Chapter IX: Sail Ho!

_Jan. 8._ Some Indians ascended Table Mountain, near us, this morning, where they obtain an extensive view of the Strait, and returned with the report that a vessel was coming into the bay from the south-west. Immediately the whole camp was in commotion, and the loud cry of “Barko Americana! Barko Americana!” rang from tent to tent. Troops of savages were soon mounted on their horses, and galloping off at full speed to meet the coming stranger. Nothing seems to excite such jubilant feelings as the approach of a vessel to their shores, and I must confess that on this occasion my heart partook largely of the general joy, though my emotions were excited by very different motives from those of the crowd. They longed for tobacco, rum, and fire-arms; we longed for news from the civilized world, for news from home. Hope filled us with unutterable joy.

My companion mounted a horse and went down to the shore with the Indians, while I remained to guard the tent. At evening Mr. Arms returned and reported that the vessel was a French brig from Valparaiso, bound to Havre; that three of the American sailors who had so long been in Santa Maria’s clan had succeeded in getting on board and shipping for France; and that the captain had received him very courteously, and kindly offered us a free passage in his brig: a generous offer, for which both we and our patrons and friends at home will ever thank him.

Thus the first vessel we have seen has come and gone without a letter or a paper from our dear country, or “a wish or a thought” from friends who are dear to us as life. This is tantalizing, but we bear it patiently, for it is one of the conditions of our mission to Patagonia.

“Though the vision tarry” we will wait for it, because it will come in due time. We are not prepared to leave this country as yet, even by the very favorable opportunity now offered us. We wish to meet other Indian tribes, if possible, and to learn more of the country and of the condition of its people, trusting that when our work shall have been done, the good Lord will send us a direct conveyance back to our country and friends. So we wait the will of our Master.

_Jan. 9._ We set out this morning before sunrise, to visit the French brig. Found multitudes of natives on the shore, where they had spent the night in the open air. As the wind was high and the sea rough, no boat was sent to the shore from the brig, and about 8 +A.M.+ she was under sail and wafted out of the harbor. Just as her sails were being unfurled, two vessels were descried at a great distance coming in from the east. This caused shouts of transport among the Indians, and a new thrill of joy ran through my heart, for I said now surely we shall have tidings from the outer world, and from our native land. So we all sat down upon the banks of the Strait, determined to wait the arrival of these vessels. Wind and tide opposed the progress of the schooners, and they were long in beating up into the bay. Meanwhile I wrote a pencil note to Mr. Arms, informing him of the approaching vessels and telling him not to be anxious for me, as it was probable I should be obliged to remain over night in order to communicate with them. This note I gave to an Indian, bidding him to speed with it to Mr. Arms. Off he went at full gallop and was soon out of sight.

It was almost sunset when the first schooner arrived and dropped her anchor within hailing distance from the shore. I at once hailed the vessel in English, and the captain sent his boat and brought me on board. I introduced myself and told him the cause of our visit to this country and our present condition among the Indians. I enquired for letters, papers and news, but he replied that he had no letters and no news, as he had been long at sea. He was from New Bedford, Mass. Soon the second schooner, the Peruvian, of Boston, came up and anchored outside of us, and I hailed her from the deck of the first. The captain invited me cordially to come on board the Peruvian, but as it was near night, the wind strong and the sea rough, it seemed imprudent to attempt boarding her. She was reported bound for the Society Islands, and the New Bedford vessel for the Sandwich Islands, carrying a cargo of New England rum.

Having had no bread and no vegetables for nearly two months, I asked the captain if he would sell us a few pounds of sea biscuit and a few other edibles. He replied that he had nothing to spare; that his voyage had been long and unfortunate, and that he must keep what provisions he had. I then suggested that he might desire to replenish his store of meat by trading a little with the Indians, of whom there were many on shore. To this he objected, saying he did not like the looks of these savages, and that he would have nothing to do with them. Finding my suggestions rebuffed, and being very hungry, having eaten nothing since sunrise, and thinking I might get some food among the savages on shore, I asked the captain if he would be so kind as to return me to the beach. To this he said no, for it was quite rough and he had taken in his boats for the night.

I then said, “Very well, I am on board, and if you will allow me to sleep on the transom and set me on shore in the morning, all will be right.” So we went below to the cabin, where I hoped to see a table spread for supper. But as no table was laid I reasoned that all hands had eaten before I went on board; but the steward, for what reason I know not, on clearing off the supper table, had left a plate, with one pancake on it. Now we are forbidden to covet, but I found it hard to suppress my desire to eat that cake. Still I held back till near bed-time, trying hard to entertain the captain with conversation, especially on matters pertaining to his profession as a seaman and on my experiences of Patagonian life, hoping that my remarks on these experiences in the matter of eating would be rightly interpreted. At last forbearance seemed to cease to be a virtue, and I became desperate and burst out with “Captain, I am very hungry; I have eaten nothing since morning, and have eaten nothing made of flour for many weeks. I see a cake on your table and with your permission I would like to eat it.” He gave his consent, and immediately called out, “Steward! here, bring on some grub; this man is hungry,” In rushed the steward with a plate of “cold junk” (salt beef) and another of “hard-tack” (sea biscuit). The feast was sweeter to my taste than the best Thanksgiving dinner I ever ate, though it might have been sweeter still. I thanked the captain for my delicious repast and lay down on the transom for the night.

_Jan. 10._ Early this morning I awoke, and taking leave of the captain and the vessel, went on shore with the mate, mounted my horse, and with an Indian attendant sped over the plains to our little home, to breakfast with Mr. Arms on hot soup and boiled guanaco.

Before leaving the beach, I saw the Peruvian under sail and seeking a safer anchorage about a mile further up the bay. Hundreds of Indians slept on the shore during the night, hoping to open a trade with the vessels, and there they will remain, though half starved, for a week, should the schooners remain so long.

Captain Congo put a new guanaco robe with a fine piece of venison into my hands, as I landed this morning, wishing me to send them as a present to the captain of the schooner in his name. This I did, committing them to the charge of the mate who returned with the boat to the vessel.

On board the New Bedford schooner yesterday, I met the three American sailors who had succeeded in getting off to the French brig the day before. The brig meeting this schooner coming into the bay, the master requested the captain of the American vessel to take these men, which he did. I found them divested of their Indian dress, washed, shaved, and comfortably clad in the attire of seamen. All this cleansing and clothing had been kindly done for them on board the French vessel, and their appearance was so much improved I did not recognize them at first, and when they addressed me by name I enquired where they had seen me. The poor fellows were much elated at the opportunity of leaving these now dreaded shores.

_Jan. 11._ The cry of “Barko!” again rang through the camp this morning, and Mr. Arms took horse and went down to the Strait. On his arrival he found the sail to be one of the schooners, which attempted to sail yesterday morning and was driven back by a strong head-wind.

The Queen and her party have all come down and pitched with us, so that we now have a camp of some 700 around us.

Last evening, about sunset, Captain Congo, with the large troop left at Gregory’s Bay when I returned in the morning, came up from the sea in a remarkably jubilant mood. The Indian who headed the train had an empty flour-barrel before him, lying across the neck of his horse. On this cask he was drumming with great energy, and shouting, “Americana barko bono! Americana barko bono!” while the whole line of Indians joined in the refrain, shouting, laughing, and making the welkin ring with their jubilation.

We were sitting in our little tent and looking at the long line in “Indian file,” when the drummer rode up in front of us, bent over and tossed like a quoit a sea-biscuit into our tent. Another and another followed and performed the same act, until we seemed in danger of a surfeit. We were surprised, and could in no wise account for this liberal shower of food, falling like manna from heaven. I had left a ship that morning without a piece of bread or a grain of rice in my pocket. How then had these savages succeeded in obtaining such a supply? It is a riddle which we cannot interpret. We can only thank the Lord for giving us, “without money and without price,” that which we vainly sought with money, and which we would not have refused even at a dollar a pound.

We invited Captain Congo and the Spanish Indian into our tent to-day, to inquire more at length of them about the country and the people. These men tell us that they have travelled all over Patagonia, and their descriptions accorded so nearly with our maps that we were satisfied that they had seen what they reported. We first requested them to tell us what they knew of the Atlantic coast in going north from the Strait. They first mentioned a river and a harbor where vessels sometimes anchor, giving the number of days occupied by the Indians in reaching that place. This we conclude to be Port Gallegas. Next came Santa Cruz, which they named distinctly. After this, and in a given number of days, they reached the small river which flows into Port St. Julian. Next, after many days, they reached Port Desire, with its river of considerable volume, and the _débris_ of its ancient fort and settlement, once occupied by the Spaniards. Further on they mentioned a great gulf, or a deep indenture of the coast, which must be St. George’s Gulf. Still further north was another river of much water, which must be the Chuput, and after long ramblings, and fording of some smaller streams, they came in sight of the settlements in the region of the Rio Negro.

In going up the coast they described much zigzagging to avoid obstacles and to find fording places on the rivers. Their descriptions seemed credible in a remarkable degree, as they accorded so nearly with the map which was before us.

Having thus followed our guides along the Atlantic coast, where we had data and way-marks to detect errors, we next requested them to lead us through the interior, which, to all the world beside the Patagonian, is a _terra incognita_, and a land of romantic conjecture.

They assured us that they had explored all that region, that in some parts there was “much grass, much ostrich, much guanaco, much lion,” with some other quadrupeds and a few birds. They also said that in one place there was a great salt desert, with here and there lakes and ponds of water, and we understood them to speak of regions of sand and of something which we suppose to be volcanic ashes and other plutonic products.

We then took them farther west, to the mountain ranges and spurs, inquiring if the Indians had ever gone to the bases and foot-hills of the great mountains. They assured us that they had, and that there were woodlands and swamps which they could not penetrate, that the mountains were high and rugged and bold, and that they were often covered with snow, so that horses could find no grass, and that Indus would be very cold and hungry and could not get over the mountains. All this they acted out with energetic gesticulation, so that we could not mistake them.

We then inquired as to the probable number of inhabitants in the whole country. Santa Rio says there are three nations inhabiting this land, speaking different languages and of different habits of life.

On the northern borders are what he called the Oucas tribe, numbering several thousands. These live in tents of skin like the southern clans, and are partly agricultural and partly nomadic. They have horned cattle, horses, and sheep, and they also cultivate the earth to some extent. Occasionally they remove to short distances to obtain grass for their cattle when it is exhausted near them.

South of this region he again speaks of the great desert as covered in some parts with thorns and prickly shrubs, so thick as to render travelling very tedious. Still further south is the nation with whom we live, occupying the open country from the Atlantic to the western hills, and south to the Magellan Strait. These are sometimes called the Santa Cruz nation, and number about a thousand. All these, he tells us, we have met except one clan of a few hundreds, who are still hunting far to the north. The other tribe is called the Port Famine tribe, few in number, a mixed and inferior race, mostly wanderers from Tierra del Fuego. With this clan we may include all the miserable savages of Tierra del Fuego and of the western coast of Patagonia.

This account of the inhabitants of this great and wild country, with its islands and smaller islets, may be approximately correct or it may be erroneous. I give it as received on the best authority we now have. But our data are few and our sources of information imperfect. If corrected by further researches we shall be glad.

About the immortality of the soul and the character of the future state, subjects which we brought forward in this conversation, we find their notions somewhat similar to those of the North American Indians. They believe in the existence of the soul after death, and in a distinction between the good and bad. When a good Indian dies they say he will go to a land where there is no night, no winter, no pain, and no death, but where there is constant sunshine and eternal beauty, and where all will be supplied with fine horses and with everything which the heart desires; but as there will be no hunger or thirst there will be no need of hunting and striving for food. When the bad Indian dies, they say he will descend deep to an evil land, filled with darkness and barrenness and thorns, where there is much fighting and sorrow.

We could not feel sure that these crude notions of the future state, with its rewards and punishments, originated with the Patagonian savages. It seems more probable that they are the result of imperfect information on the Christian religion communicated to them by sailors or Spaniards with whom they have come in contact.

We could not find that they have any distinct notions of a Supreme Being who created and who sustains and governs all things. When we called their attention to tangible objects, as mountains, waters, the sun, moon, etc., and inquired who made all these things, their minds seemed utterly blank, as if it were a subject on which they had never bestowed a passing thought. As yet we have seen nothing which appeared like religious worship among them. One day, while riding out in company with Captain Louis, on coming to a clump of bushes he dismounted, and with his knife cut off a portion of his horse’s mane, rolled it into a little wisp, dug a hole among the bushes and carefully buried it. He then remounted his horse and we rode on without explanation, so that I was left only to conjecture as to the meaning of the act.

On inquiring how they would like to have American teachers come and teach them to read and write, as we did, and to instruct them in all things useful and good, they seemed delighted with the idea, and said it was “much bono.” And when we suggested the thought of building a large mission-house at Gregory’s Bay, where their children might remain and be instructed while the parents roamed for sustenance for themselves and their horses, they became much animated with the subject, and said that the Indians would all leave their children with the Americans, and would come now and then to see them and bring them “much guanaco and much mantle.”

They seemed very anxious to know if missionaries would be sent, and how many moons it would be before they would come; also whether they would build “casa grande”--a large tent--with many other things relating to the subject. Of course we could make them no definite promise, but we thought it well to put these questions in order to ascertain their minds with regard to them though they little understood their import, in order to have something to report to the friends of missions in the United States.

From our conversation with these chiefs to-day we despair of ever being able to reach the western coast by land in the vicinity of the peninsula of Tres Montes, and we can only wait the developments of Providence as to our future course.

Soon after this conversation our camp was again set in motion by the cry “Barko! Barko!” On inquiry we were assured that a vessel was coming in from the east. I therefore took a spy-glass, and mounting a horse with Captain Congo, ascended the hill behind our camp for observation. But as no vessel was to be seen from this point, we concluded that it was a false report, and Congo said on descending to the camp: “Ingus hablao much mentair”--Indians tell many lies.

_Jan. 12._ A memorable day. We were aroused early this morning by the Indians, who came to assure us that a vessel had actually come into the bay. On arising we found large numbers of the savages preparing to go down to the shore, and we therefore concluded, as it afterwards proved, that this was not a false alarm.

I mounted a horse already prepared for me, and with the great Congo and others rushed down to the bay. On our arrival we found that the vessel had not anchored, but was a considerable distance off and slowly approaching the harbor. With Congo and a number of petty chiefs I then rode some distance up the shore to obtain a nearer view of the schooner. On approaching opposite us and seeing a troop of Indians on horseback, the British flag was displayed, a gun fired, the vessel hove to, and a boat lowered and headed for the shore. As the boat neared the land I hailed her in the English tongue, “Boat ahoy!”

A well dressed gentleman in the stern of the boat sprang to his feet as if a shell had exploded alongside, and called out, “_Who? What do I hear?_ My mother tongue in this strange land?” I instantly introduced myself to the gentleman, and he as quickly returned the compliment, “H. Penny, of Liverpool, England, owner of the schooner Sappho and cargo, bound to Mazatlan, California.” I invited him to beach the boat and come on shore. He inquired if it were safe to land among these wild savages, as he had heard that they were giants, very treacherous, and cannibals withal. Having assured him that there was no danger, the boat was brought to land and he leaped on shore. He then inquired earnestly as to our situation and life among this people, and I gave him the principal facts briefly. He remarked that as the vessel approached the bay they had descried a troop of Indians on horseback, and feeling a curiosity to get a nearer view of them, he had ordered his vessel to be hove to and a boat to be lowered that he might approach the shore cautiously to reconnoitre, not dreaming of finding men of his own race and tongue. He furthermore said he had brought several small presents in his boat to give him access to the savages in case he should deem it safe to land. On asking him what presents he had, he mentioned a box of raisins, some nuts, prunes, handkerchiefs, and a few bottles of rum or gin. These intoxicants I begged him to conceal, as their use by the savages would be sure to make trouble, and might end in the loss of our lives. To this request Mr. Penny assented readily, and leaving the bottles in the boat, he ordered the other articles to be brought on shore. He then wished me to distribute them among the Indians at my discretion, pressing a liberal share upon my companion and myself. I then seated all the Indians in ranks upon the grass, opened the packages and distributed to every one his due portion. The Indians laughed and shouted and fell to eating the fruits with gusto and many grunts, making altogether a grotesque scene.

Captain Congo then presented through me a nice guanaco robe to Mr. Penny, which was accepted with many expressions of gratitude. Meanwhile Mr. Penny invited me to go on board the Sappho, remarking, “You will be highly pleased with my captain; he is a missionary man, a good Christian, and a communicant of the Church of England.” I cheerfully accepted the invitation and went on board. Mr. Penny introduced me to Captain M. M. Melward, of Liverpool, adding a few remarks on the object of our visit to Patagonia, and our state and circumstances among the Indians. The captain’s reception was very cordial. He grasped my hand, and said, while tears started from his eyes, “My dear friend, what can I do for you? My ship’s stores are at your disposal; command me what you will and you shall have it.” His tenderness and generosity were very touching, and he showed himself at once all that Mr. Penny had declared him to be. He expressed a true interest and sympathy in our work, and assured me that it would be a pleasure to him if he could be of any service to us.

I was invited to lunch with him and Mr. Penny, and then urged to take liberally of the ship’s stores, to carry up to our camp; but I declined taking anything considerable, as an abundance of edibles would excite the cupidity of the Indians and lead them to feel that they were no longer under obligations to feed us; and then we did not care to add much to our baggage; so I took a few sea-biscuits, a pound or two of salt pork, and, by the earnest recommendation of Mr. Penny, a few pounds of oatmeal to cook in our soup.

The day was not yet spent, nor even half of it. Our good friends expressing a wish to see our quarters in the camp, I invited them to accompany me thither, to which they readily assented. The schooner having been brought to a good anchorage, sails furled and everything made snug, we took boat for the shore, where the Indians had been accumulating for hours, to the number of several hundreds. Signifying our desire for horses, two were immediately offered to the owner and the captain, and we mounted and galloped off, a large troop of savages accompanying us with a multitude of dogs. Mr. Penny, who is young and elastic, and who has travelled among the American Indians in Mexico, California, and other parts, was a bold rider, greatly diverting the natives by his feats of skill, such as turning in his saddle and riding sidewise, first on one side, then on the other, then riding on his knees in the saddle, then standing upright on his feet, with other feats of agility. All this was done while our horses were on a full gallop and with the dexterity of a circus rider. Meanwhile Captain Melward kept close by my side, seeming a little nervous at the appearance of the rude natives. As they rushed this way and that, coming close to us with savage boldness, the captain drew closer to me and asked if these fellows were not treacherous. I assured him we had felt no fear while among them, though we were entirely in their power. At length we arrived at the camp; the strangers were introduced to Mr. Arms, and after a little conversation we invited them to dine with us, our frugal table having been spread with the production (not productions) of the country. In our humble canvas tent the merchant and traveller and the English navigator sat down with two obscure American missionaries to a Patagonian dinner, with the addition of sea-biscuit--a delicious luxury to us--just received from the schooner. The scene was not unworthy of a sketch-book.

The sympathies of the kind-hearted captain seemed much enlisted on our account. I heard him say to Mr. Penny in an undertone, “This is _too_ hard.”

With renewed expressions of kindness and assurances of desire to assist us to a greater extent than they had done, these friendly gentlemen bade us good-bye and left our tent in season to return to the Sappho before dark.

The experiences of the day have indeed been among the pleasantest of our sojourn in this land.

_Jan. 13._ About ten o’clock last evening, after we had retired, some one called at our tent door for admittance. We immediately arose, and lo! Mr. Penny had returned and was calling for shelter and lodging. On entering our tent he informed us that when they reached the shore the wind was so boisterous and the sea ran so high that he feared to venture out in the boat, and proposed to remain on land till after sunset, supposing that the wind would then abate. But the captain, fearing for the safety of his vessel, had succeeded with no little risk in getting on board.

There was, however, no abatement of the wind, and as the sea increased its rage the boat could not return for him. He must spend the night in the open air, with the prospect of a storm before morning, or seek to reach the shelter of our tent. He had no horse and no guide at command, and for a time was unable to persuade an Indian to bring him up to us. At length, however, for a considerable compensation, a sturdy savage consented to take him behind him on his horse and bring him up. Two other Indians kept them company. On the way the guide left the main trail and turned aside to a clump of bushes. Here he dismounted, ordered Mr. Penny to dismount, and then began an attempt to rifle his pockets. Mr. Penny was alarmed, and urged the Indian to remount and proceed, but he was stubborn, and seemed determined to possess himself of a brace of pistols which he felt in his pockets. Mr. Penny kept his hands on them, and finally succeeded in satisfying the man with several other articles, especially his silk pocket handkerchief, which having made into a rude turban, he bound it upon his bushy head, remounted his horse, took the Liverpool merchant up behind him, and brought him safely to our door.

It is fortunate that Mr. Penny did not attempt to use his pistols in this unhappy moment of excitement. Had he done so, instead of proving a protection, they would undoubtedly have cost him his life. Had he dispatched this savage, there were two more near by, who were no doubt watching the affair in the dark, and who would have avenged the act instantly; or even had he succeeded in dispatching them all, he would have been left alone and helpless in the night and in the wilderness, with no one to guide him back to his vessel or forward to our camp, and on the next day he would have been sure to fall into the hands of the savages.

And just here it may be proper to remark that from personal experience, observation, and reflection, I have been led to the firm conviction that carrying weapons, whether at home or abroad, whether travelling in civilized or savage countries, is seldom a protection of life, but the contrary. Among savages the armed man is watched, suspected, feared, and this jealous fear often provokes attack. As with nations, so with individuals, arming on one side leads to arming on the other side, suspicion excites suspicion, fear awakens fear, and intimidation provokes intimidation, until blow responds to blow, and there is war in the wigwam, in the camp, and in the field.

When selecting an outfit in Boston and New York, some of our kindest friends advised us to take arms as protectors in times of emergency and danger. This counsel we rejected and went unarmed, and as unprotected as children. And this weakness we believe to be our strength. This defenceless condition is our defence. This lack of fire-arms is as “a wall of fire round about us.”

But to return to our guest. We were truly glad to receive Mr. Penny again to our quarters, small and simple as they were, for though he was brave and cheerful, his situation was very uncomfortable. The night was gloomy, the wind blew, the clouds thickened and darkened, and a great storm was impending. He was separated from his vessel and captain, not knowing what would befall them, and utterly unable at this time to get on board.

In a short time after his arrival the rain fell in torrents and the night gathered blackness. Had we not been partly protected by the hills behind us from the careering winds our tent would probably have been blown down, leaving us exposed to the storm. As it was we were kindly shielded. The storm has raged on through the day, so that there was no going out till late in the afternoon, and Mr. Penny was shut up with us until 6 +P.M.+ The rain and wind now so far abated that he proposed, though late in the day, to return to the Strait and make another attempt to go on board. Accordingly horses were made ready, and my companion, attended by an Indian guide, accompanied him to the shore.

At dark a messenger came to our tent with our saddles and bridles, and informed me that Mr. Arms had sent back the horses which he and Mr. Penny had ridden down, and that he would sleep on board the schooner.

A large number of our Indians remain on the shore notwithstanding the storm, exposed day and night to the rain and cold, and half starved withal, all for the hope of obtaining rum and tobacco. The bare hope of getting a plug of the weed or a bottle of the fire-water would keep them on the beach, I believe, till they had well nigh perished from exposure.

Captain Congo returned to the camp this evening looking downcast and disconcerted. He was on board the Sappho all last night and most of to-day, and he was terribly sea-sick. He appears gloomy and cross, as if some strange thing had happened to him; he complains of the vessel and all on board.

_Jan. 14._ The rain continued to fall heavily during the night and for some time this morning. This has been much the severest storm we have had since our arrival in the country, and it has rendered our fragile habitation somewhat uncomfortable. We saw the Sappho beating out of the bay this forenoon, she having been delayed two days through my invitation to the captain and owner to visit our lodge.

Near noon Mr. Arms returned, bringing a box of raisins, which Mr. Penny urged us to accept. On his arrival he told me that, in going down to the beach last evening, they met Congo with his train returning to the camp, that the chief seized Mr. Penny’s horse by the reins in great anger, and threatened to take it from under him. Mr. Penny was now a prisoner, and Congo refused to let him go until he had promised to return the guanaco robe he had presented him, and also to give him a number of articles which he specified from his vessel. The late independent English merchant was now fast in the grip of a Patagonian savage, with no alternative but to comply with his conditions.

This base conduct on the part of Congo was occasioned by his dissatisfaction at not receiving as liberal a supply of tobacco as he wanted, and which he expected in return for the mantle he had presented to Mr. Penny. It so happened that there was no tobacco in the cargo of the Sappho except in the form of cigars, but these, though offered freely, would not satisfy him. He must have tobacco in plugs or the return of the robe. This Mr. Penny promised to return by Mr. Arms, together with various other articles to please the chief. This arrangement being concluded, Congo released his prisoner to go on his way. But his wrath had been much inflamed, for in addition to his failure to get the tobacco he had been roughly handled by the Sappho for twenty-four hours. It was pitch, jerk, plunge, roll, all night long and nearly all day, without regard to his chiefship. It was humiliating to his dignity and it stirred up his bile. So he cursed the bark, captain, crew, and all the English.

As we had several good mantles in our tent, Mr. Arms, on his return this morning, refused to take Mr. Penny’s from him, promising to give Congo one of ours and to see that he was satisfied. This he attempted to do, but the chief was dissatisfied and sullen, and no explanation would conciliate his feelings. He utterly refused to take the mantle or anything else as an equivalent, and complained of the schooner as “malo” and the English as “liars.” Thus we were in trouble, and darker clouds than those of the storm seemed gathering around us.

It was hard to make the savages see that there was no lie on the part of the Englishman, or that we were not accomplices in a plot to deceive and cajole them.

As the debate went on the Indians came out of their wigwams in numbers and became noisy, some taking one side and some the other. At this point we thought it prudent to retire and remain silent, committing the disposal of the case into the hands of Him who restrains the wrath of man. We had done all we could to explain, to soothe, and to satisfy, and we quietly awaited the events which might follow.

The Indians had a long and noisy debate, and then all was still. The parties had retired to their lodges, and we were quiet until near night. Before sundown Congo came to see us with a changed countenance. His feelings were much softened, and he now entered into a familiar and pleasant conversation as aforetime, and finally listened to an explanation of the whole matter with calmness, and quietly received the mantle which had been offered him.

As his temper had been greatly irritated by the rolling of the vessel and his sickness, we told him that the schooner was not in fault, because the water made her roll. He replied, “Then the water is malo.” “No,” we rejoined, “the water cannot keep still because the wind agitates it.” “Then,” said he, “the wind is malo;” and here the matter rested.

This is but an example of the darkness of the savage mind. So ignorant and so infatuated are these savages that, as we have been told, when the wind blows strongly from the wrong direction they will take swords and knives and go out to fight it.

Just at dark our friend Louis came quietly and cautioned us to make all as secure as possible, to remove our effects to the centre of the tent and watch them, as he said he had heard some of the Indians “hablao malo”--talk bad--and say they will come in the night, cut through our tent with their knives, and rob us of our goods. This he illustrated by earnest gestures and by drawing his knife down the canvas. But we say with the Psalmist, “I will both lay me down in peace and sleep, for thou, Lord, only makest me to dwell in safety.”