IT had been calm all day, and the dull light of the overcast sky made the sea have that peculiar black tint seen in this latitude. It rolled silently with the swell, like a heaving world of oily ink, and, although we were almost midway between the Falklands and the Straits of Magellan, Captain Green determined to try a deep-sea sounding. This proved barren of result with a hundred-fathom line on end.

The silent calm continued, and the weird, lonesome cry of a penguin greeted our ears for the first time on the voyage.

Late in the afternoon a light breeze sprang up from the westward. As the ship gathered headway, a school of Antarctic porpoises came plunging and jumping after her. The toggle-iron was brought out, and the carpenter tried his luck at harpooning one on the jump. After lacerating the backs of several he gave it up and turned the iron over to Gantline, with the hope that he might do better.

The old mate took the iron in his right hand and balanced it carefully. Then he took several short coils of line in his left hand, and, bracing himself firmly on the backstays just forward of the cathead, waited for a “throw.” Almost instantly a big fellow came jumping and plunging towards the vessel, swerving from side to side with lightning-like rapidity. He passed under the bowsprit end so quickly that Gantline’s half-raised arm was hardly rigid before it was too late to throw. Suddenly back he came like a flash across the ship’s cut-water. There was a sharp “swish,” and the line was trailing taut through the snatch-block with three men heaving on it as hard as they could. It was done so quickly that it seemed less than a second from the time the animal flashed past to when he hung transfixed a few feet above the sea beneath the bowsprit end.

Chips, who had harpooned many a porpoise in the low latitudes, was filled with admiration, and instantly lent a hand to get the striped fellow on deck.

I went aft, for it was my watch on deck, and we expected to sight land before darkness compelled us to stand off to the eastward. At five o’clock a man stationed in the mizzen-top sung out that he could see something on the weather-beam to the westward, and soon by the aid of the glass we made out the high, grim cliffs of Staten Land looming indistinctly through the haze on the horizon. The first land sighted for seventy days.

The ship’s head was again pointed well up to the wind to try and turn the “last corner” of the world,—Cape Horn.

Captain Zack Green stood looking at the land a long time, and then remarked,—

“I would have gone through the Straits ten years ago, but I don’t want to get in there any more.”

“What!” I asked, “would you take a vessel as heavy as we are through the Straits of Magellan?”

“Straits of thunder!” he replied. “Who said anything about going through the Straits of Magellan with a deep loaded clipper ship? Man alive! That’s the way of it. Whenever anybody talks of going through the Straits, every eternal idiot thinks it the Magellan, when he ought to know no sailing ship ever goes through Smith’s Channel. Strait of Le Maire, man, between Staten Land and Tierra del Fuego. It would have saved us thirty miles westing, and thirty miles may be worth thirty days when you are to the s’uth’ard.”

I admitted that what he said was true, but as people knew very little of this part of the world, they usually associated the word “Straits” down here with the Magellan.

“Well,” said he, “they ought to know better, for nothing but small sailing craft and steamers could go through there without standing a good chance of running foul of the rocks. It’s the Le Maire Strait I was thinking of; but even that is dangerous, for there is no light there any more, and the current swirls and cuts through like a tide-race. I’ve been going to the eastward since they had trouble with the light and can’t get any one to stay and tend it.”

“What’s the matter?” I asked; “is it too lonely?”

“No,” he answered, slowly, “it isn’t that altogether, though I reckon it’s lonely enough with nothing but the swirling tide on one side and barren rocks and tussac on the other. I was ashore there once and saw the fellows who ran the light, before they died, and the head man told me some queer things. It’s a bad place for the falling sickness, too, and that’s against it, but the mystery of the light-keepers was enough to scare a man.

“I knew old Tom Jackson, the skipper of the relief boat, and he asked me to go over to the light with him. It’s only a day’s run from the Falklands, and, as I was laid up with a topmast gone, I went.

“We had a whaling steamer to go over in. A vessel about one hundred tons, with an infernal sort of cannon mounted for’ard which threw a bomb-harpoon big enough to stave the side of a frigate.

“On the way over Jackson told me how hard it was to get any one to stay at the light, and how he came across the two men who were now keepers.

“Two men had drifted ashore near the settlement lashed to the thwarts of a half-sunken whale-boat. They were all but dead and unable to speak. Finally, after careful nursing, one began to show some life, and he raved about a lost ship and the Cooper’s Hole.

“You see, over there in the South Orkneys there is a hole through the cliffs about a hundred feet wide, with the rocks rising straight up hundreds of feet on both sides. Inside this narrow passage, which is like an open door, is the great hole, miles around inside, with water enough for all the vessels afloat to lie in without fouling.

“This fellow raved about driving a ship through the hole during a storm. He talked of revenge, and would laugh when he raved about the captain of the ship.

“When these men were well again they told a straight story about the loss of the ship Indian. As near as they could make out, they had been fifteen days in that open boat, which they clung to when the vessel foundered off the Horn. They had nothing saved but the rags they came ashore in, so they were glad enough to take Jackson’s offer of two hundred pounds a year to tend the Le Maire light.

“We arrived off the light the next afternoon. There was no place to land except on the rocks, where the heave of the swell made it dangerous. It was dead calm this evening, so we got ashore all right. As we climbed the rocks towards the light the fellows there came out of the small house to meet us.

“The head keeper walked in front, and he was the queerest-looking critter that ever wore breeches. His hair was half a fathom long and the color of rope yarn, and his eye was as green and watery as a cuttlefish’s. The other fellow was somewhat younger, but he seemed taken up with the idea that his feet were the only things in nature worth looking at, so I paid little attention to him.

“The older fellow with long hair grunted something to Jackson and held out his hand, which the skipper shook heartily.

“‘Well,’ he roared, ‘how’s things on the rocks? Damme if I don’t wish I was a light-keeper myself, so’s I could sit around and admire the sun rise and set.’

“‘I wish to blazes you was,’ grunted the long-haired heathen; ‘as for me, I’m about tired of this here job, and you might as well tell the governor that if he gives me the whole East Falkland I wouldn’t stay here through another winter.’

“‘That’s just the way with a man soon as he gets a soft job. Never satisfied. Now, here’s my friend Green just waiting to step into your shoes the minute you think two hundred pounds a year is too infernal much for a gent like you to live on.’

“The old fellow looked hard at me with his fishy eyes, but said nothing.

“‘No,’ went on Jackson, ‘you wouldn’t be satisfied with ten thousand. What’s the matter, anyhow? Have you seen the bird lately?’

“At this the fellow glanced around quickly and took in every point of the compass, but he didn’t answer.

“Finally he mumbled, ‘To-night’s the night.’ Then he turned to me and asked, ‘Be you going to stay ashore to-night?’

“‘No,’ I answered, ‘not if we can get back on board.’

“Then the fellow turned and led the way to the light and Jackson and I followed after him.

“The light-house was built of heavy timber, brought ashore from a vessel, and the lantern was one of those small lenses like what you see in the rivers of the States. It had a small platform around it, guarded by an iron hand-rail, which, I should judge, was about fifty feet above the rocks. Outside the lens was the ordinary glass covering, making a small room about the lantern, and outside of all was a heavy wire netting to keep birds from driving through the light during a storm.

“There were some repairs needed, and the lampist had to go back on board the steamer for some tools. He had hardly started before the dull haze settled over the dark water, and in half an hour you couldn’t see ten fathoms in any direction.

“‘By thunder! Green, we are in for a night of it, sure,’ said Jackson to me. ‘There’ll be no chance of that boat coming back while this lasts.’

“‘Let her go,’ I replied; ‘I’d just as soon spend a night in the lantern as in that infernal hooker soaked in sour oil and jammed full of bedbugs. I don’t know but what I’d rather like the change.’

“‘Like it or not, here we are, so we might as well take a look around before dark.’

“We hadn’t gone more than half a mile through the gigantic tussac-grass when I felt a peculiar sensation at my heart. The next moment I was lying flat on my back and Jackson was doing all he could to bring me to. I had the falling sickness, and I realized what the governor meant by the order that no person should be allowed to travel alone on the Falklands.

“In a little while I grew better, and with Jackson’s help managed to get back to the light, faint and weak.

“That old long-haired fellow was there waiting for us, and he expressed about as much surprise and feeling at my mishap as if I had been an old penguin come ashore to die. However, after I had a glass of spirits and eaten some of the truck he had cooked for supper, I felt better. Then the old fellow went into the lantern and lit up for the night. He then came back and joined us in the house, where we sat talking.

“‘It’s the first quarter o’ the moon an’ third day,’ said he, coming in and sitting down at the table and lighting his pipe from the sperm-oil lamp.

“‘I never made any remarks to the contrary,’ said Jackson.

“‘It’s this night, sure, and the Strait will be crowded before morning; then he’ll be here.’

“‘Who?’ I asked.

“Old man Jackson laughed. ‘That’s his friend the bird,’ he said, looking towards me. ‘He has a visitor every now and then, you see, so it isn’t so blooming lonesome here after all.’

“The keeper looked hard at me with his fishy eyes, and then continued.

“‘He has been here twice before,’ he said.

“‘Well, suppose he has,’ snapped Jackson.

“‘If you can get another man, get him. I don’t want to be here when he comes again.’

“I looked at Jackson and saw his face contracted into a frown. ‘It’s some sailor’s joke,’ said he. ‘Nobody but a fool would send a message tied to the leg of an albatross.’

“‘It’s a joke I don’t like, an’ I’d like you to take us away.’

“‘Well, joke or no joke, you’ll have to stay until I get some one to take your place,’ and Jackson filled his pipe and smoked vigorously.

“I must have been dozing in my chair, for it was quite late and the fire in the stove almost out, when I was aroused by a peculiar sound.

“I noticed Jackson start up from the table and then stand rigid in the centre of the room.

“There was a deep moaning coming from the water that sounded like wind rushing through the rigging of a ship. Then I heard cries of men and the tumbling rush of water, as if a vessel were tearing through it like mad. Jackson sprang to the door and was outside in an instant. I followed, but the old keeper sat quietly smoking.

“Outside, the light from the tower shone like a huge eye through the gloom, and as the fog was thick, it lit up the calm sea only a few fathoms beyond the ledge. This made the blackness beyond all the more intense.

“‘That vessel will be on the rocks if they don’t look sharp,’ said Jackson. ‘Ship ahoy!’ he bawled in his deep base voice, but the sound died away in the vast stillness about us.

“‘There’s no wind,’ said I; ‘but I distinctly heard the rattle of blocks and snaps of slatting canvas as she came about.’

“We stood there staring into the night, and were aware of the presence of the old keeper, who had joined us. Suddenly we heard the rushing sound again, and it seemed as if a mighty wind was blowing through the Strait. There were faint cries as if at a great distance. Then the noise of waring braces coupled with the sharp snapping of slatting canvas.

“Jackson looked at me, and there was a strange look in his eyes.

“‘They’ll pass through all night,’ said the old keeper, ‘and in the morning there won’t be a sail in sight, calm or storm.’

“We stood in the fog for half an hour listening to the noises in the Strait, while the glare from the light made the mist-drifts form into gigantic shapes which came and melted again into the darkness. Once again Jackson went to the water’s edge and bawled into the blackness. The long-haired keeper smiled at his attempts, and his eyes had a strange glow in them like the phosphor flares in water of the tropics.

“‘The devil take this infernal place!’ said Jackson. ‘I never heard of so many vessels passing through here in a whole season. The whole Cape Horn fleet are standing to the s’uth’ard to-night.’

“I felt a little creepy up the back as we went into the house. Jackson made up the fire, while I lay in a bunk.

“‘It’s been so since the light went out last winter; but it was the fault of the oil, not me,’ said the old keeper.

“‘Why didn’t you stay awake and look to it?’ asked Jackson.

“‘It was a terrible night, and I got wet. I sat by the stove and fell asleep, and when I woke up it was daylight, and the light was out. That bird was there on the platform.’

“Jackson talked to the old fellow sharply, but I finally fell asleep. He aroused me at daylight, and I went outside.

“The sun was shining brightly, and the light air had drifted the fog back across the Strait to the ragged shore of Tierra del Fuego, where it hung like a huge gray pall, darkening underneath. To the northward lay the steamer, but besides her there was not a floating thing visible.

“The younger keeper, with the hang-dog look, started up the tower to put out the light, and I followed, taking the telescope to have a look around. We had just reached the platform when there waddled out from behind the lantern the most gigantic albatross I ever saw. The creature gave a hoarse squawk and stretched its wings slowly outward as if about to rise. But instead of going it stood motionless, while the keeper gave a gasp and nearly fell over the rail, his face showing the wildest terror.

“‘That’s him,’ he whispered.

“And I must say I felt startled at seeing a bird four fathoms across the wings. I stood looking at the creature a moment, and was aware of something dangling from its leg. Then I went slowly towards it. It stood still while I bent down and unfastened the piece of canvas hanging to its leg, but it kept its great black eye fixed on me; then it snapped its heavy hooked beak savagely, and I started backward.

“The creature dropped gracefully over the edge of the platform, and, falling in a great circular sweep, rose again and held its way down the Strait. I watched it with the telescope until it disappeared in the distance, and then swept the horizon for signs of a sail. There was nothing in sight, and the sea was like oil as far as the eye could reach. I put down the glass and examined the piece of rag. It was nothing but a bit of tarred canvas, with nothing on it to tell where it came from. The keeper asked to see it, and he could make no more of it than I could. Then we went down, and as we approached the house the old keeper came out of the door and looked around in the air above him. I held out the piece of canvas and he gave a start.

“‘He was there, then?’ he asked.

“‘If you mean that all-fired big albatross, yes,’ I answered. ‘But why the devil are you so scared of him?’

“The old fellow didn’t answer, but stood looking at the piece of canvas, saying, ‘Only one left. This is the third time.’

“‘Only one fool!’ I cried. ‘How, by Davy, can you read anything on that bit of canvas when it’s as blank as a fog-bank?’

“‘And you are that fool,’ he replied, in a low tone, so smoothly that I damned him fore and aft for every kind of idiot I could think of.

“‘Let him alone,’ said Jackson, hearing the rumpus. ‘All these outlying keepers are as crazy as mollyhawks. It’s some joke, or some fellow’s trying to get the place.’

“In a little while we went aboard the steamer and started for the Falklands.

“I was still there three weeks later, when two small sealing schooners came in and unloaded their pelts. The men aboard them told a strange tale of a wreck in the great hole of the Orkneys. They had gone into the crater after seals and had found a large ship driven into a cleft in the rocky wall. Her bow was clear of the water, but her stern was fathoms deep in it, so they couldn’t tell her name. On their way up they had gone to the westward and come through the Le Maire. They had hunted for two days off the rocks and reported the light out both nights.

“Jackson started off in a day or so to see what was the matter, and he took a goose-gun for that albatross. When he reached the light there wasn’t a sign of those keepers. Everything was in its place and the house was open, but there was nothing to tell how the fellows left.

“In a little while he noticed the head of an albatross peering over the platform of the light, and he tried to get a sight at it. But the critter seemed to know better than to show itself.

“He finally started up the ladder and gained the platform. There were the two keepers, stark and stiff, one of them holding an oil-can in his dead grip. The sight gave him such a turn that when the giant bird gave a squawk and started off he missed it clean, although it wasn’t three fathoms from the muzzle of his gun. He yelled to the men below to come up, but by the time they got there the whole top was afire from the spilled oil catching at the flash, or burning wad, from his gun.

“There was no way to put the fire out, so they had the satisfaction of climbing down and watching the tower burn before their eyes.

“It’s hard to say just how those keepers died. It may have been the falling sickness, or it may have been natives that killed them. As for me, I’ve believed there was something unnatural about the whole affair, for I’ve never heard of an albatross landing on a light before. There was some talk about fear of mutiny aboard the Indian by her owners, but there was no ground for it. Those fellows probably told a straight story. There was a boat picked up to the northward of the Strait some time afterwards, but there was no name on it, and the only man in it was dead. He had several ugly knife wounds, but it proved nothing.

“There’s room to the eastward of the island for me. You had better watch those fore-and mizzen-t’gallant-sails,—it looks as if we may get a touch of the Cape before morning.”

I went forward and started some men aft to the mizzen. We were about to begin the struggle “around the corner.” The deepening gloom of the winter evening increased, and the distant flares and flashes from the Land of Fire gave ominous thoughts of the future in store for us.