CHAPTER VIII
THE STRAITS OF MAGELLAN
In the annals of maritime discovery three great voyages stand out as the most daring in their inception, the most striking in their incidents, the most momentous in their results. They are those of Columbus in 1492, of Vasco da Gama to the coast of India in 1498, of Magellan in 1519–1522, and of these three, Magellan's was in some ways the most wonderful. It was by far the longest, and was performed under hardships and sufferings which were absent from the others. Vasco da Gama had a powerful armament, could obtain pilots, and knew where he was going. Columbus had a short and easy crossing, though it was into an unknown region. But Magellan ventured down into the stormiest seas of our globe, and after he had found a channel leading through savage solitudes to the Pacific, had eight thousand miles of ocean to traverse before he sighted those Asiatic isles among which he found his fate. As the interest of the Straits, apart from the grandeur of their scenery, lies largely in the circumstances of their discovery and the heroic character of the man who first proved experimentally (so to speak) that our earth is a globe, a few lines may be given to some account of his exploit before I describe the channel itself.
Columbus seems to have set forth not so much to discover new countries as to find a shorter way to India from the west than that known to exist via the Red Sea,67 and which Bartholomew Diaz, by passing the Cape of Good Hope, had almost proved to exist round Africa. As James Russell Lowell happily said, "meaning to enter the back door of the Old World, Columbus knocked at the front door of a New World." To the end of his life, after four voyages, in two of which he coasted for hundreds of miles along the shores of what we now call Central and South America, he continued to believe that he had reached the Indies, though he had not been able to hit upon any one of the islands or districts supposed to exist there. When it began to be clear that there were masses of land extending a long way to the north and south of the part which Columbus had first struck, men tried to find a way through this land by which Asia, still supposed to be quite near, might be reached. Portuguese and Spanish navigators followed the coast of what we call South America a long way to the south, while others explored northwards. In 1513 Vasco Nuñez de Balboa, crossing the Isthmus of Darien, discovered the Pacific Ocean, which he called the South Sea; and it began to be conjectured that there might well be a great space of water to be crossed before India could be reached, though nothing shewed how wide it was or whether it was anywhere connected with the Atlantic. Six years later, in 1519, Magellan was commissioned by Charles, king of Spain (not yet the Emperor Charles V) to try to find a passage from the Atlantic into the sea which washed eastern Asia and so to reach, if possible, the rich Spice islands (the Moluccas) already known to lie off the Asiatic coast. He sailed with three ships in August of that year, and began his search for a westward passage at the Rio de la Plata, which had already been reached (in 1516) by Spanish sailors. He wintered on the coast of Patagonia at a spot where Francis Drake also spent the winter fifty-eight years later, and on the 21st of October, being the day of the Eleven Thousand Virgins, sighted a low promontory which he called after those saints and which is still the Cape Virgenes of our charts. Just beyond and inside this promontory there opens to the west an inlet of the sea, which he sent two ships to explore. They seem, from the description given by Pigafetta, the Italian chronicler of the expedition, who was on board, to have gone through two channels, now called the First and Second Narrows, into the great piece of open water opposite the place we call Punta Arenas (though possibly they stopped at the entrance of the Second Narrows), and they returned thence with an account so favourable that Magellan entered the strait on All Saints Day (November 1). Had he not found it, his purpose was to sail on steadily southward till he reached latitude 75° south. Long before that he would have been stopped by the frozen shores of Graham Land, nor did any one get down to latitude 75° till 1823. He passed both Narrows, crossed the open piece of water, and then, halting at a point where the channel forks, he sent out two of his ships to examine the southeasterly one while he took the southwestern. Thereafter, stopping again, and making a pilot climb a hill to see if the channel came to an end, he sent on boats to explore further. They returned – so says Pigafetta68– in three days and reported that they had seen a cape and beyond it open sea. Thereupon Magellan cast loose from the shore to which he was moored and with two out of his three ships (for one of those sent to reconnoitre had deserted and gone back to Spain) sailed out to the west, and on November 28 entered the Pacific. When he perceived that there was a vast sea before him, he called the cape Deseado (the desired) and wept for joy. Thence, turning first north and then northwest, he got into the southeast trade-wind, and sped along before it, making from fifty to seventy leagues a day. Before this steady breeze he sailed for three months and twenty days over the boundless waste of waters, his crews reduced to the last extremity by famine and scurvy, till he reached the Ladrone Islands. "Had not God and His Blessed Mother given us good weather," says the Italian chronicler, "we should all have died of hunger in that exceeding vast sea. I do not believe that any such voyage will ever be made again." Perhaps it was because the subsequent sufferings made their time in the Straits seem agreeable by comparison that Pigafetta has nothing but good to say of the latter. "There were," he says, "safe ports every half league, and plenty of water and good wood. I do not believe there is a more beautiful country or a better strait than that in the world."
Sir Francis Drake, whose passage of the Straits in 1578, on his famous circumnavigation of the globe, seems to have been the next recorded one after Magellan's, got through in sixteen days, but encountered frightful weather when he emerged into the Pacific, which drove him a long way south, perhaps nearly as far as Cape Horn.69 The passage from east to west which Magellan and Drake took is more impressive than that from west to east, because it begins between low shores in quiet and even tame scenery, which rises into grandeur as one approaches the Pacific. We, however, had to take the Strait the opposite way, and so I will describe it.
The last Chilean port at which the ocean-going steamers bound for the Atlantic call is Lota, near Talcahuano, of which I have already spoken (see page 227). From this it is a voyage of three days to the west end of the Strait. The steamer keeps so far out that in the cloudy weather which usually prevails it is only at intervals that one can see the lofty hills. This is one of the wettest and windiest parts of the Pacific, and it is in this region, between latitude 45° south and Cape Horn, that seas heavier than elsewhere in the world are apt to be encountered. We had the usual weather, cold and wet, with a southwest wind which sometimes rose to three-quarters of a gale. It is, however, a good rule to keep the deck whenever you can do so without the risk of being drenched or perhaps knocked down and swept along by a wave coming on board; and the want of anything else to occupy the eyes was compensated by the delight of watching the flocks of sea-birds which followed and circled round the ship day after day. Chief among them was the albatross, whose aspect is that of a gigantic gull. There were usually two or three, and, as has often been observed, they seemed scarcely to move their wings, but to float along, rising and falling without effort and often moving faster than the ship, of which they usually kept astern. Steady as was their flight, it would have needed a good marksman to hit one with a cross-bow, had such a weapon been by ill luck on board. Among the other birds, – there were at least forty or fifty playing round the ship, but it was impossible to count them accurately, – the largest was the giant petrel or "bone breaker," which somewhat resembles an albatross, save that he is dark, and the handsomest was the so-called Cape pigeon. He is bigger than a pigeon and no more like one than is implied by the fact that he is more like a pigeon than a gull. The grace of his circling flight, and the black or dark brown spots on the dazzling white of his wings, made it a constant pleasure to watch him, but it was hard either to follow the course of any particular bird or to be sure that our count of the spots was correct. When any remains of food were thrown overboard, the whole swarm darted at once upon it, fluttering and cluttering together on the surface of the sea, with much splashing and jostling, but never, so far as we could observe, fighting with one another. Even the great albatross did not seem to abuse his strength against the Cape pigeon. When they had seized what they could, all easily overtook the ship, though by that time perhaps two or three hundred yards away. The dulness of three tempestuous days under gloomy skies was redeemed by the joy of watching these beautiful creatures, happy in having their lot cast on a wild and lonely coast, where they are safe from the predatory instincts of man.
This long line of islands, stretching along the coast from Chiloe seven hundred miles to the opening of the Straits, is practically uninhabited, though a few wretched Indians wandering about in canoes support life by fishing. Between the isles and the mainland is a labyrinth of sounds and bays studded with other islands, great and small, all covered with wood so close and thick as to be almost impenetrable. The scenery, especially towards the south in the long inland sea called Smyth's Channel, has excited the admiration of those few travellers who have been fortunate enough to see it. This we had hoped to do, but found that the German steamers which used to take the route through these channels into the Straits had ceased to do so on account of the dangers of the navigation, there being so much fog and rain, such strong and uncertain currents, and so many sunken rocks that even with the help of the charts which the British Admiralty has published, it is hazardous to move except in broad daylight. Lighthouses there are none. One line of small steamers does run from Punta Arenas in the Straits through the channels up to the south Chilean ports, but to have waited for a boat of this line would have involved a month's delay, so we had to comfort ourselves by reflecting that had we been able to catch a vessel traversing this fairyland of wood and water and snowpeaks rising above land-locked fjords, still the chances of weather good enough to enable it to be seen and enjoyed would have been slender. For a description of it the reader may be referred to the book of Mr. Ball.70 Were it not so far from the countries where rich men own yachts, it would be a superb yachting ground for those who could spare the time to explore its recesses, moving only by day, and with unceasing circumspection.
Among the headlands which we saw along this stern and lofty coast, two were especially striking from their height and form. One is called Tres Montes. Heavy clouds hid its top, but two thousand feet were visible of the steep face that rose above the sea. Further south the huge tabular mass of Cape St. George, grand and grey in its drapery of mists, looked out over billows, the spray of whose crests as they broke upon the rocks could be seen fifteen miles away. There is not in the world a coast more terrible than this. No hope for a ship driven in against it by the strong currents and the resistless western swell. Still further south, on the fourth day of our voyage, after a night in which the vessel, steady sea boat as she was, rolled so heavily that it was hard to avoid being pitched out of one's berth, we reached a group of high rocky islands, called the Evangelists, – they seem from a distance to be four, but are really five, – on which the Chilean government has lately, in spite of the difficulty of landing in an always troubled sea, erected a lighthouse. Its light, 190 feet high, is visible for thirty miles, and was greatly needed, for vessels found it hard in the thick weather that is frequent here to make the entrance to the Straits. The group is conspicuous by a hole through one of the highest cliffs, and a long curved and contorted stratum of white quartz along the face of another. Not even on the coast of Norway can I remember anything grander than this wild sea, flashing and seething round these lonely isles. No other land was in sight, though the blackness of a distant cloud shewed that there were hills behind it. An hour and a half later there loomed up in the south, through driving rain-clouds, a dark mass which presently revealed itself as a tower of rock springing out of the sea, with crag rising above crag to a lofty peak behind. This rock tower – Cape Pilar – marks the entrance to the Straits. Beyond it an ironbound coast runs down four hundred miles southeast to Cape Horn. It is a coast which ships seldom see, for steamers, of course, prefer the Straits; and the very few sailing vessels that still come round this way to the Atlantic from San Francisco or Valparaiso or Australia give a wide berth to these savage and storm-swept shores. When we had gone some ten miles further, the steamer turned her course eastward, and entered the opening, about fifteen miles wide, between Cape Pilar on the south and Cape Formosa on the north. We were now on the track of Magellan, for Pilar is the cape which he saw and named the Desired Cape (Cabo Deseado) when the seaway opening to the west assured him that the ocean he was seeking had been found. Standing high on the bow of our ship and looking along it as it plunged in the great rollers, how small this ocean steamer seemed compared to the vast landscape around. Yet how much tinier were the two vessels with which Magellan ventured out into the billows of an unknown sea.
Before us the inlet narrowed to a point scarcely seen in the vaporous haze. To the south the bare peaks of Desolation Island, beginning from Cape Pilar, rose with terrific boldness, unscaleable shafts and towers of rock that recalled the shapes of the Coolin hills in Skye or the still loftier summits of the Lofoten Isles in Norway. To the north a mysterious fringe of islands and foam-girt reefs, grey and dim among their mists, hid the entrance to Smyth's Channel and the labyrinth of almost unexplored sounds and inlets along the Chilean coast beyond. Behind us the sun, now near his setting, threw from among the scattering clouds a flood of yellow light over the white-topped surges that were racing in our wake. One thought of Magellan's tears of joy when these long surges on which his little vessel rose told him that here at last was that ocean he had set forth to find and over which lay the path of glory that for him led only to the grave. Such a moment was worth a lifetime.
As our ship passed further and further in between the narrowing shores, the birds began to drop away from us, first the great albatross, which loves the open sea, and then the smaller kinds. So, too, the billows slowly subsided, though the wind was still strong and the water still deep and the sea wide open behind us, until when we had gone some fifteen miles beyond Cape Pilar the ocean swell was scarcely perceptible.
Among the isles on the north side of the Strait the most conspicuous is that to which, from its high-gabled central ridge, the name of Westminster Hall has been given. It seemed strange to find in this remote region nearly all the headlands, bays, and channels bearing English names, but the explanation is simple. As there were no native names at all, the Fuegians not having reached that grade of civilization in which distinctive proper names are given to places, and extremely few Spanish names, because the colonial government never surveyed the Straits and few colonial vessels entered them, the British naval officers who did their hydrographic work in and around the Fuegian archipelago were obliged to find names. Like Cook and Vancouver in the north Pacific they bestowed upon places the names of their ships, or of their brother seamen, or of persons connected with the British Admiralty at home. Hence Smyth's Channel and Cockburn Channel and Croker Peninsula and Beagle Sound and Cape Fitzroy and Fury Island and Mount Darwin. The Dutch captains, sea-rovers or whalers, have contributed other names, such as Barnevelt Island and Staten Island and Nassau Bay and Cape Horn itself. Thus a chart has here the sort of historic interest which the plan of an old city has, where the names of streets and squares speak of the persons who were famous when each was built, like Queen Anne Street and Harley Street and Wellington Street in London, or the list of Napoleonic victories which one has in the street names of Paris.
The Admiralty surveys have also named the different parts of the long line of the Straits. First comes, beginning from the westward, Sea Reach, which, narrowing gradually till it is about four miles wide, has a length of about thirty miles; then Long Reach, thirty-five miles long, and averaging two to three miles wide; then the shorter, and in parts narrower, Crooked Reach, and English Reach, which brings one to Cape Froward, nearly halfway to the Atlantic. Darkness fell before we came to the end of Sea Reach, and we had our last view of the range of formidable pinnacles and precipices which, beginning from Cape Pilar, run along the shore of Desolation Island, the northernmost of the mountainous isles that lie between the Straits and Cape Horn. It is separated from the two isles next to it on the southeast by channels so narrow that the three were long supposed to form one island. The peaks, some of them apparently inaccessible, are of bare rock and run up to four thousand feet. On the slopes near the shore there is a little short grass, but no wood, so violent and unceasing are the winds. The sea was absolutely solitary. For three days we had seen no ship. Formerly a few Fuegians in their canoes haunted these shores, but they now come no longer. Scattered remnants of their small tribes, Yahgans and Alakalufs, wander along the shores of the more southerly islands, supporting existence on shell-fish and wild berries. With the exception of the now all but extinct Bushmen of South Africa and the Veddas of Ceylon, they are the lowest kind of savage known to exist, going almost or quite naked, rigorous as is the climate, possessing no dwellings, and having learned from civilized man nothing except a passion for tobacco. There are missionaries at work among them who have done what can be done to ameliorate their lot, which would be even more wretched if they knew it to be wretched. They would appear, from the vast remains of their ancient middens, to have inhabited these inhospitable regions for untold ages, and their low state contrasts remarkably with the superior intelligence and the progress in some of the arts of life which mark the Lapps and Esquimaux and other barbarous tribes of regions far nearer to the North Pole than this is to the South. The contrast may possibly be due to the greater scarcity of wild creatures both on land and sea in this extremity of South America.71 Here are no bears, black or brown or polar, and no creature like the reindeer of Lapland, and no musk-ox; nor has the dog ever been harnessed.
Next morning we were up on the bridge beside our friendly captain at the first glimmer of dawn. The vessel, going at half speed during the night, had covered no great distance, but the character of the scenery had already changed. Here in Long Reach the Strait was only three miles wide. The spiry pinnacles of Desolation Island had been replaced by mountains nearly or quite as high, but of more rounded forms, their faces breaking down sometimes in cliffs, but more frequently in steep, bare slopes of rock to the deep waters, their glens filled with blue glaciers, which sometimes came within two hundred yards of the sea, their upper slopes covered with snow or névé, which seemed to form vast ice fields stretching far back inland. Clouds lay heavy on these snows, so only here and there could one discern the outlines of a peak, and conjecture its height. The tops seemed to average from twenty-five hundred to four thousand feet, and the level of the line of perpetual snow to be somewhat over three thousand feet, varying according to the exposure, the line being, of course, a little higher on the south side, whose slopes face the north. On the lower declivities towards the sea there was now some grass, and in sheltered places, such as the heads of inlets, a little thick, low scrub of trees, probably of the two Antarctic beeches,72 which are here the commonest trees. What most struck us was the similarity of the mountain lines and their general character to those of the extreme north of Norway, between Tromsö and the North Cape. Everything seemed to point to an epoch when the glaciers, formerly more extensive than now, rounded off the tops of the ridges, and smoothed the surfaces, just as one finds them rounded and smoothed along the Lyngen fjord on this side the North Cape. It is also natural to suppose that rain and wind, which seem to be less copious and less violent in this part of the Straits than at their western opening, have done less here than they do there to carve the peaks into sharp spires and jagged precipices.
The day, when it came, was dark, for a grey pall of cloud covered sea and mountains; but as this was the usual weather, and suited the sternness of the landscape, we regretted only the impossibility of seeing the tops of the highest hills that rose out of the undulating snow plateau which lies back from the shores. Very solemn was this long, slightly winding channel, deep and smooth, broken rarely by an island or a rock, but now and then shewing a seductive little bay with a patch of green. Sometimes in a glen running back to the foot of a glacier one caught the white flash of a waterfall. The remarkable purity of the ice and smallness of the moraines may be attributed to the fact that the glaciers seemed to be seldom overhung by cliffs whence stone would fall, and that the rocks were evidently extremely hard. They seemed to belong to the ancient crystalline group, granite and gneiss or mica schist, with masses of white quartz, shewing no trace anywhere of volcanic action. This region on both sides of the Straits may be a prolongation not of the great Andean Cordillera, but of the Coast Range of Chile, which (as already observed) mostly consists of those older rocks which I have just mentioned.
At Crooked Reach the view, looking back westward, was specially noble. On a green slope above a sheltered inlet upon the south side are a few houses, the melancholy remains of a Swiss colony, founded some twenty years ago, which failed to support itself in this inclement nature. Behind there was a long curtain-like line of snows. On the north two or three small isles fringed the steep rocky shore with a background of peaks dimly seen through drifting snow showers. In the middle the eye rested on the smooth, grey-blue surface of the great waterway, here only a mile wide, dark as the clouds above and darker still in spots where a gust from the hill fell upon it, silent as when Magellan's prow first clove it. For steam vessels the navigation is not dangerous, since, though there are in this narrow part no lights, there are few sunken rocks. A rock is always indicated by the masses of very long, yellowish brown seaweed which root on it and wave in the tide. But squalls or williwaws (as they are called) come down from the glens with terrific suddenness, and the water is so deep that it is often hard to anchor, or to keep the ship, if anchored, from dragging. Magellan moored his vessels to the shore every night. How did he manage to get through so quickly, against the prevailing west winds, by tacking in a channel so narrow, especially as in those days mariners could not sail so near the wind as we do? Perhaps he may have made much use of the tide, mooring when it was against him and pushing ahead when the ebb set out to the Pacific. The tide flow is, however, not so strong here as is that which enters on the Atlantic side, and it there rises to a much greater height.
About this point another change comes over the scenery. There begins to be more wood, and though it is still stunted, one notes patches of it up to eight hundred feet. On the north shore more recent sedimentary strata, apparently of sandstone and limestone, replace the gneiss, and a growth of herbaceous plants and ferns drapes the face of the cliffs. Then at the end of English Reach rises a bold headland, Cape Froward, twelve hundred feet high, projecting from the much loftier Mount Victoria behind. It marks the southernmost extremity of the South American Continent in latitude 52°. Here the coast-line, which had been running in a generally east southeasterly direction all the way from the Pacific, turns sharply to the north, and in a few miles a new scene is disclosed. The Strait widens out, an open expanse of water is seen to the northeast with a low shore scarcely visible behind it; and to the south, nearly opposite Cape Froward, a channel diverges to the southeast between high mountains on its west side and lower hills on the east. This is the north end of Cockburn Channel, which, after many windings among islands, opens out southwestward into the Pacific, and this seems to be the place where Magellan halted, sending out the two ships – one of which deserted him – to explore the southeastward channel. Looking up it one can see in clear weather, some forty miles away, the peak of Sarmiento, highest of all the mountains of this region, a double pyramid of rock peaks rising out of snow. It is of old crystalline rock and is described as by far the most striking object in all the Magellanic landscapes. Thick clouds hid it from our longing eyes. Its height is estimated at six thousand feet, and so far as I know it has never been ascended. That dauntless climber, Sir Martin Conway, who got nearer to its top than any one else has ever done, was turned back by a frightful tempest below the last rock peak.
East of Cape Froward, one is at once in a different region with a different climate. The air is drier and clearer. The shores are lower, the wood, still mostly of the Antarctic beech, is thicker, with many dead white trunks which take fire easily. The hills recede from the sea, and grow smoother in outline, finally disposing themselves in low flat-topped ridges, six or eight miles behind the shore-line. A wide expanse of water, and of land almost as level as the water, stretches out to the eastern horizon, so that at first one fancies that this apparently shoreless sea is part of the Atlantic, which is in fact still nearly a hundred miles away. Signs of civilization appear in a lighthouse at San Isidro, and near it at a small harbour on the mainland to which a few whalers resort, boiling down into oil the produce of their catch. Presently the masts and funnels of vessels lying off shore at anchor rise out of the sea, and we heave to and disembark at the little town of Punta Arenas on the Patagonian coast, which English-speaking men call Sandy Point. This is the southernmost town not only in Chile, but in the whole world, twenty degrees further from the South Pole than Hammerfest, an older and larger place, is from the North Pole. It consists of about six very wide streets, only partially built up, running parallel to the shore, which are crossed at right angles by as many other similar streets, running up the hill, the houses low, many of them built, and nearly all of them roofed, with corrugated iron. It has, therefore, no beauty at all except what is given by its wide view of the open sea basin of the Strait, here twenty miles wide, and beyond over the plains of Tierra del Fuego, the great island which lies opposite. In the far distance mountains can in clear weather be seen in the south of that island, Mount Sarmiento conspicuous among them.
Punta Arenas was for many years only a place of call for whalers, since hardly any trading vessels passed through the Straits before the days of steam, and thereafter for a while a Chilean penal settlement. It grew by degrees and has profited by the discovery of lignite coal in its neighbourhood, though the seam is small and of poor quality; and within the last twenty years it has increased and thriven because sheep farming has been started on an extensive scale on the mainland of Patagonia as well as in Tierra del Fuego and some of the adjoining islands. All the sheep ranchmen within a range exceeding several days' journey come here for their supplies and all ship their wool from here, so it can now boast to be the leading commercial centre of the region, having no rival within a thousand miles. Whether it can develop much further may be doubtful, for traffic through the Straits will not greatly increase against the competition of the Trans-Andine railway for passengers and that of the Panama Canal for goods, and most of the land fit for sheep farming has been already taken up. Neither the whale fishery nor sealing is now prosecuted on a large scale.
The town is a cosmopolitan place, in which English, as well as Spanish and to a less extent German (for the steamers of a well-appointed German line call frequently), is spoken; people engaged in the sheep trade come and go from the Falkland Islands, and the ocean liners keep it in touch with the distant world of Valparaiso and Buenos Aires and Europe. It is the same distance to the south of the Equator as the Straits of Belleisle in Labrador is to the north, but the climate here is far more equable. It is never warm, but the winters are not severe, there is little snow, and frosts are moderated by the adjoining sea. The air is dry and healthy with a rainfall of only ten inches in the year. Though the landscape is bare, for trees can with difficulty be induced to grow, and though there is much wind and no shelter, still we found something attractive in this remote and singular spot, for one has a constantly stimulative sense of the vast expanse of sky and sea and the distant plain of Tierra del Fuego, with a touch of mystery in the still more distant ranges of that island which just shew their snowy peaks on the horizon. The light over sea and shore has an exquisite pearly clearness which reminds one of the similar light that floats over the lagoons between Venice and Aquileia. Can this peculiar quality in the atmosphere be due, here as there, to the presence of a large body of comparatively smooth and shallow water, mirroring back to heaven the light that it receives?