Our journey to the coast, first through the dense bush and afterwards by goldseekers’ tracks, was not marked by any adventure worth mentioning. Arrived at a village on the coast line near Hokitika, we booked our passage by a whaler bound southward, and in less than a week we reached the Sounds.
Grand, solitary, majestic are the bold features of this coast line which faces the westerly breezes of the Pacific. Gentle arms of the sea caress and almost entwine great mountain rocks that stand waist deep in ninety fathoms.
Following the Scot’s directions accurately, I arranged with the captain of the whaler to put us ashore in a boat as soon as we came opposite the required Sound, which I recognised at once from Crichton’s description. The opening was almost hidden by the perpendicular rocks which stood about the entrance, but, when we passed between these in the small boat pulled by two sturdy sailors, we found a broad arm of smooth water within stretching for several miles between rugged mountains, which grew gradually rounded and verdant as they sloped away inland.
As we passed over the glassy surface of this still water among still surroundings, it seemed that we were entering a world where we should encounter no living thing but penguins and wild fowl.
The steady sound of our oars echoed from the rugged and precipitous shore; some ducks wheeled by overhead and disappeared round an elbow some hundred yards beyond, and high up above the towering rocks, the distant fleecy clouds shone in the rays of the setting sun. It was a splendid solitude, whose substance and shadow were clearly defined and divided by the millpond surface of the water.
But immediately on rounding the elbow beyond which the ducks had disappeared, we came in view of something which jarred upon our sense of solitude. There, riding at anchor in a little wooded cove before us, was a large yacht.
“Whose is that?” I asked one of the seamen who had come with us.
“I couldn’t tell you, sir,” was his response; “but there’s a bit of the Yankee about her. See them there spars”—he broke off suddenly in his speech to me and addressed the continuation of his remark excitedly to his fellow seaman—“why, blow me, Bill, if that ain’t the craft as we seen in Astrolabe Roads nigh on a month ago. What was the big chap’s name, him as was the owner?”
“Señor Cazotl,” returned the other, regarding the yacht intently. “I heard the skipper tellin’ the doctor that he was a Mexican with whips of money and a nasty look in his eye; and what’s more, if a man could be judged by his crew, he was more like Old Nick himself out for a holiday than anyone else.”
“What was the matter with his crew?” I asked.