I arrived at the village of Chacao
shortly after the tents belonging to the boats were pitched for the
night.
The land in this neighbourhood has been extensively cleared, and
there were many quiet and most picturesque nooks in the forest.
Chacao was formerly the principal port in the island; but many
vessels having been lost, owing to the dangerous currents and rocks
in the straits, the Spanish government burnt the church, and thus
arbitrarily compelled the greater number of inhabitants to migrate
to S. Carlos. We had not long bivouacked, before the barefooted son
of the governor came down to reconnoitre us. Seeing the English
flag hoisted at the yawl's masthead, he asked with the utmost
indifference, whether it was always to fly at Chacao. In several
places the inhabitants were much astonished at the appearance of
men-of-war's boats, and hoped and believed it was the forerunner of
a Spanish fleet, coming to recover the island from the patriot
government of Chile. All the men in power, however, had been
informed of our intended visit, and were exceedingly civil. While
we were eating our supper, the governor paid us a visit. He had
been a lieutenant-colonel in the Spanish service, but now was
miserably poor.
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