The Sea: Its Stirring Story of Adventure, Peril, & Heroism (Vol. 1-4). Frederick Whymper

for many a storm-beaten mariner: not merely from the fury of the elements, but also because supplies of fresh meat can be obtained there, and, indeed, everything else. Wild cattle, of old Spanish stock, roam at will over many parts of the two islands. When the writer was there, in 1862, beef was retailed at fourpence per pound, and Port Stanley being a free port, everything was very cheap. How many boxes of cigars, pounds of tobacco, cases of hollands, and demijohns of rum were, in consequence, taken on board by his 300 fellow-passengers would be a serious calculation. The little town has not much to recommend it: It has, of course, a Government House and a church, and barracks for the marines stationed there. It is, moreover, the head-quarters of the Falkland Islands Company, a corporation much like the Hudson’s Bay Company, trading in furs and hides, and stores for ships and native trade. The three great characteristics of Port Stanley are the penguins, which abound, and are to be seen waddling in troops in its immediate vicinity, and stumbling over the stones if pursued; the kelp, which is so thick and strong in the water at the edge of the bay in places, that a strong boat’s crew can hardly get “way” enough on to reach the shore; and the peat-bogs, which would remind an Irishman of his beloved Erin. Peat is the principal fuel of the place; and what glorious fires it makes! At least, so thought a good many of the passengers who took the opportunity of living on shore during the fortnight of the vessel’s stay. For about three shillings and sixpence a day one could obtain a good bed, meals of beef-steaks and joints and fresh vegetables—very welcome after the everlasting salt junk and preserved vegetables of the ship—with the addition of hot rum and water, nearly ad libitum. Then the privilege of stretching one’s legs is something, after five or six weeks’ confinement. There is duck and loon-shooting to be had, or an excursion to the lighthouse, a few miles from the town, where the writer found children, of several years of age, who had never even beheld the glories of Port Stanley, and yet were happy; and near which he saw on the beach sea-trees—for “sea-weed” would be a misnomer, the trunks being several feet in circumference—slippery, glutinous, marine vegetation, uprooted from the depths of ocean. Some of them would create a sensation in an aquarium.

      The harbour of Port Stanley is usually safe enough, but, in the extraordinary gales which often rage outside, does not always afford safe anchorage. The steamship on which the writer was a passenger lay far out in the bay, but the force of a sudden gale made her drag her anchors, and but for the steam, which was immediately got up, she would have gone ashore. A sailing-vessel must have been wrecked in the same position. Of course, the power of the engines was set against the wind, and she was saved. Passengers ashore could not get off for two days, and those on board could not go ashore. No boat could have lived, even in the bay, during a large part of the time.

      The West Indian Station demands our attention next. Unfortunately, it must not take the space it deserves, for it would occupy that required for ten books of the size of this—ay, twenty—to do it the barest justice. Why? Read Charles Kingsley’s admirable work, “At Last”—one, alas! of the last tasks of a well-spent life—and one will see England’s interest in those islands, and must think also of those earlier days, when Columbus, Drake, and Raleigh sailed among the waters which divide them—days of geographical discovery worth speaking of, of grand triumphs over foes worth fighting, and of gain amounting to something.

      THE LANDING OF COLUMBUS AT TRINIDAD.

      On the 31st July, 1499, Columbus, on his third voyage, sighted the three hills which make the south-eastern end of Trinidad. He had determined to name the first land he should sight after the Holy Trinity, and so he did. The triple peaks probably reminded him.

      Washington Irving tells us, in his “Life of Columbus,” that he was astonished at the verdure and fertility of the country, having expected that it would be parched, dry, and sterile as he approached the equator; whereas, he beheld beautiful groves of palm-trees, and luxuriant forests sweeping down to the sea-side, with gurgling brooks and clear, deep streams beneath the shade. The softness and purity of the climate, and the beauty of the country, seemed, after his long sea voyage, to rival the beautiful province of Valencia itself. Columbus found the people a race of Indians fairer than any he had seen before, “of good stature, and of very graceful bearing.” They carried square bucklers, and had bows and arrows, with which they made feeble attempts to drive off the Spaniards who landed at Punta Arenal, near Icacque, and who, finding no streams, sank holes in the sand, and so filled their casks with fresh water—as is done by sailors now-a-days in many parts of the world. “And there,” says Kingsley, “that source of endless misery to these harmless creatures, a certain Cacique—so goes the tale—took off Columbus’s cap of crimson velvet, and replaced it with a circle of gold which he wore.”

      Alas for them! that fatal present of gold brought down on them enemies far more ruthless than the Caribs of the northern islands, who had a habit of coming down in their canoes and carrying off the gentle Arrawaks, to eat them at their leisure—after the fashion which Defoe, always accurate, has immortalised in “Robinson Crusoe.” Crusoe’s island has been thought by many to be meant for Tobago; Man Friday having been stolen in Trinidad.

      No scenery can be more picturesque than that afforded by the entrance to Port of Spain, the chief town in the colony of Trinidad, itself an island lying outside the delta of the great Orinoco River. “On the mainland,” wrote Anthony Trollope,111 “that is, the land of the main island, the coast is precipitous, but clothed to the very top with the thickest and most magnificent foliage. With an opera-glass, one can distinctly see the trees coming forth from the sides of the rocks, as though no soil were necessary for them, and not even a shelf of stone needed for their support. And these are not shrubs, but forest trees, with grand spreading branches, huge trunks, and brilliant-coloured foliage. The small island on the other side is almost equally wooded, but is less precipitous.” There, and on the main island itself, are nooks and open glades where one would not be badly off with straw hats and muslin, pigeon-pies and champagne. One narrow shady valley, into which a creek of the sea ran, made Trollope think that it must have been intended for “the less noisy joys of some Paul of Trinidad with his Creole Virginia.” The same writer, after describing the Savannah, which includes a park and race-course, speaks of the Government House, then under repairs. The governor was living in a cottage, hard by. “Were I that great man,” said he, “I should be tempted to wish that my great house might always be under repair, for I never saw a more perfect specimen of a pretty spacious cottage, opening, as a cottage should do, on all sides and in every direction. … And then the necessary freedom from boredom, etiquette, and governors’ grandeur, so hated by governors themselves, which must necessarily be brought about by such a residence! I could almost wish to be a governor myself, if I might be allowed to live in such a cottage.” The buildings of Port of Spain are almost invariably surrounded by handsome flowering trees. A later writer tells us that the governors since have stuck to the cottage, and the gardens of the older building have been given to the city as a public pleasure-ground. Kingsley speaks of it as a paradise.

      Jack ashore, who, after a long and perhaps stormy voyage, would look upon any land as a haven of delight, will certainly think that he has at last reached the “happy land.” It is not merely the climate, the beauty, or the productions of the country; nor the West Indian politeness and hospitality—both proverbial; but the fact that nobody seems to do, or wants to do, anything, and yet lives ten times as well as the poorer classes of England. There are 8,000 or more human beings in Port of Spain alone, who “toil not, neither do they spin,” and have no other visible means of subsistence except eating something or other—mostly fruit—all the live-long day, who are happy, very happy. The truth is, that though they will, and frequently do, eat more than a European, they can almost do without food, and can live, like the Lazzaroni, on warmth and light. “The best substitute for a dinner is a sleep under a south wall in the blazing sun; and there are plenty of south walls in Port of Spain.” Has not a poor man, under these circumstances, the same right to be idle as a rich one? Every one there looks strong, healthy, and well-fed. The author of “Westward Ho!” was not likely to be deceived, and says: “One meets few or none of those figures and faces—small, scrofulous, squinny, and haggard—which disgrace the civilisation of a British city. Nowhere in Port of Spain will you see such human