The Shadow of Great Britain-Chapter 749 - 358: It’s Your Turn to Play the Clown (7K6)

Dear Arthur,

How have you been lately?

I have received the "British" magazine you sent from London. I am deeply grateful to you, Charles, Benjamin, Alexander, and all other dedicated friends for taking time out of your busy schedules to compile my letters into a volume, and to serialize it under the title "Beagle Voyage Diary" in the "British."

In your letter, you tell me that this naturalist travel diary has been very popular in London, which has genuinely surprised and flattered me. I know I am not worthy of being mentioned in the same breath as Linnaeus, Banks, and Buffon, but I can’t help but feel a secret delight whenever I find my name in the same sentence as theirs in letters from readers.

Ever since I embarked on the Beagle’s voyage, I have increasingly understood why Britain’s greatest naturalists often come from the Royal Navy. Having the opportunity to sail around the globe is indeed the greatest fortune for a naturalist. I have seen many strange things along the way that I had never heard of or seen before.

Before the Beagle departed from the mouth of La Plata, I made a special visit to the residence of Mr. Hood, the consul-general in Montevideo. For before our visit to the region, we had heard that a remarkable thunderstorm had occurred locally, during which a ship moored in the harbor, two churches, and Mr. Hood’s house were all struck by lightning.

The wallpaper on either side of the electric bell wire in Mr. Hood’s residence was scorched for about a foot, and the metal had melted. Although the room was about fifteen feet high, the molten metal dripped onto chairs and furniture, boring a series of small holes.

Parts of the wall seemed as if they had been shattered by explosives, and the ejected fragments were so powerful that they dented the opposite wall of the room. The frame of the dressing mirror was blackened, and the gilding on the frame had clearly evaporated, because a smelling salts bottle on the mantelpiece had been coated with shiny metallic beads, as firmly as if it had been glazed.

While such a scene is shocking enough, I heard from sailors in the tavern that this was not the most severe lightning strike in the area. According to his memory, the thunderstorm that occurred in Buenos Aires in 1793 was historically the most damaging: lightning struck thirty-seven locations across the city, and nineteen people lost their lives.

According to phenomena described in several travel books, I am inclined to believe that thunderstorms are indeed very frequent at river mouths where the river enters the sea. I wonder if this might be because the mixing of large volumes of fresh and saltwater disturbs the electric equilibrium? Ha, but that is only my personal speculation; the specific cause of this phenomenon is something you, a professional researcher in electromagnetism, should answer. If you figure out the cause, please let me know in your reply.

After leaving the mouth of La Plata, we passed Maldonado and headed towards the mouth of the Negro River. It is a major river on the coastline between the Strait of Magellan and the La Plata River, and about fifty years ago, under the rule of the Spanish Government, a small colony was established here. And to this day, it remains the southernmost settlement of civilization on the eastern coast of South America.

There is a reason it has become the end of civilization. Here, one cannot find lush green trees, only vertical cliffs and gravel. The vast plains are scattered with stones, water sources are scarce, and vegetation is sparse, with only some low, aggressive and spiny shrubs.

We followed the Negro River for a long time before we finally saw the ruins of an exquisite large estate. According to locals, it had been destroyed by Indian people a few years ago. He described the event vividly to me: the attackers were Araucanian people from southern Chile, numbering several hundred, each riding a horse, covered with fur cloaks, wearing hats decorated with ostrich feathers, and carrying bolas (a type of local bamboo spear).

The Indian people surrounded the inhabitants of the estate, and chieftain Panchela ordered them to drop their weapons or have their throats cut. But nobody believed the Indian’s words, as there were instances where throats were slit even after weapons were dropped. Thus, the sound of the Mauser rifle was their only reply.

The Indian people slowly advanced to the fence of the corral. To their astonishment, they found the fence was locked with iron nails, not with belts, so they hacked at it with their knives. Many wounded Indians were carried away by their companions, and the last chief retreated after being injured, and the retreat horn finally sounded.

The Indian people returned to their resting place, seemingly holding a military meeting, and then the second wave of attack quickly resumed. This must have been the Spaniards’ most difficult moment, as their gunpowder supplies were down to a few boxes, but fortunately, they had a few small cannons in their estate and, luckily, a retired French gunner as their commander.

This Frenchman, like an Alexander with both military expertise and a cool head, waited until the Indian people got very close before ordering the cannons to fire. Canister shot sprayed out, and thirty-nine Indian people in the front row fell on the spot. Needless to say, such sharp artillery fire was enough to make them beat a retreat.

These Christians were lucky to save their lives. But unfortunately, the estate was destroyed as a result.

The small town where the estate was located is called El Carmen, also known as Patagones. The town is built on a rock face facing the river, with many houses’ foundations dug into the sandstone. The scale of the town is not large, with only a few hundred inhabitants. And these Spanish colonies are not quite the same as our British ones; they lack a foundation for expansion. Therefore, apart from the settlers, many pure Indians also live nearby.