays of mules, often make it in three days. The whole route is historical, as it has been in use for centuries. There is scarcely a mile without some romantic association, not a rock without its incident; and tradition, incident, and romance line the path from end to end. The Incas used the path before the Spaniards conquered the country, and Don Diego de Almagro crossed it in 1535 as he passed southward to Chili after the conquest of Peru.

PATAGONIA.

The spinal column of the hemisphere, extending from the Arctic to the Antarctic Sea, and called the Cordilleras, breaks suddenly at the foot of the Southern continent, and is divided by a narrow and deep ravine called the Strait of Magellan. Before the strait is reached, along the western coast of South America are numberless islands, cast into the sea by some convulsion of nature, like sparks flung from hammered iron. Few of these islands have ever been explored, but they all bear a close resemblance to the main-land in their geological formation, and it is believed that deposits of copper, silver, and other minerals, as well as coal, exist under their surfaces. On Chiloe, the largest of the Chili archipelago, mining companies are already operating to a small extent, but of the resources of the other islands little or nothing is known. They rise in picturesque outlines from the water, some of them to an elevation of several thousand feet, and the panorama presented to voyagers in what is known as Smythe’s Channel is beautiful and grand. This is a narrow fiord, named from its first explorer, scooped out, the geologists say, by the action of ice during the glacial epoch, running along the main coast, and protected against the violence of the ocean by the numerous fragmentary formations that line the shore. A glance at the map of Patagonia will show how many of these islands there are, and how slender is the thread of sea which separates them from the continent.

The water in the channel is deep and smooth, but the passage is avoided by navigators because of the powerful currents and the frequency of snow-storms, which prevail at all seasons of the year. Vessels that take this course are compelled to anchor at night, unless there is a very bright moon, and always lie up when the snow falls, because of the circuitous turns, and the danger of collisions with ships and icebergs. Smythe’s Channel is so narrow in places that two steamers cannot pass between the mighty rocks which rise on either side. Most of the steamships prefer to risk the storms which rage outside, where they can have plenty of sea-room, and shorten their voyages by sailing at night as well as by day. There is no more dangerous sailing in the world than off the west coast of Patagonia and around the Horn, and vessels bound southward from Valparaiso are very lucky if they enter the Strait of Magellan without catching a gale of wind.

The glaciers of Switzerland and Norway are insignificant beside those which can be seen from ships passing the Strait of Magellan. Mountains of green and blue ice, with crests of the purest snow, stretch fifteen and twenty miles along the channel in some parts of the strait. They are by no means as lofty as those of Europe, but appear more grand, rising as they do from the surface of the water in a land where winter always lingers, and where the sun sets at three o’clock in the afternoon. The line of perpetual snow begins at an elevation of only two thousand feet, and water always freezes at night, even in the summer-time. The highest mountains in Terra del Fuego are supposed to reach an altitude of seven thousand or eight thousand feet, but the eye of man has seldom seen them, covered as they are with an almost perpetual haze or mist, and presenting difficulties which the most ardent and experienced climber cannot surmount. The highest mountain known in this region is Mount Sarmiento, one of the most imposing of the Andean peaks, which rears a cone of spotless snow nearly seven thousand feet, almost abruptly from the water at its feet. It stands in what is known as Cockburn Channel, not far from the Pacific, and on clear days its summit can be distinguished from the decks of passing ships. The beauty of this peak is much enhanced by numerous blue-tinted glaciers, which descend from the snowy cap to the sea, and look, as Darwin the naturalist, who once saw it, said, “Like a hundred frozen Niagaras.” There are other mountains quite as beautiful, but they sit in an atmosphere which is seldom so clear as that which surrounds Sarmiento, and cannot often be seen by voyagers.

The Terra del Fuego Indians, the ugliest mortals that ever breathed, are always on the lookout for passing vessels, and come out in canoes to beg and to trade skins for whiskey and tobacco. The Fuegians, or “Canoe Indians,” as they are commonly called, to distinguish them from the Patagonians, who dislike the water, and prefer to navigate on horseback, have no settled habitation. They have a dirty and bloated appearance, and faces that would scare a mule--broad features, low foreheads, over which the hair hangs in tangled lumps, high cheek-bones, flat noses, enormous chins and jaws, and mouths like crocodiles’, with teeth that add to their repulsiveness. Their skin is said to be of a copper color, but is seldom seen, as they consider it unhealthy to bathe. They are short in stature, round-shouldered, squatty, and swelled, a physical deformity said to be due to the fact that most of their lives is spent in canoes. The women are even more repulsive in their appearance than the men, and the children, who are uncommonly numerous, look like young baboons. Their intelligence seems to be confined to a knowledge of boating and fishing, and they exercise great skill in both pursuits. Scientists who have investigated them say that they are of the very lowest order of the human kind, many degrees below the Digger Indians.

Although these people are in a perpetual winter, where it freezes every night, and always snows when the clouds shed moisture, they go almost stark naked! The skins of the otter and guanaco are used for blankets, which are worn about the shoulders and afford some protection; but under these neither women nor men wear anything whatever except shoes and leggings made of the same material, which protect the feet from the rocks. There is some little attempt at adornment made by both sexes in the way of necklaces, bracelets, and ear-rings made of fish-bones and sea-shells, which are often ingeniously joined together. The women will sell the skin blankets that cover their backs for tobacco, standing meantime as nude as a statue of Venus!

Their food consists of mussels, fish, sea animals, and similar sorts, which they catch with the rudest kind of implements. Their fishing-lines are made of grass, and their hooks of fish-bones. For weapons they have bows and spears, the former having strings made of the entrails of animals, and the latter being long, slender poles, with tips of sharpened bone. They also use slings with great dexterity, which are made of woven grass, and are said to bring down animals at long range. During the day they are always on the water in canoes or dugouts made of the trunks of trees, the whole family going together, and usually consisting of a man, two or three wives, and as many urchins as can be crowded into the boat. When night falls they go ashore and build a fire upon the rocks, to temper the frigid atmosphere. Around this fire they cuddle in a most affectionate way. The name of the islands upon which they live came from these fires. The early navigators, when passing through the strait, were amazed to see them spring up as if by magic all over the islands every night at sundown, and so they called them Terra del Fuego, or the Land of Fire. The English shorten the appellation, and thus the place is known as “Fireland.”

No one has ever been able to ascertain whether these people possess any sort of religious belief or have religious ceremonies. Across the strait the Patagonians, or Horse Indians, are of a higher order of creation, and perform sacred rites to propitiate the evil and good spirits, in which, like the North

American savages, they believe; but the Fuegians are too degraded to contemplate anything but the necessity of ministering to their passions and appetites. They eat fish and flesh uncooked, and appreciate as dainties the least attractive morsels. Their language is an irregular and meaningless jargon, apparently derived from the Patagonians, with whom they were, some time in the distant past, connected. Bishop Sterling, of the Church of England, a devoted and energetic man, who has charge of missionary work in South America, with headquarters on the Falkland Islands, has made some attempt to benefit these creatures, but with no great success. He has a little schooner in which he sails around, and has succeeded in ingratiating himself among the Fuegians by giving them presents of beads and twine, blankets and clothing. They use the first for ornaments, the second for fishing gear, but trade off the other things for rum and tobacco the first chance they get. As long as his gifts hold out he will be kindly received, no doubt, and his devotion will meet with encouragement, but if he should land among them without the usual plunder they would probably kill him at breakfasttime and pick his ribs for lunch. Towards the Atlantic coast the savages are of a higher order, and the bishop has established a missionary station in a little town in which they live. His assistants have succeeded in persuading the inhabitants of this village to wear clothing, and they run a primary school from which much good may come.

The Falkland Islands lie off the coast of Terra del Fuego about two hundred and fifty miles, and belong to the British crown. There is a town of about eight hundred inhabitants called St. Louis, where the Governor lives, and a coaling station is maintained for the benefit of English men-of-war. The chief use of the islands otherwise is sheep-raising, and the wool exports are becoming quite large. Nothing else grows there, however, because of the low temperature and the barrenness of the soil. One line of steamers touches at the Falklands once a month or so, carrying provisions to the colony and bringing away the wool.

One of the curious things about the Strait of Magellan is the Post-office. In a sheltered place, easy of access from the channel, but secluded from the Indians, is a tin box, known to every seaman who navigates this part of the world. Every passing skipper places in this box letters and newspapers for other vessels that are expected this way, and takes out whatever is found to belong to him or his men. All the newspapers and books that seamen are done with are deposited here, and are afterwards picked up by the next vessel to arrive, and replaced with a new lot. It is a sort of international postal clearing-house, and sailors say that the advantages it offers have never been abused during the half century the system has existed.

Every time a vessel passes through the strait the Fuegian Indians come out in their canoes to show their sociability,

and trade what property they are fortunate enough to be possessed of for tobacco and rum. The steamer we were on ran through several fleets of dugouts, greatly to the danger of those who occupied them, as they paddled across our course in the most reckless manner. In each of the frail canoes were three or four people and several children, who screamed and gesticulated in the most violent manner. They came so near the ship that we could distinguish their features and hear their words, which were clamors for _tabac_ (tobacco) and _galleta_ (food). In one canoe stood an old hag with long gray hair, and a face that reminded me of Meg Merriles. A more weird and witchlike being never presented itself to human eye, and she did not have a thread upon her dirty skin from head to foot. Stark, staring naked she stood in the group around her, with the thermometer about forty degrees above zero, and, as she saw the vessel did not propose to stop, shook her wrinkled arms at us, and uttered curses loud and deep. There was a fire in the boat in which she stood, and around it huddled another woman, naked, but with a guanaco robe over her shoulders, and several children, while the father sat in the stern and paddled his own canoe, leaving the wife or mother, whichever she was, to do all the talking.

In another canoe stood a repulsive-looking man, who had taken off his guanaco robe, and stood naked, flapping it at us, and yelling like a lunatic. His companions were two naked women and several youngsters, and they all joined in the chorus with a vigor that we expected would split their throats, leaving the canoe to drift as it would, finally coming into collision with another, at which there was a good deal of scrambling, and an exchange of Fuegian compliments, the nature of which we could not understand. What they wanted was rum and tobacco, having acquired a taste for this pernicious weed from the sailors. For a plug of “Navy” they would exchange a guanaco blanket that could not be bought in New York for seventy-five dollars, as the guanaco is one of the rarest and finest of skins. The anger and disgust that was pictured upon the faces of these creatures when they found that the vessel was not slackening her speed would have furnished a model for the expressions on the souls that are lost. The passengers were about as much disappointed as the Fuegians, for having all read and heard of them, we anticipated much gusto, as the Spaniards say, in making their acquaintance.

Scientists have long differed as to whether the Firelanders were cannibals, but this point has been recently settled by a practical demonstration, and there is no doubt that they actually eat human flesh when they can get it, and pick the bones very clean. In October, 1884, during a snow-storm, the steamer _Cordillera_, of the Pacific Steam Navigation Company’s line, struck a rock in the Strait of Magellan, about forty miles west of Punta Arenas, and to save as much as possible of the ship and cargo the captain drove her upon the beach, where she now lies, almost within a stone’s-throw of passing vessels. The wreck was soon after abandoned by all but two men, who were left in charge until wrecking machinery could be brought from Valparaiso. One of these men was William Taylor, a quartermaster or petty officer of the ship, and his companion, an ordinary seaman. They were well armed, and it was supposed were capable of protecting themselves, but it turned out that they were not. One night I was sitting upon the rickety old dock at Punta Arenas, waiting for the purser of our ship to take me on board, when Taylor was introduced to me, and told his story in a most graphic way.

He said that when he and his partner were left in charge of the vessel, it was with the understanding that they were to be relieved on the 21st of December, and they were given food enough to last until that time. After the captain and crew had gone, and the two men were alone on the ship, the Indians made their appearance nearly every day, and bits of food were thrown over the side of the vessel into their canoes. Taylor and his companion each carried two revolvers, and were not at all alarmed, as the vessel lay very high on the sand, and it did not seem possible that the Indians could climb up its iron sides. Although several canoes hovered around the place daily, the savages made no unfriendly demonstrations, and no notice was taken of them further than to exchange salutations, and give them meat and bread now and then. One day the Indians traded them a string of fresh fish for a plug of tobacco, and at other times gave them furs for the same consideration. About noon on the 15th of December, while the sailor was cooking dinner in the galley, Taylor, who was at work below, heard several shots fired from a revolver on deck, with shrieks and other sounds, which proved that a fight was going on there. He drew both of his pistols, and rushing up-stairs, saw the bleeding body of his companion lying upon the deck, and one of the savages hacking at it with the cook’s knife. About twenty or twenty-five others were performing a war-dance around one of their number who lay dead, and a single glance at the scene convinced Mr. Taylor that he could find no pleasure in attending the

circus. The Indians did not see him, and he crept quickly below and stowed himself in a large coil of rope in the forward part of the hold. The space in the centre of the coil was large enough to contain his body in a stooping position, and making the hatchway as fast as he could, he piled bags of beans around the sides and on the top of the rope, so as to entirely conceal it. For two days he hid himself here, feeding upon dry uncooked beans and a box of sea-biscuits, which he fortunately found in the hold; but he was entirely without water. The third day, fearing that he would die of thirst, he crept out and drew a bucket of water from a cask on the second deck, which he carried back to his place of concealment. On this excursion he neither heard nor saw signs of the Indians, and after two days more had passed, screwed his courage up to the point of making an exploration. Arranging everything so that he could make a hasty retreat if necessary, and using bean-bags to make a rifle-pit from which he could defend himself if pursued, he crept quietly into the saloon of the vessel, where he found that the Indians had been indulging in “a high old time.” Glasses and crockery were smashed, mattresses were dragged from the cabin, and everything that was movable lay scattered helter-skelter over the dining-tables and floor. It was evident that a search had been made for him, as doors which were locked had been broken open, although no attempt had been made to remove the coverings from the hatchways which led into the hold. Only one deck presented signs of a search, and above all was perfectly quiet. Going up-stairs, Taylor found human bones, picked clean, scattered around the galley. He did not touch them, because to look at them gave him the “shivers,” he said, but he saw enough to convince him that not only had the body of his companion been eaten, but also that of the savage who had been killed in the fray. It was evident that the savages had enjoyed a long and lively picnic, for there were several places on the deck where fires had been built. It was a wonder to him that the vessel had not been burned to the water’s edge. While hunting around for food, he found the head of his companion with the neck chopped off close to the jaws, the eyes punched out, and the fleshy part of the cheeks cut off. The sight of this was so horrible that he abandoned further exploration, and returned to his place of confinement so faint and bewildered that he could scarcely find his way. That night he crept out again, and finding some canned meat and fruit, lowered himself overboard and swam ashore, concluding that the Indians would return to the vessel, and that he would be safer in the rocks and bushes. Here he concealed himself for several days, awaiting the vessel that was to arrive from Valparaiso on the 21st of the month. The 25th passed without any sign of relief, and on the morning of the 26th he started on foot for Punta Arenas, where he arrived two days after. Here he told his story, and instead of being welcomed with hospitality, was arrested and thrown into jail, charged with the murder of his companion. A boat was sent down to the wreck, and such evidence was found there as to convince every one of the truth of his statement; whereupon he was released, and is now at Punta Arenas, in the employment of the Steamship Company, on an old hulk which lies in the harbor and is used for the storage of coal.

I have not told the story in as graphic a manner as it was related to me by William Taylor that night under the antarctic stars, but have given only the facts of his narrative, without embellishment of sailors’ slang and oaths. He lives in the hope of “steering within hailing distance of some of the savages, when he proposes to give them something worse than a rope’s-end.”

It is believed there is much gold in Terra del Fuego, as nuggets have been discovered by the missionaries in the streams. The Argentine Government proposes to make an exploration soon, and sanguine people think the time is not far distant when the islands of the archipelago will be filled with successful prospectors. Seals and other fur-bearing animals are plenty, but many skins are not sent to market for the reason that supplies can be obtained cheaper elsewhere.

There used to be a State called Patagonia, and one can still find it referred to in old geographies, but by the combined efforts of Chili and the Argentine Republic it has been wiped off the modern maps of the world. The United States ministers at the capitals of the two republics named assisted in dissecting the territory, and were presented with beautiful and costly testimonials as tokens of the artistic manner in which it was done. It was agreed that the boundary-line of Chili should be extended down the coast and then run eastward, just north of the Strait of Magellan, so that the Argentines should have the pampas, or prairies, and Chili the strait and the islands. The map of Chili now looks like the leg of a tall man, long and lean, with a very high instep and several conspicuous bunions.