"
Right in the track of the drifting ship lay a vaguely outlined trio of
dread import: "Breakers; Islet (conical); Duncan Rock." Behind this
sinister barrier stood the more definite White Horse Island, while,
running due north and south a few miles away to the eastward, was a
wavering dotted line which professed to mark the coast of Hanover
Island. Lending a fearful significance to the unknown character of the
region, a printed comment followed the dotted line: "This coast is laid
down from distant observations on board the Beagle." So the sea face
of Hanover Island had not been visited by civilized man for nearly
sixty years! There, not three hours' steaming distance from the
regular track of Chilean commerce, was a place so guarded by reefs on
one hand, and impenetrable, ice-capped mountains on the other, that a
proper survey was deemed impracticable even by officers of the British
Navy, a service which has charted nearly every rock and shoal and tiny
islet on the face of the waters.
Neither man spoke while their practised scrutiny took in these details.
The roaring chaos of the gale told what fate awaited them.
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