by C. H. Layman
The scenery was breathtaking and the sense of remoteness increased when the tarmac ran out. We travelled all morning through mountains with snow covered peaks towering above us. The countryside changed almost every 30 minutes from lush mountain pasture to deep deciduous wood, all broken with crystal clear lakes filled with an abundance of fish . . .
Tortel is unlike anything I had ever seen before. Perched on the steep sides of a fjord, it has no roads and no cars. Wooden walkways above the water link the houses and buildings, and, apart from walking, the main form of transport is a flotilla of small boats, which seem to be used for just about every purpose. The locals are well built and seemed to puff just as much as we did constantly going up and down hundreds of steps to get from accommodation to restaurant or town hall to local shop. We had two days here to get our kit sorted and head out on two of the larger local boats. There was also the possibility of a Chilean naval vessel assisting with our expedition, but, as is often the way, it was not quite clear what had been promised or merely hinted at, or when precisely the naval vessel might turn up. Keen to be ready, we spent a day preparing kit and packing it in watertight containers in expectation of a gruelling three weeks on the island. The townspeople could not have been more friendly or welcoming.
The extraordinary village of Tortel, showing the wooden walkways that take the place of roads. There are over two kilometres of walkway, including flights of 250 steps and more.
The Mayor took time to explain to us exactly why they were so pleased to have us and the significance to them of the Wager story. The town has had a road approaching it for about two years, has a new school and receives some routine assistance from the likes of Raleigh International (it is the village where Prince Harry was filmed cleaning the toilets), but as yet it has had very little in terms of tourism or external visitors. This means that the economy still relies heavily on logging, and the locals are keen to diversify as soon as possible. In addition to their interest in the Wager story, there was something else, something I had not considered. Such a remote and insular community can trace its heritage in the area for generations. As in many South American communities, it is possible to see the bloodlines of Spanish and indigenous Indians in the faces of the locals. The Mayor was in no doubt that descendants of people involved in some way in the Wager story would be living now either in Tortel or nearby. Basically, Wager was an important part of their history and they were just as keen as we were to locate her resting place.
On 8th November I met the skipper of the boat that was supposed to be taking us to Wager Island. Buzetta was described to me as a seafaring vessel that would easily take our team and all our kit, although the toilet was not quite ready.
Louis appeared more like a horseman than a sailor. His wide brimmed gaucho hat combined with his height (short), forearms (Popeye-like) and moustache (Adolfian) meant that he looked interesting. Sadly the initial descriptions of just the toilet not being quite ready were stretching the truth a little:
‘Louis, this cabin is not ready – is it the toilet?’
‘No –galley.’
‘What about the bridge, Louis?’
‘No ready.’
‘The hold?’
‘No ready.’
‘What about the engines, Louis?’
‘Eeeees a no ready.’
It became immediately clear that we would not be leaving Tortel in a local boat for at least four days, if not a week, and that we would now need to rely on the Chilean Navy if we were to get any useful time on Wager Island.
I delivered the news to the team and there followed a fairly quiet lunch, but then our deliverance arrived in the form of the Chilean Navy and the patrol vessel Puerto Natales. Forty metres long and equipped with small boats, excellent navigation and communication equipment, and orders to assist us in any way they could, she was a wonderfully welcome sight. The ship arrived with not only a willing and able crew, but also our two Chilean Navy divers. Lieutenant Martin Goajardo and Chief Diver Jaime Soto were both impressive characters but for entirely different reasons. It was clear from the outset that Martin, a young officer, was a highly intelligent and articulate man; his communication skills would come in very useful during the entire expedition. Jaime was impressive for more obvious reasons. The size of a well-fed bison, and with an infectious smile, he immediately became a central figure in the team and someone who could be relied upon if something heavy needed shifting or an unpleasant job finished off.
We carried endless loads of equipment aboard Puerto Natales and, after finding the best we could offer the crew in terms of hospitality, snatched a few hours’ sleep before an early morning departure. Knowing as little as we did about the island, I was keen to have as much time as possible in daylight to select a site and set up camp. At 0800 on the morning of 9th November, as we were about to leave Tortel, I had a chance meeting with a local diver by the name of Carlos Wager. His surname immediately grabbed my attention, as did his knowledge of the diving conditions in the area. Standing beside an old oil drum with a chart laid on top, he jabbed at the area of Wager Island with a grubby finger, and my interpreter started to translate:
There are a number of wrecks along this northern coast of Wager Island. I found a wreck here, British I am sure and man-of- war, very well preserved. She lies in about 12 metres of water only a hundred metres or so away from the shore. Most interestingly she lies in between two giant white rocks…
Needless to say my heart raced; the description was exactly what I was expecting. Could it be that this man had already found the Wager and that all we had to do was survey the remains? I asked him to point out exactly where this particular wreck was? As he looked in more detail at the chart, he picked out Penguin Island, lying about ten miles south of Wager Island: ‘She’s here – Penguin Island.’ Here was a new factor of uncertainty: there was now reported to be a British wreck far from Wager Island in a location sounding very much like that described by Bulkeley and Byron. Was it possible that, over time or with some bizarre fatigued stroke of a pen in the hydrographic department of the Admiralty, Wager Island had been wrongly named? It would be a cruel twist of fate.
I boarded our support vessel and waved goodbye to Tortel with as much uncertainty as it is healthy to have, desperately hoping that a solution would present itself once I arrived at the island.
The fjord formed by Rio Baker is stunning, and our passage was a memorable one. It was even more satisfying because of the climate, which was being very kind to us. Patagonia in November can be compared to a windy and wet spring in northern Scotland. We were fully expecting limited visibility and almost permanent rain showers, but as we left our moorings the sun was beating down on a mountain and glacier landscape that was truly unforgettable.
The combination of excitement and the raw untouched beauty of the scenery was a heady mixture. Most of us spent the entire trip grinning stupidly at each other. This was only made more so by the presence of dolphins playing in our bow-wave for the latter part of the journey. The crew are amazing. Captain Crawford’s team are slick; being on the bridge was like watching a well-oiled machine. Unexpectedly they served us with a fantastic lunch and at just after 12 o’clock we saw Mount Anson and Wager Island for the first time – it was a good moment.
From a short comment in one of the stories written loosely about the Wager story, we had accepted the assumption that Mount Misery had been renamed Mount Anson. No one had disagreed with this assumption during our research, so over time it developed credibility. Using this as a start point, we planned to ask the Captain to position Puerto Natales between San Pedro and Wager Island, and make an initial long-range recce of where the survivors’ beach might lie. This should have been relatively simple; according to one account, the northern side of Cheap’s Bay is formed by Mount Misery, and the waves lap the foot of the mountain. All we needed to do was find the bay directly south of Mount Anson. Sadly, the ground did not lend itself exactly to the description, but there was one large bay that
was rapidly presenting itself as the best option:
The bay that we think is Cheap’s Bay has what looks like two sandy beaches on the north shore. These are the only beaches of any sort we have seen while travelling north in the channel between Wager and San Pedro. Initially the relationship between this large bay and Mount Anson did not seem correct, so we have pushed further north. From the ship one can see an area that on the chart does not appear to be a bay, but which presents itself as a possible option. After loading kit, Andy and I will set off to recce for a camp site, first in the northern bay and then in the large bay with the beaches.
Knowing that you are probably the first British citizens to step on an Island for 260 years is an unusual feeling. On one hand, my mind was racing, assessing possible options for a safe and sustainable camp site, but on the other I was more than aware of the gravity and significance of our return to the spot where so many men had met their end. As we moved into the northern bay in a small Navy inflatable, Andy and I both knew that it was finally time to set foot on Wager Island:
The temptation to go ashore was too great and at about 1400 I was the first of our group, followed quickly by Andy, to set foot on Wager Island. We walked around for a couple of minutes and saw an enormous bird of prey happy to remain in its spot even though we walked within 10 or 15 feet of the creature. Perhaps the size of a large buzzard, it had a peculiar beak and in the complete absence of any ornithological knowledge we decided to nickname it a Parrot Eagle – I’m sure its real name is far more impressive! Out of sight of our small launch we shook hands and toasted our arrival with a swig of Linie[1] from my wife’s hip flask.
Returning to the ship, now at anchor in the area we would call Driftwood Cove, we both agreed that one of the beaches in the larger bay would make an ideal camp site. In the absence of anything screaming out ‘Cheap’s Bay’, we needed to get people established safely on the island before darkness fell. That first afternoon was a blur of activity as we established a fairly comfortable camp, and I soon realised that I had been blessed with a team of highly competent and team-spirited individuals.
But for an accident of time, I have no doubt that each one of them would have been familiar with the smell of gunpowder and the lure of voyages to the New World.
We woke on the morning of 10th November to life on Wager Island and the harsh realities of the next three weeks. Our camp was in position S 47 degrees 43 minutes 11.3 seconds, W 074 degrees 54 minutes 13.3 seconds. A bracing wash in the small stream near our camp was followed by the experience of sharing a ‘toilet’, more accurately described as a log seat over a deep ditch. There is little place for modesty or privacy on such a trip, and people very quickly developed a healthy sense of humour.
To maintain us, the bulk of our diet while on the island would consist of rice, pulses and bean feast, a meat substitute product. While this combination led to most of us losing weight, it did little for haute cuisine. There are only a finite number of combinations for such basic ingredients, and unsurprisingly, after the more attractive items had been consumed, the menu in the latter weeks became a bit monotonous.
Accommodation was also very basic. Apart from the two-man tents that we all slept in, we had an old Army 12 x 12 foot tent to which we added a lean-to constructed of timber and two large tarpaulins. Over the coming weeks we would be exposed to just about everything: burning sunshine, heavy rain, and extreme hail storms that rendered us pinned down by their ferocity. This small area, perhaps 20 feet long and 12 feet wide, became home for 14 people during daylight hours and almost permanently during inclement weather. Not only did we store allour equipment and food in the shelter, we also cooked, ate, serviced our equipment, conducted meetings, dried wet clothing and relaxed in this tiny space.
There are a number of qualities required of people who embark on these trips, but for me the most important are a sense of humour and the ability to get on with others. After three weeks without a shower, eating rice, fruitless searching, and days of constant rain while wearing wet clothing, the ability to smile is the most valuable qualification one can have. At one point or another I think everyone has a down moment on a truly arduous expedition such as this; but the thing that separates those who shine in such an environment from those who merely cope is almost always the ability to laugh.
With all our basics provided for and a full rehearsal made of our emergency procedures, we started the job of actually looking for HMS Wager. Our first dive was a shake-out dive to confirm that everyone’s kit was in full working order and that our safety procedures worked satisfactorily. As one would expect, there were a couple of minor issues (we ended the day with one fin less than we had started with) but overall it was a success. We had made our first searches in the bay we believed to be Cheap’s Bay and now had another priority. Our expedition coincided with 11th November – Armistice Day – and it seemed appropriate that we should conduct a service to remember those who had lost their lives a long way from home.
Captain Crawford of the Puerto Natales and his men joined us and we travelled together in a small flotilla across the bay. At 1100 we held our service on the northern beach of the bay in brilliant sunshine. Rather than sing a hymn I read the poem “The Soldier” by Sub-Lieutenant Rupert Brooke, RNVR:
If I should die, think only this of me:
That there’s some corner of a foreign field
That is forever England…
I’m glad we did it properly. We left a wreath from the British Legion and had a chance to remember lost friends, my thoughts returning to some personal memories.
Afterwards we returned to our camp and offered the Chilean Navy the best we could in terms of hospitality: coffee, biscuits and a seat around our fire. We had spent so long learning about the fate of the Wager that formally marking our respects for the crew was a deeply touching moment for me. I was not the only one who was genuinely moved by the experience.
Over the next week we mounted extensive searches both in the water and over land to search for the remains of the wreck and any signs of human habitation. Diving conditions were pretty average, normally between eight and ten metres of depth with visibility of around two or three metres. The bottom was particularly silty in the large bay, which meant that, if contact was made with the bottom, a cloud of brown gloom would quickly reduce the visibility and render any hope of effecting a decent search almost impossible. Overland conditions were just as severe, the following being a fairly average excursion:
Near the shore the vegetation is dense and unforgiving. It saps the energy and snags on buckles and bootlaces – it takes one frustratingly long to get through. Once through it (around 50 metres or so can take about 20 minutes) the ground is reminiscent of Scotland. The rocks protrude through tight moss and tuft grass, and lichens grow on them in abundance. After just over an hour of walking, the weather became particularly aggressive. The rain was drenching and driven by a powerful and gusting wind that nearly swept me from my feet. Andy, the doctor and I gathered in a hollow and discussed the options. Clearly there was little point in the whole team being exposed to such conditions and potential risk.
After a week of early starts, energy-sapping daily searches and no progress, we needed to take stock of our situation. We had all reached similar conclusions about the island. First, the area we were occupying did not lend itself naturally to the descriptions made by Bulkeley and Byron. Secondly, the northern shore of the island was far more treacherous than areas on the east and seemed more appropriate to the wrecking of ships. This, combined with some background information we had relating to seismic activity in the area, led me to a decision point. It was time to review our progress and to establish an acceptable position on the way forward. Before our arrival on the island we had all agreed that the north-east corner of the island presented the most likely location, the main research and opinions coming from Andrew Torbet, our archaeologist, Paul Blunt, who had tirelessly researched the historical accounts, and Davy Carson, who had looked in dept
h at the probable effects of wind and tide in the Golfo de Peñas on Wager in her final hours. As best as I could, I locked these men together in our living space and told them not to come out until they knew where the Wager lay.
We re-read the accounts (rather than the books about the accounts) and came up with the following pieces of information that we felt were important:
1. The ship was only ‘feet from making clear water’ and missing the island before she struck.
2. When the men first launched the lengthened long-boat Speedwell, they immediately turned away from the wind and across the ‘inlet’ to Speedwell Bay (something in the accounts we had somehow previously all missed).
3. From Mount Misery looking towards land (i.e. east), it was not possible to see if they were on an island because of greater hills in the way.
All of these points lead us to believe we need to be not on the north-eastern but on the north-western shore.
Figure 2 shows how these three facts relate to each other and why we decided we were probably in the wrong place. In hindsight it seems remarkable now that we had all missed the passage about the long-boat bearing away into Speedwell Bay, and that no-one had checked that Mount Misery had really been renamed Mount Anson. However, to a certain extent, the joy of such an adventure is that one is conducting genuinely on-the-hoof detective work from the first day you start to draw the information together. As individuals we had all made similar assumptions and had read only portions of the information available. It was only when we were finally able to sit together (this had not been possible prior to departure) that collective logic and mental horsepower could be bought to bear.