The port at that time was free, but a customhouse was in course of
construction, and when it is finished, port and tariff dues are to be
collected. A soldier police guarded the place, and a sort of vigilante
force besides took down its guns now and then; but as a general thing,
to my mind, whenever an execution was made they killed the wrong man.
Just previous to my arrival the governor, himself of a jovial turn of
mind, had sent a party of young bloods to foray a Fuegian settlement
and wipe out what they could of it on account of the recent massacre
of a schooner's crew somewhere else. Altogether the place was quite
newsy and supported two papers--dailies, I think. The port captain, a
Chilean naval officer, advised me to ship hands to fight Indians in
the strait farther west, and spoke of my stopping until a gunboat
should be going through, which would give me a tow. After canvassing
the place, however, I found only one man willing to embark, and he on
condition that I should ship another "mon and a doog." But as no one
else was willing to come along, and as I drew the line at dogs, I said
no more about the matter, but simply loaded my guns. At this point in
my dilemma Captain Pedro Samblich, a good Austrian of large
experience, coming along, gave me a bag of carpet-tacks, worth more
than all the fighting men and dogs of Tierra del Fuego. I protested
that I had no use for carpet-tacks on board.
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