Chapter Eleven.

Chapter Eleven.Why “Land of Fire.”The night is down; but, although it is very dark, the boat-voyagers do not bring in to land. They are still far from confident that the pursuit has been relinquished; and, until it is abandoned, they are still in danger.Ere long, they have sure evidence that it is not. Along the shores of the sound flash up fires, which, like the smoke seen in the daylight, are surely signals. Some are down upon the beaches, others high up against the hill-sides—just such lights as Magalhaens beheld three and a half centuries before, while passing through the strait which now bears his name. (Note 1.) Hence, too, the name he bestowed on the unknown country lying south of them, “Tierra del Fuego”—“Land of Fire.”The fugitives in the gig see fires on both shores—fifty or more—the lurid flames symbolising the fierce implacable hostility of the savages who have set them alight.“We’re boun’ to keep on till we’ve got ’em all astarn,” says Seagriff. “So long’s thar’s a spark ahead, it’ll be dangersome to put in. They’d be for headin’ us off jest the same to-morrer, ez thar’s another long narrer to pass atween this an’ Darwin Soun’. ’Tair a bit lucky the night bein’ so dark that they can’t sight us from the shore. If they could, we’d ’a’ had ’em out arter us now.”Under ordinary circumstances, the darkness would have made it difficult for them to proceed. But, oddly enough, the very thing which forces them to continue their retreat assists them in making it good, the fires on either side being like so many beacon-lights, enabling them to hold a course in mid-water. Thus guided, they run on as between two rows of street lamps, fortunately so far from either that the spread sail escapes being illumined by them. Fortunately, also, on reaching the next narrow, where it would be otherwise seen, there is a mist over the water. Screened by this, they succeed in passing through it unperceived, and enter Darwin Sound just as day is breaking. Here neither fires nor smokes are observed, a proof that they have passed out of the territory of the tribe which had attacked them.Still, they do not yet seek the shore; the wind is too temptingly in their favour, and with sail up all day they run on into the north-west arm of the Beagle Channel, at length bringing to in a small cove on its southern side.It is late afternoon when they make a landing; yet they have time to choose a camping-place ere darkness comes on. Not much choice is there, the only available spot being at the inner end of the cove. There a niche in the rocky beach forms a sort of natural boat-dock, large enough to admit the gig to moorings. And on the shore adjacent is the only patch of bare ground visible; at all other points the trees grow to the water’s edge, with overhanging branches.Confident now that their late pursuers have been shaken off, they determine on making a stay here of at least a day or two. After this long spell of laborious work, with the excitement which accompanied it, they greatly need rest. Besides, all are now very hungry, having had no opportunity of cooking aught since they left the landing-place on the isle.Where they are now there is no difficulty about fire, fuel being plentiful all about. And while Caesar is preparing the repast, the others transform the boat-sail into a tent, by setting up the oars, trestle-fashion, and resting the mast on them as a ridge-pole.Having satisfied the cravings of appetite, and completed their arrangements for passing the night, it still lacks an hour of sunset, and with nothing better to be done, they sit by the fire and contemplate the landscape, at which hitherto they have but glanced. A remarkable landscape it is—picturesque beyond description, and altogether unlike the idea generally entertained of Fuegian scenery. That portion of it which an artist would term the “foreground” is the cove itself, which is somewhat like the shoe of a mule—running about a hundred yards into the land, while less than fifty feet across the mouth. Its shores, rising abruptly from the beach, are wooded with a thick forest, which covers the steep sides of the encircling hills as far as can be seen, and to the water’s edge. The trees, tall and grand, are of three kinds, almost peculiar to Tierra del Fuego. One is a true beech; another, as much birch as beech; the third, an aromatic evergreen of world-wide celebrity—the “Winter’s-bark.” (Note 2.) But there is also a growth of buried underwood, consisting of arbutus, barberry, fuchsias, flowering currants, and a singular fern, also occurring in the island of Juan Fernandez, and resembling thezamiaof Australia.The sea-arm on which the cove opens is but little over a mile in width, the shore on its farther side being a sheer cliff, rising hundreds of feet above the water, and indented here and there by deep gorges with thickly-wooded sides. Above the cliff’s crest the slope continues on upward to a mountain ridge of many peaks, one of them a grand cone towering thousands of feet above all the others. That is Mount Darwin, wrapped in a mantle of never-melting snow. Along the intermediate space between the cliff’s crest and the snow-line is a belt of woodland, intersected by what might be taken for streams of water, were it not for their colour. But they are too blue, too noiseless, to be water. Yet, in a way, they are water, for they are glaciers, some of them abutting upon the sea-arm, and filling up the gorges that open upon it with façades as precipitous as that of the cliff itself. There are streams of water also which proceed from the melting of the snow above; cataracts that spout out from the wooded sides of the ravines, their glistening sheen vividly conspicuous amid the greenery of the trees. Two of these curving jets, projected from walls of verdure on opposite sides of a gorge, meet midway, and mingling, fall thence perpendicularly down, changing, long ere they reach the water below, to a column of white spray.Such is the magnificent panorama spread before the eyes of our castaways, who, despite their forlorn lot, cannot help regarding it with wonder and admiration. Nor is their wonder diminished by what they see and hear close at hand. Little did they expect to find parrots and humming-birds in that high southern latitude; yet a flock of the former chatter above their heads, feeding on the berries of the Winter’s-bark; while numbers of the latter are seen, flitting to and fro, or poised on whirring wings before the bell-shaped blossoms of the fuchsias. (Note 3.) From the deeper recesses of the wood at intervals comes a loud, cackling cry, resembling the laugh of an idiot. It is the call-note of the black woodpecker. And, as if in response to it, a kingfisher, perched on the limb of a dead tree by the beach, now and then utters its shrill, ear-piercing scream.Other fishing-birds of different species fly hither and thither over the water, now quite tranquil, the wind having died away.A flock of white pelicans, in pursuit of finny prey, swim about the cove, their eyes looking into the depths, their long pick-axe beaks held ready for a plunge. Then, as a fish is sighted underneath, down go head and neck in a quick dart, soon to be drawn up with the victim writhing between the tips of the mandibles. But the prey is not secured yet. On each pelican attends a number of predatory gulls, wheeling over it in flight, and watching its every movement with a foregone and well-studied intent. For as soon as the fish is brought up, they swoop at it from all points with wild screams and flapping wings; and as the pelican cannot swallow the fish without first tossing it upward, the toss often proves fatal to its purpose. The prey let go, instead of falling back into the water, or down the pouch-like gullet held agape for it, is caught by one or more of the gulls, and those greedy birds continue the fight among themselves, leaving the pelican they have robbed to go diving again.Night comes on, but not with the darkness anticipated. For still another wonder is revealed to them ere closing their eyes in sleep—the long continuance of twilight, far beyond anything of the kind they have ever experienced, Seagriff excepted. But its cause is known to them; the strange phenomenon being due to the fact that the sun, for some time after it has sunk below the horizon, continues to shine on the glistening ice of the glaciers and the snow of the mountain summits, thus producing a weird luminosity in the heavens, somewhat resembling the Aurora Borealis.Note 1. He discovered the Straits, or, more properly, Strait, in 1519. His name is usually given as “Magellan” by French and English writers, the Spaniards making it “Magallanes.” But, as he was a native of Portugal, and Magalhaens is the Portuguese orthography, it should be the one preferred. By sealers and others, Tierra del Fuego is often called “Fireland.” Lady Brassey heard it so called by the settlers at “Sandy Point,” in the Strait.Note 2. The beeches are theFagus BetuloidesandFagus Antarchia. The former partakes also of the character of a birch. It is an evergreen, while the leaves of the other fall off in the autumn. The “Winter’s-bark” (Drimys Winletii) is a laurel-like evergreen, which produces an aromatic bark, somewhat resembling cinnamon. It derives its name, not from the season, but from a Captain Winter, who first carried the bark to England in 1579.Note 3. The Fuegian parrot, or paroquet, is known to naturalists asPsittacus Imaragdinus,—the humming-bird asMelisuga Kingii. It was long believed that neither parrots nor humming-birds existed in Tierra del Fuego; Buffon, with his usual incorrectness, alleging that the specimens brought from it were taken elsewhere; other learned closet naturalists insisted on the parrots reported to exist there being “sea-parrots” (auks).

The night is down; but, although it is very dark, the boat-voyagers do not bring in to land. They are still far from confident that the pursuit has been relinquished; and, until it is abandoned, they are still in danger.

Ere long, they have sure evidence that it is not. Along the shores of the sound flash up fires, which, like the smoke seen in the daylight, are surely signals. Some are down upon the beaches, others high up against the hill-sides—just such lights as Magalhaens beheld three and a half centuries before, while passing through the strait which now bears his name. (Note 1.) Hence, too, the name he bestowed on the unknown country lying south of them, “Tierra del Fuego”—“Land of Fire.”

The fugitives in the gig see fires on both shores—fifty or more—the lurid flames symbolising the fierce implacable hostility of the savages who have set them alight.

“We’re boun’ to keep on till we’ve got ’em all astarn,” says Seagriff. “So long’s thar’s a spark ahead, it’ll be dangersome to put in. They’d be for headin’ us off jest the same to-morrer, ez thar’s another long narrer to pass atween this an’ Darwin Soun’. ’Tair a bit lucky the night bein’ so dark that they can’t sight us from the shore. If they could, we’d ’a’ had ’em out arter us now.”

Under ordinary circumstances, the darkness would have made it difficult for them to proceed. But, oddly enough, the very thing which forces them to continue their retreat assists them in making it good, the fires on either side being like so many beacon-lights, enabling them to hold a course in mid-water. Thus guided, they run on as between two rows of street lamps, fortunately so far from either that the spread sail escapes being illumined by them. Fortunately, also, on reaching the next narrow, where it would be otherwise seen, there is a mist over the water. Screened by this, they succeed in passing through it unperceived, and enter Darwin Sound just as day is breaking. Here neither fires nor smokes are observed, a proof that they have passed out of the territory of the tribe which had attacked them.

Still, they do not yet seek the shore; the wind is too temptingly in their favour, and with sail up all day they run on into the north-west arm of the Beagle Channel, at length bringing to in a small cove on its southern side.

It is late afternoon when they make a landing; yet they have time to choose a camping-place ere darkness comes on. Not much choice is there, the only available spot being at the inner end of the cove. There a niche in the rocky beach forms a sort of natural boat-dock, large enough to admit the gig to moorings. And on the shore adjacent is the only patch of bare ground visible; at all other points the trees grow to the water’s edge, with overhanging branches.

Confident now that their late pursuers have been shaken off, they determine on making a stay here of at least a day or two. After this long spell of laborious work, with the excitement which accompanied it, they greatly need rest. Besides, all are now very hungry, having had no opportunity of cooking aught since they left the landing-place on the isle.

Where they are now there is no difficulty about fire, fuel being plentiful all about. And while Caesar is preparing the repast, the others transform the boat-sail into a tent, by setting up the oars, trestle-fashion, and resting the mast on them as a ridge-pole.

Having satisfied the cravings of appetite, and completed their arrangements for passing the night, it still lacks an hour of sunset, and with nothing better to be done, they sit by the fire and contemplate the landscape, at which hitherto they have but glanced. A remarkable landscape it is—picturesque beyond description, and altogether unlike the idea generally entertained of Fuegian scenery. That portion of it which an artist would term the “foreground” is the cove itself, which is somewhat like the shoe of a mule—running about a hundred yards into the land, while less than fifty feet across the mouth. Its shores, rising abruptly from the beach, are wooded with a thick forest, which covers the steep sides of the encircling hills as far as can be seen, and to the water’s edge. The trees, tall and grand, are of three kinds, almost peculiar to Tierra del Fuego. One is a true beech; another, as much birch as beech; the third, an aromatic evergreen of world-wide celebrity—the “Winter’s-bark.” (Note 2.) But there is also a growth of buried underwood, consisting of arbutus, barberry, fuchsias, flowering currants, and a singular fern, also occurring in the island of Juan Fernandez, and resembling thezamiaof Australia.

The sea-arm on which the cove opens is but little over a mile in width, the shore on its farther side being a sheer cliff, rising hundreds of feet above the water, and indented here and there by deep gorges with thickly-wooded sides. Above the cliff’s crest the slope continues on upward to a mountain ridge of many peaks, one of them a grand cone towering thousands of feet above all the others. That is Mount Darwin, wrapped in a mantle of never-melting snow. Along the intermediate space between the cliff’s crest and the snow-line is a belt of woodland, intersected by what might be taken for streams of water, were it not for their colour. But they are too blue, too noiseless, to be water. Yet, in a way, they are water, for they are glaciers, some of them abutting upon the sea-arm, and filling up the gorges that open upon it with façades as precipitous as that of the cliff itself. There are streams of water also which proceed from the melting of the snow above; cataracts that spout out from the wooded sides of the ravines, their glistening sheen vividly conspicuous amid the greenery of the trees. Two of these curving jets, projected from walls of verdure on opposite sides of a gorge, meet midway, and mingling, fall thence perpendicularly down, changing, long ere they reach the water below, to a column of white spray.

Such is the magnificent panorama spread before the eyes of our castaways, who, despite their forlorn lot, cannot help regarding it with wonder and admiration. Nor is their wonder diminished by what they see and hear close at hand. Little did they expect to find parrots and humming-birds in that high southern latitude; yet a flock of the former chatter above their heads, feeding on the berries of the Winter’s-bark; while numbers of the latter are seen, flitting to and fro, or poised on whirring wings before the bell-shaped blossoms of the fuchsias. (Note 3.) From the deeper recesses of the wood at intervals comes a loud, cackling cry, resembling the laugh of an idiot. It is the call-note of the black woodpecker. And, as if in response to it, a kingfisher, perched on the limb of a dead tree by the beach, now and then utters its shrill, ear-piercing scream.

Other fishing-birds of different species fly hither and thither over the water, now quite tranquil, the wind having died away.

A flock of white pelicans, in pursuit of finny prey, swim about the cove, their eyes looking into the depths, their long pick-axe beaks held ready for a plunge. Then, as a fish is sighted underneath, down go head and neck in a quick dart, soon to be drawn up with the victim writhing between the tips of the mandibles. But the prey is not secured yet. On each pelican attends a number of predatory gulls, wheeling over it in flight, and watching its every movement with a foregone and well-studied intent. For as soon as the fish is brought up, they swoop at it from all points with wild screams and flapping wings; and as the pelican cannot swallow the fish without first tossing it upward, the toss often proves fatal to its purpose. The prey let go, instead of falling back into the water, or down the pouch-like gullet held agape for it, is caught by one or more of the gulls, and those greedy birds continue the fight among themselves, leaving the pelican they have robbed to go diving again.

Night comes on, but not with the darkness anticipated. For still another wonder is revealed to them ere closing their eyes in sleep—the long continuance of twilight, far beyond anything of the kind they have ever experienced, Seagriff excepted. But its cause is known to them; the strange phenomenon being due to the fact that the sun, for some time after it has sunk below the horizon, continues to shine on the glistening ice of the glaciers and the snow of the mountain summits, thus producing a weird luminosity in the heavens, somewhat resembling the Aurora Borealis.

Note 1. He discovered the Straits, or, more properly, Strait, in 1519. His name is usually given as “Magellan” by French and English writers, the Spaniards making it “Magallanes.” But, as he was a native of Portugal, and Magalhaens is the Portuguese orthography, it should be the one preferred. By sealers and others, Tierra del Fuego is often called “Fireland.” Lady Brassey heard it so called by the settlers at “Sandy Point,” in the Strait.

Note 2. The beeches are theFagus BetuloidesandFagus Antarchia. The former partakes also of the character of a birch. It is an evergreen, while the leaves of the other fall off in the autumn. The “Winter’s-bark” (Drimys Winletii) is a laurel-like evergreen, which produces an aromatic bark, somewhat resembling cinnamon. It derives its name, not from the season, but from a Captain Winter, who first carried the bark to England in 1579.

Note 3. The Fuegian parrot, or paroquet, is known to naturalists asPsittacus Imaragdinus,—the humming-bird asMelisuga Kingii. It was long believed that neither parrots nor humming-birds existed in Tierra del Fuego; Buffon, with his usual incorrectness, alleging that the specimens brought from it were taken elsewhere; other learned closet naturalists insisted on the parrots reported to exist there being “sea-parrots” (auks).

Chapter Twelve.A Catastrophe Not Anticipated.Another day dawns upon the castaways, with again a bright sun on the horizon; and Ned Gancy and Henry Chester, who have risen early, as they look out over the water, become witnesses of the curious behaviour of another Fuegian fishing-bird—the cormorant.One of these birds, seemingly regardless of their presence, has come close to the ledge where the boat is lying, and has there caught a fish. But instead of gobbling it up or tearing it to pieces, as might be expected, the captor lets it go again, not involuntarily, but, as soon appears, designedly. The fish, alive and apparently uninjured, makes away through the water; but only for a short distance, ere it is followed by the cormorant and caught afresh. Then it is dropped a second time, and a third time seized, and so on through a series of catchings and surrenderings, just like those of a cat playing with a mouse.In this case, however, the cruel sport has a different termination, by the cormorant being deprived of the prey it seemed so sure of. Not through the efforts of the fish itself, which now, badly damaged, swims but feebly; nor do the gulls appropriate it, but a wingless biped—no other than Ned Gancy.“Chester, we shall have that fish for breakfast,” he says, springing to his feet, and hastily stripping for a swim. Then, with a rush over the ledge, he plunges in, sending the cormorant off in affright, and taking possession of the prey it has left behind.The fish proves to be a species of smelt, over two pounds in weight, and a welcome addition to their now greatly reduced larder.As they have passed a restful night, all the members of the forlorn little party are up betimes; and soon “the doctor” is bestirring himself about their breakfast, in which the cormorant-caught fish is to play a conspicuous part.The uprising sun reveals the landscape in a changed aspect, quite different from that seen at its setting, and even more surprisingly picturesque. The snowy mantle of Mount Darwin is no longer pure white, but of hues more attractive—a commingling of rose and gold; while the icicled cliffs on the opposite side of the cove, with the façades of glaciers, show every tint of blue from pale sky to deep beryl, darkening to indigo and purple in the deep sea-water at their bases. It is, or might be called, the iridescence of a land with rocks all opals, and trees all evergreens; for the dullest verdure here seems vivid by contrast with its icy and snowy surroundings.“Oh, mamma! isn’t it glorious?” exclaims Leoline, as she looks around upon the wonderful landscape. “It beats Niagara! If I only had my box of colours, I’d make a sketch of it.”To this outburst of enthusiastic admiration, the mother responds with but a faint smile. The late danger, from which they have had such a narrow escape, still gravely affects her spirits; and she dreads its recurrence, despite all assurances to the contrary. For she knows they are but founded on hope, and that there may be other tribes of cruel and hostile savages to be encountered. Even Seagriff still appears apprehensive, else why should he be looking so anxiously out over the water? Seated on the trunk of a fallen tree, pipe in mouth, he sends up wreathing curls of smoke among the branches of the Winter’s-bark overhead. But he is not smoking tranquilly, as is his wont, but in short, quick puffs, while the expression on his features, habitually firm, tells of troubled thought.“What are you gazing at, Chips?” questions Captain Gancy, who has noticed his uneasy look.“At that glasheer, Captin’. The big ’un derect in front of us.”“Well, what of it?”“Tears to me it bulges out beyond the line o’ the cliff more’n we mout like it to. Please let me have a squint at it through the glass. My eyes aren’t wuth much agin the dazzle o’ all that ice an’ snow.”“By all means. Take the glass, if that will help you,” says the Captain, handing him the binocular, but secretly wondering why he wishes to examine the glacier so minutely, and what there is in the mass of blue congelation to be troubled about. But nothing further is said, he and all the rest remaining silent, so as not to interfere with Seagriffs observation. Not without apprehension, however, do they await the result, as the old sealer’s words and manner indicate plainly that something is amiss.And their waiting is for a short while only. Almost on the instant of getting the glacier within his field of view, Seagriff cries out, “Jest as I surspected! The end o’ the ice air fur out from the rock,—ten or fifteen fathoms, I should say!”“Well, and if it is,” rejoins the skipper, “what does that signify to us?”“A mighty deal, Captin’. Thet air, surposin’ it should snap offjest now. An’ sech a thing wouldn’t be unusual. I wonder we haven’t seed the like afore now, runnin’ past so many glasheers ez we hev. Cewrus, too, our not comin’ acrost a berg yet. I guess the ice’s not melted sufficient for ’em to break away.”But now an appetising odour more agreeable to their nostrils than the perfume of the fuchsias, or the aromatic fragrance of the Winter’s-bark, admonishes them of breakfast being served; the doctor likewise soon proclaiming it. And so for a time the glacier is forgotten.But after the meal has been dispatched, it again becomes the subject of discourse, as the old sealer once more begins to regard it through the glass with evident apprehension.“It ’ud seem beyond the possibility of belief,” he says, “thet them conglomerations uv ice, hard froze an’ lookin’ ez tight fixed ez a mainstay, for all thet hev a downard slitherin’ motion, jest like a stream o’ water, tho’ in coorse thousands or millions o’ times slower.”“Oh! that’s well understood,” asserts the skipper, acquainted with the latest theory of glacier movement.“So it may be, Captin’,” pursues Seagriff; “but thar’s somethin’ ’bout these breakin’ off an’ becomin’ bergs ez ain’t so well understood, I reckin’; leastways, not by l’arned men. The cause of it air well enough know’d ’mong the seal-fishers ez frequent these soun’s an’ channels.”“What is the cause, Chips?” asked young Gancy, like all the others, interested in the subject of conversation.“Wall, it’s this, Mister Ned. The sea-water bein’ warmer than the ice, melts the glasheer when thar’s high-tide, an’ the eend of it dips under; then at low tide,—bein’, so to speak,undermined, an’ not havin’ the water to rest on,—it naterally sags down by its own weight, an’ snaps off, ez ye’ll all easily understan’.”“Oh! we quite understand,” is the universal response, every one satisfied with the old sealer’s explanation as to the origin of icebergs.“How I should like to see one launched,” exclaims Leoline; “that big one over there, for instance. It would make such a big plunge! Wouldn’t it, Mr Chips?”“Yes, Miss, sech a plunge thet ef this child tho’t thar was any likelihood of it comin’ loose from its moorin’s while we’re hyar, he wouldn’t be smokin’ his pipe so contented. Jest look at thet boat.”“The boat! what of her?” asks the skipper, in some apprehension, at length beginning to comprehend the cause of Seagriff’s uneasiness.“Wall, Captin’, ef yon glasheer war to give off a berg, any sort of a big ’un, it mout be the means o’ leavin’ us ’ithout any boat at all.”“But how?”“How? Why, by swampin’ or smashin’ the only one we’ve got, the which—”“Thunder an’ airthquakes! See yonder! The very thing we’re talkin’ ’bout, I vow!”No need for him to explain his words and excited exclamations. All know what has called them forth: the berg is snapping off. All see the breaking up and hear the crash, loud as the discharge of a ship’s broadside or a peal of thunder, till at length, though tardily, they comprehend the danger, as their eyes rest on a stupendous roller, as high as any sea theCalypsohad ever encountered, coming toward them across the strait.“To the boat!” shouts Seagriff, making down the bank, with all the men after him. They reach the landing before the roller breaks upon it, but, alas! to no purpose. Beach, to draw the boat up on, there is none, only the rough ledge of rocks; and the only way to raise it on this would be to lift it bodily out of the water, which cannot be done. For all that, they clutch hold of it, with determined grip, around the edge of the bow. But their united strength will prove as nothing against that threatening swell. For the roller, entering the confined water of the cove, has increased in height, and comes on with more tempestuous surge. Their effort proves futile, and nigh worse than futile to Henry Chester. For, as the boat is whisked out of their hands and swung up fathoms high, the English youth, heedless of Seagriff’s shout, “Let go!” hangs on, bulldog-like, and is carried up along with her.The others have retreated up the slope, beyond reach of the wave which threatens to bear him off in its backward flow. Seeing his danger, all cry out in alarm; and the voice of Leoline is heard above, crying out to her mother, “Oh! Henry is lost.”But no, Henry is not lost. Letting go before the boat comes down again, with a vigorous bound backward the agile youth heads the roller, getting well up the bank ere it washes over him. Wash over him it does, but only drenches him; for he has flung his arms around a barberry-bush, and holds it in firm embrace; so firm and fast that, when the water has surged back, he is still seen clinging to it—safe. But by the same subsidence the boat is dashed away, the keel striking on some rocks with a harsh sound, which tells of damage, if not total destruction. Still it floats, drifting outward, and for a while all seems well with it. Believing it to be so, the two youths rush to the tent, and each snatching an oar from it, prepare to swim out andbring the boat back. But before they can enter the water, a voice tells them their hope is vain, Captain Gancy himself calling out, “It’s no use, boys! The gig’s got a hole in its bottom, and is going down. Look!”They do look, and they see that the boat is doomed. Only for an instant are their eyes upon it, before it is seen no more, having “bilged” and gone under, leaving but bubbles to mark the place of its disappearance.

Another day dawns upon the castaways, with again a bright sun on the horizon; and Ned Gancy and Henry Chester, who have risen early, as they look out over the water, become witnesses of the curious behaviour of another Fuegian fishing-bird—the cormorant.

One of these birds, seemingly regardless of their presence, has come close to the ledge where the boat is lying, and has there caught a fish. But instead of gobbling it up or tearing it to pieces, as might be expected, the captor lets it go again, not involuntarily, but, as soon appears, designedly. The fish, alive and apparently uninjured, makes away through the water; but only for a short distance, ere it is followed by the cormorant and caught afresh. Then it is dropped a second time, and a third time seized, and so on through a series of catchings and surrenderings, just like those of a cat playing with a mouse.

In this case, however, the cruel sport has a different termination, by the cormorant being deprived of the prey it seemed so sure of. Not through the efforts of the fish itself, which now, badly damaged, swims but feebly; nor do the gulls appropriate it, but a wingless biped—no other than Ned Gancy.

“Chester, we shall have that fish for breakfast,” he says, springing to his feet, and hastily stripping for a swim. Then, with a rush over the ledge, he plunges in, sending the cormorant off in affright, and taking possession of the prey it has left behind.

The fish proves to be a species of smelt, over two pounds in weight, and a welcome addition to their now greatly reduced larder.

As they have passed a restful night, all the members of the forlorn little party are up betimes; and soon “the doctor” is bestirring himself about their breakfast, in which the cormorant-caught fish is to play a conspicuous part.

The uprising sun reveals the landscape in a changed aspect, quite different from that seen at its setting, and even more surprisingly picturesque. The snowy mantle of Mount Darwin is no longer pure white, but of hues more attractive—a commingling of rose and gold; while the icicled cliffs on the opposite side of the cove, with the façades of glaciers, show every tint of blue from pale sky to deep beryl, darkening to indigo and purple in the deep sea-water at their bases. It is, or might be called, the iridescence of a land with rocks all opals, and trees all evergreens; for the dullest verdure here seems vivid by contrast with its icy and snowy surroundings.

“Oh, mamma! isn’t it glorious?” exclaims Leoline, as she looks around upon the wonderful landscape. “It beats Niagara! If I only had my box of colours, I’d make a sketch of it.”

To this outburst of enthusiastic admiration, the mother responds with but a faint smile. The late danger, from which they have had such a narrow escape, still gravely affects her spirits; and she dreads its recurrence, despite all assurances to the contrary. For she knows they are but founded on hope, and that there may be other tribes of cruel and hostile savages to be encountered. Even Seagriff still appears apprehensive, else why should he be looking so anxiously out over the water? Seated on the trunk of a fallen tree, pipe in mouth, he sends up wreathing curls of smoke among the branches of the Winter’s-bark overhead. But he is not smoking tranquilly, as is his wont, but in short, quick puffs, while the expression on his features, habitually firm, tells of troubled thought.

“What are you gazing at, Chips?” questions Captain Gancy, who has noticed his uneasy look.

“At that glasheer, Captin’. The big ’un derect in front of us.”

“Well, what of it?”

“Tears to me it bulges out beyond the line o’ the cliff more’n we mout like it to. Please let me have a squint at it through the glass. My eyes aren’t wuth much agin the dazzle o’ all that ice an’ snow.”

“By all means. Take the glass, if that will help you,” says the Captain, handing him the binocular, but secretly wondering why he wishes to examine the glacier so minutely, and what there is in the mass of blue congelation to be troubled about. But nothing further is said, he and all the rest remaining silent, so as not to interfere with Seagriffs observation. Not without apprehension, however, do they await the result, as the old sealer’s words and manner indicate plainly that something is amiss.

And their waiting is for a short while only. Almost on the instant of getting the glacier within his field of view, Seagriff cries out, “Jest as I surspected! The end o’ the ice air fur out from the rock,—ten or fifteen fathoms, I should say!”

“Well, and if it is,” rejoins the skipper, “what does that signify to us?”

“A mighty deal, Captin’. Thet air, surposin’ it should snap offjest now. An’ sech a thing wouldn’t be unusual. I wonder we haven’t seed the like afore now, runnin’ past so many glasheers ez we hev. Cewrus, too, our not comin’ acrost a berg yet. I guess the ice’s not melted sufficient for ’em to break away.”

But now an appetising odour more agreeable to their nostrils than the perfume of the fuchsias, or the aromatic fragrance of the Winter’s-bark, admonishes them of breakfast being served; the doctor likewise soon proclaiming it. And so for a time the glacier is forgotten.

But after the meal has been dispatched, it again becomes the subject of discourse, as the old sealer once more begins to regard it through the glass with evident apprehension.

“It ’ud seem beyond the possibility of belief,” he says, “thet them conglomerations uv ice, hard froze an’ lookin’ ez tight fixed ez a mainstay, for all thet hev a downard slitherin’ motion, jest like a stream o’ water, tho’ in coorse thousands or millions o’ times slower.”

“Oh! that’s well understood,” asserts the skipper, acquainted with the latest theory of glacier movement.

“So it may be, Captin’,” pursues Seagriff; “but thar’s somethin’ ’bout these breakin’ off an’ becomin’ bergs ez ain’t so well understood, I reckin’; leastways, not by l’arned men. The cause of it air well enough know’d ’mong the seal-fishers ez frequent these soun’s an’ channels.”

“What is the cause, Chips?” asked young Gancy, like all the others, interested in the subject of conversation.

“Wall, it’s this, Mister Ned. The sea-water bein’ warmer than the ice, melts the glasheer when thar’s high-tide, an’ the eend of it dips under; then at low tide,—bein’, so to speak,undermined, an’ not havin’ the water to rest on,—it naterally sags down by its own weight, an’ snaps off, ez ye’ll all easily understan’.”

“Oh! we quite understand,” is the universal response, every one satisfied with the old sealer’s explanation as to the origin of icebergs.

“How I should like to see one launched,” exclaims Leoline; “that big one over there, for instance. It would make such a big plunge! Wouldn’t it, Mr Chips?”

“Yes, Miss, sech a plunge thet ef this child tho’t thar was any likelihood of it comin’ loose from its moorin’s while we’re hyar, he wouldn’t be smokin’ his pipe so contented. Jest look at thet boat.”

“The boat! what of her?” asks the skipper, in some apprehension, at length beginning to comprehend the cause of Seagriff’s uneasiness.

“Wall, Captin’, ef yon glasheer war to give off a berg, any sort of a big ’un, it mout be the means o’ leavin’ us ’ithout any boat at all.”

“But how?”

“How? Why, by swampin’ or smashin’ the only one we’ve got, the which—”

“Thunder an’ airthquakes! See yonder! The very thing we’re talkin’ ’bout, I vow!”

No need for him to explain his words and excited exclamations. All know what has called them forth: the berg is snapping off. All see the breaking up and hear the crash, loud as the discharge of a ship’s broadside or a peal of thunder, till at length, though tardily, they comprehend the danger, as their eyes rest on a stupendous roller, as high as any sea theCalypsohad ever encountered, coming toward them across the strait.

“To the boat!” shouts Seagriff, making down the bank, with all the men after him. They reach the landing before the roller breaks upon it, but, alas! to no purpose. Beach, to draw the boat up on, there is none, only the rough ledge of rocks; and the only way to raise it on this would be to lift it bodily out of the water, which cannot be done. For all that, they clutch hold of it, with determined grip, around the edge of the bow. But their united strength will prove as nothing against that threatening swell. For the roller, entering the confined water of the cove, has increased in height, and comes on with more tempestuous surge. Their effort proves futile, and nigh worse than futile to Henry Chester. For, as the boat is whisked out of their hands and swung up fathoms high, the English youth, heedless of Seagriff’s shout, “Let go!” hangs on, bulldog-like, and is carried up along with her.

The others have retreated up the slope, beyond reach of the wave which threatens to bear him off in its backward flow. Seeing his danger, all cry out in alarm; and the voice of Leoline is heard above, crying out to her mother, “Oh! Henry is lost.”

But no, Henry is not lost. Letting go before the boat comes down again, with a vigorous bound backward the agile youth heads the roller, getting well up the bank ere it washes over him. Wash over him it does, but only drenches him; for he has flung his arms around a barberry-bush, and holds it in firm embrace; so firm and fast that, when the water has surged back, he is still seen clinging to it—safe. But by the same subsidence the boat is dashed away, the keel striking on some rocks with a harsh sound, which tells of damage, if not total destruction. Still it floats, drifting outward, and for a while all seems well with it. Believing it to be so, the two youths rush to the tent, and each snatching an oar from it, prepare to swim out andbring the boat back. But before they can enter the water, a voice tells them their hope is vain, Captain Gancy himself calling out, “It’s no use, boys! The gig’s got a hole in its bottom, and is going down. Look!”

They do look, and they see that the boat is doomed. Only for an instant are their eyes upon it, before it is seen no more, having “bilged” and gone under, leaving but bubbles to mark the place of its disappearance.

Chapter Thirteen.A Change of Quarters determined on.No greater calamity than the loss of their boat could have overtaken the castaways, save losing life itself. It has made them castaways in the fullest sense of the word, as much as if left boatless on a desert isle in mid-ocean. Their situation is desperate, indeed, though for a time they scarce realise it. How can they, in so lovely a spot, teeming with animal life, and Nature, as it were, smiling around them? But the old sealer knows all that will soon be changed, experience reminding him that the brief bright summer will ere long be succeeded by dark dreary winter, with rain, sleet, and snow almost continuously. Then no food will be procurable, and to stay where they are would be to starve. Captain Gancy also recalls the attempts at colonising Tierra del Fuego, notably that made by Sarmiento at Port Famine in the Magellan Straits, where his whole colony, men, women, and children—nearly three hundred souls—miserably perished by starvation; and where, too, the lamented missionary, Gardner, with all his companions, succumbed to a similar fate. (Note 1.) The Captain remembers reading, too, that these colonists had at the start ample store of provisions, with arms and ammunition to defend themselves, and renew their stores. Iftheycould not maintain life in Tierra del Fuego, what chance is there for a party of castaways, without weapons, and otherwise unfitted for prolonged sojourn in a savage land? Even the natives, supplied with perfect implements for fishery and the chase, and skilled in their use, have often a hard, and at times an unsuccessful struggle for existence. Darwin thus speaks of it:“The inhabitants, living chiefly upon shell-fish, are obliged constantly to change their place of residence, but return at intervals to the same spot.—At night five or six of them, unprotected from the wind and rain of this tempestuous climate, sleep on the wet ground, coiled up like animals. Whenever it is low-water, they must rise to pick shell-fish from the rocks, and the women, winter and summer, either dive to collect sea-eggs, or sit patiently in their canoes, and with a baited hair-line jerk out small fish. If a seal is killed, or the floating carcase of a dead whale discovered, it is a feast. Such miserable food is assisted by a few tasteless berries and fungi. Nor are they exempt from famine, and, as a consequence, cannibalism, accompanied by parricide.”The old seal-fisher, familiar with these facts, keeps them to himself, though knowing the truth will in time reveal itself to all.They get an inkling of it that very day, when the “doctor,” proceeding to cook dinner, reports upon the state of the larder, in which there is barely the wherewithal for another meal. Nearly all the provisions brought away from the barque were in the gig, and are doubtless in it still—at the bottom of the sea. So the meal is eaten in a somewhat despondent mood, as after it little will remain for the morrow.They get into better spirits soon after, however, on finding that Nature has furnished them with an ample store of provisions for the present, near at hand. Prospecting among the trees, they discover an edible fungus, known to sealers as the “beech-apple,” from its being a parasite of the beech. It is about the size and shape of a small orange, and is of a bright yellow colour. When ripe it becomes honeycombed over the surface, and has a slightly sweetish taste, with an odour somewhat like that of a morel mushroom, to which it is allied. It can be eaten raw, and is so eaten by the Fuegian natives, with whom, for a portion of the year, it is the staple article of subsistence.The castaways find large numbers of this valuable plant adhering to the birch-beeches—more than enough for present needs; while two species of fruit are also available as food—the berries of the arbutus and barberry.Still, notwithstanding this plentitude of supply, the castaways make up their minds to abandon their present encampment, for a reason that becomes apparent soon after they see themselves boatless.“There’s no use in our stayin’ longer hyar,” says Seagriff, who first counsels a change of quarters. “Ef a vessel should chance to pass along outside, we couldn’t well be in a worse place fur signalling or gettin’ sighted by her. We’d hev but the ghost of a chance to be spied in sech a sercluded corner. Ther’fore we ought to cl’ar out of it, an’ camp somewhar on the edge o’ the open shore.”“In that I agree with you, Chips,” responds the Captain, “and we may as well move at once.”“Thet’s true, sir, ef wecouldmove at oncet. But we can’t—leastways not to-day.”“Why not?”“It’s too nigh night; we wouldn’t hev time to git to the outer shore,” explained the carpenter.“Why, there’s an hour of daylight yet, or more!”“Thet’s cl’ar enough, Captin’. But ef thar were two hours o’ daylight, or twice thet, it wouldn’t be enough.”“I don’t understand you, Chips. The distance can’t be more than two or three hundred yards.”“Belike it aren’t more. But for all that, it’ll take us the half of a day, ef not longer, to cover it.”“How so?” queried the skipper.“Wal, the how is thet we can’t go by the beach; thar bein’ no beach. At the mouth o’ the cove it’s all cliff, right down to the water. I noticed thet as we war puttin’ inter it. Not a strip o’ strand at the bottom broad enough fur a seal to bask on. We’ll hev to track it up over the hills, an’ thet’ll take no end o’ time, an’ plenty o’ toilin’, too—ye’ll see, Captin’.”“I suppose, then, we must wait for morning,” is the skipper’s rejoinder, after becoming satisfied that no practicable path leads out of the cove between land and water.This constrains them to pass another night on the spot that has proved so disastrous, and the morning after, to eat another meal upon it—the last they intend tasting there. A meagre repast it is; but their appetites are now on keen edge, all the keener from the supply of food being stinted. For by one of nature’s perverse contrarieties, men feel hunger most when without the means of satisfying it, and most thirsty when no water can be had. It is the old story of distant skies looking brightest, and far-off fields showing greenest—the very difficulty of obtaining a thing whetting the desire to possess it, as a child craves some toy, that it soon ceases to care for when once in its possession. No such philosophic reflections occupy the thoughts of the castaways. All they think of, while at their scanty meal, is to get through with it as speedily as possible, and away from the scene of their disaster.The breakfast over, the tent is taken down, the boat-sail folded into the most portable form, with mast, oars, and everything made ready for overland transport. They have even apportioned the bundles, and are about to begin the uphill climb, when, lo! theFuegians!Note 1. There is now a colony in the Straits of Magellan, not far from Port Famine, at Sandy Point—the “Punta de Arenas” of the old Spanish navigators. The colony is Chilian, and was established as a penal settlement, though it is now only nominally so. The population is about fourteen hundred.

No greater calamity than the loss of their boat could have overtaken the castaways, save losing life itself. It has made them castaways in the fullest sense of the word, as much as if left boatless on a desert isle in mid-ocean. Their situation is desperate, indeed, though for a time they scarce realise it. How can they, in so lovely a spot, teeming with animal life, and Nature, as it were, smiling around them? But the old sealer knows all that will soon be changed, experience reminding him that the brief bright summer will ere long be succeeded by dark dreary winter, with rain, sleet, and snow almost continuously. Then no food will be procurable, and to stay where they are would be to starve. Captain Gancy also recalls the attempts at colonising Tierra del Fuego, notably that made by Sarmiento at Port Famine in the Magellan Straits, where his whole colony, men, women, and children—nearly three hundred souls—miserably perished by starvation; and where, too, the lamented missionary, Gardner, with all his companions, succumbed to a similar fate. (Note 1.) The Captain remembers reading, too, that these colonists had at the start ample store of provisions, with arms and ammunition to defend themselves, and renew their stores. Iftheycould not maintain life in Tierra del Fuego, what chance is there for a party of castaways, without weapons, and otherwise unfitted for prolonged sojourn in a savage land? Even the natives, supplied with perfect implements for fishery and the chase, and skilled in their use, have often a hard, and at times an unsuccessful struggle for existence. Darwin thus speaks of it:

“The inhabitants, living chiefly upon shell-fish, are obliged constantly to change their place of residence, but return at intervals to the same spot.—At night five or six of them, unprotected from the wind and rain of this tempestuous climate, sleep on the wet ground, coiled up like animals. Whenever it is low-water, they must rise to pick shell-fish from the rocks, and the women, winter and summer, either dive to collect sea-eggs, or sit patiently in their canoes, and with a baited hair-line jerk out small fish. If a seal is killed, or the floating carcase of a dead whale discovered, it is a feast. Such miserable food is assisted by a few tasteless berries and fungi. Nor are they exempt from famine, and, as a consequence, cannibalism, accompanied by parricide.”

The old seal-fisher, familiar with these facts, keeps them to himself, though knowing the truth will in time reveal itself to all.

They get an inkling of it that very day, when the “doctor,” proceeding to cook dinner, reports upon the state of the larder, in which there is barely the wherewithal for another meal. Nearly all the provisions brought away from the barque were in the gig, and are doubtless in it still—at the bottom of the sea. So the meal is eaten in a somewhat despondent mood, as after it little will remain for the morrow.

They get into better spirits soon after, however, on finding that Nature has furnished them with an ample store of provisions for the present, near at hand. Prospecting among the trees, they discover an edible fungus, known to sealers as the “beech-apple,” from its being a parasite of the beech. It is about the size and shape of a small orange, and is of a bright yellow colour. When ripe it becomes honeycombed over the surface, and has a slightly sweetish taste, with an odour somewhat like that of a morel mushroom, to which it is allied. It can be eaten raw, and is so eaten by the Fuegian natives, with whom, for a portion of the year, it is the staple article of subsistence.

The castaways find large numbers of this valuable plant adhering to the birch-beeches—more than enough for present needs; while two species of fruit are also available as food—the berries of the arbutus and barberry.

Still, notwithstanding this plentitude of supply, the castaways make up their minds to abandon their present encampment, for a reason that becomes apparent soon after they see themselves boatless.

“There’s no use in our stayin’ longer hyar,” says Seagriff, who first counsels a change of quarters. “Ef a vessel should chance to pass along outside, we couldn’t well be in a worse place fur signalling or gettin’ sighted by her. We’d hev but the ghost of a chance to be spied in sech a sercluded corner. Ther’fore we ought to cl’ar out of it, an’ camp somewhar on the edge o’ the open shore.”

“In that I agree with you, Chips,” responds the Captain, “and we may as well move at once.”

“Thet’s true, sir, ef wecouldmove at oncet. But we can’t—leastways not to-day.”

“Why not?”

“It’s too nigh night; we wouldn’t hev time to git to the outer shore,” explained the carpenter.

“Why, there’s an hour of daylight yet, or more!”

“Thet’s cl’ar enough, Captin’. But ef thar were two hours o’ daylight, or twice thet, it wouldn’t be enough.”

“I don’t understand you, Chips. The distance can’t be more than two or three hundred yards.”

“Belike it aren’t more. But for all that, it’ll take us the half of a day, ef not longer, to cover it.”

“How so?” queried the skipper.

“Wal, the how is thet we can’t go by the beach; thar bein’ no beach. At the mouth o’ the cove it’s all cliff, right down to the water. I noticed thet as we war puttin’ inter it. Not a strip o’ strand at the bottom broad enough fur a seal to bask on. We’ll hev to track it up over the hills, an’ thet’ll take no end o’ time, an’ plenty o’ toilin’, too—ye’ll see, Captin’.”

“I suppose, then, we must wait for morning,” is the skipper’s rejoinder, after becoming satisfied that no practicable path leads out of the cove between land and water.

This constrains them to pass another night on the spot that has proved so disastrous, and the morning after, to eat another meal upon it—the last they intend tasting there. A meagre repast it is; but their appetites are now on keen edge, all the keener from the supply of food being stinted. For by one of nature’s perverse contrarieties, men feel hunger most when without the means of satisfying it, and most thirsty when no water can be had. It is the old story of distant skies looking brightest, and far-off fields showing greenest—the very difficulty of obtaining a thing whetting the desire to possess it, as a child craves some toy, that it soon ceases to care for when once in its possession. No such philosophic reflections occupy the thoughts of the castaways. All they think of, while at their scanty meal, is to get through with it as speedily as possible, and away from the scene of their disaster.

The breakfast over, the tent is taken down, the boat-sail folded into the most portable form, with mast, oars, and everything made ready for overland transport. They have even apportioned the bundles, and are about to begin the uphill climb, when, lo! theFuegians!

Note 1. There is now a colony in the Straits of Magellan, not far from Port Famine, at Sandy Point—the “Punta de Arenas” of the old Spanish navigators. The colony is Chilian, and was established as a penal settlement, though it is now only nominally so. The population is about fourteen hundred.

Chapter Fourteen.A Fuegian Fish-Hunt.Yes, the savages are once more in sight, a canoe-full of them just appearing around the point of the cliff, closely followed by another, and another, till four are under view in front of the cove. They are as yet far out on the sea-arm; but as they have come along it from the west, the castaways suppose them to be some of their late assailants, still persistently continuing the pursuit.But no! Captain Gancy, quickly sighting through his binocular, declares them different—at least, in their array. They are not all men, more than half being women and children, while no warlike insignia can be discerned—neither white feathers nor chalked faces.Seagriff, in turn taking the glass, further makes out that the men have fish-spears in their hands, and an implement he recognises as afizgig, while the heads of dogs appear over the gunwales of the canoes, nearly a dozen in each.“It’s a fishin’ party,” he pronounces. “For all thet, we’d best make a hide of it; thar’s no trustin’ ’em, anyway, so long as they think they hev the upper hand. A good thing our fire has gone out, else they’d ’a’ spied it afore this. An’ lucky the bushes be in front, or they’d see us now. Mebbe they’ll pass on along the arm, an’— No! they’re turnin’ in toward the cove!”This can be told by the apparent shortening of the canoes, as they are brought head around toward the inlet.Following the old sealer’s advice, earnestly urged, all slip back among the trees, the low-hanging branches of which afford a screen for concealment like a closed curtain. The bundles are taken away, and the camp-ground is cleared of everything likely to betray its having been lately occupied by white people. All this they are enabled to do without being seen by the savages, a fringe of evergreens between the camp-ground and the water effectually masking their movements.“But shouldn’t we go farther up?” says the skipper, interrogating Seagriff. “Why not keep on over the hill?”“No, Captin’; we mustn’t move from hyar. We couldn’t, ’ithout makin’ sech a racket ez they’d be sure to hear. Besides, thar’s bare spots above, whar they mout sight us from out on the water; an’ ef they did, distance wouldn’t sarve us a bit. The Feweegins kin climb up the steepest places, like squir’ls up a tree. Once seen by ’em, we’d stan’ no chance with ’em in a run. Ther’fore, we’d better abide quietly hyar. Mebbe, arter all, they mayn’t come ashore. ’Tain’t one o’ thar landin’-places or we’d ’a’ foun’ traces of ’em. The trees would ’a’ been barked all about. Oh, I see what they’re up to now. A fish-hunt—surround wi’ thar dogs. Thet’s thar bizness in the cove.”By this, the four canoes have arrived at the entrance to the inlet, and are forming in line across it at equal distances from one another, as if to bar the way against anything that may attempt to pass outward. Just such is their design, the fish being what they purpose enfilading.At sight of them and the columns of ascending smoke, the pelicans and other fishing-birds take flight in a chorus of screams, some to remain soaring overhead, others flying altogether out of sight. The water is left without a ripple, and so clear that the spectators on shore, from their elevated point of view, can see to its bottom, all around the shore where it is shallow. They now observe fish of several sorts swimming affrightedly to and fro, and see them as plainly as through the glass walls of an aquarium.Soon the fish-hunters, having completed their “cordon,” and dropped the dogs overboard, come on up the cove, the women plying the paddles, the men with javelins upraised, ready for darting. The little foxy dogs swim abreast of and between the canoes, driving the fish before them, as sheep-dogs drive sheep, one or another diving under at intervals to intercept such as attempt to escape outward. For in the translucent water they can see the fish far ahead, and, trained to the work, they keep guard against a break from these through the enclosing line. Soon the fish are forced up to the inner end of the cove, where it is shoalest, and then the work of slaughter commences. The dusky fishermen, standing in the canoes and bending over, now to this side, now that, plunge down their spears and fizgigs,rarely failing to bring up a fish of one sort or another; the struggling victim shaken off into the bottom of the canoe, there gets its death-blow from the boys.For nearly an hour the curious aquatic chase is carried on, not in silence, but amid a chorus of deafening noises—the shouts of the savages and the barking and yelping of their dogs mingling with the shrieking of the seabirds overhead. And thrice is the cove “drawn” by the canoes, which are taken back to its mouth, the line re-formed, and the process repeated till a good supply of the fish best worth catching has been secured.And now the spectators of the strange scene await with dread anticipation the approaching crisis. Will the savage fishermen come ashore, or go off without landing? In the former event, the castaways have small hope of remaining undiscovered. True, they are well concealed, not an inch of face or person is exposed; the captain and Seagriff alone are cautiously doing the vidette duty. Still, should the Fuegians come on shore, it must be at the ledge of rocks where of late lay the boat, the only possible beaching-place, and not half a stone’s throw from the spot where they are concealed.“The thing we’ve most to be afeerd of is thar dogs,” mutters Seagriff. “Ef they should land, the little curs’ll be sure to scent us. An’—sakes alive!—what’s that?”The final exclamation, though involuntarily uttered aloud, is not heard, even by those standing beside him. Had it been the loudest shout it could not have been distinguished amid the noise that called forth and accompanied it, for it is drowned by the noise that called it forth. A thundering crash, followed by a loud crackling which continues for several seconds, and during its continuance drowning all other sounds. There is no mystery about it, however; it is but a falling tree—the one behind which “the doctor” had been standing, his hands pressed against it for support. Yielding to curiosity, he had been peering around its trunk contrary to orders, a disobedience that has cost him dear; for, as if in punishment, his bulky body has gone along with the tree, face foremost, and far down the slope.Lost to sight in the cloud of dust that has puffed up over it, all believe him killed, crushed, buried amid thedébrisof shattered branches. But no! In a trice he is seen on his feet again coming out of the dust-cloud, no longer with a black skin, but chocolate-brown all over, woolly pate and clothing included, as though he had been for days buried in tan-bark! sneezing too, with violence. It is a spectacle to make the most sober-sided laugh, but the occasion is not one for merriment. All are too alarmed for that now, feeling sure of being discovered by the savages. How can it be otherwise, after such a catastrophe—nature itself, as it were, betraying them?Yet to their pleased surprise it proves otherwise, and on the dust settling down, they see the savages still in their canoes, with not a face turned toward the land, none, at least, seeming to heed what has happened. The old sealer, however, is not surprised at their indifference, guessing its cause. He knows that in the weird forests of Tierra del Fuego there is many a tree standing, to all appearance sound in trunk, branches, everything, yet rotten from bark to heartwood, and ready to topple over at the slightest touch, even if but a gun be rested against it. The fall of such trees being a thing of common occurrence, and the natives accustomed to it, they never give it a second thought. The fishers in the canoes have not heeded it, while the sneezing of Caesar has been unheard by them amid the noises made by themselves, their dogs, and the shrieking seabirds still in fullfracasoverhead.In the end, the very thing by which the castaways feared betrayal proves their salvation; for the Fuegians do land at length, and on the ledge. But, luckily, they do not stay on shore for any great time—only long enough to make partition of their spoil and roughly clean the fish. By good luck, also, the bits of fish thrown to them fully engage the attention of the dogs, which otherwise would have strayed inland, and so have come upon the party in hiding.But perhaps the best instance of favouring fortune is the tree pushed down by “the doctor,” this having fallen right over the ground of the abandoned camp, and covered under a mass of rotten wood and dust the place where the tent stood, the fire-hearth, half-consumed faggots, everything. But for this well-timed obliteration, the sharp-eyed savages could not have failed to note the traces of its recent occupancy. As it is, they have no suspicion either of that or of the proximity of those who occupied it, so much engrossed are they with the product of their fish-hunt, a catch unusually large.Still, the apprehensions of the concealed spectators are not the less keen, and to them it is a period of dread, irksome suspense, emphatically amauvais quart d’heure. But, fortunately, it lasts not much longer. To their unspeakable delight, they at length see the savages bundle back into their canoes, and, pushing off, paddle away out of the cove.As the last boat-load of them disappears around the point of rocks, Captain Gancy fervently exclaims, “Again we may thank the Lord for deliverance!”

Yes, the savages are once more in sight, a canoe-full of them just appearing around the point of the cliff, closely followed by another, and another, till four are under view in front of the cove. They are as yet far out on the sea-arm; but as they have come along it from the west, the castaways suppose them to be some of their late assailants, still persistently continuing the pursuit.

But no! Captain Gancy, quickly sighting through his binocular, declares them different—at least, in their array. They are not all men, more than half being women and children, while no warlike insignia can be discerned—neither white feathers nor chalked faces.

Seagriff, in turn taking the glass, further makes out that the men have fish-spears in their hands, and an implement he recognises as afizgig, while the heads of dogs appear over the gunwales of the canoes, nearly a dozen in each.

“It’s a fishin’ party,” he pronounces. “For all thet, we’d best make a hide of it; thar’s no trustin’ ’em, anyway, so long as they think they hev the upper hand. A good thing our fire has gone out, else they’d ’a’ spied it afore this. An’ lucky the bushes be in front, or they’d see us now. Mebbe they’ll pass on along the arm, an’— No! they’re turnin’ in toward the cove!”

This can be told by the apparent shortening of the canoes, as they are brought head around toward the inlet.

Following the old sealer’s advice, earnestly urged, all slip back among the trees, the low-hanging branches of which afford a screen for concealment like a closed curtain. The bundles are taken away, and the camp-ground is cleared of everything likely to betray its having been lately occupied by white people. All this they are enabled to do without being seen by the savages, a fringe of evergreens between the camp-ground and the water effectually masking their movements.

“But shouldn’t we go farther up?” says the skipper, interrogating Seagriff. “Why not keep on over the hill?”

“No, Captin’; we mustn’t move from hyar. We couldn’t, ’ithout makin’ sech a racket ez they’d be sure to hear. Besides, thar’s bare spots above, whar they mout sight us from out on the water; an’ ef they did, distance wouldn’t sarve us a bit. The Feweegins kin climb up the steepest places, like squir’ls up a tree. Once seen by ’em, we’d stan’ no chance with ’em in a run. Ther’fore, we’d better abide quietly hyar. Mebbe, arter all, they mayn’t come ashore. ’Tain’t one o’ thar landin’-places or we’d ’a’ foun’ traces of ’em. The trees would ’a’ been barked all about. Oh, I see what they’re up to now. A fish-hunt—surround wi’ thar dogs. Thet’s thar bizness in the cove.”

By this, the four canoes have arrived at the entrance to the inlet, and are forming in line across it at equal distances from one another, as if to bar the way against anything that may attempt to pass outward. Just such is their design, the fish being what they purpose enfilading.

At sight of them and the columns of ascending smoke, the pelicans and other fishing-birds take flight in a chorus of screams, some to remain soaring overhead, others flying altogether out of sight. The water is left without a ripple, and so clear that the spectators on shore, from their elevated point of view, can see to its bottom, all around the shore where it is shallow. They now observe fish of several sorts swimming affrightedly to and fro, and see them as plainly as through the glass walls of an aquarium.

Soon the fish-hunters, having completed their “cordon,” and dropped the dogs overboard, come on up the cove, the women plying the paddles, the men with javelins upraised, ready for darting. The little foxy dogs swim abreast of and between the canoes, driving the fish before them, as sheep-dogs drive sheep, one or another diving under at intervals to intercept such as attempt to escape outward. For in the translucent water they can see the fish far ahead, and, trained to the work, they keep guard against a break from these through the enclosing line. Soon the fish are forced up to the inner end of the cove, where it is shoalest, and then the work of slaughter commences. The dusky fishermen, standing in the canoes and bending over, now to this side, now that, plunge down their spears and fizgigs,rarely failing to bring up a fish of one sort or another; the struggling victim shaken off into the bottom of the canoe, there gets its death-blow from the boys.

For nearly an hour the curious aquatic chase is carried on, not in silence, but amid a chorus of deafening noises—the shouts of the savages and the barking and yelping of their dogs mingling with the shrieking of the seabirds overhead. And thrice is the cove “drawn” by the canoes, which are taken back to its mouth, the line re-formed, and the process repeated till a good supply of the fish best worth catching has been secured.

And now the spectators of the strange scene await with dread anticipation the approaching crisis. Will the savage fishermen come ashore, or go off without landing? In the former event, the castaways have small hope of remaining undiscovered. True, they are well concealed, not an inch of face or person is exposed; the captain and Seagriff alone are cautiously doing the vidette duty. Still, should the Fuegians come on shore, it must be at the ledge of rocks where of late lay the boat, the only possible beaching-place, and not half a stone’s throw from the spot where they are concealed.

“The thing we’ve most to be afeerd of is thar dogs,” mutters Seagriff. “Ef they should land, the little curs’ll be sure to scent us. An’—sakes alive!—what’s that?”

The final exclamation, though involuntarily uttered aloud, is not heard, even by those standing beside him. Had it been the loudest shout it could not have been distinguished amid the noise that called forth and accompanied it, for it is drowned by the noise that called it forth. A thundering crash, followed by a loud crackling which continues for several seconds, and during its continuance drowning all other sounds. There is no mystery about it, however; it is but a falling tree—the one behind which “the doctor” had been standing, his hands pressed against it for support. Yielding to curiosity, he had been peering around its trunk contrary to orders, a disobedience that has cost him dear; for, as if in punishment, his bulky body has gone along with the tree, face foremost, and far down the slope.

Lost to sight in the cloud of dust that has puffed up over it, all believe him killed, crushed, buried amid thedébrisof shattered branches. But no! In a trice he is seen on his feet again coming out of the dust-cloud, no longer with a black skin, but chocolate-brown all over, woolly pate and clothing included, as though he had been for days buried in tan-bark! sneezing too, with violence. It is a spectacle to make the most sober-sided laugh, but the occasion is not one for merriment. All are too alarmed for that now, feeling sure of being discovered by the savages. How can it be otherwise, after such a catastrophe—nature itself, as it were, betraying them?

Yet to their pleased surprise it proves otherwise, and on the dust settling down, they see the savages still in their canoes, with not a face turned toward the land, none, at least, seeming to heed what has happened. The old sealer, however, is not surprised at their indifference, guessing its cause. He knows that in the weird forests of Tierra del Fuego there is many a tree standing, to all appearance sound in trunk, branches, everything, yet rotten from bark to heartwood, and ready to topple over at the slightest touch, even if but a gun be rested against it. The fall of such trees being a thing of common occurrence, and the natives accustomed to it, they never give it a second thought. The fishers in the canoes have not heeded it, while the sneezing of Caesar has been unheard by them amid the noises made by themselves, their dogs, and the shrieking seabirds still in fullfracasoverhead.

In the end, the very thing by which the castaways feared betrayal proves their salvation; for the Fuegians do land at length, and on the ledge. But, luckily, they do not stay on shore for any great time—only long enough to make partition of their spoil and roughly clean the fish. By good luck, also, the bits of fish thrown to them fully engage the attention of the dogs, which otherwise would have strayed inland, and so have come upon the party in hiding.

But perhaps the best instance of favouring fortune is the tree pushed down by “the doctor,” this having fallen right over the ground of the abandoned camp, and covered under a mass of rotten wood and dust the place where the tent stood, the fire-hearth, half-consumed faggots, everything. But for this well-timed obliteration, the sharp-eyed savages could not have failed to note the traces of its recent occupancy. As it is, they have no suspicion either of that or of the proximity of those who occupied it, so much engrossed are they with the product of their fish-hunt, a catch unusually large.

Still, the apprehensions of the concealed spectators are not the less keen, and to them it is a period of dread, irksome suspense, emphatically amauvais quart d’heure. But, fortunately, it lasts not much longer. To their unspeakable delight, they at length see the savages bundle back into their canoes, and, pushing off, paddle away out of the cove.

As the last boat-load of them disappears around the point of rocks, Captain Gancy fervently exclaims, “Again we may thank the Lord for deliverance!”

Chapter Fifteen.A Rough Overland Route.As soon as they are convinced that the canoes are gone for good, Seagriff counsels immediate setting out on the journey so unexpectedly delayed. It is now noon, and it may be night ere they reach their destination. So says he, an assertion that seems strange, as he admits the distance may be but a few hundred yards, certainly not over a mile.They are about taking up their bundles to start, when a circumstance arises that causes further delay; this time, however, a voluntary and agreeable one. In a last glance given to the cove ere leaving it, two flocks of gulls are seen, each squabbling about something that floats on the surface of the water. Something white, which proves to be a dead fish, or rather a couple of them, which have been overlooked by the hunter-fishermen. They are too large for the gulls to lift and carry away; hence a crowd of the birds are buffeting their wings in conflict above them.“A bit of rare good luck for us!” cries young Gancy, dropping a pair of oars he has shouldered. “Come, Harry! we’ll go a-fishing, too.”The English youth takes the hint, and, without another word, both rush down to the water’s edge, where, stripping off coats, shoes, and otherimpedimenta, they plunge in.In a few seconds the fish are reached and secured, to the great grief and anger of the gulls, who, now screaming furiously, wheel round the heads of the swimmers until they are on shore again.Worth all their trouble is the spoil retrieved, as the fish prove to be a species of mullet, each of them over six pounds in weight.Now assured of having something to eat at the end of their journey, they set out in much better spirits. But they make not many steps—if steps they can be called—before discovering the difficulties at which the old sealer has hinted, saying, “ye’ll see.” Steps, indeed! Their progress is more a sprawl than a walk; a continuous climb and scramble over trunks of fallen trees, many so decayed as to give way under their weight, letting them down to their armpits in a mass of sodden stuff, as soft as mud, and equally bedaubing. Even if disposed, they could no longer laugh at the cook’s changed colour, all of them now showing much the same.But no place could be less incentive to laughter than that which they are in. The humid atmosphere around them has a cold, clammy feel, and the light is no better than shadowy twilight. A weird, unearthly silence pervades it, only broken by the harsh twitter of a diminutive bird—a species of creeper—that keeps them company on the way, the dismalwoo-woo-aof an owl, and, at intervals, the rattling call-note of the Fuegian woodpecker. The last, though laugh-like in itself, is anything but provocative of mirth in those who listen to it, knowing that it is a sound peculiar to the loneliest, gloomiest recesses of the forests.After toiling up the steep acclivity for nearly two hours, they arrive at a point where the tall timber abruptly ends. There are trees beyond—beeches, like the others, but so dwarfed and stunted as to better deserve the name of bushes. Bushes oflow growth, but of ample spread; for in height, less than twenty inches, while their branches extend horizontally to more than that number of feet! They are as thickly branched as the box-edging of a garden walk, and so interwoven with several species of shrubs—arbutus, berberis, chamatis, donaria, and escalonia—as to present a smooth matted surface, seemingly that of the ground itself, under a close-cropped sward.Mistaking it for this, the two young men, who are in the lead, glad at having escaped from the gloom of the forest with its many obstructions, gleefully strike out into what they believe to be open ground, only to find their belief a delusion, and the path as difficult as ever. For now it is over the tops of growing trees instead of the trunks of fallen ones, both alike impracticable. Every now and then their feet break through and become entangled, their trousers are torn and their shins scratched by the thorns of the berberries.The others, following, fare a little better, from being forewarned, and proceeding with greater caution. But for all it is a troublesome march, calling for agility. Now a quick rush, as if over thin ice or a treacherous quagmire; anon, a trip-up and tumble, with a spell of floundering before feet can be recovered.Fortunately, the belt of Lilliputian forest is of no great breadth, and beyond it, higher up, they come upon firmer ground, nearly bare of vegetation, which continues to the summit of the ridge.Reaching this at length, they get a scenic view of “Fireland,” grander than any yet revealed to them. Mountains to the north, mountains to the south, east, and west; mountains piled on mountains all around, of every form and altitude. There are domes, cones, and pyramids; ridges with terraced sides and table-tops; peaks, spires, and castellated pinnacles, some of them having resemblance to artificial masonwork, as if of Titans! In the midst of this picturesque conglomeration, towering conspicuously above all, as a giant over ordinary men, is the snow-cone of Mount Darwin, on the opposite side of the strait, fit mate for Sarmiento, seen in the same range, north-westward. Intersecting the mountain chains, and trending in every direction, are deep ravine-like valleys, some with sloping sides thickly-wooded, others presenting façades of sheer cliffs, with rocks bare and black. Most of them are narrow, dark, and dismal, save where illumined by glaciers, from whose glistening surface of milky-white and beryl-blue the sun’s rays are vividly reflected. Nor are they valleys at all, but are arms of the sea, straits, sounds, channels, bays, inlets, many of them with water as deep as the ocean itself. Of every conceivable shape and trend are they; so ramifying and communicating with one another, that Tierra del Fuego, long supposed to be a mainland, is but an archipelago of islands closely clustered together.From their high point of view on the ridge’s crest, the castaways see a reach of water wider than the sea-arm immediately beneath them, of which, however, it is a continuation. It extends eastward beyond the verge of vision, all the way straight as an artificial canal, and so like one in other ways as to suggest the idea of having been dug by the same Titans who did the masonwork on the mountains. It occupies the entire attention of Seagriff, who, looking along it toward the east, at length says, “Thet’s the Beagle Channel; the way we were to hev gone but fur the swampin’ of our boat. An’ to think we’d ’a’ been runnin’ ’long it now, ’nstead o’ stannin’ helpless hyar! Jest our luck!”To his bitter reflection no one makes response. Captain Gancy is too busy with his binocular, examining the shores of the sea-arm, while the others, fatigued by their long arduous climb, are seated upon rocks at some distance off, resting.After a time the skipper, re-slinging his glass, makes known the result of his observation, saying, “I can see nothing of the canoes anywhere. Probably they’ve put into some other cove along shore to the westward. At all events, we may as well keep on down.”And down they go, the descent proving quicker and easier than the ascent. Not that the path is less steep or beset with fewer obstructions, but their tumbles are now all in the right direction, with no backward slidings. Forward falls they have and many; every now and then a wild up-throwing of arms ends with a fall at full length upon the face. They succeed, however, in reaching the water’s edge again without serious injury received by any, though all are looking very wet, draggled, and dirty.At the place where they have now reached the beach, there is a slight curving indentation in the shore-line; not enough to be called a bay, nor to interfere with their chance of being seen by any ship that may pass along the strait. It might be supposed they would choose the most conspicuous point for their new encampment. But their choice is influenced by other considerations; chief of these being the fact that near the centre of the curve they find a spot altogether suited to their purpose—a little platform, high and dry, itself clear of trees, but surrounded and sheltered by them.That they are not the first human beings to set foot on it is evinced by the skeleton of a wigwam found standing there, while on the beach below is a heap of shells recognisable as a “kitchen midden.” (Note 1.) These evidences of former occupancy also proclaim it of old date. The floor of the wigwam is overgrown with grass and weeds, while the shell-heap is also covered with greenery, the growth upon it being wild celery and scurvy-grass, two species of plants that give promise of future utility. Like promise is there in another object near at hand—a bed of kelp, off shore, just opposite, marking a reef, the rocks of which will evidently be bare at ebb-tide. From this shell-fish may be taken, as they have been before, being, no doubt, theraison d’êtreof the wigwam and “kitchen midden.”In addition to these advantages, the beech-apples and berries are as plentiful here as at the encampment in the cove, with still another species found not far-off. At the western extremity of the indentation a slightly elevated ridge projects out into the water, treeless, but overgrown with bushes of low stature, which are thickly covered with what at a distance appear to be bunches of red blossoms, but on closer inspection prove to be berries—cranberries.Per contrato all these advantages, other indications about the place are not so pleasing. The wigwam tells of their still being in the territory of the hostile tribe from which they so miraculously escaped.“Ailikoleep!” is the exclamation of Seagriff, as soon as he sets eyes on it; “we’re in the country o’ the rascally savagers yit!”“How do you know that?” inquires the skipper.“By the build o’ thet wigwam, an’ the bulk of it. Ez ye see, it’s roun’-topped, whereas them o’ the Tekineekers, an’ other Feweegins, run up to a sharp p’int, besides bein’ bigger an’ roomier. Thar’s another sign, too, of its bein’ Ailikoleep. They kiver thar wigwams wi’ seal-skins, ’stead o’ grass, which the Tekineekas use. Ef this hed been thatched wi’ grass, we’d see some o’ the rubbish inside, an’ the floor ’d be hollered out—which it’s not. Yes, the folks that squatted hyar hev been Ailikoleeps. But ’tain’t no surprise to me, ez I heern some words pass ’mong the fishin’ party, which show’d ’em to be thet same. Wal,” he continues, more hopefully, “thar’s one good thing: they haven’t set fut on this groun’ fur a long while, which air some airnest o’ thar hevin’ gi’n the place up fur good. Those dead woods tell o’ thar last doin’s about hyar.”He points to some trees standing near, dead, and with most of the bark stripped from their trunks.“They’ve peeled ’em fur patchin’ thar canoes, an’ by the look of it, thet barkin’ was done more’n three years ago.”What he says does little to restore confidence. The fact of the fishing party having been Ailikoleeps is too sure evidence that danger is still impending. And such danger! It only needs recalling the late attack—the fiendish aspect of the savages, with their furious shouts and gestures, the darting of javelins and hurling of stones—to fully realise what it is. With that fearful episode fresh in their thoughts, the castaways require no further counsel to make them cautious in their future movements.The first of them is the pitching their tent, which is set up so as to be screened from view of any canoe passing along the sea-arm; and for their better accommodation, the wigwam is re-roofed, as it, too, is invisible from the water. No fire is to be made during daylight, lest its smoke should betray them; and when kindled at night for cooking purposes, it must be done within the wood, whence not a glimmer of it may escape outward. A lookout is to be constantly kept through the glass by one or another taking it in turns, to look out, not alone for enemies, but for friends—for that ship which they still hope may come along the Beagle Channel.Note 1. These shell-heaps, or “kitchen middens,” are a feature of Fuegian scenery. They are usually found wherever there is a patch of shore level enough to land upon; but the beach opposite a bed of kelp is the place where the largest are met with. In such situations the skeletons of old wigwams are also encountered, as the Fuegians, on deserting them, always leave them standing, probably from some superstitious feeling.

As soon as they are convinced that the canoes are gone for good, Seagriff counsels immediate setting out on the journey so unexpectedly delayed. It is now noon, and it may be night ere they reach their destination. So says he, an assertion that seems strange, as he admits the distance may be but a few hundred yards, certainly not over a mile.

They are about taking up their bundles to start, when a circumstance arises that causes further delay; this time, however, a voluntary and agreeable one. In a last glance given to the cove ere leaving it, two flocks of gulls are seen, each squabbling about something that floats on the surface of the water. Something white, which proves to be a dead fish, or rather a couple of them, which have been overlooked by the hunter-fishermen. They are too large for the gulls to lift and carry away; hence a crowd of the birds are buffeting their wings in conflict above them.

“A bit of rare good luck for us!” cries young Gancy, dropping a pair of oars he has shouldered. “Come, Harry! we’ll go a-fishing, too.”

The English youth takes the hint, and, without another word, both rush down to the water’s edge, where, stripping off coats, shoes, and otherimpedimenta, they plunge in.

In a few seconds the fish are reached and secured, to the great grief and anger of the gulls, who, now screaming furiously, wheel round the heads of the swimmers until they are on shore again.

Worth all their trouble is the spoil retrieved, as the fish prove to be a species of mullet, each of them over six pounds in weight.

Now assured of having something to eat at the end of their journey, they set out in much better spirits. But they make not many steps—if steps they can be called—before discovering the difficulties at which the old sealer has hinted, saying, “ye’ll see.” Steps, indeed! Their progress is more a sprawl than a walk; a continuous climb and scramble over trunks of fallen trees, many so decayed as to give way under their weight, letting them down to their armpits in a mass of sodden stuff, as soft as mud, and equally bedaubing. Even if disposed, they could no longer laugh at the cook’s changed colour, all of them now showing much the same.

But no place could be less incentive to laughter than that which they are in. The humid atmosphere around them has a cold, clammy feel, and the light is no better than shadowy twilight. A weird, unearthly silence pervades it, only broken by the harsh twitter of a diminutive bird—a species of creeper—that keeps them company on the way, the dismalwoo-woo-aof an owl, and, at intervals, the rattling call-note of the Fuegian woodpecker. The last, though laugh-like in itself, is anything but provocative of mirth in those who listen to it, knowing that it is a sound peculiar to the loneliest, gloomiest recesses of the forests.

After toiling up the steep acclivity for nearly two hours, they arrive at a point where the tall timber abruptly ends. There are trees beyond—beeches, like the others, but so dwarfed and stunted as to better deserve the name of bushes. Bushes oflow growth, but of ample spread; for in height, less than twenty inches, while their branches extend horizontally to more than that number of feet! They are as thickly branched as the box-edging of a garden walk, and so interwoven with several species of shrubs—arbutus, berberis, chamatis, donaria, and escalonia—as to present a smooth matted surface, seemingly that of the ground itself, under a close-cropped sward.

Mistaking it for this, the two young men, who are in the lead, glad at having escaped from the gloom of the forest with its many obstructions, gleefully strike out into what they believe to be open ground, only to find their belief a delusion, and the path as difficult as ever. For now it is over the tops of growing trees instead of the trunks of fallen ones, both alike impracticable. Every now and then their feet break through and become entangled, their trousers are torn and their shins scratched by the thorns of the berberries.

The others, following, fare a little better, from being forewarned, and proceeding with greater caution. But for all it is a troublesome march, calling for agility. Now a quick rush, as if over thin ice or a treacherous quagmire; anon, a trip-up and tumble, with a spell of floundering before feet can be recovered.

Fortunately, the belt of Lilliputian forest is of no great breadth, and beyond it, higher up, they come upon firmer ground, nearly bare of vegetation, which continues to the summit of the ridge.

Reaching this at length, they get a scenic view of “Fireland,” grander than any yet revealed to them. Mountains to the north, mountains to the south, east, and west; mountains piled on mountains all around, of every form and altitude. There are domes, cones, and pyramids; ridges with terraced sides and table-tops; peaks, spires, and castellated pinnacles, some of them having resemblance to artificial masonwork, as if of Titans! In the midst of this picturesque conglomeration, towering conspicuously above all, as a giant over ordinary men, is the snow-cone of Mount Darwin, on the opposite side of the strait, fit mate for Sarmiento, seen in the same range, north-westward. Intersecting the mountain chains, and trending in every direction, are deep ravine-like valleys, some with sloping sides thickly-wooded, others presenting façades of sheer cliffs, with rocks bare and black. Most of them are narrow, dark, and dismal, save where illumined by glaciers, from whose glistening surface of milky-white and beryl-blue the sun’s rays are vividly reflected. Nor are they valleys at all, but are arms of the sea, straits, sounds, channels, bays, inlets, many of them with water as deep as the ocean itself. Of every conceivable shape and trend are they; so ramifying and communicating with one another, that Tierra del Fuego, long supposed to be a mainland, is but an archipelago of islands closely clustered together.

From their high point of view on the ridge’s crest, the castaways see a reach of water wider than the sea-arm immediately beneath them, of which, however, it is a continuation. It extends eastward beyond the verge of vision, all the way straight as an artificial canal, and so like one in other ways as to suggest the idea of having been dug by the same Titans who did the masonwork on the mountains. It occupies the entire attention of Seagriff, who, looking along it toward the east, at length says, “Thet’s the Beagle Channel; the way we were to hev gone but fur the swampin’ of our boat. An’ to think we’d ’a’ been runnin’ ’long it now, ’nstead o’ stannin’ helpless hyar! Jest our luck!”

To his bitter reflection no one makes response. Captain Gancy is too busy with his binocular, examining the shores of the sea-arm, while the others, fatigued by their long arduous climb, are seated upon rocks at some distance off, resting.

After a time the skipper, re-slinging his glass, makes known the result of his observation, saying, “I can see nothing of the canoes anywhere. Probably they’ve put into some other cove along shore to the westward. At all events, we may as well keep on down.”

And down they go, the descent proving quicker and easier than the ascent. Not that the path is less steep or beset with fewer obstructions, but their tumbles are now all in the right direction, with no backward slidings. Forward falls they have and many; every now and then a wild up-throwing of arms ends with a fall at full length upon the face. They succeed, however, in reaching the water’s edge again without serious injury received by any, though all are looking very wet, draggled, and dirty.

At the place where they have now reached the beach, there is a slight curving indentation in the shore-line; not enough to be called a bay, nor to interfere with their chance of being seen by any ship that may pass along the strait. It might be supposed they would choose the most conspicuous point for their new encampment. But their choice is influenced by other considerations; chief of these being the fact that near the centre of the curve they find a spot altogether suited to their purpose—a little platform, high and dry, itself clear of trees, but surrounded and sheltered by them.

That they are not the first human beings to set foot on it is evinced by the skeleton of a wigwam found standing there, while on the beach below is a heap of shells recognisable as a “kitchen midden.” (Note 1.) These evidences of former occupancy also proclaim it of old date. The floor of the wigwam is overgrown with grass and weeds, while the shell-heap is also covered with greenery, the growth upon it being wild celery and scurvy-grass, two species of plants that give promise of future utility. Like promise is there in another object near at hand—a bed of kelp, off shore, just opposite, marking a reef, the rocks of which will evidently be bare at ebb-tide. From this shell-fish may be taken, as they have been before, being, no doubt, theraison d’êtreof the wigwam and “kitchen midden.”

In addition to these advantages, the beech-apples and berries are as plentiful here as at the encampment in the cove, with still another species found not far-off. At the western extremity of the indentation a slightly elevated ridge projects out into the water, treeless, but overgrown with bushes of low stature, which are thickly covered with what at a distance appear to be bunches of red blossoms, but on closer inspection prove to be berries—cranberries.

Per contrato all these advantages, other indications about the place are not so pleasing. The wigwam tells of their still being in the territory of the hostile tribe from which they so miraculously escaped.

“Ailikoleep!” is the exclamation of Seagriff, as soon as he sets eyes on it; “we’re in the country o’ the rascally savagers yit!”

“How do you know that?” inquires the skipper.

“By the build o’ thet wigwam, an’ the bulk of it. Ez ye see, it’s roun’-topped, whereas them o’ the Tekineekers, an’ other Feweegins, run up to a sharp p’int, besides bein’ bigger an’ roomier. Thar’s another sign, too, of its bein’ Ailikoleep. They kiver thar wigwams wi’ seal-skins, ’stead o’ grass, which the Tekineekas use. Ef this hed been thatched wi’ grass, we’d see some o’ the rubbish inside, an’ the floor ’d be hollered out—which it’s not. Yes, the folks that squatted hyar hev been Ailikoleeps. But ’tain’t no surprise to me, ez I heern some words pass ’mong the fishin’ party, which show’d ’em to be thet same. Wal,” he continues, more hopefully, “thar’s one good thing: they haven’t set fut on this groun’ fur a long while, which air some airnest o’ thar hevin’ gi’n the place up fur good. Those dead woods tell o’ thar last doin’s about hyar.”

He points to some trees standing near, dead, and with most of the bark stripped from their trunks.

“They’ve peeled ’em fur patchin’ thar canoes, an’ by the look of it, thet barkin’ was done more’n three years ago.”

What he says does little to restore confidence. The fact of the fishing party having been Ailikoleeps is too sure evidence that danger is still impending. And such danger! It only needs recalling the late attack—the fiendish aspect of the savages, with their furious shouts and gestures, the darting of javelins and hurling of stones—to fully realise what it is. With that fearful episode fresh in their thoughts, the castaways require no further counsel to make them cautious in their future movements.

The first of them is the pitching their tent, which is set up so as to be screened from view of any canoe passing along the sea-arm; and for their better accommodation, the wigwam is re-roofed, as it, too, is invisible from the water. No fire is to be made during daylight, lest its smoke should betray them; and when kindled at night for cooking purposes, it must be done within the wood, whence not a glimmer of it may escape outward. A lookout is to be constantly kept through the glass by one or another taking it in turns, to look out, not alone for enemies, but for friends—for that ship which they still hope may come along the Beagle Channel.

Note 1. These shell-heaps, or “kitchen middens,” are a feature of Fuegian scenery. They are usually found wherever there is a patch of shore level enough to land upon; but the beach opposite a bed of kelp is the place where the largest are met with. In such situations the skeletons of old wigwams are also encountered, as the Fuegians, on deserting them, always leave them standing, probably from some superstitious feeling.

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