CHAPTER XIIISOUTHWARD BOUNDAt half past eleven that morning Lang was aboard a train for Concepcion.He had made a hurried study of maps and timetables, visited the consulate and induced the consular secretary to telephone to the railway offices for him. His only chance lay in railway speed. The line followed the coast southward to Puerto Montt, nearly eight hundred miles, which he hoped to reach in a couple of days, allowing for South American railway methods. From Puerto Montt he could surely hire some sort of sailing craft for the indefinite remainder of the distance.Vainly he wished now that he had had another day with Morrison at Panama. The valley of the glacier was between Punta Reale, which he located on the map, and the tiny settlement of La Carolina, over a hundred miles farther south. This was all the sailing guide he had; but from Morrison’s account, and Carroll’s, the valley of the glacier gate was sufficiently conspicuous so that no one skirting the coast could pass it by.Now that he was moving again, depending solely on himself, no longer groping in the dark, courage and energy came back. He was gambling his bottom dollar now. This expedition would take all the money he had left; but he was ready to risk it all, and his life as well, rather than be beaten. Speed was all he longed for now.The speed was fairly satisfactory to Concepcion, where he had to change trains, and wait half the night. Moving out through the gray dawn, he saw that he was in a new sort of country. Away to the left rose the mountains, steep, heavily timbered slopes, with now and again, far away, a glimpse of an ice peak.There were strips of stumpy clearings along the track, burned slashes, backwoods farms, log cabins, berry bushes and rail fences, so that he might have fancied himself in Vermont, but for the squat Chilenos and brown Indians in ponchos that crowded the car, and the chatter of Spanish and Araucanian mixing with the rattle of the slow-moving train.For there was not much speed now. They stopped interminably at primitive stations, where there seemed no reason to stop at all. He snatched a vile snack at a wayside eating house at noon; another at dark, and night found them still jolting and clattering feebly down the line to Valdivia.It was cold in Valdivia, where again he had to wait for hours. He had time to buy a heavy suit, boots, a woollen poncho, and, by an afterthought, a small automatic pistol and a box of cartridges. It was the first time Lang had ever carried weapons, and the hard lump at his hip gave him an odd feeling of uneasiness and of adventure.After Valdivia the railway frankly became a one-track frontier line, the train a mixed one of freight and passenger coaches, slower than ever. The mountains had come up closer and higher, veiled generally by drifting mist, and it rained in torrents all one afternoon while they trailed along the rusty pair of rails at a speed that seemed slow for an omnibus.Lang, fuming with impatience, could not talk with his fellow passengers, who glanced at him with suspicion. He was already far behind his planned schedule; he was hungry, thirsty, tired, nervous and irritable. He tried to snatch a doze on the cane seats; he got out and walked about at the endless stops to load lumber or cattle; and it was almost with astonishment that he found himself actually and finally deposited at Puerto Montt, the end of the railway, more than three days after he had left Valparaiso.It was evening and raining. He made his way over plank sidewalks into the grubby little town, where he was surprised and relieved to find German spoken as currently as Spanish. He could make more headway in that language, and he established himself at one of the two hotels which had a German manager, though he had unfortunately lapsed into Chilean methods of hotel keeping.It was too late for any researches that night, but his host reassured him. At Valparaiso no one had ever heard of Punta Reale or La Carolina, but here they knew all about it. The fishing fleet went to La Carolina, and the German landlord was sure he would find plenty of boats, plenty of men to take him.Lang was haunted that night by visions of theChitatearing southward under full power of gasoline; but cold calculation assured him that he had a good start. It would take the power boat nearly a week to get as far as this. A fast schooner with favoring winds ought to land him at the glacier valley within three days, perhaps less. Barring accidents, he had better than an even chance.He was early at the straggling water front next morning, where he found indeed plenty of small craft of various rig tied up at the wooden wharf, while their owners lounged and smoked with carefree indifference. Most of them spoke more or less German. In fact, Lang learned that Puerto Montt was originally a settlement of German immigrants, but these fishermen of the second generation had grown South Americanized. A shake of the head, a “No pues, señor,” was what he got in most cases. Some demanded an exorbitant hire for their boats; others required a week to prepare for the voyage. Lang, irritable with impatience, was growing discouraged, when he came upon a young fisherman who, by his round fair face and blond hair, might have been known to the experienced eye as a north European at a hundred yards.Lang came to terms with him almost immediately. Gustav Dorner had been born at Puerto Montt, but he spoke German well, and owned a schooner in partnership with his brother Henry. He would go to La Carolina, or anywhere, for two hundred and fifty dollars in gold, Lang to provide all supplies for the voyage, and could start the next morning. His schooner, theCondor, might not be a flyer, but she looked seaworthy and well kept, and, moreover, was not foul with fish like most of the others, having been lately used for freighting Chiloe Island potatoes up to Talhuna.La Carolina was the reputed destination. The real objective Lang kept to himself. When he sighted the glacier valley he could cut the voyage short, and he surprised his crew by ordering them to lay in supplies for three men for three weeks.He allowed them to do the bargaining at the local stores for dried meats, meal, flour, potatoes, all the American canned goods to be had. He picked out himself a couple of spades and picks, an ax and hatchet, a packet of blasting cartridges and fuse, a crowbar and drill, and also a .44 caliber Winchester with two hundred cartridges. There was a flurry of shopping, transporting goods, stowing them away, adjusting the schooner’s gear, that lasted all that afternoon. Lang had been mortally afraid thatmañanawould prevail at the last; but he had revived the latent Northern energy in his Chilean Germans, and at four o’clock the next morning Gustav called at the hotel for him, according to agreement.The disk of the sun was not yet over the reddened Cordillera when they were off, slipping down the channel behind Chiloe Island, with a light, fair breeze—the last lap of the race, which Lang began to feel confident now of winning.All went smoothly and that first day was a delight. The sun shone with springlike warmth; the breeze freshened, fair on the quarter, and theCondormade great speed, keeping down the inside channel, past one huge, rocky, wooded island after another.Lang got out his repeater and practiced with that unfamiliar weapon at floating sticks and shore targets. Gustav, at the tiller beside him, entertained him with stories of the Chilean frontier, and of how his father had come to America to avoid conscription. They ate a cold lunch on board and kept on till the light failed, and when they landed for a night camp Gustav estimated that they had covered one hundred and fifty kilometers.Lang was jubilant. Another such day might almost end it. But the next morning came up darkly over tossing, slate-colored water, with a thrashing rain. It was what Lang came to know later as typical south Chilean weather.All that day he sat stiffened and drenched in his heavy poncho, feeling the water drip down his neck from his hat, and wondering if he would get pneumonia or rheumatism from this. But, to his surprise, he felt strong with health and vitality, and even in high spirits, for they were still making speed. The wind was from the west now, and stronger. The boat plunged and heeled, flinging spray far over her streaming decks. Gustav and Henry, at tiller and sheet, handled her with the skill of jockeys, apparently unconscious of the weather, and Lang’s heart warmed toward these patient, skillful, simple sailors. The rain slackened in the afternoon, but it did not clear all day, and that night they slept all together, huddled under the schooner’s deck, with a tarpaulin over them.Lang slept better than on shore, however, and was surprised to find himself neither ill nor rheumatic the next morning. It was not raining, but gray clouds drove low and heavy over the sky, gusts of mist swept the sea, and a smart west wind blew, promising to strengthen. Coming gustily through the gaps between the tangles of outer islands, it drove theCondoralong at a great rate, an increasing rate, and toward noon the two Germans took a reef in the mainsail, with some blind assistance from the passenger.The mountains rose very high here, white-tipped, most of them, and that afternoon Lang espied a great white streak, dim through mist, extending down the slope and splitting the dark cedar forests almost to the coast line. It was a glacier—not the glacier he was seeking, but the sight gave him a prospective thrill, and a couple of hours later they sighted Punta Reale.At the view of that huge, rocky headland reaching far out like a barrier Lang felt that he was almost at the goal. It was a hard obstacle to pass with that wind. The Germans, after some consultation, wanted to land on one of the islands and wait for a shifting or a slackening of the breeze. There was not sea room to beat far enough to windward to clear the promontory.Lang’s impatience rebelled. It might mean spending twelve hours immobile. He spoke vehemently; he had his hand on the pistol, prepared to use force, and the men obeyed the voice of authority. But within the next hour Lang repented of his insistence.They hauled as far into the wind as possible, making heavy weather of it as they beat westward and ever so little ahead. Just off the headland the breeze seemed to stiffen, coming in violent gusts. The schooner made a great deal of leeway. She seemed certainly going ashore. They were so close that Lang heard the crash and suck back of the seas on that wall of black rock; he could see the crannies spouting water as the waves retreated, and the frothing uprush again. They were approaching it; then for minutes they seemed barely to hold their own; then they were creeping away, thrashing and plunging, a hundred yards farther, and then with a free sweep they began to run down the other side of the headland with the wind once more quartering.Lang’s breath came freely again. His crew were smiling all over their streaming faces. There was a long island to seaward now, giving much shelter, and for a mile or two they ran in smooth water and with a broken breeze.A gap in the archipelago brought a gusty sweep, then there was shelter again, and then another blast from the open sea. A long and lofty island followed for more than a mile, and then a great opening.The schooner rushed out of the shelter into the gap, and Lang never knew how disaster came, so quick it was. Perhaps the steersman had a moment of carelessness, after the sheltered run, and was not quick enough to meet the great gust that whooped down from the open Pacific.The boat heeled, went almost over. Henry sprang forward, and the next moment the mast snapped close to the deck, and sail and rigging went forward and overboard in a wild, flapping tangle.It carried the young German with it. Lang caught a single glimpse of him as he went under. Like lightning Gustav flung a line that fell short, and they saw no more of him.Gustav was thrusting a great knife into his hand, screaming to him to cut. The schooner was drifting fast toward the shore, a short quarter of a mile away. Together they slashed at the tackle that was dragging theCondor’sbows half under water, and the craft righted as the sail tore loose and surged sinking alongside.“This is the end!” Lang thought, following Gustav’s gaze toward the shore. It was a long, sloping, gravelly beach, where the surf rushed up and ran back, two hundred yards away now, so fast the wind was driving them in.But the shore was not the danger. It was a broken line of black points, spouting white froth, that was hardly a hundred yards ahead—an almost submerged sprinkle of barrier rocks that they could avoid only by luck.Long moments passed as the men clung to the uncontrollable hull, before it became evident that she was going to strike fairly on the reef. Lang threw off his heavy poncho, preparing to swim for it. Gustav crept forward to the prow with a long, stout pole, evidently with the insane idea of fending off.The last moments of the approach seemed endlessly slow. Fascinated, Lang watched that jagged black crag, almost within arm’s length. He saw the water draw back, showing its wet, weed-grown sides, surge up foaming to the top and again suck back, and then theCondorsmashed with a terrific surge and shock.Gustav was dashed helplessly forward, clean over and upon the crag, and Lang saw a sudden flicker of crimson through the foam. The schooner half recoiled, sticking on the rock, lifted to another wave and smashed down again.Lang hardly knew whether he jumped or was pitched overboard. He went clear of the rock, battered by the waves, swimming with all his strength, drawn back, floating, fighting, growing almost automatic, till at last he felt solidity under his feet and rose gasping and choking.
At half past eleven that morning Lang was aboard a train for Concepcion.
He had made a hurried study of maps and timetables, visited the consulate and induced the consular secretary to telephone to the railway offices for him. His only chance lay in railway speed. The line followed the coast southward to Puerto Montt, nearly eight hundred miles, which he hoped to reach in a couple of days, allowing for South American railway methods. From Puerto Montt he could surely hire some sort of sailing craft for the indefinite remainder of the distance.
Vainly he wished now that he had had another day with Morrison at Panama. The valley of the glacier was between Punta Reale, which he located on the map, and the tiny settlement of La Carolina, over a hundred miles farther south. This was all the sailing guide he had; but from Morrison’s account, and Carroll’s, the valley of the glacier gate was sufficiently conspicuous so that no one skirting the coast could pass it by.
Now that he was moving again, depending solely on himself, no longer groping in the dark, courage and energy came back. He was gambling his bottom dollar now. This expedition would take all the money he had left; but he was ready to risk it all, and his life as well, rather than be beaten. Speed was all he longed for now.
The speed was fairly satisfactory to Concepcion, where he had to change trains, and wait half the night. Moving out through the gray dawn, he saw that he was in a new sort of country. Away to the left rose the mountains, steep, heavily timbered slopes, with now and again, far away, a glimpse of an ice peak.
There were strips of stumpy clearings along the track, burned slashes, backwoods farms, log cabins, berry bushes and rail fences, so that he might have fancied himself in Vermont, but for the squat Chilenos and brown Indians in ponchos that crowded the car, and the chatter of Spanish and Araucanian mixing with the rattle of the slow-moving train.
For there was not much speed now. They stopped interminably at primitive stations, where there seemed no reason to stop at all. He snatched a vile snack at a wayside eating house at noon; another at dark, and night found them still jolting and clattering feebly down the line to Valdivia.
It was cold in Valdivia, where again he had to wait for hours. He had time to buy a heavy suit, boots, a woollen poncho, and, by an afterthought, a small automatic pistol and a box of cartridges. It was the first time Lang had ever carried weapons, and the hard lump at his hip gave him an odd feeling of uneasiness and of adventure.
After Valdivia the railway frankly became a one-track frontier line, the train a mixed one of freight and passenger coaches, slower than ever. The mountains had come up closer and higher, veiled generally by drifting mist, and it rained in torrents all one afternoon while they trailed along the rusty pair of rails at a speed that seemed slow for an omnibus.
Lang, fuming with impatience, could not talk with his fellow passengers, who glanced at him with suspicion. He was already far behind his planned schedule; he was hungry, thirsty, tired, nervous and irritable. He tried to snatch a doze on the cane seats; he got out and walked about at the endless stops to load lumber or cattle; and it was almost with astonishment that he found himself actually and finally deposited at Puerto Montt, the end of the railway, more than three days after he had left Valparaiso.
It was evening and raining. He made his way over plank sidewalks into the grubby little town, where he was surprised and relieved to find German spoken as currently as Spanish. He could make more headway in that language, and he established himself at one of the two hotels which had a German manager, though he had unfortunately lapsed into Chilean methods of hotel keeping.
It was too late for any researches that night, but his host reassured him. At Valparaiso no one had ever heard of Punta Reale or La Carolina, but here they knew all about it. The fishing fleet went to La Carolina, and the German landlord was sure he would find plenty of boats, plenty of men to take him.
Lang was haunted that night by visions of theChitatearing southward under full power of gasoline; but cold calculation assured him that he had a good start. It would take the power boat nearly a week to get as far as this. A fast schooner with favoring winds ought to land him at the glacier valley within three days, perhaps less. Barring accidents, he had better than an even chance.
He was early at the straggling water front next morning, where he found indeed plenty of small craft of various rig tied up at the wooden wharf, while their owners lounged and smoked with carefree indifference. Most of them spoke more or less German. In fact, Lang learned that Puerto Montt was originally a settlement of German immigrants, but these fishermen of the second generation had grown South Americanized. A shake of the head, a “No pues, señor,” was what he got in most cases. Some demanded an exorbitant hire for their boats; others required a week to prepare for the voyage. Lang, irritable with impatience, was growing discouraged, when he came upon a young fisherman who, by his round fair face and blond hair, might have been known to the experienced eye as a north European at a hundred yards.
Lang came to terms with him almost immediately. Gustav Dorner had been born at Puerto Montt, but he spoke German well, and owned a schooner in partnership with his brother Henry. He would go to La Carolina, or anywhere, for two hundred and fifty dollars in gold, Lang to provide all supplies for the voyage, and could start the next morning. His schooner, theCondor, might not be a flyer, but she looked seaworthy and well kept, and, moreover, was not foul with fish like most of the others, having been lately used for freighting Chiloe Island potatoes up to Talhuna.
La Carolina was the reputed destination. The real objective Lang kept to himself. When he sighted the glacier valley he could cut the voyage short, and he surprised his crew by ordering them to lay in supplies for three men for three weeks.
He allowed them to do the bargaining at the local stores for dried meats, meal, flour, potatoes, all the American canned goods to be had. He picked out himself a couple of spades and picks, an ax and hatchet, a packet of blasting cartridges and fuse, a crowbar and drill, and also a .44 caliber Winchester with two hundred cartridges. There was a flurry of shopping, transporting goods, stowing them away, adjusting the schooner’s gear, that lasted all that afternoon. Lang had been mortally afraid thatmañanawould prevail at the last; but he had revived the latent Northern energy in his Chilean Germans, and at four o’clock the next morning Gustav called at the hotel for him, according to agreement.
The disk of the sun was not yet over the reddened Cordillera when they were off, slipping down the channel behind Chiloe Island, with a light, fair breeze—the last lap of the race, which Lang began to feel confident now of winning.
All went smoothly and that first day was a delight. The sun shone with springlike warmth; the breeze freshened, fair on the quarter, and theCondormade great speed, keeping down the inside channel, past one huge, rocky, wooded island after another.
Lang got out his repeater and practiced with that unfamiliar weapon at floating sticks and shore targets. Gustav, at the tiller beside him, entertained him with stories of the Chilean frontier, and of how his father had come to America to avoid conscription. They ate a cold lunch on board and kept on till the light failed, and when they landed for a night camp Gustav estimated that they had covered one hundred and fifty kilometers.
Lang was jubilant. Another such day might almost end it. But the next morning came up darkly over tossing, slate-colored water, with a thrashing rain. It was what Lang came to know later as typical south Chilean weather.
All that day he sat stiffened and drenched in his heavy poncho, feeling the water drip down his neck from his hat, and wondering if he would get pneumonia or rheumatism from this. But, to his surprise, he felt strong with health and vitality, and even in high spirits, for they were still making speed. The wind was from the west now, and stronger. The boat plunged and heeled, flinging spray far over her streaming decks. Gustav and Henry, at tiller and sheet, handled her with the skill of jockeys, apparently unconscious of the weather, and Lang’s heart warmed toward these patient, skillful, simple sailors. The rain slackened in the afternoon, but it did not clear all day, and that night they slept all together, huddled under the schooner’s deck, with a tarpaulin over them.
Lang slept better than on shore, however, and was surprised to find himself neither ill nor rheumatic the next morning. It was not raining, but gray clouds drove low and heavy over the sky, gusts of mist swept the sea, and a smart west wind blew, promising to strengthen. Coming gustily through the gaps between the tangles of outer islands, it drove theCondoralong at a great rate, an increasing rate, and toward noon the two Germans took a reef in the mainsail, with some blind assistance from the passenger.
The mountains rose very high here, white-tipped, most of them, and that afternoon Lang espied a great white streak, dim through mist, extending down the slope and splitting the dark cedar forests almost to the coast line. It was a glacier—not the glacier he was seeking, but the sight gave him a prospective thrill, and a couple of hours later they sighted Punta Reale.
At the view of that huge, rocky headland reaching far out like a barrier Lang felt that he was almost at the goal. It was a hard obstacle to pass with that wind. The Germans, after some consultation, wanted to land on one of the islands and wait for a shifting or a slackening of the breeze. There was not sea room to beat far enough to windward to clear the promontory.
Lang’s impatience rebelled. It might mean spending twelve hours immobile. He spoke vehemently; he had his hand on the pistol, prepared to use force, and the men obeyed the voice of authority. But within the next hour Lang repented of his insistence.
They hauled as far into the wind as possible, making heavy weather of it as they beat westward and ever so little ahead. Just off the headland the breeze seemed to stiffen, coming in violent gusts. The schooner made a great deal of leeway. She seemed certainly going ashore. They were so close that Lang heard the crash and suck back of the seas on that wall of black rock; he could see the crannies spouting water as the waves retreated, and the frothing uprush again. They were approaching it; then for minutes they seemed barely to hold their own; then they were creeping away, thrashing and plunging, a hundred yards farther, and then with a free sweep they began to run down the other side of the headland with the wind once more quartering.
Lang’s breath came freely again. His crew were smiling all over their streaming faces. There was a long island to seaward now, giving much shelter, and for a mile or two they ran in smooth water and with a broken breeze.
A gap in the archipelago brought a gusty sweep, then there was shelter again, and then another blast from the open sea. A long and lofty island followed for more than a mile, and then a great opening.
The schooner rushed out of the shelter into the gap, and Lang never knew how disaster came, so quick it was. Perhaps the steersman had a moment of carelessness, after the sheltered run, and was not quick enough to meet the great gust that whooped down from the open Pacific.
The boat heeled, went almost over. Henry sprang forward, and the next moment the mast snapped close to the deck, and sail and rigging went forward and overboard in a wild, flapping tangle.
It carried the young German with it. Lang caught a single glimpse of him as he went under. Like lightning Gustav flung a line that fell short, and they saw no more of him.
Gustav was thrusting a great knife into his hand, screaming to him to cut. The schooner was drifting fast toward the shore, a short quarter of a mile away. Together they slashed at the tackle that was dragging theCondor’sbows half under water, and the craft righted as the sail tore loose and surged sinking alongside.
“This is the end!” Lang thought, following Gustav’s gaze toward the shore. It was a long, sloping, gravelly beach, where the surf rushed up and ran back, two hundred yards away now, so fast the wind was driving them in.
But the shore was not the danger. It was a broken line of black points, spouting white froth, that was hardly a hundred yards ahead—an almost submerged sprinkle of barrier rocks that they could avoid only by luck.
Long moments passed as the men clung to the uncontrollable hull, before it became evident that she was going to strike fairly on the reef. Lang threw off his heavy poncho, preparing to swim for it. Gustav crept forward to the prow with a long, stout pole, evidently with the insane idea of fending off.
The last moments of the approach seemed endlessly slow. Fascinated, Lang watched that jagged black crag, almost within arm’s length. He saw the water draw back, showing its wet, weed-grown sides, surge up foaming to the top and again suck back, and then theCondorsmashed with a terrific surge and shock.
Gustav was dashed helplessly forward, clean over and upon the crag, and Lang saw a sudden flicker of crimson through the foam. The schooner half recoiled, sticking on the rock, lifted to another wave and smashed down again.
Lang hardly knew whether he jumped or was pitched overboard. He went clear of the rock, battered by the waves, swimming with all his strength, drawn back, floating, fighting, growing almost automatic, till at last he felt solidity under his feet and rose gasping and choking.