Life at Zinka's House

Zinka kissed me.

It happened in her office. A big smile crossed her face when I walked in and, in her rapid, staccato Spanish, she said something more or less unintelligible to me. All I caught were the repeated words, "grande personaje" and something about me having been on TV. She got up from behind her desk and rushed over--waddled would be more accurate for Zinka is not a small woman and does not move very quickly--to plant a big kiss on each cheek. I stood there stammering, embarrassed, blushing certainly and not at all sure what to say or do.

Apparently, I had been in the papers and on TV in the days before and Zinka was overjoyed to have such a client at her humble "hostal." The next morning at breakfast, I heard her proudly telling one of the other guests about me; I did my best to sink behind a pot of tea in embarrassment. I was not expecting this. I had been away for a week in the southern part of Tierra del Fuego and had only just returned that evening to Punta Arenas. The newspaper had written an article about my research shortly after my arrival in Punta Arenas and this, for some reason set off the other stories. Fortunately, I had missed all the hubub, but Zinka had not.

Zinka´s had been my base in Punta Arenas ever since I realized my travels were going to take longer than expected and less expensive lodgings would be necessary. I downsized, trading my $30/night hostal downtown for Zinka´s House, half a mile and half a world away from the town’s leafy central square with its elegant Beaux Artes buildings (see lower left). Zinka´s was 50% less expensive and it showed. But, despite the fluorescent lighting and the sickly lime green walls of my room, despite the sway-backed mattress and the indignity of having a truck stop-sized wheel of toilet paper in the bathroom, and despite the neighborhood rooster that would wake me every morning at 5am, I actually liked my life at Zinka´s.

It had less to do with the house and more to do with the people, but the house is not without charm. Zinka´s House--that’s the name of the hostal, "Zinka´s House", in English, though no one there speaks a word of that language--is a rambling, one story affair with several outbuildings, all wedged behind a painted white metal fence. Located in the midst of the town’s drab Croatian quarter, Zinka´s House stands out. Its fire-engine red walls and tidy white trim present a bright contrast to the dingy buildings all around. In her front yard, hard against the fence, is a pretty little garden overflowing with gladiolas, irises, and other flowers the names of which I don’t know. Bunches of rhubarb--harvested for Zinka´s excellent rhubarb jam--fringe the garden and the sides of the buildings. The flowers and the rhubarb are real, but the centerpiece of the garden is a peculiar still life of plastic tulips around a two-foot high plastic snowman perched in a small, wooden wheelbarrow. This should be in jarring contrast to the lush living flowers and the rhubarb but at Zinka´s kitsch combines with the authentic and somehow it all just works.

Little Croatia is a run-down section of Punta Arenas. The houses there are mostly little more than single story frame boxes with corrugated siding and roofs. Here and there you stumble upon the occasional "Magallenic" style house of the early 1900s with gingerbread trim and steep mansard roofs or perhaps one of the sleek functionalist houses from the 1930s and 40s with its porthole windows and curving, poured concrete walls (at left, top and bottom). Both styles are plentiful in the city’s tonier neighborhoods but in Little Croatia they seem out of place, forlorn reminders of the days when the neighborhood was a leafy, well-to-do suburb and not the dusty barrio it has become. The houses of Little Croatia today are generally painted a dull white or yellow, or a splotchy light brown. Graffiti covers virtually every building (lower right). Some of the houses are left unpainted entirely, rusting into a reddish-brown that blends with the unpaved sidewalks. Trucks and tractors are parked randomly about on Zinka's street, spilling out of garages onto the crumbling, broken-edged strips of dirt and concrete that masquerade as sidewalk.

Dogs are everywhere in Little Croatia. The strays are good natured, dirty things that lope along, greeting you with a slight wag of the tail as they go happily about their business. The ones behind the fences, in contrast, are mean, bitter beasts. They growl and bark at everything that passes, straining at their chains, eyes bulging, spray leaping from angry jaws. In the land of the free, a chained dog is an unhappy dog.

To call the neighborhood Little Croatia is no exaggeration. Not only is there a Croacia street, nearby is the Croatian Consulate itself. A Croatian school is down the street. All the shops seem to have Croatian names: Buljan, Serka, Yankulic, etc. There is even a sign on one building that simply reads, "Clinica Croacia." What does this mean? Are the doctors all Croatian? Or does it refer to the patients they treat? As if to say, "Croats only. Others need not apply."

Immigration is THE major theme in the history of Tierra del Fuego and southern Patagonia. The first immigrants to the region were the Swiss in the 1850s, followed quickly by the French. The British arrived when the huge sheep estancias (ranches) were set up, bringing stock and know-how from the nearby Falkland Islands. Asturians from northern Spain followed, as did Germans. The first big wave of Croatian immigrants came shortly before the turn of the 20th Century, providing strong-backed, cheap labor, not just for the estancias but also for the sawmills that were springing up all over the vast forests of the Fuegian fjords to the south. The Croats of Tierra del Fuego remain a tight-knit community today, their identity fueled no doubt by pride in Croatia’s independence in 1991.

Before then the community in Punta Arenas lived in Little Yugoslavia. The consulate was the Yugoslavian Consulate and the street was Yugoslavia Street. You get the picture. But, before there was a Yugoslavia the Croats in Chile were called "Autrichos." To me, this seems a cruel thing to call the poor devils who were, for the most part, trying to flee the oppression and poverty they faced at the hands of the old Austro-Hungarian Empire to which Croatia then belonged. (See Croatian coat of arms, right.)

European immigration not only gave Punta Arenas its fine architecture, it also led to literacy and primary schooling statistics that were off the charts compared with the rest of Chile and South America. But the authorities in Santiago worried the large European presence in the strategic Straits of Magellan might prove too tempting to one of the imperial powers in Europe. This fear was not entirely irrational. During WWI, for example, German residents of Punta Arenas openly supplied the Kaiser's warships with food and coal while they hid in the fjords. The town's doughty Britishers dutifully reported the squadron's whereabouts to the Admiralty in London. A fleet was sent south to intercept and the result was the Battle of the Falklands, one of the largest naval encounters of the war. (See left, the cruiser Dresden, in hiding in Chile, 1914.)

So, in the first two decades of the 20th Century Santiago set out to dilute the European population in the far south by encouraging a second migration, targeting the mixed-race farmers and fishermen of the dismally poor island of Chiloe to the north. These low-paid laborers were a boon to the burgeoning economy of Punta Arenas but they forever changed the complexion of the city. Today, the Chiloten presence dominates and, of the many European groups that once ran things in town, only the Croats remain a distinct, vibrant community.

Zinka is the uncrowned queen of this Croatian community and like any royal she has her court. It is comprised of two permanent residents, Maria and Georgio, and a host of rotating visitors who come to sit at her desk and take a serving of tea and gossip. It is a never-ending stream of visitors she hosts; over many days at Zinka´s, I can think of only one instance in which I saw her alone in her office.

Maria acts as the palace chamberlain. Nothing gets done without her. She serves breakfast, does the linens, looks after the guests, and generally keeps the place humming. She is constantly on the go, moving at a brisk trot. She’s an attractive, slim woman of a hard-to-determine age. She may be 35. She may be 50. Somehow, despite all she accomplishes, she seems never to be far from Zinka. This is important because Zinka can’t function without her. Even the simplest question never fails to fluster Zinka. A question like, for example, ¨Zinka, do you have any rooms available for tomorrow?¨ causes her to sputter, then pause. This is quickly followed by a shout for Maria who instantly appears, calming Zinka, providing the desired answer, moving on.

Georgio is the outside man and I think of him in the role of court jester. Before I knew his name, I did not realize he was a man at all. I’ve never met a more androgynous figure. Georgio stands about four and a half feet tall, has a bowl-cut hairdo, a high, squeaky voice, and wears his jeans pulled up high above his waist, the same multi-colored acrylic sweater tucked in tight, day after day. I never quite learned what he does around the place. I believe he tends the garden. Honestly, anything else would seem too strenuous. One day, when I returned late to Punta Arenas and found Zinka´s House full and my regular room unavailable, Georgio was dispatched to take me around to another hostal in the neighborhood. I saw him make a move to take one of my bags, edging for my backpack which stood almost as tall he. Terrified he would topple under the weight of it, I jumped in and, thanking him, handed him my bookbag instead.

Finally, there is Zinka herself. She is an exuberant woman, short and plump, in her late fifties or early sixties, with a luxurious head of blonde hair she wears in an ornate bun on top of her head. Her presence fills the small office that doubles as the hostal´s reception. Her voice penetrates the surrounding walls and she speaks in a rapid-fire Spanish almost impossible to understand; even fluent Spanish-speakers claim to sometimes have a hard time following her.

Every visit to Zinka's office never failed to intimidate me. I felt like a poor supplicant at a royal audience. Generally, I would pause a few seconds behind the always-closed door, steeling myself for the enormity of the encounter. From behind the door I'd hear Zinka´s rapid, booming voice in conversation with one of the neighborhood courtiers or with Maria or Georgio, either of whom--often both--were likely to be squeezed into the little office, too. Just over the left shoulder of the guest’s chair, a television blares, adding to the din. I knock timidly on the door and Zinka´s voice booms out, ¨Adelante! Adelante.¨ I go in. A torrent of unintelligible sentences tumble from her lips. Is she talking to me, I wonder? I stare blinking, bewildered. Then, a smile or wink from Zinka makes me realize, yes, indeed, she is talking to me. But what is she saying? I panic. She repeats herself. Maybe I catch a word or two, maybe not. I ask her to speak more slowly, please. Generally, this goes on until I either figure out what she’s saying or until Maria swoops in to sort things out. Half the time I leave the office so flustered I find I’ve forgotten to ask the question that propelled me there in the first place.

Zinka´s office is decorated as a kind of shrine to all things Croatian and to Zinka herself. On the walls are several large travel posters of scenic Croatian towns. Croatian knick-knacks, colorful ethnic plates, and other handicrafts are there, too. And then there are the pictures. Some show Zinka with the Croatian president on his visit to Punta Arenas. Others are of Zinka dancing with various handsome men, Slavic dignitaries, I imagine. There are pictures of Zinka in full ethnic costume--red skirt, white apron, heavy silver jewelry, her long hair in braids--marching at the front of Punta Arenas´s Croatian day parade, and on and on, filling what seems to be every square foot of wall space in the office.

The place of honor, however, on the wall just behind her chair, is reserved for a larger than life photo of Zinka herself. It is a portrait of Zinka in full ethnic dress, a smile on her face and a mischievous glint in her eye, her right hand jauntily grasping the shoulder strap of her dress, as if to say, ¨Come along, young man, Let me show you the charms of Croatia.¨ It is a spectacular image and when you stand in her office, across the desk from Zinka herself sitting beneath that photograph, it is all you can do to keep your eyes fixed on the original. You strain every bit of your concentration to keep focused on her but it is impossible, your eyes can not help but dart back to that photograph. You feel intimidated and elated at the same time, as if in the presence of royalty or perhaps some Latin American dictator whose cult of personality is enormous and meticulously tended and yet so fragile its iconography must extend even to the seat of power itself.

Bizarre, and yet compelling. Kitsch combining with the authentic. But somehow it all works. Such is life at Zinka´s House.

The Road to Fagnano

At the top of the second range of mountains the lake finally came into view, an inverted triangle of pale blue twinkling amidst the green and white and grays of the forested mountains outlining its edges. “There it is,” I said to myself. “Fagnano.” I depressed the brake pedal and the wheels of my rental car skidded a bit on the gravel. I didn’t pull over. No need. I hadn’t seen another vehicle in over an hour, and no more than half a dozen all day. Besides, the road, bounded by rock on one side and a steep drop on the other, was too narrow for pulling over.

Now, nearing noon, after five hours of driving, I was finally in sight of Lago Fagnano. The lake is long and narrow, hemmed in by mountains perpetually topped with snow. It stretches east to west for 70 miles, more than half the width of Tierra del Fuego. Four-fifths of the lake is in Argentina, the remainder lies in Chile. The lake is pristine. It is fed by glaciers on its western side and these give much of the lake a milky, turquoise color. Only at the very eastern end of the lake do the surrounding mountains diminish. There they finally sink into rolling hills that foretell the endless brown grasslands of the pampas just beyond.

To the native Selk’nam (also called Ona) the lake was sacred. They called it Kami which, according to one source, means great waters. But the holy lake had neither the power to hold its original name nor protect the people who worshiped it; the Selk’nam were wiped out by the ranchers who coveted their lands and by the missionaries who coveted their souls. But there must have been some sorcery in the lake. How else could a body of water this large have remained hidden from the whites as long as it did? The town of Ushuaia, settled in 1871, lies just over the mountains to the south, not 15 miles as the crow flies. The first permanent settlement in the region, Punta Arenas, dates back to 1848 and just ten miles or so to the west of the lake is Admiralty Sound, an arm of the Strait of Magellan that had been visited by mariners for centuries. And yet the lake was not seen by whites until 1890.

In that year a joint Chilean/Argentine hydrographic team – in a rare display of amity between those countries -- finally discovered the lake. They named it Fagnano, in honor of Monsignor Jose Fagnano (at left), one of the pioneering missionaries of the Salesian Order, recently arrived to evangelize among the natives of Tierra del Fuego.

The Salesian Order was founded in Italy by Don Bosco, later Saint Giovanni Bosco (right). Don Bosco (1815-1888) was a man prone to dreams. In one of his earliest a voice provided the inspiration for the order’s pedagogy: "Not with blows, but with charity and gentleness must you draw these friends to the path of virtue." With those words his order grew, and grew rapidly, but nowhere would it have more impact than in Patagonia. Even today it is difficult to overestimate the role of the Salesian Order in the region.

A much later dream, around 1876, would provide the impetus for the Salesian move into Patagonia and Tierra del Fuego. In recounting this dream, Don Bosco describes having seen “an immense plain” confined by “abrupt mountains.” On that plain he saw natives fighting against Europeans. “I trembled before such a spectacle,” he claimed. Then his dream foretold the role his order would play in that far off land:

"How to convert such barbarous peoples?...I saw our missionaries moving
forward across those savage hordes; they taught them and the savages heard,
pleased; they taught them and the savages learnt, diligently"

The Salesians, with Jose Fagnano at their head, heeded Don Bosco's call and traveled to the far reaches of South America. There, they quickly fanned out across Tierra del Fuego, establishing missions and schools (see right, the mission at Dawson Island) to bring the Selk'nam "with charity and gentleness" to the path of virtue. Within a few short decades the last of the Selk'nam would be dead.

Few people live on the shores of Lago Fagnano today. At the very eastern end of the lake, on the Argentine side there is a small town of about a thousand people. On the Chilean side of the lake, however, there lives only one man. I was on my way to meet that man.

If you can live more or less by yourself for more than twenty years in one of the most remote places on earth; and if during that time you can build three houses by hand, transporting ALL the materials on horse-back three days over two mountain ranges -- except for the lumber, of course, which mill yourself; if you can wrestle sheep, and cattle, and horses to the ground; if, at age 65, you can scamper up a mountain trail without a huff or a puff, leaving much younger men scrambling to keep up, you just may be tough enough for the job currently being held by the amazing German Genskowski.

German is the first true pioneer I have ever met. He will, in all likelihood be the only one. Along with his nephew, Rodrigo, and one hired hand, German (pronounced "herr-MAN") runs a 3,500 hectare ranch on a more or less flat piece of land between the mountains and the shore of Fagnano. German´s wife spends the summers with him but she says she is too old and too much of a city person to manage the winters in that harsh, snowy place so she decamps to the regional capital of Punta Arenas for much of the year. Children and grandchildren visit occasionally.

“You must talk to Genskowski,” people in Punta Arenas kept telling me. “Genskowski will know where those mountains are.” I was showing pictures of landscapes painted by Rockwell Kent in Tierra del Fuego in 1922, asking if anyone knew where I could find the places he captured. Tierra del Fuego is indescribably vast and dozens of mountain ranges crease its western half so, naturally, everyone gave me conflicting conjectures as to the locations of the scenes Kent had painted. But all were certain that if anyone would be able to identify the places it would be German Genskoweski. Finally, after hearing “Genskowski’s your man” one too many times I decided to go meet him.

Getting to him would not be easy. While Lago Fagnano lies only about 120 miles from Punta Arenas as the crow flies, it takes more than eight hours by car; two hours along a paved highway to reach the ferry across the Strait of Magellan and then six hours on a miserably narrow, dusty dirt road to the lake. German’s land, called Estancia Fagnano (estancia means ranch), is well beyond the reach of power and telephone lines, so I could not call him to warn him of my intentions. I would have to hope he would agree to talk to me.

To make matters worse, the last stretch of road leading to the lake--despite being clearly marked on my map--is still under construction and off-limits without special permission from the Chilean army corps of engineers building it. This being Chile, I was advised to go first and ask permission later. Sure enough, after nearly six hours choking down dust, I finally reached a barricade with signs indicating I was entering a restricted area. “Danger” read one, “Blasting Ahead.” But I had already glimpsed the lake and nothing was going to turn me back now from that promised land. Fortunately, the barricade was up so I was able to escape the censure of actually raising it.

I drove forward cautiously, not so much because I was in defiance of the Chilean Army but because the road -- clearly under construction -- was even more terrifying than before, narrow and unstable. After about a mile, I came across some soldiers operating heavy road-building machinery. They looked at me suspiciously as I approached. But when I told him who I was going to see they smiled and gave me directions. German, apparently, is a legend not just to the city-dwellers of Punta Arenas.

Two miles further along I came across a clearing in the woods by the road where a group of people were gathered around a corral, appraising the horses within. I parked the car, took a deep breath for courage, and started walking towards them. An older man, wearing a floppy-brimmed leather hat broke away from the group and sauntered over to meet me. He was of medium height but slim and wiry, and he walked with the slight, bow-legged saunter of a man who spends a lot of time in the saddle. I told him, in my stumbling Spanish, who I was and the purpose of my visit, and that I was looking for German Genskowski, who I was told might be able to help me. He looked at me a moment and then glanced at his boots. Looking up again, with only a slight approximation of a smile, he replied that he was German Genskowski and he would help me. But then he added, with a wave of his arm towards the group clustered around the corral, "I'm busy at the moment. Go to the house and wait for me there," he instructed. "I will be there in a couple of hours."

At the house -- a tidy, two-story yellow plank structure with a red tin roof and a Chilean flag flying proudly in front -- I met his wife. She was making lunch but she stopped to offer me a cup of coffee. We tried to converse but my limited Spanish and the constant chatter of her young grandson made anything beyond a few pleasantries impossible. Finally, leaving her to her work, I told her I would take a walk around the grounds. Through the kitchen window she pointed out a trail that would lead me to the lake.

I walked through deep woods of tall deciduous beech (nothofagus pumilio), called lenga in Spanish. The limbs and trunks of these trees were covered in a spindly, hanging moss that reminded me of the Spanish moss of the American deep south, but the heavy, hot air I associate with that was absent. Instead, I was bundled against the cold and damp of the Fuegian summer, where even in the warmest months the thermometer seldom goes much above sixty degrees and everyone goes about carrying a raincoat and hat.

The bark of the lenga trees and the pale moss gave the forest a soft, grey-green, almost bluish tinge. A deep quiet prevailed under the cathedral of those trees and the soft, spongy ground muffled my steps. This was my first walk in a lenga forest and that hushed sense of calm would never cease to amaze and charm me throughout my stay in Tierra del Fuego.

Even in the woods it was clear this was a working ranch. Here and there I came across sheep lying in a clearing, and the paths were littered with their droppings. In several places I passed racks of sheep and cattle hide stretched out to dry, sheets of hair and skin, stiff with dried blood. I even saw occasional piles of bones, testament to on-the-spot slaughtering or an impromptu asado (barbecue), green mold betraying the decomposition to which all organic matter in that damp land quickly succumbs.

I marveled at the energy that had built this ranch, and built it entirely by hand, without any heavy machinery of any kind. Until three years ago, before the road, this place was entirely isolated. All material needed to be brought in on horseback from the road head at Vicuna, three days ride to the north. Before the road, German would drive his cattle once a year over the mountains to the road head -- with cattle, the trip takes four days – where a truck would be waiting to take the stock to Punta Arenas.

German is a shy man and he didn’t open up to me until late the first day. At lunch, he hardly spoke a word to me. He was preoccupied with the two municipal veterinarians who had come that day to the ranch to take blood samples from the livestock. German later told me this was the first time in his twenty-five years on the ranch that a veterinarian had visited. “It’s because of the road,” he said, shaking his head. It was the first of many denunciations I would hear from him about this road that was so disrupting to his long-established way of life. He sighed. “Without the road they would never have come here.”

At lunch I struggled, in Spanish, to tell the group around the table the story of why I had come to Chile and what had brought me to the shores of far away Fagnano. "I am following the route," I explained, "of a fellow 'Norte Americano,' a painter, who had traveled in this land back in 1922." I went on, trying to make it clear that I believe he had even stayed at the site of this very ranch, then called Estancia Isabel.

As were getting up from the table, German’s nephew, Rodrigo, who had been quiet throughout lunch, came over to me and said, in flawless English, "My uncle has Mr. Kent's book but he can not read it because it is in English; but I have read it twice. I will go get it." And then he ran upstairs to fetch his uncle’s copy of the book. I stood there flabbergasted wondering why he had let me struggle for half an hour in my pidgin Spanish.

Rodrigo is in his mid twenties. He is tall and handsome, with a broad smile and a luxurious sweep of jet-black hair that he usually keeps covered under a crocheted tam-o-shanter. He grew up in Punta Arenas and studied English translation in school. Then, a few years ago, he decided he preferred life on the shores of Fagnano so he packed his bags and moved in with his uncle, learning all he can in the hopes he can take over the lonely ranch one day. He is an eager student of the ranching life. When I was there he was engaged in taming a wild horse they had recently captured. I saw the horse on my walks, a magnificent grey mare with a dark mane and tail. She was tied up in a small clearing in the woods, bounded on three sides by a river that flows into the lake. The horse would start whenever she saw me and pull frantically at her rope, nostrils flaring. Not sure the rope would withstand the exertions, I always gave her a wide berth.

In the afternoon, I watched spellbound for over an hour as the veterinarians took blood samples from German's herd of sheep. One by one, German, Rodrigo, and the ranch hand would capture a ewe, bleating in terror, and flip it on its haunches. This, surprisingly, would immediately calm the animals; in some cases they actually appeared to drop off to sleep in that position. The vet would then put a slender rubber hose around the animal’s neck to reveal the jugular vein and quickly take a sample. After that, a numbered yellow tag would be affixed to the sheep’s ear. Throughout this operation the sheep would be entirely quite but once released, they would scamper off bleating out of the corral. I watched the process, fascinated.

The next morning I awoke early to take photographs. It had rained during the night and the ground was soggy but the morning dawned partially clear and the summer sun caused the bogs and pastures to steam as it burned off the moisture. Still, within minutes wetness had seeped through my new hiking boots as I worked my way through damp meadows and along the muddy trails that meandered among the lenga forest. I wondered why the waterproofing I had applied to the boots in New York was not working. Later, I would come to realize the only way to keep one’s feet dry in Tierra del Fuego is not to travel there in the first place.

I worked my way along the shore line to a point I hoped would allow me to find the spot where Kent had sketched Mount Hope. "Mountain at the Foot of Fognano" he called it in his book, misspelling the cleric's name. The wind had picked up. Whitecaps danced along the surface of the lake. I cursed the flimsy light-weight tripod I had purchased just for this trip.

Despite wet feet, despite winds and an inferior tripod, despite clouds that continued to obscure the peaks on the southern side of the lake -- the same peaks German assured me were depicted in a one of Kent’s paintings -- despite all this I was supremely happy. Here I was, 6,000 miles from home, tracing the path of one of my boyhood heroes, standing in perhaps the very same spot where he had stood, brush in hand, eighty-six years earlier. I was finally on the shores of this magnificent lake which, in Kent’s words, “scarcely a hundred men can ever have beheld…” Of course, in the manner of the day, Kent was not including native men in his calculation, only whites. But his point was clear and what made it all the more amazing to me as I stood there was the realization that even today there can hardly be many more who have seen the lake from where I stood. That will all change, of course, once the road is finally opened, but, for now, I could take pride in my efforts to have gotten to this spot.

Later that morning, German and Rodrigo decided to take me for a walk to see Admiralty Sound. It was a steep climb. We followed a gully, at points needing to use our hands to pull ourselves forward. German was fast. We two younger men had to struggle to keep up with him. He told us this trail – a generous word, I thought – was what he sometimes used when he had first moved to the lake. It led, eventually, to Jackson Bay, on Admiralty Sound, where there was a dock where he would unload supplies, put them on horses, and slog along the trail back to the lake.

German stooped from time to time to pick Magellan strawberries (rubus geoides). This is a curious plant, actually a type of rasperry, whose fruit appears to grow downwards, into the moss. The berry is delicious, sweet and juicy, but it takes will power at first to get over the thought that you are about to put into your mouth this thing you've just pryed out from the moss and mud of the damp earth. But you quickly get used to blowing off the dirt as best you can and popping the succulent berries into your mouth.

After about 30 minutes of climbing, we came to a level spot, at the top of a rise strewn with boulders and a few wind-stunted trees. German pointed towards the west. I turned my face into the wind and there I could make out the steel-grey explanse of Admiralty Sound, that rough body of water where I would soon, with luck, be sailing in my quest to follow Rockwell Kent. Then I looked back and saw, sheltered from the west wind by mountain peaks, the placid, pale blue waters of Lago Fagnano. The sun was trying to push through clouds that melded with the snow-capped mountains all around. Where it did, the sunlight turned the lake into the most beautiful shade of turquoise, of an almost Caribbean hue. This, my companions told me, was caused by the milky, mineral-rich waters of the surrounding glaciers.

After dinner on my first day, after German had looked through my images and told me where I would find the scenes of most of Kent's paintings, and after Rodrigo had gone off to work on his horse-taming, I sat in the living room of German's cozy house and we talked. The summer twilight is long in the far south and as the light slowly faded and the objects in the room became less distinct, German became more voluble. He speaks a bit of English that he picked it up in the 1970s, in the days before he became a rancher. Apparently, this amazing man once worked for an American oil company, first in Tierra del Fuego and then, later, on a rig in the Gulf of Mexico. With German's bits of English and my broken Spanish we were able to communicate.

He told me how difficult it is to run a small estancia. At 3,500 hectares, Estancia Fagnano is considered very small and he can not keep the huge herds you find on the vast grasslands to the north and east. I would learn later that a ranch of fewer than 20,000 hectares is considered barely viable in Patagonia. German told me that while most estancia owners were gentlemen ranchers, he could not afford such luxury. "I must work," he said. "Every day. And I must do tourism, too. Without that I could not survive here."

German told me how his father had struggled to make the land profitable but had failed and ultimately lost the land. He told me of the difficulties he himself had had convincing the government that he could run it profitably, could succeed where his father had failed. He was finally granted title to the land twenty-five years ago and, though hard, back-breaking work, he has made a small success of it.

Then he spoke of the road and how it has changed everything about his life.

The government of Chile plans to continue the road past Lago Fagnano all the way across the Darwin Range to Yendegaia Bay on the Beagle Channel, far to the south. Based on the rugged terrain and the limited progress so far, some estimate it will be a decade before the road reaches the sea. Others doubt it will ever be finished. Sceptics point out that the road makes no sense. Other than German, no one lives on the vast tracts of land between Vicuna and the proposed terminus at Yendegaia. And even at Yendegaia there is nothing but a Carabinero outpost with seven lonely policemen; another two people live across Yendegaia Bay at a defunct ranch, but that's it. "Why build a road to nowhere," the sceptics ask? "Who will use it?"

I see it differently. This land is spectacularly beautiful, especially Fagnano, but it is indescribably difficult to reach. With the road will come tourists. Argentines will be able to drive their RVs to Fagnano and they will pay a lot of money for the priviledge to have an asado under the tall lenga trees of German's ranch and to fish in Fagnano and enjoy the sight of snow-capped mountains reflected in the sparkling blue water. I believe that with the road the tourists will come and this will put more money into German’s pockets and perhaps ease his retirement a bit. That is a good thing but, at the same time, German knows that with the road something very special will have gone from this part of the world and that knowledge concerns him, and it makes him wistful.

At first, German opposed the road. Now, he has come to terms with it. He has seen how much easier it is to get his cattle to market and he knows that without the road he would seldom see his wife as she no longer able to make the three-day ride out on horseback. And even German himself admits that at age sixty-five his horse-riding days are limited. "So, the road will allow me to stay on this land a little bit longer," he says.

I think about all he has done to build this ranch by the lake he loves and I think about him being able to enjoy it just a bit longer and I find that I, too, am glad for the road.

Letting History Judge

As the administration of the nation's 43rd president draws to a long-anticipated close, we learn President Bush is looking to history to provide the final say on how he made use of his years in power. He is fond of pointing out President Truman left the White House with very low approval ratings but is now seen as one of the more able chief executives in the country's history. He apparently expects the same verdict will be returned for him. I will get to Truman in a bit, but first I thought I would continue on the theme of my last post -- looking at the legacy of another president named George -- to provide some answers on how great power should be wielded in a democracy.

The final chapter of Rebels & Redcoats -- an amazing book that tells the story of the Revolutionary War through contemporary letters and journals -- looks at the twilight of the war, an uncertain period between Lord Cornwallis's surrender at Yorktown in Oct. 1781 and the end of 1783. That chapter should be required reading for all Americans. Those two years marked an extraordinary period in our history during which all that had been fought for -- self-determination vs. authoritarianism -- lay in the balance. It is no exaggeration to say one man had the power to tip this balance.

In 1783, George Washington was at the height of his popularity, revered as a demi-god by much of the nation for defeating the British. He was also in charge of what was now the most powerful military force in North America and in possession of near dictatorial powers granted to him by Congress. And yet he decided to limit, and ultimately discard, that power, choosing instead to bolster Congress (and with it representative government) at a time when that body was weak, broke, and lacking the charismatic figures who had animated it in the days leading up to the Declaration of Independence.

We often forget the war did not end with Yorktown. Yes, the main British field force had surrendered and this shock had led to the fall of the conservative government in London and a decision to enter into peace negotiations with the Americans, but those negotiations in Paris would drag on and on. Meanwhile, not all was well back in the former colonies. America's two most important seaports, New York and Charleston, were still occupied by British troops, the British navy still controlled the sea lanes, and American loyalists -- some put the number who violently opposed independence at 100,000 -- were still agitating against British withdrawal; in places in the deep south loyalists were still under arms. If that wasn't enough, the United States was bankrupt, without enough funds even to pay its soldiers.

With no money in their pockets and no fighting to focus their energies, the soldiers got restless, as soldiers often do. In the spring of 1783 anonymous pamphlets urged the army to move against Congress in demand of back pay and redress of other grievances. The pamphlets struck a chord with the officers and Washington quickly had a crisis on his hands. He summoned his officers to attend a general meeting, at which he would not preside, to discuss the situation. Perhaps he hoped that in open discourse among themselves the officers would see their actions as dishonorable and step back of their own accord. When it was clear they would not, the General decided to address the meeting.

Washington made it clear to the officers that any revolt of the army would not have his sanction.
"Let me entreat you, gentlemen, on your part not to take measures which, viewed in the calm light of reason, will lessen the dignity and sully the glory you have hitherto maintained; let me request you to rely on the plighted faith of your country and place a full confidence in the purity of the intentions of Congress," he said.

As proof of those intentions, Washington read aloud a letter he had recently from a congressman expressing unqualified support for the army. While the letter showed the officers Congress was not opposed to the army, it was the manner in which Washington read the letter that proved decisive.

According to Major Samuel Shaw, who was in the hall, "His Excellency, after reading the first paragraph, made short pause, took out his spectacles, and begged the indulgence of his audience, while he put them on, observing at the same time that he had grown grey in their service and now found himself growing blind. There was something so natural, so unaffected in this appeal as rendered it superior to the most studied oratory. It forced its way into the heart, and you might see sensibility moisten every eye. The General, having finished, took leave of the assembly."

That ended the rebellion. The officers voted their support of Washington and Congress, repudiated the pamphlets, and meekly went back to their quarters.

Washington again showed his respect for civilian government a few months later. On November 25th, 1783, the British evacuated New York City for their ships and Washington entered the town to great fanfare at the head of his army. The imagery of a victorious general leading his army into a great city as citizens cheer the lifting of tyranny is a familiar one. Castro entering Havana in 1959 or DeGaule entering Paris in 1944 both come to mind. But, unlike those two, and most of the other examples throughout history, Washington did not hold onto his power. On December 4th, the very day the last British warships finally cleared Sandy Hook, Washington called his officers together at Fraunces Tavern to take his leave of them and, by his example, remind them that they, too, should lay down their weapons and return power to the elected representatives of the people. (See image, right, of Washington being hugged by portly Gen. Knox.)

He then made his way south to officially resign his commission before Congress, at that time sitting in Annapolis. On December 23rd, before the very Congressmen whose necks he had saved from his own army a few months earlier, Washington said, "Having now finished the work assigned me, I retire from the great theater of action, and bidding an affectionate farewell to this august body under whose orders I have so long acted, I here offer my commission and take my leave of all the employments of public live."

He took from his breast pocket the piece of paper that had commissioned him commander-in-chief in the summer of 1775 and handed it to the President of the Congress. He then mounted his horse and headed for Mount Vernon (right), keeping his promise to Martha to be home by Christmas.

I write this not simply to remind everyone of Washington's greatness. Rather it is an attempt to think about how leaders deal with their own power, and, by extension, how the nation as a whole handles power.

Over the past eight years, we have seen the power of this nation more often than not wielded in an awesome, unilateral, and unsatisfactory manner. President Bush has held immense power over these years. I would argue that power has been used in a manner in which his predecessor (and I mean Washington, not Pappy Bush) would not approve. Congress gave Washington near dictatorial powers to prosecute the rebellion but he used these powers lightly and relinquished them immediately. Oftentimes, the actions of President Bush, on the otherhand, have appeared to be one continually trying to expand executive power at the expense of individual rights: illegal wiretapping of US citizens, extraordinary renditions, indefinite detention, torture, and dubious signing statements that reserve the President's right to ignore the will of Congress are some examples that come to mind. On the international front, at a time when the power and wealth of the United States is unchallenged President Bush unilaterally launched an unnecessary war, walked away from treaties, and insisted US soldiers be held immune from prosecution before the international court.

Washington, on the other hand, showed us that the true sign of great leadership is the necessity of limiting one's power precisely when it is at its height. As general, and later as president, he chose to step aside at the very moment when he held the most power.

Now, back to those presidential twins apparently separated at birth, George W Bush and Harry S Truman. While Bush may like to compare himself to his plain-spoken mid-western predecessor, I would argue that the only thing the two have in common is low approval ratings and a love of fishing (see left). Truman, like Bush, was a war president but he chose to use the extraordinary power America likes to give its war leaders in vastly different ways.

In 1945, when Truman took office, the United States held supreme military and economic power in the world; as World War II ended, the US was the only one of the five victorious nations with any strength left. What course did Truman take at this time of unprecedented US economic, political, and military dominance in the world? Did he launch a "preemptive" war of regime change against the Soviet Union, as some counseled? Did he thumb his nose at international organizations? Did he increase spending on weapons systems? Did he hold enemy combatants in concentration camps while delaying their trial for years on end? Did he authorize surveillance against US citizens? Did he send his soldiers on tour-after-tour of duty far from home?

At the very height of US dominance in the world, Truman attempted to subjugate America's power wherever possible in the furtherance of peace. Truman hastened the establishment of the global governing structure envisioned by Roosevelt and Churchill: the United Nations, the World Bank, the International Court in the Hague, the International Monetary Fund. He launched the Marshall plan to rebuild Europe (at huge cost to the United States) and also embarked on costly rebuilding in Germany and Japan in the belief that keeping other nations in penury would not be helpful to the United States in the long run. On the domestic front he brought the troops home quickly, championing enforcement of the GI bill and then integrated the military. He understood that for the possessor of unrivalled power, the most important way to further democracy is to impose limits on power. In his own way, Truman was following the precedent started by George Washington.

History is going to ask a lot of questions of President George W. Bush and I expect his answers will be found wanting. For all he did in his eight years, I believe he will be most harshly judged for his attempts to expand executive power at the expense of Congress and the Judiciary and for his decision that fundamental civil rights (of citizen and foreigner alike) should take a back seat to security concerns.

At precisely the moment when President Bush had the support of the entire nation and much of the world, at a time when he could have asked for and received almost anything, he chose to grab more power, to make a mockery of Congress, and trample on the rights of his own citizens. Oh, and let's not forget he also chose this time to unleash the most powerful military the world has ever seen in the conquest and ham-fisted occupation of a 3rd rate power.

He forgot Washington's fundamental lesson that humility in the possession of great power is the highest calling of leadership.

Morristown, 1779

The cold snap we've had in New York the past few days has actually been something of a reassurance. Others may grumble, but cold weather puts a skip in my step. I enjoy the bracing East River wind on my cheeks and the tears that well up when I first step out my door onto Front Street to face the blast of cold from the water. It makes me think perhaps the world is not out-of-whack after all. Winters are supposed to be cold. We live in a temperate zone; we should feel it.

As anyone who lives here knows, New York can get downright cold. I think it must have something to do with the water all around us and how the buildings appear to amplify the wind, forcing it down the canyons and corners so you never quite escape it no matter which way you turn or up what street you scamper. The wind seems to be always there, right in your face.

One thing a cold front does is force me to reflect on winters past to compare what we are going though with what we have already experienced. For me, one recent winter stands out. The winter of the transit strike in 2005, while perhaps not the coldest, stands out for sheer inconvenience and the camaraderie of shared suffering that sprang up amongst New Yorkers. I'll never forget how my heart went out to those poor souls forced to cross the city's bridges on foot day after day in the bitter cold. As for me, I enjoyed the long walk up the Bowery and Park Avenue to my office. I liked dressing for the weather, pulling my suit trousers over a snug pair of long-johns and because of the strike, no one was expected to make it into the office on time so I was able to savor those long, cold walks.

All this, however, was put into perspective the other day as I read accounts of the sufferings of George Washington's troops during the miserable winter of 1779/80. The book, Rebels and Redcoats, by Scheer and Rankin (World Publishing Co., Cleveland, 1957), tells the history of the American Revolution through first-person accounts, letters, journals, etc, from participants on both sides of the conflict. In 1779, Washington camped his army around Morristown, New Jersey (see image below), near enough to keep an eye on the British in New York, but well protected by intervening mountains and rivers.

Generally, however, when we think of the winter-time miseries faced by the Continental soldiers it is Valley Forge, in 1777/78, that comes to mind. But, Morristown, two years later, was in many respects much worse. All the logistical problems faced at Valley Forge were also present at Morristown--the unshod soldiers, the lack of food, fickle state governments recalling their local militias. But we remember Valley Forge, and rightly so, because that was the year when things looked most bleak for the rebellion. That winter was the nadir of the struggle. After Valley Forge, the tide of the conflict finally turned in favor of the Americans. The army that marched out of Valley Forge in the Spring of 1778 was a cohesive force, well-trained and hardened by the adversity they faced, ready to meet the British who had been living it up in snug Philadelphia twenty miles away. Then, France declared war against Britain and made the conflict global, compelling the Empire to defend outposts in India, the Mediterranean, and the West Indies. So, while individual soldiers might freeze and die in the winters that would follow Valley Forge, the rebellion itself would not and independence was only a matter of time, and perseverance.

But Morristown in 1779 would test that perseverance because the winter that descended on the land was by far the worst in memory. From the first of December, when Washington established camp, there was unrelenting bitter cold and almost daily snowfall. On that first day the troops began building their own shelters, log huts made from the surrounding green oak and pine trees but until those huts were completed, the men lived in what few tents they had. As at Valley Forge, many of the soldiers were without shoes or hats. Those without tents slept in crude burrows in the earth. But soon the ground was so frozen as to make digging almost impossible.

Dr. James Thacher, a physician from Barnstable, Massachusetts attached to the Continental army, described the snow and cold this way, "No man could endure its violence many minutes without danger of his life. Several marquees (large field tents) were torn asunder and blown down over the officers' heads in the night and some of the soldiers were actually covered while in their tents and buried like sheep under the snow." And, "the soldiers are so enfeebled from hunger and cold, as to be almost unable to perform their military duty or labor in constructing their huts."

By early January the snow at Morristown measured, according to Dr. Thacher, "from four to six feet in depth." The snows continued until late March. General De Kalb described it as being, "...so cold that the ink freezes on my pen, while I am sitting close to the fire. The roads are piled with snow until, at some places they are elevated twelve feet above their ordinary level."

But to me, the most amazing fact is that the Hudson River froze completely across and to such a thickness that the British were able to transport artillery over it. The British garrison on Staten Island was supplied by sleigh and once a troop of cavalry rode from there to the Battery. As someone who has closely observed New York harbor for many years, I find this last astounding. Even on the coldest winters the harbor has never frozen. The most I have seen in 16 years is sheets of ice forming around the edges of piers or isolated patches floating in the river, giving a slightly thick, viscous appearance to the surface of the water. But frozen solid? Never.

So, while the British were enjoying sleigh rides on the Upper Bay and the hills of Staten Island, Washington and his men were freezing and starving in the woods of New Jersey. The provisioning problems that had bedeviled the army at Valley Forge were perhaps even worse at Morristown, as hard as that might be to imagine: Washington's army in 1779 was now larger and had many more mouths to feed; the Continental currency--in which soldier and officers were paid and supplies were purchased--was worthless; central New Jersey, after years as the primary battlefield of the war, was not the bread-basket it had been, and finally, massive snowdrifts often blocked the roads to Morristown, delaying what little supplies there were. To make matters worse, Congress seemed no longer able to provide for the army. Congress had became a shell of its old self and the new law of the land, the Articles of Confederation, gave the supreme power to the states. The great voices of the first and second Continental Congress were gone: Franklin and Adams were in Europe, Jefferson was governor of Virginia, and Hancock, Washington, and many others were fighting the war. This meant Washington increasingly had to appeal to the individual states for provisions for his troops.

Joseph Plum Martin, a private from Connecticut who had enlisted as a 15-year old three years prior, described the food situation at Morristown this way, "We were literally starved. I do solemnly declare that I did not put a single morsel of victuals into my mouth for four days and as many nights, except a little black birch bark, which I gnawed off a stick of wood, if that can be called victuals."

Remember, many of the men were without shoes. It was said you could track the Continental Army by following the drops of blood left in the snow by unshod feet. Some of those who had shoes were forced to look on them as a source of food. Martin writes, "I saw several...men roast their old shoes and eat them, and I was afterwards informed...that some of the officers killed and ate a favorite little dog that belonged to one of them."

Through it all, Washington suffered with his men. He could have returned to Mount Vernon for the winter. In the gentlemanly world of 18th century European warfare it was customary for hostilities to cease in the winter months allowing high-ranking military officers to go home. Many of the British officers sailed home for the winter and General Gates, the second highest ranking Continental general, spent that winter at his home in Virginia, as did several other of Washington's commanders. At the very least, Washington could have chosen to winter in Philadelphia, but he stayed with his troops, encouraging them, all the while writing a stream of never-ending letters imploring Congress and the states to provide food and clothing for his starving and threadbare army.

It is important to note that Washington worked without pay, winter after freezing winter. When he reluctantly accepted the position of Commander-in-Chief from his colleagues in Congress in 1775, he specifically stipulated he would do so without pay saying in his remarks on the floor, "As to pay, sir, I beg leave to assure the Congress that as no pecuniary consideration could have tempted me to have accepted this arduous employment at the expense of my domestic ease and happiness, I do not wish to make any profit from it: I will keep an exact account of my expenses...that is all I desire."

Eventually, Washington's pleas for help for his starving army had gone unheeded long enough and he was forced to turn to long-suffering New Jersey, essentially taking over administration of the state himself and dividing it into military districts, each of which was compelled to provide food and other provisions. The Continental currency being pretty much worthless, Washington knew he was essentially taking food and clothing without recompense. He reminded his requisitioning officers to be as gentle as possible, "...delicately let [the local magistrates] know you are instructed, in case they do not take up the business immediately, to begin to impress the Articles called for... This you will do with as much tenderness as possible to the Inhabitants."

It is easy to descend into hagiography when describing Washington, and many have (see image at left, which shows him calling on a friend for help), but what you learn when you read the letters and journals of the soldiers and officers who served under him, even the writings of his enemies, is that he was almost universally revered by his contemporaries. In the Spring of 1776, just a few months after Washington took command of the army, one young New Englander, in a letter home, called him, "the greatest man in the world." Suffice it to say that wealthy Virginia planters were not class of people usually admired in New England. After his campaign of delaying actions in New Jersey in 1777, a British observer, Nicholas Cresswell, had this to say about him, "Washington is certainly a most surprising man, one of Nature's geniuses, a Heaven-born general, if there is any of that sort...He certainly deserves some merit as a general that he...can keep [the British army] dancing from one town to another...Washington, my enemy that he is, I should be sorry if he should be brought to an ignominious death."

In his own letters you can see Washington's humanity. The Marquis de Lafayette, only twenty-two at the time, was sitting out the winter of 1779/80 in France with his bride. He and Washington had by now formed an almost father-son, friendship. Washington had no natural-born children of his own; although he did adopt Martha's children from her previous marriage. In response to a letter from Lafayette in which the newly-wed playfully admits he has, "a wife who is in love with you," Washington jokingly writes back, "Tell her...that I have a heart susceptible to the tenderest passion, and that it is already so strongly impressed with the favorable ideas of her that she must be cautious of putting love's torch to it, as you must be in fanning the flame."

Washington is so present in the American consciousness today we actually ignore him or, worse, stifle a yawn when we hear of his exploits. "Yes, yes, Washington," we say to ourselves, "truly a great and noble man; now where did I put that fascinating book about Jefferson (or Adams, or Madison, or Hamilton...)?" He is like oxygen, ever-present but unheeded and under-appreciated. And yet, I've surprised myself these past few days that the more I read about him, the more impressed I become. Apparently, I am not alone in wondering at this conversion of opinion. I am reminded of a story my father once told me many years ago when I was in high-school. He knew a thing or two about military history and was always telling us stories about military leaders but this one stayed in my mind in part because he used another historian's words to make his point. I can't remember the words exactly but it was in response to my question as to who was the greater general, Robert E. Lee or Washington. "I remember," my father said, "asking Douglas Southall Freeman, the great Lee historian, what his next project would be. He told me he had decided to write a biography about 'the second-greatest Virginian' by which he meant Washington. When I saw him several years later," my father recounted, "I reminded him of our conversation and he told me that after several years of research and writing he was now convinced that 'not only was Washington the greatest Virginian, he was the greatest American'."

When I reflect on that miserable winter in Morristown in 1779--how Washington was able to keep his army together in the face of it, to find them food and clothing, to inspire them to undertake yet another year of inconclusive campaigning and, by the force of his example, to keep the ideals of the Revolution alive when others in the country were losing their will or engaging in profiteering and graft--I can't help but agree.

The Mystery of the Sara

When he returned to New York from Punta Arenas, Chile in 1923 the painter, Rockwell Kent, brought back 20 incomplete canvases and scores of drawings from seven months spent in Tierra del Fuego.

Once completed, the paintings were quickly acknowledged to be among the most striking landscapes ever produced by an American artist. (One of my favorites, "Admiralty Sound, Tierra del Fuego", now at the Hermitage Museum, is reproduced here.) The drawings, powerfully evocative black and white line images, illustrate Kent’s book, Voyaging: Southward from the Strait of Magellan, an account of his travels that became a best-seller and remains a popular work with collectors today (see image, below right).

One painting Kent produced while in the region, however, did not come back to New York with him. That work was not a landscape—although the Fuegian Andes do appear in the background—but instead a portrait, a portrait not of a person but of a beloved vessel, the three-masted schooner, Sara. Kent’s portrait of the Sara was the only one of his paintings, to my knowledge, he left in Tierra del Fuego. It may well also be the only one he fully completed there. The painting was done in exchange for repairs to Kent’s own boat, the Kathleen, which almost sank his first day out from Punta Arenas.

Kent’s half-baked plan when he departed New York in June 1922 was to travel to Punta Arenas and there somehow—he was not yet famous and had no money—procure a boat and sail it westward through the Strait of Magellan, around Tierra del Fuego and Cape Horn, and then back to Punta Arenas. Upon arrival he managed to get hold of a lifeboat from one of the many abandoned hulks rotting in the harbor at Punta Arenas. One of the vessels there at that time, dismasted and forgotten, was the South Street Seaport Museum’s own ship Wavertree. She had been towed to Punta Arenas in 1911 after being dismasted in a storm off Cape Horn. Alas, it was from another vessel that Kent swiped the lifeboat.

The lifeboat was quickly decked over, a keel added, mast and rigging raised and turned into a 26’ sloop he christened the Kathleen, after the wife he left behind in New York. It was a masterful conversion but done too hastily, apparently. Several hours after casting off, the boat started taking on so much water Kent feared she would sink. Kent decided to put into Port Harris on Dawson Island, where he knew there was a sawmill and shipyard. It was quickly determined Kathleen would need extensive repairs if she was to make it to the Horn and back. Kent had no money for repairs but in exchange he offered to paint a portrait for the mill manager of the schooner Sara (see right).

The Sara elicited bittersweet pride in Port Harris. She had been built there just a few years earlier, in 1919, the largest ever built in Chile at the time. She was likely built for Sara Braun, a wealthy entrepreneur, to haul wool from her extensive sheep estancias to market (see Sara Braun’s mansion in Punta Arenas as it appears today, at left). I say “likely” because the records are scanty and my Spanish scantier still. But I am allowing myself the conjecture because the dates are right, the spelling of Sara is right, and wool figures prominently in the short life of the Sara.

Just three years after her launch, Sara caught fire and sank. Her cargo? Wool. She went down without loss of life in February 1922, the same year Rockwell Kent found himself stranded in the little mill town of her birth. The emotions in Port Harris were still raw over the loss of their pride and joy so the offer, by a real artist, to preserve her memory on canvas was gladly accepted. “Dawson lived upon the memory of Sara,” wrote Kent. “And that time might never dim for them the recollection of her glory I would paint her portrait.” While the shipwrights worked on Kathleen, Kent worked on Sara. He worked from photographs and plans and from the vivid, loving recollections of the men who had built her.

While Kent was fiercely proud of the lines of his own boat, he was not terribly complementary of the Sara. In his journal he calls her “huge, clumsy, hideous” but also “tenderly loved” and “a triumph of construction.” Of course, he kept these views out of his book, perhaps in grateful respect to the many Chilenos so helpful to him throughout his trip. Instead, in the book he refers to Sara as Chile’s Great Eastern. This is still a backhanded compliment; the Great Eastern was an ugly, six-masted monster built in London in 1858 (see image, right). But, to the casual reader, Kent would appear to be comparing the vessels in their size and the accomplishement of their construction rather than commenting on aesthetics. Being more charitable, I prefer to compare Sara not to the Great Eastern but to the Great Republic, a lovely clipper ship built in Boston in 1853 and which, like the Sara, saw her life cut short by fire. Sara lasted three years before being consumed; the Great Republic (right, below) burned the very month of her maiden voyage. She burned to the waterline in New York on December 27th, 1853 in a fire that started on land, in a bakery located on the very block in which I write these words.

When Kent was finished with his protrait of the Sara he presented it to Senor Marcou, the manager of the mill and the man who had not only authorized the repairs to the Kathleen but befriended Kent during the weeks he was marooned on Dawson Island. Marcou was so taken by the painting he decided to hang it in his bedroom where he could admire it every day. Word of the painting had spread far on the island and Marcou believed his heavily-armed bedroom was the safest place for it. So fierce was his pride in possessing the painting he asked Kent to write a letter attesting the work had been given to Marcou himself and no one else, not the company, not the board of directors, not the designers of the vessel.

Imagine my astonishment, then, to find the painting, eighty six years later, not on Dawson Island or in a museum in Punta Arenas or Valparaiso but in a gallery in New York City. I immediately made an appointment to view the painting, now called "The Sara at Dawson Island" (see image, below). It was much larger than I was expecting and in-person you can properly take in the detail. This was no gauzy, impressionistic canvas. It was meant to be a portrait in the most complete sense of the word, a portrait destined for a lover with every detail of the beloved captured and preserved. And Kent delivers that detail. “…I began upon such an elaboration of details as only the…all-cherishing memories of the ship’s creators could have suggested…” In the painting you can see every line, every block, every reefing nettle. I can imagine Senior Marcou looking lovingly at his Sara each night before bed. Kent doesn’t say if Marcou was married, but if so, I can imagine his wife’s jealousy.

Kent describes his painting thus, “Upon a dark green sea, against a background of the gleaming snow peaks of Dawson and a thunder dark sky, I put her, sailing, all sails set, before the wind; and in the foreground, heedless of anachronism, appeared the little Kathleen.” Yes, in a final bit of conceit, Kent—betraying his habit of self-promotion—inserts himself into the painting, at the helm of the Kathleen, a tiny Stars and Stripes flying in friendly salute to the pride of Chile’s merchant fleet.

How did this painting, born in the furthest southern reaches of the hemisphere, make its way from under lock and key in Senior Marcou’s bedroom to a sleek Fifth Avenue gallery? The records are unclear. The current owner of the work, D. Wigmore Gallery has no record of its provenance and Christie’s, which sold the work in 1997, could not disclose how, or even when the work made its way to the United States.

Marcou was just 35 when Kent met him so any children he might have had may yet be alive today living out their remaining years in or around Punta Arenas. Certainly any grandchildren might be alive. Kent’s diaries and letters make no mention of any future contact with Marcou. Although he liked and admired the man, there was apparently no correspondence between them. This is particularly surprising because Kent kept in touch with others he met there and, without Marcou’s generosity, Kent’s travels in Tierra del Fuego would have ended almost before they began, and the art he produced there and the book that propelled his fame would never have seen the light of day.

So, what happened? Was the work stolen, as Senior Marcou had feared? Did he give it to one of his heirs who then cashed in on Kent’s fame? Or did some enterprising collector, reading about the painting in Kent’s book go to Tierra del Fuego to seek out Marcou and make him an offer? By the 1930s, Rockwell Kent was arguably America’s most famous artist. The hard dollars a collector would have offered could have gone a long way to making Marcou's life significantly more comfortable. But the mystery remains. Just how did this painting make its way those 9,000 miles from Tierra del Fuego to the island of Manhattan?

I intend to keep searching but, for now, I’ve reached a dead end. All I can do is admire the picture I have of the Sara and hope to learn more once I get to Punta Arenas and Dawson Island. [To be continued.]

Getting to Know Hugo

Even his name is weighty. Victor Hugo. The kind of name you’d expect a great man of letters to have.

Can’t you see him sitting there, in his robe, in a comfortable arm-chair in his study, dictating to a secretary his latest story or perhaps going through the never-ending correspondence from his many admirers, a fire crackling in the hearth beside him?

As I picture him, he’s running his fingers contemplatively through his beard, speaking deliberately, slowly, each magnificent sentence coming from his lips fully-formed, perfection uttered.

I had always placed Hugo high in the pantheon of great writers in my mind, perhaps not on a par with the greatest, but securely in the clouds, beyond the point where they can be seen clearly, enveloped in reputation amplifying haze, up there with Gogol and Schiller, Ovid and Proust, and all those others I’ve hardly read but who I’m told are great. And with Hugo, the particular charm was that he could appeal to the most highly cultured and the most brutish of souls both. I recently came across a travel piece in which the writer encounters on a remote island a poacher, a dangerous man, a murderer, an ex-convict, yet someone who speaks fondly of his favorite writers, Dostoyevsky (of course) and Victor Hugo, the great portrayers of tormented souls.

But the sad fact is until very recently I’d never read anything by Hugo. As someone who speaks a little French, I had always told myself I should wait to read French literature when I can read it in the original. Sadly, that level of fluency always seemed to remain just out of reach. So, despite my French name and French relatives and extensive travel in francophone countries, I am embarrassingly illiterate when it comes to French literature.

Several months ago, in Skyline Books on 18th Street -- one of my favorite places in spite of the pervasive cat odor -- I came across a small copy of Hugo’s Quatre-vingt-treize (Ninety-three), about the bloodiest year of the French Revolution, 1793. It was in one of those school editions designed for students of French complete with a vocabulary at the back and handy notes to explain the idiomatic expressions and other bits of French arcania. I dove into it. Well, actually, wading would be the more apt metaphor. Like a swimmer tentatively walking into chilly water, I went forward slowly, my progress halting and deliberate, flipping back and forth between text and vocabulary, rereading sentences whose meaning was unclear, referring back to earlier chapters to see if Hugo’s use of a once new, now familiar, word had changed. Eventually, however, I was in deep, swimming slowly, deliberately, but still keeping my head above water. I was reading Victor Hugo, in French and I was very pleased with myself.

But I was not at all pleased with the story. From the very first page I was confronted with wooden, two-dimensional characters. I could hardly believe what I was reading. Was this sappy stuff really by Victor Hugo, that towering genius of French letters? To excuse him I told myself it must be the subject matter that was causing him to write this way. Maybe for a Frenchman it is just too difficult to portray both sides of participants in the Revolution with depth and subtlety, so great were the passions, so raw the violence.

In Hugo’s characters, the two sides, revolutionary and royalist, conformed to the most crude generalizations. The revolutionaries were stalwart folk. Parisian workers for the most part, but leavened with a few hardy peasants who had finally risen up against the venality of the aristocracy and the clergy to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with they oppressed urban brethren. They were tough, brave, and loyal, fired by revolutionary and nationalistic zeal to rid the land of their former oppressors and the foreign monarchs now preying on France. Interestingly, in Hugo’s version, they are never led by one of their own but always by a former aristocrat or clergyman or general who has embraced the revolution. As if to say, these simple folk make great soldiers, but don’t ask them to actually think or take initiative. The royalists, in the main, were made up of ignorant peasants still in the thrall of the church, too timid or too stupid to envision an alternative to their miserable lives. These were led by aristocrats, men of great honor and character who committed great acts of cruelty against the revolutionaries, as if these could not be Frenchmen anymore having risen up against the ancien regime.

The very first character Hugo introduces as the book opens is of a piece with the others that follow. She is a peasant woman, three young children huddled miserably around her, the youngest one literally at her breast. She is in hiding in the deep woods, hungry, clothes in rags, running from the life that saw her house destroyed and her husband wrenched from her arms, sent to fight by priest and seigneur for a monarch he had never seen. She is found by the hardy Parisian revolutionaries and immediately taken into their company, her children happily adopted as mascots of the unit. It doesn’t get much better. In each new chapter I was confronted by yet another cardboard character: the kind-hearted hermit who befriends a lost stranger and shares with him his humble hovel and simple evening meal of chestnuts, not realizing until later that the stranger was actually a noble, returned from abroad to lead the counter-revolution and a devastating scorched-earth policy; the defrocked priest, now revolutionary leader, who risks his life to save a young nobleman who had once been his charge in more peaceful days; the bloodthirsty aristocrat whose sense of honor compels him to walk into a burning building to save three peasant children knowing as he does so it will mean certain capture and execution by the encircling revolutionary forces. And there were many others, each one utterly unsatisfying. How, I kept asking myself, could Victor Hugo, the great, perhaps greatest, novelist in French be responsible for characters like these? What does this say about him? What does it say about French literature?

I kept reading. Who doesn’t love melodrama, after all? But, it was more than that. For every cringe-inducing character, for every syrupy statement, there were descriptions of sublime beauty. Interestingly, these tended to be descriptions of landscape or movement or atmosphere, not the utterings of his characters. One of the most harrowingly beautiful descriptions is the life he breathes into a canon broken loose on the pitching deck of a ship. In the destructive, utterly irrational, careening of this canon Hugo paints an astonishing portrayal of evil suddenly come to life. Among the hardened sailors -- men who cheer when they learn they are about to face an enemy in battle -- this wild animal of wood and iron invokes instant terror. They know it can crush a man, that it obeys no known rules of movement, has no mind, yet it is alive, an enraged, malevolent beast bent on killing or maiming every crewmember who comes within its reach. I read that passage and my pulse was racing. I don’t believe I’ve ever encountered a more terrifying, more beautifully breathtaking description of an inanimate object.

And there were many others, interspersed between the embarrassing utterances and actions of his cut-out characters. It was for these I kept on reading Quatre-vignt-treize.

To illustrate, I’ll end by quoting a passage contrasting nature’s creation with one of man’s as dawn breaks over the land and the morning light illuminates the scaffold of a guillotine erected for an early morning execution.

***

”Never was the fresh sky of day more charming than that morning. A soft breeze stirred the heather, the haze crawled softly in the branches, the forest of Fougeres, fully infused by the breath that came from the springs, smoked in the dawn like a vast pan full of incense; the blue of the firmament, the whiteness of the clouds, the clear transparence of the waters, the verdure, this harmonious gradation which goes from aqua-marine to emerald; the fraternal groups of trees, the sheets of grass, the deep plains, all had this purity which is the eternal counsel of nature to man. In the midst of all that was spread out the awful human immodesty; in the midst of all that appeared the fortress and the scaffold, war and torment, the two figures of the bloodthirsty age and the bloody minute. In the presence of flowering creation, perfumed, loving, and charming, the splendid sky inundated [the fortress of] La Torgue and the guillotine at dawn, and seemed to say to man: look at what I make and look at what you make.”