“He had some grit, didn’t he? If he hadn’t been killed, I rather think he would have returned by the way of the Horn.”
We remained at our anchorage all night. The watch reported another storm towards morning, only less violent. At daybreak the sea was calm, and a boat appeared. Never had I seen and never have I since seen such a spectacle of destitution, misery and wretchedness. The boat was a rude affair, propelled by clumsy paddles. In the center on a stone foundation was a fire, or rather a bed of live coals. The occupants of the boat were Fuegians, small in stature, badly formed and only half-clad. It would be difficult to picture people more inferior and degraded. Some huddled over the fire, and others stretched out their arms while they muttered something which we assumed to be a request for food or clothing. The cook threw them some scraps, and, as we weighed anchor and were off, they called to us in tones from which we judged that they regarded our bounty as a scant one.
Lakeum came forward and said to me, “What do you know about these Fuegians?”
“I read up about them when I was at school. They are of a low order of intelligence and are treacherous and degraded.”
Lakeum declared, “Let me tell you what an officer in our navy told me. He said that their vessel once called at the northerly side of the strait and that the Patagonians, though living close to salt water, never ventured from shore. What little they knew about boating pertained to fresh water. They had a circular craft for crossing shallow streams. They would dump into it whatever was to be transported; and then a horse was attached and he drew it to the other side. This officer also said that the Fuegians would cross the strait, steal anything they could lay their hands on, and, putting off in their boats with their plunder, would laugh at the Patagonians standing on the shore and unable to follow them.”
We were a week in making the passage, and a hard week it was, too. The brief hurricanes came towards night, and the captain made due preparations, as he had warning of their coming. Fogs came and went; the air was raw and the desolation and solitude were relieved only once when we sighted a steamer in the distance. The mere glimpse of her improved our spirits and gave us courage. At the middle of the strait there were large mountains at the north, and small hills at the south. Here, on the Patagonian side, was a white settlement called Sandy Point, and used by the Chilean Government as a penal colony. We ran so near shore at this place that we could plainly see a little group of Patagonians. They were of large structure and powerfully built. I have since learned that the statement that many Patagonians are seven feet high is untrue. As we approached the eastern entrance to the strait, we noticed that the shores were low and reddish in color, and apparently sandy. Once more in the Atlantic we began to sing lustily the familiar song “Homeward Bound”, the first and last stanzas of which are as follows: