Chapter Six.A Battle with Birds.Through Caesar’s skilful manipulations the sea-water is extracted from the ham, and the coffee, which is in the berry and unroasted, after a course of judicious washing and scorching, is also rendered fit for use. The biscuits also turn out better than was anticipated. So their breakfast is not so bad, after all—indeed, to appetites keen as theirs, it seems a veritable feast.While they are enjoying it, Seagriff tells them something more about the plant which has proved of such opportune service. They learn from him that it grows in the Falkland Islands, as well as in Tierra del Fuego, and is known as the “gum plant,” (Hydrocelice gummifera), because of a viscous substance it exudes in large quantities; this sap is called “balsam,” and is used by the natives of the countries where it is found as a cure for wounds. But its most important property, in their eyes, is the ease with which it can be set on fire, even when green and growing, as above described—a matter of no slight consequence in regions that are deluged with rain five days out of every six. In the Falkland Islands, where there are no trees, the natives often roast their beef over a fire of bones, the very bones of the animal from which, but the moment before, the meat itself was stripped, and they avail themselves of the gum plant to kindle this fire.Just as Seagriff finishes his interesting dissertation, his listeners have their attention called to a spectacle quite new to them, and somewhat comical. Near the spot where they have landed, a naked sand-bar projects into the water, and along this a number of odd-looking creatures are seen standing side by side. There are quite two hundred of them, all facing the same way, mute images of propriety and good deportment, reminding one of a row of little charity children, all in white bibs and tuckers, ranged in a row for inspection.But very different is the behaviour of the birds—for birds they are. One or another, every now and then, raises its head aloft, and so holds it, while giving utterance to a series of cries as hoarse and long-drawn as the braying of an ass, to which sound it bears a ludicrous resemblance.“Jackass penguins,” (Note 1) Seagriff pronounces them, without waiting to be questioned; “yonder ’re more of ’em,” he explains, “out among the kelp, divin’ after shell-fish, the which are their proper food.”The others, looking off toward the kelp, then see more of the birds. They had noticed them before, but supposed them to be fish leaping out of the water, for the penguin, on coming up after a dive, goes down again with so quick a plunge that an observer, even at short distance, may easily mistake it for a fish. Turning to those on the shore, it is now seen that numbers of them are constantly passing in among the tussac-grass and out again, their mode of progression being also very odd. Instead of a walk, hop, or run, as with other birds, it is a sort of rapid rush, in which the rudimentary wings of the birds are used as fore legs, so that, from even a slight distance, they might easily be mistaken for quadrupeds.“It is likely they have their nests yonder,” observed Mrs Gancy, pointing to where the penguins kept going in and out of the tussac.The remark makes a vivid impression on her son and the young Englishman, neither of whom is so old as to have quite outgrown a boyish propensity for nest-robbing.“Sure to have, ma’am,” affirms Seagriff, respectfully raising his hand to his forelock; “an’ a pity we didn’t think of it sooner. We might ’a’ hed fresh eggs for breakfast.”“Why can’t we have them for dinner, then?” demands the second mate; the third adding, “Yes; why not?”“Sartin we kin, young masters. I knows of no reason agin it,” answers the old sealer.“Then let’s go egg-gathering,” exclaimed Ned, eagerly.The proposal is accepted by Seagriff, who is about to set out with the two youths, when, looking inquiringly round, he says, “As thar ain’t anything in the shape of a stick about, we had best take the boat-hook an’ a couple of oars.”“What for?” ask the others, in some surprise.“You’ll larn, by-an’-bye,” answers the old salt, who, like most of his kind, is somewhat given to mystification.In accordance with this suggestion, each of the boys arms himself with an oar, leaving Seagriff the boat-hook.They enter among the tussac, and after tramping through it a hundred yards or so, they come upon a “penguinnery,” sure enough. It is a grand one, extending over acres, with hundreds of nests—if a slight depression in the naked surface of the ground deserves to be so called. But no eggs are in any of them, fresh or otherwise; instead, in each sits a young, half-fledged bird, and one only, as this kind of penguin lays and hatches but a single egg. Many of the nests have old birds standing beside them, each occupied in feeding its solitary chick, duckling, gosling, or whatever the penguin offspring may be properly called. This being of itself a curious spectacle, the disappointed egg-hunters stop awhile to witness it, for they are still outside the bounds of the “penguinnery,” and the birds have as yet taken no notice of them. By each nest is a little mound, on which the mother stands perched, from time to time projecting her head outward and upward, at the same time giving forth a queer chattering noise, half quack, half bray, with the air of a stump orator haranguing an open-air audience. Meanwhile, the youngster stands patiently waiting below, evidently with a fore-knowledge of what is to come. Then, after a few seconds of the quacking and braying, the mother bird suddenly ducks her head, with the mandibles of her beak wide agape, between which the fledgling thrusts its head, almost out of sight, and so keeps it for more than a minute. Finally, withdrawing it, up again goes the head of the mother, with neck craned out, and oscillating from side to side in a second spell of speech-making. These curious actions are repeated several times, the entire performance lasting for a period of nearly a quarter of an hour. When it ends, possibly from the food supply having become exhausted, the mother bird leaves the little glutton to itself and scuttles off seaward to replenish her throat larder with a fresh stock of molluscs.Although during their long four years’ cruise Edward Gancy and Henry Chester have seen many a strange sight, they think the one now before their eyes as strange as any, and unique in its quaint comicality. They would have continued their observations much longer but for Seagriff, to whom the sight is neither strange nor new. It has no interest for him, save economically, and in this sense he proceeds to utilise it, saying, after an interrogative glance sent all over the breeding-ground, “Sartin, there ain’t a single egg in any o’ the nests. It’s too late in the season for them now, an’ I might ’a’ known it. Wal, we won’t go back empty-handed, anyhow. The young penguins ain’t sech bad eatin’, though the old ’uns taste some’at fishy, b’sides bein’ tough as tan leather. So let’s heave ahead, an’ grab a few of the goslin’s. But look out, or you’ll get your legs nipped!”At which all three advance upon the “penguinnery,” the two youths still incredulous as to there being any danger—in fact, rather under the belief that the old salt is endeavouring to impose on their credulity. But they are soon undeceived. Scarcely have they set foot within the breeding precinct, when fully half a score of old penguins rush fiercely at each of the intruders, with necks outstretched, mouths open, and mandibles snapping together with a clatter like that of castanets.Then follows a laying about with oars and boat-hook, accompanied by shouts on the side of the attacking party, and hoarse, guttural screams on that of the attacked. The racket is kept up till the latter are at length beaten off, though but few of them are slain outright; for the jackass penguin, with its thick skull and dense coat of feathers, takes as much killing as a cat.The young birds, too, make resistance against being captured, croaking and hissing like so many little ganders, and biting sharply. But all this does not prevent our determined party from finally securing some ten or twelve of the featherless creatures, and subsequently carrying them to the friends at the shore, where they are delivered into the eager hands of Caesar.Note 1.Aptenodytes Patachonica. This singular bird has been christened “Jackass penguin” by sailors, on account of its curious note, which bears an odd resemblance to the bray of an ass. “King penguin” is another of its names, from its superior size, as it is the largest of the auk or penguin family.
Through Caesar’s skilful manipulations the sea-water is extracted from the ham, and the coffee, which is in the berry and unroasted, after a course of judicious washing and scorching, is also rendered fit for use. The biscuits also turn out better than was anticipated. So their breakfast is not so bad, after all—indeed, to appetites keen as theirs, it seems a veritable feast.
While they are enjoying it, Seagriff tells them something more about the plant which has proved of such opportune service. They learn from him that it grows in the Falkland Islands, as well as in Tierra del Fuego, and is known as the “gum plant,” (Hydrocelice gummifera), because of a viscous substance it exudes in large quantities; this sap is called “balsam,” and is used by the natives of the countries where it is found as a cure for wounds. But its most important property, in their eyes, is the ease with which it can be set on fire, even when green and growing, as above described—a matter of no slight consequence in regions that are deluged with rain five days out of every six. In the Falkland Islands, where there are no trees, the natives often roast their beef over a fire of bones, the very bones of the animal from which, but the moment before, the meat itself was stripped, and they avail themselves of the gum plant to kindle this fire.
Just as Seagriff finishes his interesting dissertation, his listeners have their attention called to a spectacle quite new to them, and somewhat comical. Near the spot where they have landed, a naked sand-bar projects into the water, and along this a number of odd-looking creatures are seen standing side by side. There are quite two hundred of them, all facing the same way, mute images of propriety and good deportment, reminding one of a row of little charity children, all in white bibs and tuckers, ranged in a row for inspection.
But very different is the behaviour of the birds—for birds they are. One or another, every now and then, raises its head aloft, and so holds it, while giving utterance to a series of cries as hoarse and long-drawn as the braying of an ass, to which sound it bears a ludicrous resemblance.
“Jackass penguins,” (Note 1) Seagriff pronounces them, without waiting to be questioned; “yonder ’re more of ’em,” he explains, “out among the kelp, divin’ after shell-fish, the which are their proper food.”
The others, looking off toward the kelp, then see more of the birds. They had noticed them before, but supposed them to be fish leaping out of the water, for the penguin, on coming up after a dive, goes down again with so quick a plunge that an observer, even at short distance, may easily mistake it for a fish. Turning to those on the shore, it is now seen that numbers of them are constantly passing in among the tussac-grass and out again, their mode of progression being also very odd. Instead of a walk, hop, or run, as with other birds, it is a sort of rapid rush, in which the rudimentary wings of the birds are used as fore legs, so that, from even a slight distance, they might easily be mistaken for quadrupeds.
“It is likely they have their nests yonder,” observed Mrs Gancy, pointing to where the penguins kept going in and out of the tussac.
The remark makes a vivid impression on her son and the young Englishman, neither of whom is so old as to have quite outgrown a boyish propensity for nest-robbing.
“Sure to have, ma’am,” affirms Seagriff, respectfully raising his hand to his forelock; “an’ a pity we didn’t think of it sooner. We might ’a’ hed fresh eggs for breakfast.”
“Why can’t we have them for dinner, then?” demands the second mate; the third adding, “Yes; why not?”
“Sartin we kin, young masters. I knows of no reason agin it,” answers the old sealer.
“Then let’s go egg-gathering,” exclaimed Ned, eagerly.
The proposal is accepted by Seagriff, who is about to set out with the two youths, when, looking inquiringly round, he says, “As thar ain’t anything in the shape of a stick about, we had best take the boat-hook an’ a couple of oars.”
“What for?” ask the others, in some surprise.
“You’ll larn, by-an’-bye,” answers the old salt, who, like most of his kind, is somewhat given to mystification.
In accordance with this suggestion, each of the boys arms himself with an oar, leaving Seagriff the boat-hook.
They enter among the tussac, and after tramping through it a hundred yards or so, they come upon a “penguinnery,” sure enough. It is a grand one, extending over acres, with hundreds of nests—if a slight depression in the naked surface of the ground deserves to be so called. But no eggs are in any of them, fresh or otherwise; instead, in each sits a young, half-fledged bird, and one only, as this kind of penguin lays and hatches but a single egg. Many of the nests have old birds standing beside them, each occupied in feeding its solitary chick, duckling, gosling, or whatever the penguin offspring may be properly called. This being of itself a curious spectacle, the disappointed egg-hunters stop awhile to witness it, for they are still outside the bounds of the “penguinnery,” and the birds have as yet taken no notice of them. By each nest is a little mound, on which the mother stands perched, from time to time projecting her head outward and upward, at the same time giving forth a queer chattering noise, half quack, half bray, with the air of a stump orator haranguing an open-air audience. Meanwhile, the youngster stands patiently waiting below, evidently with a fore-knowledge of what is to come. Then, after a few seconds of the quacking and braying, the mother bird suddenly ducks her head, with the mandibles of her beak wide agape, between which the fledgling thrusts its head, almost out of sight, and so keeps it for more than a minute. Finally, withdrawing it, up again goes the head of the mother, with neck craned out, and oscillating from side to side in a second spell of speech-making. These curious actions are repeated several times, the entire performance lasting for a period of nearly a quarter of an hour. When it ends, possibly from the food supply having become exhausted, the mother bird leaves the little glutton to itself and scuttles off seaward to replenish her throat larder with a fresh stock of molluscs.
Although during their long four years’ cruise Edward Gancy and Henry Chester have seen many a strange sight, they think the one now before their eyes as strange as any, and unique in its quaint comicality. They would have continued their observations much longer but for Seagriff, to whom the sight is neither strange nor new. It has no interest for him, save economically, and in this sense he proceeds to utilise it, saying, after an interrogative glance sent all over the breeding-ground, “Sartin, there ain’t a single egg in any o’ the nests. It’s too late in the season for them now, an’ I might ’a’ known it. Wal, we won’t go back empty-handed, anyhow. The young penguins ain’t sech bad eatin’, though the old ’uns taste some’at fishy, b’sides bein’ tough as tan leather. So let’s heave ahead, an’ grab a few of the goslin’s. But look out, or you’ll get your legs nipped!”
At which all three advance upon the “penguinnery,” the two youths still incredulous as to there being any danger—in fact, rather under the belief that the old salt is endeavouring to impose on their credulity. But they are soon undeceived. Scarcely have they set foot within the breeding precinct, when fully half a score of old penguins rush fiercely at each of the intruders, with necks outstretched, mouths open, and mandibles snapping together with a clatter like that of castanets.
Then follows a laying about with oars and boat-hook, accompanied by shouts on the side of the attacking party, and hoarse, guttural screams on that of the attacked. The racket is kept up till the latter are at length beaten off, though but few of them are slain outright; for the jackass penguin, with its thick skull and dense coat of feathers, takes as much killing as a cat.
The young birds, too, make resistance against being captured, croaking and hissing like so many little ganders, and biting sharply. But all this does not prevent our determined party from finally securing some ten or twelve of the featherless creatures, and subsequently carrying them to the friends at the shore, where they are delivered into the eager hands of Caesar.
Note 1.Aptenodytes Patachonica. This singular bird has been christened “Jackass penguin” by sailors, on account of its curious note, which bears an odd resemblance to the bray of an ass. “King penguin” is another of its names, from its superior size, as it is the largest of the auk or penguin family.
Chapter Seven.A World on a Weed.A pair of penguin “squabs” makes an ample dinner for the entire party, nor is it without the accompaniment of vegetables; these being supplied by the tussac-grass, the stalks of which contain a white edible substance, in taste somewhat resembling a hazel-nut, while the young shoots boiled are almost equal to asparagus. (Note 1.)While seated at their midday meal, they have before their eyes a moving world of nature, such as may be found only in her wildest solitudes. All around the kelp-bed, porpoises are ploughing the water, now and then bounding up out of it; while seals and sea-otters show their human-like heads, swimming among the weeds. Birds hover above in such numbers as to darken the air, some at intervals darting down and going under with a plunge that sends the spray aloft in showers white as a snow-drift. Others do their fishing seated on the water; for there are many different kinds of water-fowl here represented—gulls, shags, cormorants, gannets, noddies, and petrels, with several species ofAnativae, among them the beautiful black-necked swan. Nor are they all seabirds, or exclusively inhabitants of the water. Among those wheeling in the air above is an eagle and a small black vulture, with several sorts of hawks—the last, the Chilianjota(Note 2). Even the gigantic condor often extends its flight to the Land of Fire, whose mountains are but a continuation of the great Andean chain.The ways and movements of this teeming ornithological world are so strange and varied that our castaways, despite all anxiety about their own future, cannot help being interested in observing them. They see a bird of one kind diving and bringing to the surface a fish, which another, of a different species, snatches from it and bears aloft, in its turn to be attacked by a third equally rapacious winged hunter, that, swooping at the robber, makes him forsake his ill-gotten prey, while the prey itself, reluctantly dropped, is dexterously re-caught in its whirling descent long ere it reaches its own element—the whole incident forming a very chain of tyranny and destruction! And yet a chain of but few links compared with that to be found in and under the water, among the leaves and stalks of the kelp itself. There the destroyers and the destroyed are legion, not only in numbers, but in kind. A vast world in itself, so densely populated and of so many varied organisms that, for a due delineation of it, I must again borrow from the inimitable pen of Darwin. Thus he describes it:—“The number of living creatures of all orders, whose existence entirely depends on the kelp, is wonderful. A great volume might be written describing the inhabitants of one of these beds of seaweed. Almost all the leaves, excepting those that float on the surface, are so thickly encrusted with corallines as to be of a white colour. We find exquisitely delicate structures, some inhabited by simple hydra-like polyps, others by more organised kinds. On the leaves, also, various shells, uncovered molluscs, and bivalves are attached. Innumerable Crustacea frequent every part of the plant. On shaking the great entangled roots, a pile of small fish-shells, cuttle-fish, crabs of all orders, sea-eggs, star-fish, sea-cucumbers, and crawling sea-centipedes of a multitude of forms, all fall out together. Often as I recurred to the kelp, I never failed to discover animals of new and curious structures... I can only compare these great aquatic forests of the Southern Hemisphere with the terrestrial ones of the inter-tropical regions. Yet, if in any country a forest were destroyed, I do not believe so many species of animals would perish as would here from the destruction of the kelp. Amidst the leaves of this plant numerous species of fish live, which nowhere else could find food or shelter; with their destruction, the many cormorants and other fishing-birds, the otters, seals, and porpoises, would perish also; and lastly, the Fuegian savage, the miserable lord of this miserable land, would redouble his cannibal feats, decrease in numbers, and perhaps cease to exist.”While still watching the birds at their game of grab, the spectators observe that the kelp-bed has become darker in certain places, as though from the weeds being piled up in swathes.“It’s lowering to ebb-tide,” remarks Captain Gancy, in reply to an interrogation from his wife, “and the rocks are awash. They’ll soon be above water, I take it.”“Jest so, Captain,” assents Seagriff; “but tain’t the weeds that’s makin’ those black spots. They’re movin’ about—don’t you see?”The skipper now observes, as do all the others, a number of odd-looking animals, large-headed, and with long slender bodies, to all appearance covered with a coat of dark brown wool, crawling and floundering about among the kelp, in constantly increasing numbers. Each new ledge of reef, as it rises to the surface, becomes crowded with them, while hundreds of others disport themselves in the pools between.“Fur-seals they are,” (Note 3) pronounces Seagriff, his eyes fixed upon them as eagerly as were those of Tantalus on the forbidden water, “an’ every skin of ’em worth a mint o’ money. Bad luck!” he continues, in a tone of spiteful vexation. “A mine o’ wealth, an’ no chance to work it! Ef we only had the ship by us now, we could put a good thousan’ dollars’ worth o’ thar pelts into it. Jest see how they swarm out yonder! An’ tame as pet tabby cats! There’s enough of ’em to supply seal-skin jackets fur nigh all the women o’ New York!”No one makes rejoinder to the old sealer’s regretful rhapsody. The situation is too grave for them to be thinking of gain by the capture of fur-seals, even though it should prove “a mine of wealth,” as Seagriff called it. Of what value is wealth to them while their very lives are in jeopardy? They were rejoiced when they first set foot on land; but time is passing; they have in part recovered from their fatigue, and the dark, doubtful future is once more uppermost in their minds. They cannot stay for ever on the isle—indeed, they may not be able to remain many days on it, owing to the exhaustion of their limited stock of provisions, if for no other reason. Even could they subsist on penguins’ flesh and tussac-stalks, the young birds, already well feathered, will ere long disappear, while the tender shoots of the grass, growing tougher as it ripens, will in time become altogether uneatable.No; they cannot abide there, and must go elsewhere. But whither? That is the all-absorbing question. Ever since they landed the sky has been overcast, and the distant mainland is barely visible through a misty vapour spread over the sea between. All the better for that, Seagriff has been thinking hitherto, with the Fuegians in his mind.“It’ll hinder ’em seein’ the smoke of our fire,” he said; “the which mout draw ’em on us.”But he has now less fear of this, seeing that which tells him that the isle is never visited by the savages.“They hain’t been on it fur years, anyhow,” he says, reassuring the Captain, who has again taken him aside to talk over the ticklish matter. “I’m sartin they hain’t.”“What makes you certain?” questions the other.“Them ’ere—both of ’em,” nodding first toward the fur-seals and then toward the penguins. “If the Feweegins dar’ fetch thar craft so fur out seaward, neither o’ them ud be so plentiful nor yit so tame. Both sort o’ critters air jest what they sets most store by—yieldin’ ’em not only thar vittels, but sech scant kiver as they’re ’customed to w’ar. No, Capting, the savagers hain’t been out hyar, an’ ain’t a-goin’ to be. An’ I weesh, now,” he continues, glancing up to the sky, “I weesh ’t wud brighten a bit. Wi’ thet fog hidin’ the hills over yonder, ’tain’t possybul to gie a guess az to whar we air. Ef it ud lift, I mout be able to make out some o’ the landmarks. Let’s hope we may hev a cl’ar sky the morrer, an’ a glimp’ o’ the sun to boot.”“Ay, let us hope that,” rejoins the skipper, “and pray for it, as we shall.”The promise is made in all seriousness, Captain Gancy being a religious man. So, on retiring to rest on their shake-down couches of tussac-grass, he summons the little party around him and offers up a prayer for their deliverance from their present danger, not forgetting those in the pinnace; no doubt the first Christian devotion ever heard ascending over that lone desert isle.Note 1. It is the soft, crisp, inner part of the stem, just above the root, that is chiefly eaten. Horses and cattle are very fond of the tussac-grass, and in the Falkland Islands feed upon it. It is said, however, that there it is threatened with extirpation, on account of these animals browsing it too closely. It has been introduced with success into the Hebrides and Orkney Islands, where the conditions of its existence are favourable—a peaty soil, exposed to winds loaded with sea spray.Note 2.Cathartes jota. Closely allied to the “turkey-buzzard” of the United States.Note 3.Otaria Falklandica. There are several distinct species of “otary,” or “fur-seal”; those of the Falkland Islands and Tierra del Fuego being different from the fur-seals of northern latitudes.
A pair of penguin “squabs” makes an ample dinner for the entire party, nor is it without the accompaniment of vegetables; these being supplied by the tussac-grass, the stalks of which contain a white edible substance, in taste somewhat resembling a hazel-nut, while the young shoots boiled are almost equal to asparagus. (Note 1.)
While seated at their midday meal, they have before their eyes a moving world of nature, such as may be found only in her wildest solitudes. All around the kelp-bed, porpoises are ploughing the water, now and then bounding up out of it; while seals and sea-otters show their human-like heads, swimming among the weeds. Birds hover above in such numbers as to darken the air, some at intervals darting down and going under with a plunge that sends the spray aloft in showers white as a snow-drift. Others do their fishing seated on the water; for there are many different kinds of water-fowl here represented—gulls, shags, cormorants, gannets, noddies, and petrels, with several species ofAnativae, among them the beautiful black-necked swan. Nor are they all seabirds, or exclusively inhabitants of the water. Among those wheeling in the air above is an eagle and a small black vulture, with several sorts of hawks—the last, the Chilianjota(Note 2). Even the gigantic condor often extends its flight to the Land of Fire, whose mountains are but a continuation of the great Andean chain.
The ways and movements of this teeming ornithological world are so strange and varied that our castaways, despite all anxiety about their own future, cannot help being interested in observing them. They see a bird of one kind diving and bringing to the surface a fish, which another, of a different species, snatches from it and bears aloft, in its turn to be attacked by a third equally rapacious winged hunter, that, swooping at the robber, makes him forsake his ill-gotten prey, while the prey itself, reluctantly dropped, is dexterously re-caught in its whirling descent long ere it reaches its own element—the whole incident forming a very chain of tyranny and destruction! And yet a chain of but few links compared with that to be found in and under the water, among the leaves and stalks of the kelp itself. There the destroyers and the destroyed are legion, not only in numbers, but in kind. A vast world in itself, so densely populated and of so many varied organisms that, for a due delineation of it, I must again borrow from the inimitable pen of Darwin. Thus he describes it:—
“The number of living creatures of all orders, whose existence entirely depends on the kelp, is wonderful. A great volume might be written describing the inhabitants of one of these beds of seaweed. Almost all the leaves, excepting those that float on the surface, are so thickly encrusted with corallines as to be of a white colour. We find exquisitely delicate structures, some inhabited by simple hydra-like polyps, others by more organised kinds. On the leaves, also, various shells, uncovered molluscs, and bivalves are attached. Innumerable Crustacea frequent every part of the plant. On shaking the great entangled roots, a pile of small fish-shells, cuttle-fish, crabs of all orders, sea-eggs, star-fish, sea-cucumbers, and crawling sea-centipedes of a multitude of forms, all fall out together. Often as I recurred to the kelp, I never failed to discover animals of new and curious structures... I can only compare these great aquatic forests of the Southern Hemisphere with the terrestrial ones of the inter-tropical regions. Yet, if in any country a forest were destroyed, I do not believe so many species of animals would perish as would here from the destruction of the kelp. Amidst the leaves of this plant numerous species of fish live, which nowhere else could find food or shelter; with their destruction, the many cormorants and other fishing-birds, the otters, seals, and porpoises, would perish also; and lastly, the Fuegian savage, the miserable lord of this miserable land, would redouble his cannibal feats, decrease in numbers, and perhaps cease to exist.”
While still watching the birds at their game of grab, the spectators observe that the kelp-bed has become darker in certain places, as though from the weeds being piled up in swathes.
“It’s lowering to ebb-tide,” remarks Captain Gancy, in reply to an interrogation from his wife, “and the rocks are awash. They’ll soon be above water, I take it.”
“Jest so, Captain,” assents Seagriff; “but tain’t the weeds that’s makin’ those black spots. They’re movin’ about—don’t you see?”
The skipper now observes, as do all the others, a number of odd-looking animals, large-headed, and with long slender bodies, to all appearance covered with a coat of dark brown wool, crawling and floundering about among the kelp, in constantly increasing numbers. Each new ledge of reef, as it rises to the surface, becomes crowded with them, while hundreds of others disport themselves in the pools between.
“Fur-seals they are,” (Note 3) pronounces Seagriff, his eyes fixed upon them as eagerly as were those of Tantalus on the forbidden water, “an’ every skin of ’em worth a mint o’ money. Bad luck!” he continues, in a tone of spiteful vexation. “A mine o’ wealth, an’ no chance to work it! Ef we only had the ship by us now, we could put a good thousan’ dollars’ worth o’ thar pelts into it. Jest see how they swarm out yonder! An’ tame as pet tabby cats! There’s enough of ’em to supply seal-skin jackets fur nigh all the women o’ New York!”
No one makes rejoinder to the old sealer’s regretful rhapsody. The situation is too grave for them to be thinking of gain by the capture of fur-seals, even though it should prove “a mine of wealth,” as Seagriff called it. Of what value is wealth to them while their very lives are in jeopardy? They were rejoiced when they first set foot on land; but time is passing; they have in part recovered from their fatigue, and the dark, doubtful future is once more uppermost in their minds. They cannot stay for ever on the isle—indeed, they may not be able to remain many days on it, owing to the exhaustion of their limited stock of provisions, if for no other reason. Even could they subsist on penguins’ flesh and tussac-stalks, the young birds, already well feathered, will ere long disappear, while the tender shoots of the grass, growing tougher as it ripens, will in time become altogether uneatable.
No; they cannot abide there, and must go elsewhere. But whither? That is the all-absorbing question. Ever since they landed the sky has been overcast, and the distant mainland is barely visible through a misty vapour spread over the sea between. All the better for that, Seagriff has been thinking hitherto, with the Fuegians in his mind.
“It’ll hinder ’em seein’ the smoke of our fire,” he said; “the which mout draw ’em on us.”
But he has now less fear of this, seeing that which tells him that the isle is never visited by the savages.
“They hain’t been on it fur years, anyhow,” he says, reassuring the Captain, who has again taken him aside to talk over the ticklish matter. “I’m sartin they hain’t.”
“What makes you certain?” questions the other.
“Them ’ere—both of ’em,” nodding first toward the fur-seals and then toward the penguins. “If the Feweegins dar’ fetch thar craft so fur out seaward, neither o’ them ud be so plentiful nor yit so tame. Both sort o’ critters air jest what they sets most store by—yieldin’ ’em not only thar vittels, but sech scant kiver as they’re ’customed to w’ar. No, Capting, the savagers hain’t been out hyar, an’ ain’t a-goin’ to be. An’ I weesh, now,” he continues, glancing up to the sky, “I weesh ’t wud brighten a bit. Wi’ thet fog hidin’ the hills over yonder, ’tain’t possybul to gie a guess az to whar we air. Ef it ud lift, I mout be able to make out some o’ the landmarks. Let’s hope we may hev a cl’ar sky the morrer, an’ a glimp’ o’ the sun to boot.”
“Ay, let us hope that,” rejoins the skipper, “and pray for it, as we shall.”
The promise is made in all seriousness, Captain Gancy being a religious man. So, on retiring to rest on their shake-down couches of tussac-grass, he summons the little party around him and offers up a prayer for their deliverance from their present danger, not forgetting those in the pinnace; no doubt the first Christian devotion ever heard ascending over that lone desert isle.
Note 1. It is the soft, crisp, inner part of the stem, just above the root, that is chiefly eaten. Horses and cattle are very fond of the tussac-grass, and in the Falkland Islands feed upon it. It is said, however, that there it is threatened with extirpation, on account of these animals browsing it too closely. It has been introduced with success into the Hebrides and Orkney Islands, where the conditions of its existence are favourable—a peaty soil, exposed to winds loaded with sea spray.
Note 2.Cathartes jota. Closely allied to the “turkey-buzzard” of the United States.
Note 3.Otaria Falklandica. There are several distinct species of “otary,” or “fur-seal”; those of the Falkland Islands and Tierra del Fuego being different from the fur-seals of northern latitudes.
Chapter Eight.A Flurry with Fur-Seals.As if Captain Gancy’s petition had been heard by the All-Merciful, and is about to have favourable response, the next morning breaks clear and calm; the fog all gone, and the sky blue, with a bright sun shining in it—rarest of sights in the cloudlands of Tierra del Fuego. All are cheered by it, and, with reviving hope, eat breakfast in better spirits, a fervent grace preceding.They do not linger over the repast, as the skipper and Seagriff are impatient to ascend to the summit of the isle, the latter in hopes of making out some remembered landmark. The place where they have put in is on its west side, and the high ground interposed hinders their view to the eastward, while all seen north and south is unknown to the old carpenter.They are about starting off, when Mrs Gancy says interrogatively, “Why shouldn’t we go too?”—meaning herself and Leoline, as the daughter is prettily named.“Yes, papa,” urges the young girl; “you’ll take us with you, won’t you?”With a glance up the hill, to see whether the climb be not too difficult, he answers, “Certainly, dear; I’ve no objection. Indeed, the exercise may do you both good, after being so long shut up on board ship.”“It would do us all good,” thinks Henry Chester, for a certain reason wishing to be of the party, that reason, as a child might see, being Leoline. He does not speak his wish, however, backwardness forbidding, but is well pleased at hearing her brother, who is without bar of this kind, cry out, “Yes, father. And the other pair of us, Harry and myself, would like to go too. Neither of us have got our land legs yet, as we found yesterday while fighting the penguins. A little mountaineering will help to put the steady into them.”“Oh, very well,” assents the good-natured skipper. “You may all come—except Caesar. He had better stay by the boat, and keep the fire burning.”“Jess so, Massa Cap’n, an’ much obleeged to ye. Dis chile perfur stayin’. Golly! I doan’ want to tire myse’f to deff a-draggin’ up dat ar pressypus. ’Sides, I hab got ter look out for de dinner, ’gainst yer gettin’ back.”“The doctor” (The popular sea-name for a ship’s cook) speaks the truth in saying he does not wish to accompany them, being one of the laziest mortals that ever sat roasting himself beside a galley fire. So, without further parley, they set forth, leaving him by the boat.At first they find the uphill slope gentle and easy, their path leading through hummocks of tall tussac, whose tops rise above their heads, and the flower-scapes many feet higher. Their chief difficulty is the spongy nature of the soil, in which they sink at times ankle-deep. But farther up it is drier and firmer, the lofty tussac giving place to grass of humbler stature; in fact, a sward so short, that the ground appears as though freshly mown. Here the climbers catch sight of a number of moving creatures, which they might easily mistake for quadrupeds. Hundreds of them are running to and fro like rabbits in a warren, and quite as fast. Yet they are really birds, penguins of the same species which supplied so considerable a part of their yesterday’s dinner and to-day’s breakfast. The strangest thing of all is that these Protean creatures, which seem fitted only for an aquatic existence, should be so much at home on land, so ably using their queer wings as substitutes for legs that they can run up or down high and precipitous slopes with the swiftness of a hare.From the experience of yesterday, Ned and Harry might anticipate attack by the penguins. But that experience has taught the birds a lesson, which they now profit by, scuttling off, frightened at the sight of the murderous invaders, who have made such havoc among them and their nestlings.On the drier upland still another curious bird is encountered, singular in its mode of breeding and other habits. A petrel it is, about the size of a house pigeon, and of a slate-blue colour. This bird, instead of laying its eggs, like the penguin, on the surface of the ground, deposits them, like the sand-martin and burrowing owl, at the bottom of a burrow. Part of the ground over which the climbers have to pass is honeycombed with these holes, and they see the petrels passing in and out; Seagriff, meanwhile, imparting a curious item of information about them. It is that the Fuegians capture these birds by tying a string to the legs of certain small birds, and force them into the petrels’ nests, whereupon the rightful owners, attacking and following the intruders as they are jerked out by the cunning decoyers, are themselves captured.Continuing upward, the slope is found to be steeper, and more difficult than was expected. What from below seemed a gentle acclivity turns out to be almost a precipice—a very common illusion with those unaccustomed to mountain climbing. But they are not daunted—every one of the men has stood on the main truck of a tempest-tossed ship. What to this were even the scaling of a cliff? The ladies, too, have little fear, and will not consent to stay below, but insist on being taken to the very summit.The last stage proves the most difficult. The only practicable path is up a sort of gorge, rough-sided, but with the bottom smooth and slippery as ice. It is grass-grown all over, but the grass is beaten close to the surface, as if schoolboys had been “coasting” down it. All except Seagriff suppose it to be the work of the penguins—he knows better what has done it. Not birds, but beasts, or “fish,” as he would call them—theamphibiain the chasing, killing, and skinning of which he has spent many years of his life. Even with his eyes shut he could have told it was they, by a peculiar odour unpleasant to others, though not to him. To his olfactories it is the perfume of Araby.“Them fur-seals hev been up hyar,” he says, glancing up the gorge. “They kin climb like cats, spite o’ thar lubberly look, and they delight in baskin’ on high ground. I’ve know’d ’em to go up a hill steeper an’ higher ’n this. They’ve made it as smooth as ice, and we’ll hev to hold on keerfully. I guess ye’d better all stay hyar till I give it a trial.”“Oh, it’s nothing, Chips,” says young Gancy, “we can easily swarm up.”He would willingly take the lead himself, but is lending a hand to his mother; while, in like manner, Henry Chester is entrusted with the care of Leoline—a duty he would be loth to transfer to another.The older sealer makes no more delay, but, leaning forward and clutching the grass, draws himself up the steep slope. In the same way the Captain follows; then Ned, carefully assisting his mother; and lastly, but with no less alacrity, the young Englishman helping Leoline.Seagriff, still vigorous—for he has not much passed manhood’s prime—and unhampered, reaches the head of the gorge long before the others.But as soon as his eyes are above it, and he has a view of the summit level, he sees there something to astonish him: the whole surface, nearly an acre in extent, is covered with fur-seals, lying close together like pigs in a stye.This sight, under other circumstances, he would have hailed with a shout of joy; but now it elicits from him a cry of apprehension, for the seals have taken the alarm, too, and are coming on in a rush toward the ravine, knowing that it is their only way to the water.“Thunder an’ airthquakes!” he exclaims, in highest pitch of voice. “Look out thar, below!”They do look out, or rather up, and with no little alarm. But the cause of it none can as yet tell. But they see Seagriff spring to one side of the gorge and catch hold of a rock to steady himself, while he shouts to them to do the same. Ofcourse, they obey; but they barely have time to get out of the ravine’s bed before a stream, a torrent, a very cataract of living forms comes pouring down it—very monsters in appearance, all open-mouthed, and each mouth showing a double row of glittering teeth.A weird, fear-inspiring procession it is, as they go floundering past, crowding one another, snapping, snorting, and barking, like so many mastiffs!Fortunately for the spectators, the creatures are fur-seals, and not the fierce sea-lions; for the fur-seal is inoffensive, and shows fight only when forced to it. These are but acting in obedience to the most ordinary instinct, as they are seeking self-preservation by retreat to the sea—their true home and haven of safety.The flurry lasts for but a brief while, ending as abruptly as it began. When all the seals have passed, our party resume the ascent and continue it till all stand upon the summit. But notallin silence; for turning his eyes north-eastward, and seeing there a snow-covered mountain—a grand cone, towering thousands of feet above all the others—Seagriff plucks off his hat, and, waving it around his head, sends up a joyous huzza, cries out, “Now I know whar we are better ’n a hul ship full o’ kompa an’ kernometors kud tell us.Yon’s Sarmiento!”
As if Captain Gancy’s petition had been heard by the All-Merciful, and is about to have favourable response, the next morning breaks clear and calm; the fog all gone, and the sky blue, with a bright sun shining in it—rarest of sights in the cloudlands of Tierra del Fuego. All are cheered by it, and, with reviving hope, eat breakfast in better spirits, a fervent grace preceding.
They do not linger over the repast, as the skipper and Seagriff are impatient to ascend to the summit of the isle, the latter in hopes of making out some remembered landmark. The place where they have put in is on its west side, and the high ground interposed hinders their view to the eastward, while all seen north and south is unknown to the old carpenter.
They are about starting off, when Mrs Gancy says interrogatively, “Why shouldn’t we go too?”—meaning herself and Leoline, as the daughter is prettily named.
“Yes, papa,” urges the young girl; “you’ll take us with you, won’t you?”
With a glance up the hill, to see whether the climb be not too difficult, he answers, “Certainly, dear; I’ve no objection. Indeed, the exercise may do you both good, after being so long shut up on board ship.”
“It would do us all good,” thinks Henry Chester, for a certain reason wishing to be of the party, that reason, as a child might see, being Leoline. He does not speak his wish, however, backwardness forbidding, but is well pleased at hearing her brother, who is without bar of this kind, cry out, “Yes, father. And the other pair of us, Harry and myself, would like to go too. Neither of us have got our land legs yet, as we found yesterday while fighting the penguins. A little mountaineering will help to put the steady into them.”
“Oh, very well,” assents the good-natured skipper. “You may all come—except Caesar. He had better stay by the boat, and keep the fire burning.”
“Jess so, Massa Cap’n, an’ much obleeged to ye. Dis chile perfur stayin’. Golly! I doan’ want to tire myse’f to deff a-draggin’ up dat ar pressypus. ’Sides, I hab got ter look out for de dinner, ’gainst yer gettin’ back.”
“The doctor” (The popular sea-name for a ship’s cook) speaks the truth in saying he does not wish to accompany them, being one of the laziest mortals that ever sat roasting himself beside a galley fire. So, without further parley, they set forth, leaving him by the boat.
At first they find the uphill slope gentle and easy, their path leading through hummocks of tall tussac, whose tops rise above their heads, and the flower-scapes many feet higher. Their chief difficulty is the spongy nature of the soil, in which they sink at times ankle-deep. But farther up it is drier and firmer, the lofty tussac giving place to grass of humbler stature; in fact, a sward so short, that the ground appears as though freshly mown. Here the climbers catch sight of a number of moving creatures, which they might easily mistake for quadrupeds. Hundreds of them are running to and fro like rabbits in a warren, and quite as fast. Yet they are really birds, penguins of the same species which supplied so considerable a part of their yesterday’s dinner and to-day’s breakfast. The strangest thing of all is that these Protean creatures, which seem fitted only for an aquatic existence, should be so much at home on land, so ably using their queer wings as substitutes for legs that they can run up or down high and precipitous slopes with the swiftness of a hare.
From the experience of yesterday, Ned and Harry might anticipate attack by the penguins. But that experience has taught the birds a lesson, which they now profit by, scuttling off, frightened at the sight of the murderous invaders, who have made such havoc among them and their nestlings.
On the drier upland still another curious bird is encountered, singular in its mode of breeding and other habits. A petrel it is, about the size of a house pigeon, and of a slate-blue colour. This bird, instead of laying its eggs, like the penguin, on the surface of the ground, deposits them, like the sand-martin and burrowing owl, at the bottom of a burrow. Part of the ground over which the climbers have to pass is honeycombed with these holes, and they see the petrels passing in and out; Seagriff, meanwhile, imparting a curious item of information about them. It is that the Fuegians capture these birds by tying a string to the legs of certain small birds, and force them into the petrels’ nests, whereupon the rightful owners, attacking and following the intruders as they are jerked out by the cunning decoyers, are themselves captured.
Continuing upward, the slope is found to be steeper, and more difficult than was expected. What from below seemed a gentle acclivity turns out to be almost a precipice—a very common illusion with those unaccustomed to mountain climbing. But they are not daunted—every one of the men has stood on the main truck of a tempest-tossed ship. What to this were even the scaling of a cliff? The ladies, too, have little fear, and will not consent to stay below, but insist on being taken to the very summit.
The last stage proves the most difficult. The only practicable path is up a sort of gorge, rough-sided, but with the bottom smooth and slippery as ice. It is grass-grown all over, but the grass is beaten close to the surface, as if schoolboys had been “coasting” down it. All except Seagriff suppose it to be the work of the penguins—he knows better what has done it. Not birds, but beasts, or “fish,” as he would call them—theamphibiain the chasing, killing, and skinning of which he has spent many years of his life. Even with his eyes shut he could have told it was they, by a peculiar odour unpleasant to others, though not to him. To his olfactories it is the perfume of Araby.
“Them fur-seals hev been up hyar,” he says, glancing up the gorge. “They kin climb like cats, spite o’ thar lubberly look, and they delight in baskin’ on high ground. I’ve know’d ’em to go up a hill steeper an’ higher ’n this. They’ve made it as smooth as ice, and we’ll hev to hold on keerfully. I guess ye’d better all stay hyar till I give it a trial.”
“Oh, it’s nothing, Chips,” says young Gancy, “we can easily swarm up.”
He would willingly take the lead himself, but is lending a hand to his mother; while, in like manner, Henry Chester is entrusted with the care of Leoline—a duty he would be loth to transfer to another.
The older sealer makes no more delay, but, leaning forward and clutching the grass, draws himself up the steep slope. In the same way the Captain follows; then Ned, carefully assisting his mother; and lastly, but with no less alacrity, the young Englishman helping Leoline.
Seagriff, still vigorous—for he has not much passed manhood’s prime—and unhampered, reaches the head of the gorge long before the others.
But as soon as his eyes are above it, and he has a view of the summit level, he sees there something to astonish him: the whole surface, nearly an acre in extent, is covered with fur-seals, lying close together like pigs in a stye.
This sight, under other circumstances, he would have hailed with a shout of joy; but now it elicits from him a cry of apprehension, for the seals have taken the alarm, too, and are coming on in a rush toward the ravine, knowing that it is their only way to the water.
“Thunder an’ airthquakes!” he exclaims, in highest pitch of voice. “Look out thar, below!”
They do look out, or rather up, and with no little alarm. But the cause of it none can as yet tell. But they see Seagriff spring to one side of the gorge and catch hold of a rock to steady himself, while he shouts to them to do the same. Ofcourse, they obey; but they barely have time to get out of the ravine’s bed before a stream, a torrent, a very cataract of living forms comes pouring down it—very monsters in appearance, all open-mouthed, and each mouth showing a double row of glittering teeth.
A weird, fear-inspiring procession it is, as they go floundering past, crowding one another, snapping, snorting, and barking, like so many mastiffs!
Fortunately for the spectators, the creatures are fur-seals, and not the fierce sea-lions; for the fur-seal is inoffensive, and shows fight only when forced to it. These are but acting in obedience to the most ordinary instinct, as they are seeking self-preservation by retreat to the sea—their true home and haven of safety.
The flurry lasts for but a brief while, ending as abruptly as it began. When all the seals have passed, our party resume the ascent and continue it till all stand upon the summit. But notallin silence; for turning his eyes north-eastward, and seeing there a snow-covered mountain—a grand cone, towering thousands of feet above all the others—Seagriff plucks off his hat, and, waving it around his head, sends up a joyous huzza, cries out, “Now I know whar we are better ’n a hul ship full o’ kompa an’ kernometors kud tell us.Yon’s Sarmiento!”
Chapter Nine.An Unnatural Mother.“Yis, Capting, thet’s Sarmiento, an’ nary doubt of it,” pursues the old sealer. “I’d reck’noise thet mountin ’mong a millyun. ’Tair the highest in all Feweego. (Note 1.) An’ we must be at the mouth o’ Des’late Bay, jest as I wor suspectin’. Wal, ’ceptin’ them ugly things I told ye ’bout, we kudn’t be in a better place.”“Why?” inquires the Captain, dubiously.“’Kase it ain’t a bay at all; but the entrance to a soun’ bearin’ the name o’ ‘Whale-Boat Soun’.’ An’ thet’s open water too, communicatin’ wi’ another known ez ‘Darwin Soun’’—the which larst leads right inter the Beagle Channel.”“But what of all that, Chips? How can it help us?”“Help us! Why, ’tair the very i-dentical thing ez ’ll help us; our coorse is laid out to a p’int o’ the kompiss! All we’ll hev to do is to run east’ard through the Beagle Channel, an’ then ’long the open coast to good Success Bay, in the Straits o’ Le Maire. Thar we’ll be a’most sure o’ findin’ some o’ the sealin’ vessels, thet bein’ one o’ thar rendeyvoos when they’re fishin’ roun’ Staten Land.”“You think that better, then, than trying to the northward for the Straits of Magellan?” inquires Captain Gancy.“Oceans o’ odds better. To reach Magellan we’d hev to work out seaward ag’in, an’ back past the ‘Furies,’ whar thar’s all sorts o’ cross-currents to contend wi’. Whereas goin’ east’ard through the Beagle, we’ll hev both wind and tide a’most allers in our favour. ’Sides, there’d be no bother ’bout the coorse. ’Tair jest like steerin’ in a river, an’ along the coast ag’in. I’m wall acquaint’ wi’ every inch o’ ’t.”That Captain Gancy, an experienced navigator, should be unacquainted with the Beagle Channel may seem strange. But at the time of which we write, this remarkable passage was of recent discovery, and not yet laid down on the charts.“How about the other matter?” he asks, in half whisper, glancing significantly toward his wife and daughter, who are but a few paces off. “Will the Beagle course be any the safer for that?”“I can’t say ’twill, sir,” is the answer, in like undertone. “Tho’ it won’t be any worse. Guess the danger’s ’bout equil eytherways.”“What danger?” questions young Gancy, who has overheard the ugly word.“O’ the gig gettin’ bilged, Mister Ed’ard,” is the ready, but not truthful, rejoinder. “In coorse thar’s rough seas everywhar through Fireland, an’ wi’ such a mite o’ a boat, we’ll hev to be on the keerful.”“Then,” says the Captain, his mind made up, after long and minutely examining sea and coast all around through his glass, “then by the Beagle Channel be it. And we may as well set out at once. I can see nothing of the pinnace. If she’d weathered the gale and put in this way, they’d be sure to sail on for the mainland. In that case, they may sight us when we get well out on the open water.”“Jest so, Capting,” says Seagriff, “an’ as ye perpose, we mout as well make the start now. We kin gain nothin’ by stayin’ hyar.”“All right, then. Let us be off.”So saying, the skipper takes a last look through the binocular, with a lingering hope that something may still be seen of the consort boat; then, disappointed, he leads the way down to the landing-place.Their further stay on the island is for but a few minutes,—while the two youths make a fresh raid on the penguinnery, and rob it of another dozen of the young birds, as boat stores. Some tussac-asparagus is also added, and then all resume their places on the thwarts, this time with everything properly stowed and shipshape. The painter is drawn in and the gig shoved off.Once more under way, they encounter a heavy ground swell; but the breeze is in their favour, and, with the sail set, they are able to keep steadily before it. They have no trouble in making their course, as the sky is clear, and Sarmiento—an all-sufficient guide-post—always visible. But although neither Captain Gancy nor Seagriff has any anxiety as to the course, both seem anxious about something, all the while scanning the water ahead—the skipper through his glass, the old sealer with hand shading his eyes.This attracting the attention of young Gancy, sharp at reading facial expression, as are most men who follow the sea, he asks, after a time, “What is it, father? You and Chips appear to be troubled about something.”“Wal, Mister Ed’ard, thar ain’t ennythin’ rumarkabul in thet, sitiwated ez we air; it’s only nateral to be allers expectin’ trouble o’ some sort. You youngsters don’t think o’ thet, ez we old ’uns do.”The old sealer has made haste to answer a question not put to him. He fears that the skipper, in his solicitude as husband and father, may break down, and betray the secret that oppresses them.Vain the attempt at concealing it longer; for the very next instant the Captain himself exclaims,—“Ha! yonder! A boat full of people putting off from the shore!”“Mout it be the pinnace, Capting?”“No, Chips; it’s some sort of native craft. Look for yourself.” And he hands him the binocular.“Yer right, sir,” says Seagriff, after a look through the glass. “A Feweegin canoe it air, an’ I do believe they’reAilikoleeps. Ef so, we may look out for squalls.”Both his words and tone tell of fear,—confessed at last, since he knows it can no longer be concealed. But the others are only surprised, for as yet they are ignorant of any danger which may arise from an interview with the natives, of whom they know nothing.Meanwhile, the canoe has pulled well out from the shore—the northern one—and is evidently making to meet the gig in mid-water, an encounter which cannot be avoided, the breeze being now light, and the boat having little way, nothing like enough to shun the encounter. Seeing it to be inevitable, the Captain says, “We may as well show a bold front, and speak them, I suppose?”“Yes,” assents Seagriff, “thet air the best way. ’Sides, thar’s no chance o’ our gettin’ past ’em out o’ reach o’ thar sling-stones. But I guess we hevn’t much to fear from thet lot, ef thar aren’t others to jine ’em; an’ I don’t see any others.”“Nor do I,” indorses the Captain, sweeping the shore-line with his glass. “It’s the only craft I can see anywhere.”“Wal,itain’t on a warlike bender, whether Ailikoleep or no, seein’ as thar’s weemen an’ childer in ’t. So I reck’n thar’s nothin’ to be skeart about jest yet, though you niver kin tell for sartin what the critters air up to till they show it themselves.”By this, the Fuegians have approached near enough for hailing, which, however, they have been doing all along, shouting in high-pitched voices, and frantically gesticulating.They cry, “Ho-say! ho-say!” in quick repetition, two of them standing up and waving skins of some sort above their heads.“Thet means to hold palaver, an’ hev a dicker wi’ ’em,” says Seagriff. “They want to trade off thar pelts an’ sech-like for what we can give them in exchange.”“All right,” assents the Captain. “Be it so; and we may as well douse the sail and heave to—we’re making no way, any how.” At this the sail is lowered, and the boat lies motionless on the water, awaiting the approach of the canoe.In a few seconds the native craft comes paddling up, but for a time keeps beyond grappling distance—a superfluous precaution on the part of the Fuegians, but very agreeable to those in the gig. Especially so now that they have a nearer view of the occupants of the native craft. There are, in all, thirteen of them; three men, four women, and the rest girls and boys of different ages, one of the women having an infant tied to her by a scarf fastened over one of her shoulders. Nearly a dozen dogs are in the canoe also—diminutive, fox-like animals with short ears, resembling the Esquimaux breed, but smaller. Of the human element—if human it can be called—all are savages of the lowest type and wildest aspect, their coarse shaggy hair hanging like loose thatch over low foreheads, and partially shading their little, bleary red eyes. Hideous are they to very deformity. Nor is their ugliness diminished, but rather heightened, by a variety of pigments—ochre, charcoal, and chalk—laid thick upon their faces and bodies with an admixture of seal-oil or blubber. The men are scantily clothed, with only one kind of garment, a piece of skin hung over their shoulders and lashed across the chest, and all the women wearing a sort of apron skirt of penguin-skins.The canoe is a rough, primitive structure: several breadths of bark stitched together with sinews of the seal, and gathered up at the ends. Along each side a pole is lashed joining the gunwale-rail, while several stout pieces laid crosswise serve as beam timbers. In the bottom, amidships, is a mud hearth on which burns a fire, with sticks set up around it to dry. There are three compartments in the craft, separated from one another by the cross-pieces: in the forward one are various weapons—spears, clubs, and sling-stones—and fishing implements. The amidships section holds the fire-hearth, the men having place on the forward side of it; the women, who do the paddling, are seated farther aft; while in the stern division are stowed the boys, girls, and dogs.Such is the picture taken in by the gig’s people at a glance, for they have neither time nor opportunity to examine it minutely, as the Fuegians keep up a continual shouting and gesticulating, their hoarse guttural voices mingled with the barking of the dogs making a very pandemonium of noise.A sign from Seagriff, however, and a word or two spoken in their own tongue, brings about a lull and an understanding, and the traffic commences. Sea-otter and fox-skins are exchanged for such useless trifles as chance to be in the gig’s lockers, the savage hucksters not proving exorbitant in their demands. Two or three broken bottles, a couple of empty sardine-boxes, with some buttons and scraps of coloured cloth, buy up almost all their stock-in-trade, leaving them not only satisfied, but under the belief that they have outwitted theakifka-akinish(white men).Still, they continue to solicit further traffic, offering not only their implements of the chase and fishing, but their weapons of war! The spears and slings Seagriff eagerly purchases, giving in exchange several effects of more value than any yet parted with, somewhat to the surprise of Captain Gancy. But, confident that the old sealer has a good and sufficient reason, the Captain says nothing, and lets him have his way.The Fuegian women are no less solicitous than the men about the barter, and eagerly take a hand in it. Unlike their sisters of civilisation, they are willing to part with articles of personal adornment, even that most prized by them, the shellnecklace. (Note 2.) Ay, more, what may seem incredible, she with the child—her own baby—has taken a fancy to a red scarf of China crape worn by Leoline, and pointing first to it and then to the babe on her shoulder, she plucks the little one from its lashings and holds it up with a coaxing expression on her countenance, like a cheap-jack tempting a simpleton at a fair to purchase a pinchbeck watch.“What does the woman want?” asks Mrs Gancy, greatly puzzled; all the rest sharing her wonder, save Seagriff, who answers, with a touch of anxiety in his voice, “She wants to barter off her babby, ma’am, for that ’ere scarf.”“Oh!” exclaims Leoline, shocked, “surely you don’t mean that, Mr Chips.”“Sure I do, Miss; neyther more nor less. Thet’s jest what the unnateral woman air up to. An’ she wouldn’t be the first as hez done the same. I’ve heerd afore uv a Feweegin woman bein’ willin’ to sell her chile for a purty piece o’ cloth.”The shocking incident brings the bargaining to an end. Situated as they are, the gig’s people have no desire to burden themselves with Fuegianbric-à-brac, and have consented to the traffic only for the sake of keeping on good terms with the traffickers. But it has become tiresome, and Captain Gancy, eager to be off, orders oars out, the wind having quite died away.Out go the oars, and the boat is about moving off, when the inhuman mother tosses her pickaninny into the bottom of the canoe, and, reaching her long skinny arm over the gig’s stern-sheets, makes a snatch at the coveted scarf! She would have clutched it, had not her hand been struck down on the instant by the blade of an oar wielded by Henry Chester.The hag, foiled in her attempt, sets up a howl of angry disappointment, her companions joining in the chorus and sawing the air with threatening arms. Impotent is their rage, however, for the crafty Seagriff has secured all their missile weapons, and under the impulse of four strong rowers, the gig goes dancing on, soon leaving the clumsy Fuegian craft far in its wake, with the savages shouting and threatening vengeance.Note 1. The height of Sarmiento, according to Captain King, is 6,800 feet, though others make it out higher, one estimate giving it 6,967. It is the most conspicuous as well as the highest of Fuegian mountains,—a grand cone, always snow-covered for thousands of feet below the summit, and sometimes to its base.Note 2. The shell most in vogue among Fuegian belles for neck adornment is a pearl oyster (Margarita violacea) of an iridescent purplish colour, and about half an inch in diameter. It is found adhering to the kelp, and forms the chief food of several kinds of seabirds, among others the “steamer-duck.” Shells and shell-fish play a large part in Fuegian domestic (!) economy. A large kind of barnacle (Concholepas Peruviana) furnishes their drinking-cups, while an edible mollusc (Mactra edulis) and several species of limpet (Patellae) help out their often scanty larder.
“Yis, Capting, thet’s Sarmiento, an’ nary doubt of it,” pursues the old sealer. “I’d reck’noise thet mountin ’mong a millyun. ’Tair the highest in all Feweego. (Note 1.) An’ we must be at the mouth o’ Des’late Bay, jest as I wor suspectin’. Wal, ’ceptin’ them ugly things I told ye ’bout, we kudn’t be in a better place.”
“Why?” inquires the Captain, dubiously.
“’Kase it ain’t a bay at all; but the entrance to a soun’ bearin’ the name o’ ‘Whale-Boat Soun’.’ An’ thet’s open water too, communicatin’ wi’ another known ez ‘Darwin Soun’’—the which larst leads right inter the Beagle Channel.”
“But what of all that, Chips? How can it help us?”
“Help us! Why, ’tair the very i-dentical thing ez ’ll help us; our coorse is laid out to a p’int o’ the kompiss! All we’ll hev to do is to run east’ard through the Beagle Channel, an’ then ’long the open coast to good Success Bay, in the Straits o’ Le Maire. Thar we’ll be a’most sure o’ findin’ some o’ the sealin’ vessels, thet bein’ one o’ thar rendeyvoos when they’re fishin’ roun’ Staten Land.”
“You think that better, then, than trying to the northward for the Straits of Magellan?” inquires Captain Gancy.
“Oceans o’ odds better. To reach Magellan we’d hev to work out seaward ag’in, an’ back past the ‘Furies,’ whar thar’s all sorts o’ cross-currents to contend wi’. Whereas goin’ east’ard through the Beagle, we’ll hev both wind and tide a’most allers in our favour. ’Sides, there’d be no bother ’bout the coorse. ’Tair jest like steerin’ in a river, an’ along the coast ag’in. I’m wall acquaint’ wi’ every inch o’ ’t.”
That Captain Gancy, an experienced navigator, should be unacquainted with the Beagle Channel may seem strange. But at the time of which we write, this remarkable passage was of recent discovery, and not yet laid down on the charts.
“How about the other matter?” he asks, in half whisper, glancing significantly toward his wife and daughter, who are but a few paces off. “Will the Beagle course be any the safer for that?”
“I can’t say ’twill, sir,” is the answer, in like undertone. “Tho’ it won’t be any worse. Guess the danger’s ’bout equil eytherways.”
“What danger?” questions young Gancy, who has overheard the ugly word.
“O’ the gig gettin’ bilged, Mister Ed’ard,” is the ready, but not truthful, rejoinder. “In coorse thar’s rough seas everywhar through Fireland, an’ wi’ such a mite o’ a boat, we’ll hev to be on the keerful.”
“Then,” says the Captain, his mind made up, after long and minutely examining sea and coast all around through his glass, “then by the Beagle Channel be it. And we may as well set out at once. I can see nothing of the pinnace. If she’d weathered the gale and put in this way, they’d be sure to sail on for the mainland. In that case, they may sight us when we get well out on the open water.”
“Jest so, Capting,” says Seagriff, “an’ as ye perpose, we mout as well make the start now. We kin gain nothin’ by stayin’ hyar.”
“All right, then. Let us be off.”
So saying, the skipper takes a last look through the binocular, with a lingering hope that something may still be seen of the consort boat; then, disappointed, he leads the way down to the landing-place.
Their further stay on the island is for but a few minutes,—while the two youths make a fresh raid on the penguinnery, and rob it of another dozen of the young birds, as boat stores. Some tussac-asparagus is also added, and then all resume their places on the thwarts, this time with everything properly stowed and shipshape. The painter is drawn in and the gig shoved off.
Once more under way, they encounter a heavy ground swell; but the breeze is in their favour, and, with the sail set, they are able to keep steadily before it. They have no trouble in making their course, as the sky is clear, and Sarmiento—an all-sufficient guide-post—always visible. But although neither Captain Gancy nor Seagriff has any anxiety as to the course, both seem anxious about something, all the while scanning the water ahead—the skipper through his glass, the old sealer with hand shading his eyes.
This attracting the attention of young Gancy, sharp at reading facial expression, as are most men who follow the sea, he asks, after a time, “What is it, father? You and Chips appear to be troubled about something.”
“Wal, Mister Ed’ard, thar ain’t ennythin’ rumarkabul in thet, sitiwated ez we air; it’s only nateral to be allers expectin’ trouble o’ some sort. You youngsters don’t think o’ thet, ez we old ’uns do.”
The old sealer has made haste to answer a question not put to him. He fears that the skipper, in his solicitude as husband and father, may break down, and betray the secret that oppresses them.
Vain the attempt at concealing it longer; for the very next instant the Captain himself exclaims,—
“Ha! yonder! A boat full of people putting off from the shore!”
“Mout it be the pinnace, Capting?”
“No, Chips; it’s some sort of native craft. Look for yourself.” And he hands him the binocular.
“Yer right, sir,” says Seagriff, after a look through the glass. “A Feweegin canoe it air, an’ I do believe they’reAilikoleeps. Ef so, we may look out for squalls.”
Both his words and tone tell of fear,—confessed at last, since he knows it can no longer be concealed. But the others are only surprised, for as yet they are ignorant of any danger which may arise from an interview with the natives, of whom they know nothing.
Meanwhile, the canoe has pulled well out from the shore—the northern one—and is evidently making to meet the gig in mid-water, an encounter which cannot be avoided, the breeze being now light, and the boat having little way, nothing like enough to shun the encounter. Seeing it to be inevitable, the Captain says, “We may as well show a bold front, and speak them, I suppose?”
“Yes,” assents Seagriff, “thet air the best way. ’Sides, thar’s no chance o’ our gettin’ past ’em out o’ reach o’ thar sling-stones. But I guess we hevn’t much to fear from thet lot, ef thar aren’t others to jine ’em; an’ I don’t see any others.”
“Nor do I,” indorses the Captain, sweeping the shore-line with his glass. “It’s the only craft I can see anywhere.”
“Wal,itain’t on a warlike bender, whether Ailikoleep or no, seein’ as thar’s weemen an’ childer in ’t. So I reck’n thar’s nothin’ to be skeart about jest yet, though you niver kin tell for sartin what the critters air up to till they show it themselves.”
By this, the Fuegians have approached near enough for hailing, which, however, they have been doing all along, shouting in high-pitched voices, and frantically gesticulating.
They cry, “Ho-say! ho-say!” in quick repetition, two of them standing up and waving skins of some sort above their heads.
“Thet means to hold palaver, an’ hev a dicker wi’ ’em,” says Seagriff. “They want to trade off thar pelts an’ sech-like for what we can give them in exchange.”
“All right,” assents the Captain. “Be it so; and we may as well douse the sail and heave to—we’re making no way, any how.” At this the sail is lowered, and the boat lies motionless on the water, awaiting the approach of the canoe.
In a few seconds the native craft comes paddling up, but for a time keeps beyond grappling distance—a superfluous precaution on the part of the Fuegians, but very agreeable to those in the gig. Especially so now that they have a nearer view of the occupants of the native craft. There are, in all, thirteen of them; three men, four women, and the rest girls and boys of different ages, one of the women having an infant tied to her by a scarf fastened over one of her shoulders. Nearly a dozen dogs are in the canoe also—diminutive, fox-like animals with short ears, resembling the Esquimaux breed, but smaller. Of the human element—if human it can be called—all are savages of the lowest type and wildest aspect, their coarse shaggy hair hanging like loose thatch over low foreheads, and partially shading their little, bleary red eyes. Hideous are they to very deformity. Nor is their ugliness diminished, but rather heightened, by a variety of pigments—ochre, charcoal, and chalk—laid thick upon their faces and bodies with an admixture of seal-oil or blubber. The men are scantily clothed, with only one kind of garment, a piece of skin hung over their shoulders and lashed across the chest, and all the women wearing a sort of apron skirt of penguin-skins.
The canoe is a rough, primitive structure: several breadths of bark stitched together with sinews of the seal, and gathered up at the ends. Along each side a pole is lashed joining the gunwale-rail, while several stout pieces laid crosswise serve as beam timbers. In the bottom, amidships, is a mud hearth on which burns a fire, with sticks set up around it to dry. There are three compartments in the craft, separated from one another by the cross-pieces: in the forward one are various weapons—spears, clubs, and sling-stones—and fishing implements. The amidships section holds the fire-hearth, the men having place on the forward side of it; the women, who do the paddling, are seated farther aft; while in the stern division are stowed the boys, girls, and dogs.
Such is the picture taken in by the gig’s people at a glance, for they have neither time nor opportunity to examine it minutely, as the Fuegians keep up a continual shouting and gesticulating, their hoarse guttural voices mingled with the barking of the dogs making a very pandemonium of noise.
A sign from Seagriff, however, and a word or two spoken in their own tongue, brings about a lull and an understanding, and the traffic commences. Sea-otter and fox-skins are exchanged for such useless trifles as chance to be in the gig’s lockers, the savage hucksters not proving exorbitant in their demands. Two or three broken bottles, a couple of empty sardine-boxes, with some buttons and scraps of coloured cloth, buy up almost all their stock-in-trade, leaving them not only satisfied, but under the belief that they have outwitted theakifka-akinish(white men).
Still, they continue to solicit further traffic, offering not only their implements of the chase and fishing, but their weapons of war! The spears and slings Seagriff eagerly purchases, giving in exchange several effects of more value than any yet parted with, somewhat to the surprise of Captain Gancy. But, confident that the old sealer has a good and sufficient reason, the Captain says nothing, and lets him have his way.
The Fuegian women are no less solicitous than the men about the barter, and eagerly take a hand in it. Unlike their sisters of civilisation, they are willing to part with articles of personal adornment, even that most prized by them, the shellnecklace. (Note 2.) Ay, more, what may seem incredible, she with the child—her own baby—has taken a fancy to a red scarf of China crape worn by Leoline, and pointing first to it and then to the babe on her shoulder, she plucks the little one from its lashings and holds it up with a coaxing expression on her countenance, like a cheap-jack tempting a simpleton at a fair to purchase a pinchbeck watch.
“What does the woman want?” asks Mrs Gancy, greatly puzzled; all the rest sharing her wonder, save Seagriff, who answers, with a touch of anxiety in his voice, “She wants to barter off her babby, ma’am, for that ’ere scarf.”
“Oh!” exclaims Leoline, shocked, “surely you don’t mean that, Mr Chips.”
“Sure I do, Miss; neyther more nor less. Thet’s jest what the unnateral woman air up to. An’ she wouldn’t be the first as hez done the same. I’ve heerd afore uv a Feweegin woman bein’ willin’ to sell her chile for a purty piece o’ cloth.”
The shocking incident brings the bargaining to an end. Situated as they are, the gig’s people have no desire to burden themselves with Fuegianbric-à-brac, and have consented to the traffic only for the sake of keeping on good terms with the traffickers. But it has become tiresome, and Captain Gancy, eager to be off, orders oars out, the wind having quite died away.
Out go the oars, and the boat is about moving off, when the inhuman mother tosses her pickaninny into the bottom of the canoe, and, reaching her long skinny arm over the gig’s stern-sheets, makes a snatch at the coveted scarf! She would have clutched it, had not her hand been struck down on the instant by the blade of an oar wielded by Henry Chester.
The hag, foiled in her attempt, sets up a howl of angry disappointment, her companions joining in the chorus and sawing the air with threatening arms. Impotent is their rage, however, for the crafty Seagriff has secured all their missile weapons, and under the impulse of four strong rowers, the gig goes dancing on, soon leaving the clumsy Fuegian craft far in its wake, with the savages shouting and threatening vengeance.
Note 1. The height of Sarmiento, according to Captain King, is 6,800 feet, though others make it out higher, one estimate giving it 6,967. It is the most conspicuous as well as the highest of Fuegian mountains,—a grand cone, always snow-covered for thousands of feet below the summit, and sometimes to its base.
Note 2. The shell most in vogue among Fuegian belles for neck adornment is a pearl oyster (Margarita violacea) of an iridescent purplish colour, and about half an inch in diameter. It is found adhering to the kelp, and forms the chief food of several kinds of seabirds, among others the “steamer-duck.” Shells and shell-fish play a large part in Fuegian domestic (!) economy. A large kind of barnacle (Concholepas Peruviana) furnishes their drinking-cups, while an edible mollusc (Mactra edulis) and several species of limpet (Patellae) help out their often scanty larder.
Chapter Ten.Saved by a Williwaw.“Wal!” says the old sealer, with an air of relief, when he sees that danger past, “I guess we’ve gi’n ’em the slip. But what a close shave! Ef I hedn’t contrived to dicker ’em out o’ the sling fixin’s, they mout ’a’ broke some o’ our skulls.”“Ah! that’s why you bought them,” rejoins the skipper; he, as all the others, had hitherto been wondering at the acquisition of such worthless things, with more than their value given for them; for the spears were but tough poles pointed with flint or bone, and the slings a bit of seal-skin. “I perceive now what you were up to,” he adds, “and a good bargain you made of it, Chips.”“But why should we have cared?” asked Henry Chester, his English blood roused, and his temper ruffled by the fright given Leoline. “What had we to fear from such miserable wretches? Only three men of them, and five of us!”“Ay, Mister Henry, that’s all true as to the numbers. But ef they war onlyoneto our five, he wouldn’t regard the odds a bit. They’re like wild animals, an’ fight jest the same. I’ve seed a Feweegin, only a little mite uv a critter, make attack on a whale-boat’s crew o’ sealers, an’ gi’e sev’ral uv ’em ugly wounds. They don’t know sech a thing as fear, no more’n a trapped badger. Neyther do thar weemen, who fight jest the same’s the men. Thar ain’t a squaw in that canoe as cudn’t stan’ a tussle wi’ the best o’ us. ’Sides, ye forgit thet we haven’t any weepens to fight ’em with ’ceptin’ our knives.” This was true; neither gun, pistol, nor other offensive arm having been saved from the sinkingCalypso. “An’ our knives,” he continues, “they’d ’a’ been o’ but little use against their slings, wi’ the which they kin send a stone a good hundred yards. (Note 1.) Ay, Mister Henry, an’ the spears too. Ef we hedn’t got holt o’ them, some uv ’em mout be stickin’ in us now. Ez ye may see, they’re the sort for dartin’.”The English youth, exulting in the strength and vigour of growing manhood, is loth to believe all this. He makes no response, however, having eased his feelings, and being satisfied with the display he has made of his gallantry by that well-timed blow with the oar.“In any case,” calmly interposes the skipper, “we may be thankful for getting away from them.”“Yis, Capting,” says Seagriff, his face still wearing an anxious expression, “ef we hev got away from ’em, the which ain’t sartin yit. I’ve my fears we haven’t seen the last o’ that ugly lot.”While speaking, his eyes are fixed on the canoe in an earnest, interrogating gaze, as though he sees something to make him uneasy. Such a thing he does see, and the next instant he declares, in excited tones, “No! Look at what they’re doin’!”“What?” asks the Captain.“Sendin’ up a signal smoke. Thet’s thar trick, an’ ne’er another.”Sure enough, a smoke is seen rising over the canoe, quite different from that previously observed—a white, curling cloud more like steam or what might proceed from straw set on fire. But they are not left long conjecturing about it, ere their attention is called to another and similar smoke on the land.“Yonder!” exclaims Seagriff. “Thar’s the answer. An’ yonder an’ yonder!” he adds, pointing to other white puffs that shoot up along the shore like the telegraphy of a chain of semaphores. (Note 2.)“’Tair lookin’ bad for us now,” he says in undertone to the Captain, and still gazing anxiously toward the shores. “Thar’s Feweegins ahead on both sides, and they’re sure to put out fur us. Thet’s Burnt Island on the port bow, and Cath’rine to starboard, both ’habited by Ailikoleeps. The open water beyant is Whale-boat Soun’; an’ ef we kin git through the narrer atween, we may still hev a chance to show ’em our starn. Thar’s a sough in the soun’, that tells o’ wind thar, an’ oncet in it we’ll get the help o’ the sail.”“They’re putting out now,” is the Captain’s rejoinder, as through his glass he sees canoe after canoe part from the shore, one shooting out at every point where there is a smoke.When clear of the fringe of overhanging trees, the canoes are visible to the others; fifteen or twenty of them leaving the land on both sides, and all making toward the middle of the strait, where it is narrowest, evidently with the design of heading off the boat.“Keep her well to starboard, Capting!” sings out the old sealer, “near as may be to the p’int o’ Cath’rine Island. Ef we kin git past thet ’fore they close on us, we’ll be safe.”“But hadn’t we better put about and put back? We can run clear of them that way.”“Cl’ar o’ the canoes ahead, yis! But not o’ the others astarn. Look yonder! Thar’s more o’ ’em puttin’ out ahint—the things air everywhar!”“’Twill be safer to run on, then, you think?”“I do, sir. B’sides, thar’s no help for ’t now. It’s our only chance, an’ it ain’t sech a bad un, eyther. I guess we kin do it yit.”“Lay out to your oars, then, my lads,” cries the skipper, steering as he has been advised. “Pull your best, all!”A superfluous command that, for already they are straining every nerve, all awake to the danger drawing nigh. Never in their lives were they in greater peril, never threatened by a fate more fearful than that impending now. For, as the canoes come nearer, it can be seen that there are only men in them; men of fierce aspect, every one of them armed.“Nary woman nor chile!” mutters Seagriff, as though talking to himself. “Thet means war, an’ the white feathers stickin’ up out o’ thar skulls, wi’ thar faces chalked like circus clowns! War to the knife, for sartin!”Still other, if not surer, evidences of hostility are the spears bristling above their heads, and the slings in their hands, into which they are seen slipping stones to be ready for casting. Their cries, too, shrilling over the water, are like the screams of rapacious birds about to pounce on prey which they know cannot escape them.And now the canoes are approaching mid-channel, closing in from either sideen échelon, and the boat must pass between them. Soon she has some of them abeam, with others on the bows. It is running the gauntlet, with apparently a very poor chance of running it safely. The failure of an oar-stroke, a retarding whiff of wind, may bring death to those in the gig, or capture, which is the same. Yet they see life beyond, if they can but reach it,—life in a breeze, the “sough” on the water, of which Seagriff spoke. It is scarcely two cables’ length ahead. Oh, that it were but one! Still they have hope, as the old sealer shouts encouragingly, “We may git into it yet. Pull, boys; pull wi’ might an’ main!”His words spur them to a fresh effort, and the boat bounds on, the oars almost lifting her out of the water. The canoes abeam begin to fall astern, but those on the bows are forging dangerously near, while the savages in them, now on their feet, brandish spears and wind their slings above their heads. Theirfiendish cries and furious gestures, with their ghastly chalked faces, give them an appearance more demoniac than human.A stone is slung and a javelin cast, though both fall short. But will the next? They will soon be at nearer range, and the gig’s people, absolutely without means of protection, sit in fear and trembling. Still the rowers, bracing hearts and arms, pull manfully on. But Captain Gancy is appalled as another stone plashes in the water close to the boat’s side, while a third, striking the mast, drops down among them.“Merciful Heaven!” he exclaims, despondingly, as he extends a sheltering arm over the heads of his dear ones. “Is it thus to end? Are we to be stoned to death?”“Yonder’sa Heaven’s marcy, I do believe!” says Seagriff on the instant, “comin’ to our help ’roun’ Burnt Island. Thet’ll bring a change, sure!”All turn their eyes in the direction indicated, wondering what he means, and they see the water, lately calm, surging and whirling in violent agitation, with showers of spray dashing up to the height of a ship’s mast.“It’s awilliwaw!” adds the old sealer, in joyous tone, though at any other time, in open boat, or even decked ship, it would have sent a thrill of fear through his heart. Now he hails it with hope, for he knows that the williwaw (Note 3) causes a Fuegian the most intense fear, and oft engulfs his crazy craft, with himself and all his belongings. And at sight of the one now sweeping toward them the savages instantly drop sling and spear, cease shouting, and cower down in their canoes in dread silence.“Now’s our chance, boys!” sings out Seagriff. “Wi’ a dozen more strokes we’ll be cl’ar o’ them—out o’ the track o’ the williwaw, too.”The dozen strokes are given with a will. Two dozen ere the squall reaches them, and when it comes up, it has spent most of its strength, passing alike harmlessly over boat and canoes. But again the other danger threatens. The Fuegians are once more upon their feet, shaking their spears and yelling more furiously than ever; anger now added to their hostility. Yet louder and more vengefully they shout at finding pursuit is vain, as they soon do, for the diversion caused by the williwaw has given the gig an advantage, throwing all the canoes so far astern that there is no likelihood of its being caught. Even with the oars alone the gig could easily keep the distance gained on the slowly-paddled craft. It does better, however, having caught the breeze, and, with a swollen sail it glides on down Whale-boat Sound, rapidly increasing its advantage. On, still on, till under the gathering shadows of night the flotilla of canoes appears like tiny specks—like a flock of foul birds at rest on the distant water.“Thar’s no fear o’ them comin’ arter us any furrer, I reck’n,” says the old sealer, in a glad voice. “’Tain’t likely that their country runs far in this direction.”“And we may thank the Almighty for it,” is Captain Gancy’s grateful rejoinder. “Surely never was His hand more visibly extended for the protection of poor mortals! Let us thank Him, all!”And the devout skipper uplifts his hands in prayer, the rest reverently listening. After the simple thanksgiving, he fervently kisses, first his wife, then Leoline. Kisses of mutual congratulation, and who can wonder at their being fervent? For they all have been very near to their last embrace on earth!Note 1. Seagriff does not exaggerate. Their skill with this weapon is something remarkable. Captain King thus speaks of it: “I have seen them strike a cap, placed upon the stump of a tree fifty or sixty yards off, with a stone from a sling.” And again, speaking of an encounter he had with Fuegians, “It is astonishing how very correctly they throw them, and to what a distance. When the first stone fell close to us, we all thought ourselves out of musket-shot!”Note 2. A kind of telegraph or apparatus for conveying information by means of signals visible at a distance, and as oscillating arms or flags by daylight and lanterns at night. A simple form is still employed.Note 3. The “williwaw,” sometimes called the “wooley,” is one of the great terrors of Fuegian inland waters. It is a sort of squall with a downward direction, probably caused by the warmer air of the outside ocean, as it passes over the snowy mountains, becoming suddenly cooled, and so dropping with a violent rush upon the surface of the water, which surges under it as if struck by cannon shot.
“Wal!” says the old sealer, with an air of relief, when he sees that danger past, “I guess we’ve gi’n ’em the slip. But what a close shave! Ef I hedn’t contrived to dicker ’em out o’ the sling fixin’s, they mout ’a’ broke some o’ our skulls.”
“Ah! that’s why you bought them,” rejoins the skipper; he, as all the others, had hitherto been wondering at the acquisition of such worthless things, with more than their value given for them; for the spears were but tough poles pointed with flint or bone, and the slings a bit of seal-skin. “I perceive now what you were up to,” he adds, “and a good bargain you made of it, Chips.”
“But why should we have cared?” asked Henry Chester, his English blood roused, and his temper ruffled by the fright given Leoline. “What had we to fear from such miserable wretches? Only three men of them, and five of us!”
“Ay, Mister Henry, that’s all true as to the numbers. But ef they war onlyoneto our five, he wouldn’t regard the odds a bit. They’re like wild animals, an’ fight jest the same. I’ve seed a Feweegin, only a little mite uv a critter, make attack on a whale-boat’s crew o’ sealers, an’ gi’e sev’ral uv ’em ugly wounds. They don’t know sech a thing as fear, no more’n a trapped badger. Neyther do thar weemen, who fight jest the same’s the men. Thar ain’t a squaw in that canoe as cudn’t stan’ a tussle wi’ the best o’ us. ’Sides, ye forgit thet we haven’t any weepens to fight ’em with ’ceptin’ our knives.” This was true; neither gun, pistol, nor other offensive arm having been saved from the sinkingCalypso. “An’ our knives,” he continues, “they’d ’a’ been o’ but little use against their slings, wi’ the which they kin send a stone a good hundred yards. (Note 1.) Ay, Mister Henry, an’ the spears too. Ef we hedn’t got holt o’ them, some uv ’em mout be stickin’ in us now. Ez ye may see, they’re the sort for dartin’.”
The English youth, exulting in the strength and vigour of growing manhood, is loth to believe all this. He makes no response, however, having eased his feelings, and being satisfied with the display he has made of his gallantry by that well-timed blow with the oar.
“In any case,” calmly interposes the skipper, “we may be thankful for getting away from them.”
“Yis, Capting,” says Seagriff, his face still wearing an anxious expression, “ef we hev got away from ’em, the which ain’t sartin yit. I’ve my fears we haven’t seen the last o’ that ugly lot.”
While speaking, his eyes are fixed on the canoe in an earnest, interrogating gaze, as though he sees something to make him uneasy. Such a thing he does see, and the next instant he declares, in excited tones, “No! Look at what they’re doin’!”
“What?” asks the Captain.
“Sendin’ up a signal smoke. Thet’s thar trick, an’ ne’er another.”
Sure enough, a smoke is seen rising over the canoe, quite different from that previously observed—a white, curling cloud more like steam or what might proceed from straw set on fire. But they are not left long conjecturing about it, ere their attention is called to another and similar smoke on the land.
“Yonder!” exclaims Seagriff. “Thar’s the answer. An’ yonder an’ yonder!” he adds, pointing to other white puffs that shoot up along the shore like the telegraphy of a chain of semaphores. (Note 2.)
“’Tair lookin’ bad for us now,” he says in undertone to the Captain, and still gazing anxiously toward the shores. “Thar’s Feweegins ahead on both sides, and they’re sure to put out fur us. Thet’s Burnt Island on the port bow, and Cath’rine to starboard, both ’habited by Ailikoleeps. The open water beyant is Whale-boat Soun’; an’ ef we kin git through the narrer atween, we may still hev a chance to show ’em our starn. Thar’s a sough in the soun’, that tells o’ wind thar, an’ oncet in it we’ll get the help o’ the sail.”
“They’re putting out now,” is the Captain’s rejoinder, as through his glass he sees canoe after canoe part from the shore, one shooting out at every point where there is a smoke.
When clear of the fringe of overhanging trees, the canoes are visible to the others; fifteen or twenty of them leaving the land on both sides, and all making toward the middle of the strait, where it is narrowest, evidently with the design of heading off the boat.
“Keep her well to starboard, Capting!” sings out the old sealer, “near as may be to the p’int o’ Cath’rine Island. Ef we kin git past thet ’fore they close on us, we’ll be safe.”
“But hadn’t we better put about and put back? We can run clear of them that way.”
“Cl’ar o’ the canoes ahead, yis! But not o’ the others astarn. Look yonder! Thar’s more o’ ’em puttin’ out ahint—the things air everywhar!”
“’Twill be safer to run on, then, you think?”
“I do, sir. B’sides, thar’s no help for ’t now. It’s our only chance, an’ it ain’t sech a bad un, eyther. I guess we kin do it yit.”
“Lay out to your oars, then, my lads,” cries the skipper, steering as he has been advised. “Pull your best, all!”
A superfluous command that, for already they are straining every nerve, all awake to the danger drawing nigh. Never in their lives were they in greater peril, never threatened by a fate more fearful than that impending now. For, as the canoes come nearer, it can be seen that there are only men in them; men of fierce aspect, every one of them armed.
“Nary woman nor chile!” mutters Seagriff, as though talking to himself. “Thet means war, an’ the white feathers stickin’ up out o’ thar skulls, wi’ thar faces chalked like circus clowns! War to the knife, for sartin!”
Still other, if not surer, evidences of hostility are the spears bristling above their heads, and the slings in their hands, into which they are seen slipping stones to be ready for casting. Their cries, too, shrilling over the water, are like the screams of rapacious birds about to pounce on prey which they know cannot escape them.
And now the canoes are approaching mid-channel, closing in from either sideen échelon, and the boat must pass between them. Soon she has some of them abeam, with others on the bows. It is running the gauntlet, with apparently a very poor chance of running it safely. The failure of an oar-stroke, a retarding whiff of wind, may bring death to those in the gig, or capture, which is the same. Yet they see life beyond, if they can but reach it,—life in a breeze, the “sough” on the water, of which Seagriff spoke. It is scarcely two cables’ length ahead. Oh, that it were but one! Still they have hope, as the old sealer shouts encouragingly, “We may git into it yet. Pull, boys; pull wi’ might an’ main!”
His words spur them to a fresh effort, and the boat bounds on, the oars almost lifting her out of the water. The canoes abeam begin to fall astern, but those on the bows are forging dangerously near, while the savages in them, now on their feet, brandish spears and wind their slings above their heads. Theirfiendish cries and furious gestures, with their ghastly chalked faces, give them an appearance more demoniac than human.
A stone is slung and a javelin cast, though both fall short. But will the next? They will soon be at nearer range, and the gig’s people, absolutely without means of protection, sit in fear and trembling. Still the rowers, bracing hearts and arms, pull manfully on. But Captain Gancy is appalled as another stone plashes in the water close to the boat’s side, while a third, striking the mast, drops down among them.
“Merciful Heaven!” he exclaims, despondingly, as he extends a sheltering arm over the heads of his dear ones. “Is it thus to end? Are we to be stoned to death?”
“Yonder’sa Heaven’s marcy, I do believe!” says Seagriff on the instant, “comin’ to our help ’roun’ Burnt Island. Thet’ll bring a change, sure!”
All turn their eyes in the direction indicated, wondering what he means, and they see the water, lately calm, surging and whirling in violent agitation, with showers of spray dashing up to the height of a ship’s mast.
“It’s awilliwaw!” adds the old sealer, in joyous tone, though at any other time, in open boat, or even decked ship, it would have sent a thrill of fear through his heart. Now he hails it with hope, for he knows that the williwaw (Note 3) causes a Fuegian the most intense fear, and oft engulfs his crazy craft, with himself and all his belongings. And at sight of the one now sweeping toward them the savages instantly drop sling and spear, cease shouting, and cower down in their canoes in dread silence.
“Now’s our chance, boys!” sings out Seagriff. “Wi’ a dozen more strokes we’ll be cl’ar o’ them—out o’ the track o’ the williwaw, too.”
The dozen strokes are given with a will. Two dozen ere the squall reaches them, and when it comes up, it has spent most of its strength, passing alike harmlessly over boat and canoes. But again the other danger threatens. The Fuegians are once more upon their feet, shaking their spears and yelling more furiously than ever; anger now added to their hostility. Yet louder and more vengefully they shout at finding pursuit is vain, as they soon do, for the diversion caused by the williwaw has given the gig an advantage, throwing all the canoes so far astern that there is no likelihood of its being caught. Even with the oars alone the gig could easily keep the distance gained on the slowly-paddled craft. It does better, however, having caught the breeze, and, with a swollen sail it glides on down Whale-boat Sound, rapidly increasing its advantage. On, still on, till under the gathering shadows of night the flotilla of canoes appears like tiny specks—like a flock of foul birds at rest on the distant water.
“Thar’s no fear o’ them comin’ arter us any furrer, I reck’n,” says the old sealer, in a glad voice. “’Tain’t likely that their country runs far in this direction.”
“And we may thank the Almighty for it,” is Captain Gancy’s grateful rejoinder. “Surely never was His hand more visibly extended for the protection of poor mortals! Let us thank Him, all!”
And the devout skipper uplifts his hands in prayer, the rest reverently listening. After the simple thanksgiving, he fervently kisses, first his wife, then Leoline. Kisses of mutual congratulation, and who can wonder at their being fervent? For they all have been very near to their last embrace on earth!
Note 1. Seagriff does not exaggerate. Their skill with this weapon is something remarkable. Captain King thus speaks of it: “I have seen them strike a cap, placed upon the stump of a tree fifty or sixty yards off, with a stone from a sling.” And again, speaking of an encounter he had with Fuegians, “It is astonishing how very correctly they throw them, and to what a distance. When the first stone fell close to us, we all thought ourselves out of musket-shot!”
Note 2. A kind of telegraph or apparatus for conveying information by means of signals visible at a distance, and as oscillating arms or flags by daylight and lanterns at night. A simple form is still employed.
Note 3. The “williwaw,” sometimes called the “wooley,” is one of the great terrors of Fuegian inland waters. It is a sort of squall with a downward direction, probably caused by the warmer air of the outside ocean, as it passes over the snowy mountains, becoming suddenly cooled, and so dropping with a violent rush upon the surface of the water, which surges under it as if struck by cannon shot.