He is not on the continent, but on an island.

This evening, exhausted with fatigue, he lies down in a grotto at the
foot of the mountain, where he passes a night full of agitation and
anxiety.

Rising with the sun, his first care, the next morning, is to examine
his riches and his provisions. He returns to the thicket of cactus and
aloes.

Besides two guns, two hatchets, a knife, an iron pot, a Bible and
nautical instruments, all articles belonging to him, he finds there a
quantity of nails, a large fragment of a sail, several horns of powder
and shot; a bag of ship biscuit, a salted quarter of pork, a little
cask of pickled fish, and a dozen cocoa-nuts.

The night before, at sight of these articles, he had supposed a
sentiment of justice and humanity to exist in the soul of the corsair.
Just now, he had said to himself that Stradling, deceived by a false
reckoning of latitude, had landed him on an island, perhaps believing
it to be a projecting shore of the continent. Now, the abundance of
his supplies, this biscuit, these salt provisions, these fruits of the
cocoa, all valueless if he had really landed at Coquimbo, lead him to
suspect that the vindictive Englishman has designedly chosen the place
of his exile.

But this exile, is it complete isolation? Is the island inhabited or
deserted? If it is inhabited, as he still believes he has reason to
suppose, by whom is it so?