Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England




The Land of Fire, by Captain Mayne Reid.

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As we are told in the Preface, this is the last book Reid wrote before
his death in 1883.  A young farm-boy walks down to Portsmouth, a port
not too far away, and eventually gets taken on as a hand on an American
barque, trading with the Pacific.  Four years later he has risen to be
second mate.  But when rounding Cape Horn a severe storm overwhelms the
vessel, and she is lost after springing a very bad leak.  All on board
take to the boats, but the pinnace gets separated from the gig, on which
our heroes have made their escape.  The ship's carpenter, an old and
experienced seaman, a former whaler, has an extraordinary amount of
knowledge of the natives of Tierra del Fuego--the Land of Fire--for that
is where they are.  Without that knowledge the party would not have
survived.  Unfortunately this great seaman (somewhat after the style of
Masterman Ready) does not speak in educated English, but you will just
have to get used to that.

There are various encounters with the tribes of the region, all very
well told.  Eventually, shortly after their most serious brush with the
locals, they reach a large vessel at anchor, and the pinnace alongside
her, so that they are saved.

Reid, being a good naturalist, tells us a good deal about the local
flora and fauna.  We also learn how to make fire in a land where it
rains five days in six.  His account of the local tribes, their skills
and their shortcomings, will give you much food for thought.  And the
book makes a very nice audiobook.

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THE LAND OF FIRE, BY CAPTAIN MAYNE REID.



PREFACE.

This tale is the last from the pen of Captain Mayne Reid, whose stories
have so long been the delight of English boys.  Our readers may,
perhaps, like to know something of the writer who has given them so much
pleasure; especially as his own life was full of adventure and of brave
deeds.

Mayne Reid was born in the north of Ireland in 1819; his father was a
Presbyterian minister, and wished that his son should also be a
clergyman; but the boy longed for adventure, and to see the world in its
wildest places, and could not bring himself to settle down to a quiet
life at home.

When he was twenty years old he set out on his travels, and, landing at
New Orleans, began a life of adventure in the prairies and forests of
America--good descriptions of which were given by him in his books.

In 1845 a war broke out between the United States and Mexico, and young
Reid instantly volunteered his services to fight on the United States'
side.

He received the commission of lieutenant in a New York regiment, and
fought all through the campaign with the most dauntless courage.  He
received several wounds, and gained a high reputation for generous good
feeling.

The castle of Chapultepec commanded the high road to the city of Mexico,
and as it was _very_ strongly defended, and the Mexicans had thirty
thousand soldiers to the American six thousand, to take it was a work
requiring great courage.

Reid was guarding a battery which the Americans had thrown up on the
south-east side of the castle, with a grenadier company of New York
volunteers and a detachment of United States' marines under his command.
From thence he cannonaded the main gate for a whole day.  The following
morning a storming party was formed of five hundred volunteers, and at
eleven o'clock the batteries ceased firing, and the attack began.

Reid and the artillery officers, standing by their guns, watched with
great anxiety the advance of the line, and were alarmed when they saw
that half-way up the hill there was a halt.

"I knew," he said in his account, "that if Chapultepec was not taken,
neither would the city be; and, failing that, not a man of us might ever
leave the Valley of Mexico alive."  He instantly asked leave of the
senior engineering officer to join the storming-party with his
grenadiers and marines.  The officer gave it, and Reid and his men at
once started at a swift run, and came up with the storming-party under
the brow of the hill, where it had halted to wait for scaling ladders.

The fire from the castle was constant, and very fatal.  The men
faltered, and several officers were wounded while urging them on.
Suddenly Reid, conspicuous by his brilliant uniform, sprang to his feet,
and shouted, "Men, if we don't take Chapultepec, the American army is
lost.  Let us charge up the walls!"

The soldiers answered, "We are ready."

At that moment the three guns on the parapet fired simultaneously.
There would be a moment's interval while they reloaded.  Reid seized
that interval, and crying "Come on," leaped over the scarp, and rushed
up to the very walls.  Half-way up he saw that the parapet was crowded
with Mexican gunners, just about to discharge their guns.  He threw
himself on his face, and thus received only a slight wound on his sword
hand, while another shot cut his clothes.

Instantly on his feet again, he made for the wall, but in front of it he
was struck down by a Mexican bullet tearing through his thigh.

There Lieutenant Cochrane, of the Voltigeurs, saw him as he advanced to
the walls.  Reid raised himself, and sang out, entreating the men to
stand firm.

"Don't leave the wall," he cried, "or we shall be cut to pieces.  Hold
on, and the castle is ours."

"There is no danger of our leaving it, captain," said Cochrane; "never
fear!"

Then the scaling ladders were brought, the rush was made, and the castle
taken.  But Reid had been _the very first man under its walls_.

When the war was over, Captain Reid resigned his commission in the
American army, and organised a body of men in New York to go and fight
for the Hungarians, but news reached him in Paris that the Hungarian
insurrection was ended, so he returned to England.

Here he settled down to literary work, publishing "The Scalp Hunters,"
and many wonderful stories of adventure and peril.

The great African explorer, the good Dr Livingstone, said in the last
letter he ever wrote, "Captain Mayne Reid's boys' books are the stuff to
make travellers."

Captain Mayne Reid died on the twenty-first of October, 1883, and the
"Land of Fire" is his unconscious last legacy to the boys of Great
Britain, and to all others who speak the English language.



CHAPTER ONE.

"THE SEA!  THE SEA!  THE OPEN SEA!"

One of the most interesting of English highways is the old coach road
from London to Portsmouth.  Its interest is in part due to the charming
scenery through which it runs, but as much to memories of a bygone time.
One travelling this road at the present day might well deem it lonely,
as there will be met on it only the liveried equipage of some local
magnate, the more unpretentious turn-out of country doctor or parson,
with here and there a lumbering farm waggon, or the farmer himself in
his smart two-wheeled "trap," on the way to a neighbouring market.

How different it was half a century ago, when along this same highway
fifty four-horse stages were "tooled" to and fro from England's
metropolis to her chief seaport town, top-heavy with fares--often a
noisy crowd of jovial Jack tars, just off a cruise and making
Londonward, or with faces set for Portsmouth, once more to breast the
billows and brave the dangers of the deep!  Many a naval officer of name
and fame historic, such as the Rodneys, Cochranes, Collingwoods, and
Codringtons,--even Nile's hero himself,--has been whirled along this old
highway.

All that is over now, and long has been.  To-day the iron horse, with
its rattling train, carries such travellers by a different route--the
screech of its whistle being just audible to wayfarers on the old road,
as in mockery of their crawling pace.  Of its ancient glories there
remain only the splendid causeway, still kept in repair, and the inns
encountered at short distances apart, many of them once grand
hostelries.  They, however, are not in repair; instead, altogether out
of it.  Their walls are cracked and crumbling to ruins, the ample
courtyards are grass-grown and the stables empty, or occupied only by
half a dozen clumsy cart-horses; while of human kind moving around will
be a lout or two in smock-frocks, where gaudily-dressed postillions,
booted and spurred, with natty ostlers in sleeve-waistcoats,
tight-fitting breeches, and gaiters, once ruled the roast.

Among other ancient landmarks on this now little-used highway is one of
dark and tragic import.  Beyond the town of Petersfield, going
southward, the road winds up a long steep ridge of chalk formation--the
"South Downs," which have given their name to the celebrated breed of
sheep.  Near the summit is a crater-like depression, several hundred
feet in depth, around whose rim the causeway is carried--a dark and
dismal hole, so weird of aspect as to have earned for it the appellation
of the "Devil's Punch Bowl."  Human agency has further contributed to
the appropriateness of the title.  By the side of the road, just where
it turns around the upper edge of the hollow, is a monolithic monument,
recording the tragic fate of a sailor who was there murdered and his
dead body flung into the "Bowl."  The inscription further states that
justice overtook his murderers, who were hanged on the selfsame spot,
the scene of their crime.  The obelisk of stone, with its long record,
occupying the place where stood the gallows-tree.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

It is a morning in the month of June; the hour a little after daybreak.
A white fog is over the land of South Hampshire--so white that it might
be taken for snow.  The resemblance is increased by the fact of its
being but a layer, so low that the crests of the hills and tree-tops of
copses appear as islets in the ocean, with shores well defined, though
constantly shifting.  For, in truth, it is the effect of a mirage, a
phenomenon aught but rare in the region of the South Downs.

The youth who is wending his way up the slope leading to the Devil's
Punch Bowl takes no note of this illusion of nature.  But he is not
unobservant of the fog itself; indeed, he seems pleased at having it
around him, as though it afforded concealment from pursuers.  Some
evidence of this might be gathered from his now and then casting
suspicious glances rearward, and at intervals stopping to listen.
Neither seeing nor hearing anything, however, he continues up the hill
in a brisk walk, though apparently weary.  That he is tired can be told
by his sitting down on a bank by the roadside as soon as he reaches the
summit, evidently to rest himself.  What he carries could not be the
cause of his fatigue--only a small bundle done up in a silk
handkerchief.  More likely it comes from his tramp along the hard road,
the thick dust over his clothes showing that it had been a long one.

Now, high up the ridge, where the fog is but a thin film, the solitary
wayfarer can be better observed, and a glance at his face forbids all
thought of his being a runaway from justice.  Its expression is open,
frank, and manly; whatever of fear there is in it certainly cannot be
due to any consciousness of crime.  It is a handsome face, moreover,
framed in a profusion of blonde hair, which falls curling down cheeks of
ruddy hue.  An air of rusticity in the cut of his clothes would bespeak
him country bred, probably the son of a farmer.  And just that he is,
his father being a yeoman-farmer near Godalming, some thirty miles back
along the road.  Why the youth is so far from home at this early hour,
and afoot--why those uneasy glances over the shoulder, as if he were an
escaping convict--may be gathered from some words of soliloquy
half-spoken aloud by him, while resting on the bank:

"I hope they won't miss me before breakfast-time.  By then I ought to be
in Portsmouth, and if I've the luck to get apprenticed on board a ship,
I'll take precious good care not to show myself on shore till she's off.
But surely father won't think of following this way--not a bit of it.
The old bailiff will tell him what I said about going to London, and
that'll throw him off the scent completely."

The smile that accompanied the last words is replaced by a graver look,
with a touch of sadness in the tone of his voice as he continues:

"Poor dear mother, and sis Em'ly!  It'll go hard with them for a bit,
grieving.  But they'll soon get over it.  'Tisn't like I was leaving
them never to come back.  Besides, won't I write mother a letter soon as
I'm sure of getting safe off?"

A short interval of silent reflection, and then follow words of a
self-justifying nature:

"How could I help it?  Father would insist on my being a farmer, though
he knows how I hate it.  One clodhopper in the family's quite enough;
and brother Dick's the man for that.  As the song says, `Let me go
a-ploughing the sea.'  Yes, though I should never rise above being a
common sailor.  Who's happier than the jolly Jack tar?  He sees the
world, any way, which is better than to live all one's life, with head
down, delving ditches.  But a common sailor--no!  Maybe I'll come home
in three or four years with gold buttons on my jacket and a glittering
band around the rim of my cap.  Ay, and with pockets full of gold coin!
Who knows?  Then won't mother be proud of me, and little Em too?"

By this time the uprisen sun has dispelled the last lingering threads of
mist, and Henry Chester (such is the youth's name) perceives, for the
first time, that he has been sitting beside a tall column of stone.  As
the memorial tablet is right before his eyes, and he reads the
inscription on it, again comes a shadow over his countenance.  May not
the fate of that unfortunate sailor be a forecast of his own?  Why
should it be revealed to him just then?  Is it a warning of what is
before him, with reproach for his treachery to those left behind?
Probably, at that very moment, an angry father, a mother and sister in
tears, all on his account!

For a time he stands hesitating; in his mind a conflict of emotions--a
struggle between filial affection and selfish desire.  Thus wavering, a
word would decide him to turn back for Godalming and home.  But there is
no one to speak that word, while the next wave of thought surging upward
brings vividly before him the sea with all its wonders--a vision too
bright, too fascinating, to be resisted by a boy, especially one brought
up on a farm.  So he no longer hesitates, but, picking up his bundle,
strides on toward Portsmouth.

A few hundred paces farther up, and he is on the summit of the ridge,
there to behold the belt of low-lying Hampshire coastland, and beyond it
the sea itself, like a sheet of blue glass, spreading out till met by
the lighter blue of the sky.  It is his first look upon the ocean, but
not the last; it can surely now claim him for its own.

Soon after an incident occurs to strengthen him in the resolve he has
taken.  At the southern base of the "Downs," lying alongside the road,
is the park and mansion of Horndean.  Passing its lodge-gate, he has the
curiosity to ask who is the owner of such a grand place, and gets for
answer, "Admiral Sir Charles Napier."  [See Note 1.]

"Might not _I_ some day be an admiral?" self-interrogates Henry Chester,
the thought sending lightness to his heart and quickening his steps in
the direction of Portsmouth.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1.  The Sir Charles Napier known to history as the "hero of Saint
Jean d'Acre," but better known to sailors in the British navy as "Old
Sharpen Your Cutlasses!"  This quaint soubriquet he obtained from an
order issued by him when he commanded a fleet in the Baltic,
anticipating an engagement with the Russians.



CHAPTER TWO.

THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER.

The clocks of Portsmouth are striking nine as the yeoman-farmer's son
enters the suburbs of the famous seaport.  He lingers not there, but
presses on to where he may find the ships--"by the Hard, Portsea," as he
learns on inquiry.  Presently a long street opens before him, at whose
farther end he descries a forest of masts, with their network of spars
and rigging, like the web of a gigantic spider.  Ship he has never seen
before, save in pictures or miniature models; but either were enough for
their identification, and the youth knows he is now looking with waking
eyes at what has so often appeared to him in dreams.

Hastening on, he sees scores of vessels lying at anchor off the Hard,
their boats coming and going.  But they are men-of-war, he is told, and
not the sort for him.  Notwithstanding his ambitious hope of one day
becoming a naval hero, he does not quite relish the idea of being a
common sailor--at least on a man-of-war.  It were too like enlisting in
the army to serve as a private soldier--a thing not to be thought of by
the son of a yeoman-farmer.  Besides, he has heard of harsh discipline
on war-vessels, and that the navy tar, when in a foreign port, is
permitted to see little more of the country than may be viewed over the
rail or from the rigging of his ship.  A merchantman is the craft he
inclines to--at least, to make a beginning with--especially one that
trades from port to port, visiting many lands; for, in truth, his
leaning toward a sea life has much to do with a desire to see the world
and its wonders.  Above all, would a whaler be to his fancy, as among
the most interesting books of his reading have been some that described
the "Chase of Leviathan," and he longs to take a part in it.

But Portsmouth is not the place for whaling vessels, not one such being
there.

For the merchantmen he is directed to their special harbour, and
proceeding thither he finds several lying alongside the wharves, some
taking in cargo, some discharging it, with two or three fully freighted
and ready to set sail.  These last claim his attention first, and,
screwing up courage, he boards one, and asks if he may speak with her
captain.

The captain being pointed out to him, he modestly and somewhat timidly
makes known his wishes.  But he meets only with an offhand denial,
couched in words of scant courtesy.

Disconcerted, though not at all discouraged, he tries another ship; but
with _no_ better success.  Then another, and another with like result,
until he has boarded nearly every vessel in the harbour having a
gangway-plank out.  Some of the skippers receive him even rudely, and
one almost brutally, saying, "We don't want landlubbers on this craft.
So cut ashore--quick!"

Henry Chester's hopes, high-tide at noon, ere night are down to lowest
ebb, and, greatly humiliated, he almost wishes himself back on the old
farmstead by Godalming.  He is even again considering whether it would
not be better to give it up and go back, when his eyes chance to stray
to a flag on whose corner is a cluster of stars on a blue ground, with a
field of red and white bands alternating.  It droops over the taffrail
of a barque of some six hundred tons burden, and below it, on her stern,
is lettered the _Calypso_.  During his perambulations to and fro he has
more than once passed this vessel, but the ensign not being English, he
did not think of boarding her.  Refused by so many skippers of his own
country, what chance would there be for him with one of a foreign
vessel?  None whatever, reasoned he.  But now, more intelligently
reflecting, he bethinks him that the barque, after all, is not so much a
foreigner, a passer-by having told him she is American--or "Yankee," as
it was put--and the flag she displays is the famed "Star-spangled
Banner."

"Well," mutters the runaway to himself, "I'll make one more try.  If
this one, too, refuses me, things will be no worse, and then--then--
home, I suppose."

Saying which, he walks resolutely up the sloping plank and steps on
board the barque, to repeat there the question he has already asked that
day for the twentieth time--"Can I speak with the captain?"

"I guess not," answers he to whom it is addressed, a slim youth who
stands leaning against the companion.  "Leastways, not now, 'cause he's
not on board.  What might you be wantin', mister?  Maybe I can fix it
for you."

Though the words are encouraging and the tone kindly, Henry Chester has
little hopes that he can, the speaker being but a boy himself.  Still,
he speaks in a tone of authority, and though in sailor garb, it is not
that of a common deck hand.

He is in his shirt-sleeves, the day being warm; but the shirt is of fine
linen, ruffled at the breast, and gold-studded, while a costly Panama
hat shades his somewhat sallow face from the sun.  Besides, he is on the
quarter-deck, seeming at home there.

Noting these details, the applicant takes heart to tell again his
oft-told tale, and await the rejoinder.

"Well," responds the young American, "I'm sorry I can't give you an
answer about that, the cap'n, as I told you, not being aboard.  He's
gone ashore on some Custom House business.  But, if you like, you can
come again and see him."

"I would like it much; when might I come?"

"Well, he might be back any minute.  Still, it's uncertain, and you'd
better make it to-morrow morning; you'll be sure to find him on board up
till noon, anyhow."

Though country born and bred, Henry Chester was too well-mannered to
prolong the interview, especially after receiving such courteous
treatment, the first shown him that day.  So, bowing thanks as well as
speaking them, he returns to the wharf.  But, still under the influence
of gratitude, he glances back over the barque's counter, to see on her
quarter-deck what intensifies his desire to become one of her crew.  A
fair vision it is--a slip of a girl, sweet-faced and of graceful form,
who has just come out of the cabin and joined the youth, to all
appearance asking some question about Chester himself, as her eyes are
turned shoreward after him.  At the same time a middle-aged ladylike
woman shows herself at the head of the companion-ladder, and seems
interested in him also.

"The woman must be the captain's wife and the girl his daughter,"
surmises the English youth, and correctly.  "But I never knew that
ladies lived on board ships, as they seem to be doing.  An American
fashion, I suppose.  How different from all the other vessels I've
visited!  Come back to-morrow morning?  No, not a bit of it.  I'll hang
about here, and wait the captain's return.  That will I, if it be till
midnight."

So resolving, he looks around for a place where he may rest himself.
After his thirty miles' trudge along the king's highway, with quite ten
more back and forth on the wharves, to say nought of the many ships
boarded, he needs rest badly.  A pile of timber here, with some loose
planks alongside it, offers the thing he is in search of; and on the
latter he seats himself, leaning his back against the boards in such a
position as to be screened from the sight of those on the barque, while
he himself commands a view of the approaches to her gangway-plank.

For a time he keeps intently on the watch, wondering what sort of man
the _Calypso's_ captain may be, and whether he will recognise him amidst
the moving throng.  Not likely, since most of those passing by are men
of the sea, as their garb betokens.  There are sailors in blue jackets
and trousers that are tight at the hip and loose around the ankles, with
straw-plaited or glazed hats, bright-ribboned, and set far back on the
head; other seamen in heavy pilot-cloth coats and sou'-westers; still
others wearing Guernsey frocks and worsted caps, with long points
drooping down over their ears.  Now, a staid naval officer passes along
in gold-laced uniform, and sword slung in black leathern belt; now, a
party of rollicking midshipmen, full of romp and mischief.

Not all who pass him are English: there are men loosely robed and
wearing turbans, whom he takes to be Turks or Egyptians, which they are;
others, also of Oriental aspect, in red caps with blue silk tassels--the
fez.  In short, he sees sailors of all nations and colours, from the
blonde-complexioned Swede and Norwegian to the almost jet-black negro
from Africa.

But while endeavouring to guess the different nationalities, a group at
length presents itself which puzzles him.  It is composed of three
individuals--a man, boy, and girl, their respective ages being about
twenty-five, fifteen, and ten.  The oldest--the man--is not much above
five feet in height, the other two short in proportion.  All three,
however, are stout-bodied, broad-shouldered, and with heads of goodly
size, the short slender legs alone giving them a squat diminutive look.
Their complexion is that of old mahogany; hair straight as needles,
coarse as bristles, and crow-black; eyes of jet, obliqued to the line of
the nose, this thin at the bridge, and depressed, while widely dilated
at the nostrils; low foreheads and retreating chins--such are the
features of this singular trio.  The man's face is somewhat forbidding,
the boy's less so, while the countenance of the girl has a pleasing
expression--or, at least, a picturesqueness such as is commonly
associated with gipsies.  What chiefly attracts Henry Chester to them,
however, while still further perplexing him as to their nationality, is
that all three are attired in the ordinary way as other well-dressed
people in the streets of Portsmouth.  The man and boy wear broadcloth
coats, tall "chimney-pot" hats, and polished boots; white linen shirts,
too, with standing collars and silk neckties, the boy somewhat foppishly
twirling a light cane he carries in his kid-gloved hand.  The girl is
dressed neatly and becomingly in a gown of cotton print, with a bright
coloured scarf over her shoulders and a bonnet on her head, her only
adornment being a necklace of imitation pearls and a ring or two on her
fingers.

Henry Chester might not have taken such particular notice of them, but
that, when opposite him, they came to a stand, though not on his
account.  What halts them is the sight of the starred and striped flag
on the _Calypso_, which is evidently nothing new to them, however rare a
visitor in the harbour of Portsmouth.  A circumstance that further
surprises Henry is to hear them converse about it in his own tongue.

"Look, Ocushlu!" exclaims the man, addressing the girl, "that the same
flag we often see in our own country on sealing ships."

"Indeed so--just same.  You see, Orundelico?"

"Oh, yes!" responds the boy, with a careless toss of head and wave of
the cane, as much as to say, "What matters it?"

"'Merican ship," further observes the man.  "They speak Inglis, same as
people here."

"Yes, Eleparu," rejoins the boy, "that true; but they different from
Inglismen--not always friends; sometimes they enemies and fight.
Sailors tell me that when we were in the big war-ship."

"Well, it no business of ours," returns Eleparu.  "Come 'long."  Saying
which he leads off, the others following, all three at intervals
uttering ejaculations of delighted wonder as objects novel and unknown
come before their eyes.

Equally wonders the English youth as to who and what they may be.  Such
queer specimens of humanity!  But not long does he ponder upon it.  Up
all the night preceding and through all that day, with his mind
constantly on the rack, his tired frame at length succumbs, and he falls
asleep.



CHAPTER THREE.

PORTSMOUTH MUD-LARKS.

The Hampshire youth sleeps soundly, dreaming of a ship manned by women,
with a pretty childlike girl among the crew.  But he seems scarcely to
have closed his eyes before he is awakened by a clamour of voices,
scolding and laughing in jarring contrast.  Rubbing his eyes and looking
about him, he sees the cause of the strange disturbance, which proceeds
from some ragged boys, of the class commonly termed "wharf-rats" or
"mud-larks."  Nearly a dozen are gathered together, and it is they who
laugh; the angry voices come from others, around whom they have formed a
ring and whom they are "badgering."

Springing upon his feet, he hurries toward the scene of contention, or
whatever it may be, not from curiosity, but impelled by a more generous
motive--a suspicion that there is foul play going on.  For among the
mud-larks he recognises one who, early in the day, offered insult to
himself, calling him a "country yokel."  Having other fish to fry, he
did not at the time resent it; but now he will see.

Arriving at the spot, he sees, what he has already dimly suspected, that
the mud-larks' victims are the three odd individuals who lately stopped
in front of him.  But it is not they who are most angry; instead, they
are giving the "rats" change in kind, returning their "chaff," and even
getting the better of them, so much so that some of their would-be
tormentors have quite lost their tempers.  One is already furious--a big
hulking fellow, their leader and instigator, and the same who had cried,
"country yokel."  As it chances, he is afflicted with an impediment of
speech, in fact, stutters badly, making all sorts of twitching grimaces
in the endeavour to speak correctly.  Taking advantage of this, the boy
Orundelico--"blackamoor," as he is being called--has so turned the
tables on him by successful mimicry of his speech as to elicit loud
laughter from a party of sailors loitering near.  This brings on a
climax, the incensed bully, finally losing all restraint of himself,
making a dash at his diminutive mocker, and felling him to the pavement
with a vindictive blow.

"Tit-it-it-take that, ye ugly mim-m-monkey!" is its accompaniment in
speech as spiteful as defective.

The girl sends up a shriek, crying out:

"Oh, Eleparu!  Orundelico killed!  He dead!"

"No, not dead," answers the boy, instantly on his feet again like a
rebounding ball, and apparently but little injured.  "He take me foul.
Let him try once more.  Come on, big brute!"

And the pigmy places himself in a defiant attitude, fronting an
adversary nearly twice his own size.

"Stan' side!" shouts Eleparu, interposing.  "Let me go at him!"

"Neither of you!" puts in a new and resolute voice, that of Henry
Chester, who, pushing both aside, stands face to face with the
aggressor, fists hard shut, and eyes flashing anger.  "Now, you
ruffian," he adds, "I'm your man."

"Wh-wh-who are yi-yi-you? an' wh-wh-what's it your bi-bib-business?"

"No matter who I am; but it's my business to make you repent that
cowardly blow.  Come on and get your punishment!"

And he advances towards the stammerer, who has shrunk back.

This unlooked-for interference puts an end to the fun-making of the
mud-larks, all of whom are now highly incensed, for in their new
adversary they recognise a lad of country raising--not a town boy--which
of itself challenges their antagonistic instincts.

On these they are about to act, one crying out, "Let's pitch into the
yokel and gie him a good trouncin'!" a second adding, "Hang his
imperence!" while a third counsels teaching him "Portsmouth manners."

Such a lesson he seems likely to receive, and it would probably have
fared hardly with our young hero but for the sudden appearance on the
scene of another figure--a young fellow in shirt-sleeves and wearing a
Panama hat--he of the _Calypso_.

"Thunder and lightning!" he exclaimed, coming on with a rush.  "What's
the rumpus about?  Ha! a fisticuff fight, with odds--five to one!  Well,
Ned Gancy ain't going to stand by an' look on at that; he pitches in
with the minority."

And so saying, the young American placed himself in a pugilistic
attitude by the side of Henry Chester.

This accession of strength to the assailed party put a different face on
the matter, the assailants evidently being cowed, despite their
superiority of numbers.  They know their newest adversary to be an
American, and at sight of the two intrepid-looking youths standing side
by side, with the angry faces of Eleparu and Orundelico in the
background, they become sullenly silent, most of them evidently inclined
to steal away from the ground.

The affair seemed likely thus to end, when, to the surprise of all,
Eleparu, hitherto held back by the girl, suddenly released himself and
bounded forward, with hands and arms wide open.  In another instant he
had grasped the big bully in a tiger-like embrace, lifted him off his
feet, and dashed him down upon the flags with a violence that threatened
the breaking of every bone in his body.

Nor did his implacable little adversary, who seemed possessed of a
giant's strength, appear satisfied with this, for he afterwards sprang
on top of him, with a paving-stone in his uplifted hands.

The affair might have terminated tragically had not the uplifted hand
been caught by Henry Chester.  While he was still holding it, a man came
up, who brought the conflict to an abrupt close by seizing Eleparu's
collar, and dragging him off his prostrate foe.

"Ho! what's this?" demands the newcomer, in a loud authoritative voice.
"Why, York!  Jemmy!  Fuegia! what are you all doing here?  You should
have stayed on board the steamship, as I told you to do.  Go back to her
at once."

By this time the mud-larks have scuttled off, the big one, who had
recovered his feet, making after them, and all speedily disappearing.
The three gipsy-looking creatures go too, leaving their protectors,
Henry Chester and Ned Gancy, to explain things to him who has caused the
stampede.  He is an officer in uniform, wearing insignia which proclaim
him a captain in the Royal Navy; and as he already more than half
comprehends the situation, a few words suffice to make it all clear to
him, when, thanking the two youths for their generous and courageous
interference in behalf of his _proteges_, as he styles the odd trio
whose part they had taken, he bows a courteous farewell, and continues
his interrupted walk along the Hard.

"Guess you didn't get much sleep," observes the young American, with a
knowing smile, to Henry Chester.

"Who told you I was asleep?" replies the latter in some surprise.

"Who?  Nobody."

"How came you to know it, then?"

"How?  Wasn't I up in the maintop, and didn't I see everything you did?
And you behaved particularly well, I must say.  But come!  Let's aboard.
The captain has come back.  He's my father, and maybe we can find a
berth for you on the _Calypso_.  Come along!"

------------------------------------------------------------------------

That night Henry Chester eats supper at the _Calypso's_ cabin table, by
invitation of the captain's son, sleeps on board, and, better still, has
his name entered on her books as an apprentice.

And he finds her just the sort of craft he was desirous to go to sea
in--a general trader, bound for the Oriental Archipelago and the isles
of the Pacific Ocean.  To crown all, she has completed her cargo and is
ready to put to sea.

Sail she does, early the next day, barely leaving him time to keep that
promise, made by the Devil's Punch Bowl, of writing to his mother.



CHAPTER FOUR.

OFF THE "FURIES."

A ship tempest-tossed, labouring amid the surges of an angry sea; her
crew on the alert, doing their utmost to keep her off a lee-shore.  And
such a shore!  None more dangerous on all ocean's edge; for it is the
west coast of Tierra del Fuego, abreast the Fury Isles and that long
belt of seething breakers known to mariners as the "Milky Way," the same
of which the great naturalist, Darwin, has said: "One sight of such a
coast is enough to make a landsman dream for a week about shipwreck,
peril, and death."

There is no landsman in the ship now exposed to its dangers.  All on
board are familiar with the sea--have spent years upon it.  Yet is there
fear in their hearts and pallor on their cheeks, as their eyes turn to
that belt of white frothy water between them and the land, trending
north and south beyond the range of vision.

Technically speaking, the endangered vessel is not a ship, but a barque,
as betokened by the fore-and-aft rig of her mizenmast.  Nor is she of
large dimensions; only some six or seven hundred tons.  But the reader
knows this already, or will, after learning her name.  As her stern
swings up on the billow, there can be read upon it the _Calypso_; and
she is that _Calypso_ in which Henry Chester sailed out of Portsmouth
Harbour to make his first acquaintance with a sea life.

Though nearly four years have elapsed since then, he is still on board
of her.  There stands he by the binnacle.  No more a boy, but a young
man, and in a garb that bespeaks him of the quarter-deck--not before the
mast, for he is now the _Calypso's_ third officer.  And her second is
not far-off; he is the generous youth who was the means of getting him
the berth.  Also grown to manhood, he, too, is aft, lending a hand at
the helm, the strength of one man being insufficient to keep it steady
in that heavily rolling sea.  On the poop-deck is Captain Gancy himself,
consulting a small chart, and filled with anxiety as at intervals
looking towards the companion-ladder he there sees his wife and
daughter, for he knows his vessel to be in danger and his dear ones as
well.

A glance at the barque reveals that she has been on a long voyage.  Her
paint is faded, her sails patched, and there is rust along the chains
and around the hawse-holes.  She might be mistaken for a whaler coming
off a four years' cruise.  And nearly that length of time has she been
cruising, but not after whales.  Her cargo, a full one, consists of
sandal-wood, spices, tortoise-shell, mother-of-pearl, and real pearls
also--in short, a miscellaneous assortment of the commodities obtained
by traffic in the islands and around the coasts of the great South Sea.

Her last call has been at Honolulu Harbour in the Sandwich Isles, and
she is now homeward-bound for New York around the Horn.  A succession of
westerly winds, or rather continuation of them, has forced her too far
on to the Fuegian coast, too near the Furies; and now tossed about on a
billowy sea, with the breakers of the Milky Way in sight to leeward, no
wonder that her crew are apprehensive for their safety.

Still, perilous as their situation, they might not so much regard it
were the _Calypso_ sound and in sailing trim.  Unfortunately she is far
from this, having a damaged rudder, and with both courses torn to
shreds.  She is lying-to under storm fore-staysail and close-reefed
try-sails, wearing at intervals, whenever it can be done with advantage,
to keep her away from those "white horses" a-lee.  But even under the
diminished spread of canvas the barque is distressed beyond what she can
bear, and Captain Gancy is about to order a further reduction of canvas,
when, looking westward--in which direction he has been all along
anxiously on the watch--he sees what sends a shiver through his frame:
three huge rollers, whose height and steepness tell him the _Calypso_ is
about to be tried to the very utmost of her strength.  Good sea-boat
though he knows her to be, he knows also that a crisis is near.  There
is but time for him to utter a warning shout ere the first roller comes
surging upon them.  By a lucky chance the barque, having good
steerage-way, meets and rises over it unharmed.  But her way being now
checked, the second roller deadens it completely, and she is thrown off
the wind.  The third then taking her right abeam, she careens over so
far that the whole of her lee-bulwark, from cat-head to stern-davit, is
ducked under water.

It is a moment of doubt, with fear appalling--almost despair.  Struck by
another sea, she would surely go under; but, luckily, the third is the
last of the series, and she rights herself, rolling back again like an
empty cask.  Then, as a steed shaking his mane after a shower, she
throws the briny water off, through hawse-holes and scuppers, till her
decks are clear again.

A cry of relief ascends from the crew, instinctive and simultaneous.
Nor does the loss of her lee-quarter boat, dipped under and torn from
the davits, hinder them from adding a triumphant hurrah, the skipper
himself waving his wet tarpaulin and crying aloud:

"Well done, old _Calypso_!  Boys, we may thank our stars for being on
board such a seaworthy craft!"

Alas! both the feeling of triumph and security are short-lived, ending
almost on the instant.  Scarce has the joyous hurrah ceased
reverberating along her decks, when a voice is heard calling out, in a
tone very different:

"The ship's sprung a leak!--and a big one too!  The water's coming into
her like a sluice!"

There is a rush for the fore hatchway, whence the words of alarm
proceed, the main one being battened down and covered with tarpaulin.
Then a hurried descent to the "'tween-decks" and an anxious peering into
the hold below.  True--too true!  It is already half full of water,
which seems mounting higher and by inches to the minute!  So fancy the
more frightened ones!

"Though bad enuf, 'tain't altogether so bad's that," pronounced Seagriff
the carpenter, after a brief inspection.  "There's a hole in the bottom
for sartin'; but mebbe we kin beat it by pumpin'."

Thus encouraged, the captain bounds back on deck, calling out, "All
hands to the pumps!"

There is no need to say that.  All take hold and work them with a will:
it is as if every one were working for his own life.

A struggle succeeds, triangular and unequal, being as two to one.  For
the storm still rages, needing helm and sails to be looked after, while
the inflow must be kept under in the hold.  A terrible conflict it is,
between man's strength and the elements, but short, and alas! to end in
the defeat of the former.

The _Calypso_ is water-logged, will no longer obey her helm, and must
surely sink.

At length, convinced of this, Captain Gancy calls out, "Boys, it's no
use trying to keep her afloat.  Drop the pumps, and let us take to the
boats."

But taking to the boats is neither an easy nor hopeful alternative,
seeming little better than that of a drowning man catching at straws.
Still, though desperate, it is their only chance, and with not a moment
to be wasted in irresolution.  Luckily the _Calypso's_ crew is a
well-disciplined one, every hand on board having served in her for
years.  The only two boats left them--the gig and pinnace--are therefore
let down to the water, without damage to either, and, by like dexterous
management, everybody got safely into them.  It is a quick embarkation,
however--so hurried, indeed, that few effects can be taken along, only
those that chance to be readiest to hand.  Another moment's delay might
have cost them their lives, for scarce have they taken their seats and
pushed the boats clear of the ship's side, when, another sea striking
her, she goes down head foremost like a lump of lead, carrying masts,
spars, torn sails, and rigging--everything--along with her.

Captain Gancy groans at the sight.  "My fine barque gone to the bottom
of the sea, cargo and all--the gatherings of years.  Hard, cruel luck!"

Mingling with his words of sorrow are cries that seem cruel too: the
screams of seabirds, gannets, gulls, and the wide-winged albatross, that
have been long hovering above the _Calypso_, as if knowing her to be
doomed, and hoping to find a feast among the floating remnants of the
wreck.



CHAPTER FIVE.

THE CASTAWAYS.

Not long does Captain Gancy lament the loss of his fine vessel and
valuable cargo.  In the face and fear of a far greater loss--his own
life and the lives of his companions there is no time for vain regrets.
The storm is still in full fury; the winds and the waves are as high as
ever, and their boat is threatened with the fate of the barque.

The bulk of the _Calypso's_ crew, with Lyons, the chief mate, have taken
to the pinnace; and the skipper is in his own gig, with his wife,
daughter, son, young Chester, and two others--Seagriff, the carpenter,
and the cook, a negro.  In all only seven persons, but enough to bring
the gunwale of the little craft dangerously near the water's edge.  The
captain himself is in the stern-sheets, tiller-lines in hand.  Mrs
Gancy and her daughter crouch beside him, while the others are at the
oars, in which occupation Ned and Chester occasionally pause to bale
out, as showers of spray keep breaking over the boat, threatening to
swamp it.

What point shall they steer for?  This is a question that no one asks,
nor thinks of asking as yet.  Course and direction are as nothing now;
all their energies are bent on keeping the boat above water.  However,
they naturally endeavour to remain in the company of the pinnace.  But
those in the larger craft, like themselves, are engaged in a
life-and-death conflict with the sea, and both must fight it out in
their own way, neither being able to give aid to the other.  So, despite
their efforts to keep near each other, the winds and waves soon separate
them, and they only can catch glimpses of each other when buoyed up on
the crest of a billow.  When the night comes on--a night of dungeon
darkness--they see each other no more.

But, dark as it is, there is still visible that which they have been
long regarding with dread--the breakers known as the "Milky Way."
Snow-white during the day, these terrible rock-tortured billows now
gleam like a belt of liquid fire, the breakers at every crest seeming to
break into veritable flames.  Well for the castaways that this is the
case; else how, in such obscurity, could the dangerous lee-shore be
shunned?  To keep off that is, for the time, the chief care of those in
the gig; and all their energies are exerted in holding their craft well
to windward.

By good fortune the approach of night has brought about a shifting of
the wind, which has veered around to the west-north-west, making it
possible for them to "scud," without nearer approach to the dreaded
fire-like line.  In their cockleshell of a boat, they know that to run
before the wind is their safest plan, and so they speed on
south-eastward.  An ocean current setting from the north-west also helps
them in this course.

Thus doubly driven, they make rapid progress, and before midnight the
Milky Way is behind them and out of sight.  But, though they breathe
more freely, they are by no means out of danger--alone in a frail skiff
on the still turbulent ocean, and groping in thick darkness, with
neither moon nor star to guide them.  They have no compass, that having
been forgotten in their scramble out of the sinking ship.  But even if
they had one it would be of little assistance to them at present, as,
for the time being, they have enough to do in keeping the boat baled out
and above water.

At break of day matters look a little better.  The storm has somewhat
abated, and there is land in sight to leeward, with no visible breakers
between.  Still, they have a heavy swell to contend with, and an ugly
cross sea.

But land to a castaway!  His first thought and most anxious desire is to
set foot on it.  So in the case of our shipwrecked party: risking all
reefs and surfs, they at once set the gig's head shoreward.

Closing in upon the land, they perceive a high promontory on the port
bow, and another on the starboard, separated by a wide reach of open
water; and about half-way between these promontories and somewhat
farther out lies what appears to be an island.  Taking it for one,
Seagriff counsels putting in there instead of running on for the more
distant mainland, though that is not his real reason.

"But why should we put in upon the island?" asks the skipper.  "Wouldn't
it be much better to keep on to the main?"

"No, Captain; there's a reason agin it, the which I'll make known to you
as soon as we get safe ashore."

Captain Gancy is aware that the late _Calypso's_ carpenter was for a
long time a sealer, and in this capacity had spent more than one season
in the sounds and channels of Tierra del Fuego.  He knows also that the
old sailor can be trusted, and so, without pressing for further
explanation, he steers straight for the island.

When about half a mile from its shore, they come upon a bed of kelp
[Note 1], growing so close and thick as to bar their farther advance.
Were they still on board the barque, the weed would be given a wide
berth, as giving warning of rocks underneath; but in the light-draught
gig they have no fear of these, and with the swell still tossing them
about, they might be even glad to get in among the kelp--certainly there
would be but that between it and the shore.  They can descry waveless
water, seemingly as tranquil as a pond.

Luckily the weed-bed is not continuous, but traversed by an irregular
sort of break, through which it seems practicable to make way.  Into
this the gig is directed, and pulled through with vigorous strokes.
Five minutes afterward her keel grates upon a beach, against which,
despite the tumbling swell outside, there is scarce so much as a ripple.
There is no better breakwater than a bed of kelp.

The island proves to be a small one--less than a mile in diameter--
rising in the centre to a rounded summit, three hundred feet above
sea-level.

It is treeless, though in part overgrown with a rank vegetation, chiefly
tussac-grass [Note 2], with its grand bunches of leaves, six feet in
height, surrounded by plume-like flower-spikes, almost as much higher.

Little regard, however, do the castaways pay to the isle or its
productions.  After being so long tossed about on rough seas, in
momentary peril of their lives, and eating scarcely a mouthful of food
the while, they are now suffering from the pangs of hunger.  On the
water this was the last thing to be thought of; on land it is the first;
so as soon as the boat is brought to her moorings, and they have set
foot on shore, the services of Caesar the cook are called into
requisition.

As yet they scarcely know what provisions they have with them, so
confusedly were things flung into the gig.  An examination of their
stock proves that it is scant indeed: a barrel of biscuits, a ham, some
corned beef, a small bag of coffee in the berry, a canister of tea, and
a loaf of lump sugar, were all they had brought with them.  The
condition of these articles, too, is most disheartening.  Much of the
biscuit seems a mass of briny pulp; the beef is pickled for the second
time (on this occasion with sea-water); the sugar is more than half
melted; and the tea spoiled outright, from the canister not having been
water-tight.  The ham and coffee have received least damage; yet both
will require a cleansing operation to make them fit for food.

Fortunately, some culinary utensils are found in the boat the most
useful of them being a frying-pan, kettle, and coffeepot.  And now for a
fire!--ah, the fire!

Up to this moment no one has thought of a fire; but now needing it, they
are met with the difficulty, if not impossibility, of making one.  The
_mere_ work of kindling it were an easy enough task, the late occupant
of the _Calypso's_ caboose being provided with flint, steel, and tinder.
So, too, is Seagriff, who, an inveterate smoker, is never without
igniting apparatus, carried in a pocket of his pilot-coat.  But where
are they to find firewood?  There is none on the islet--not a stick, as
no trees grow there; while the tussac and other plants are soaking wet,
the very ground being a sodden spongy peat.

A damper as well as a disappointment this, and Captain Gancy turns to
Seagriff and remarks, with some vexation, "Chips, [All ship-carpenters
are called `Chips.'] I think 't would have been better if we'd kept on
to the main.  There's timber enough there, on either side," he adds,
after a look through his binocular.  "The hills appear to be
thickly-wooded half-way up on the land both north and south of us."

His words are manifestly intended as a reflection upon the judgment of
the quondam seal-hunter, who rejoins shortly, "It would have been a deal
worse, sir.  Ay, worse nor if we should have to eat our vittels raw."

"I don't comprehend you," said the skipper: "you spoke of a reason for
our not making the mainland.  What is it?"

"Wal, Captain, there is a reason, as I said, an' a good one.  I didn't
like to tell you, wi' the others listenin'."  He nods toward the rest of
the party, who are out of earshot, and then continues, "'Specially the
women folks, as 'tain't a thing they ought to be told about."

"Do you fear some danger?" queries the skipper, in a tone of
apprehension.

"Jest that; an' bad kind o' danger.  As fur's I kin see, we've drifted
onto a part of the Feweegin coast where the Ailikoleeps live; the which
air the worst and cruellest o' savages--some of 'em rank cannyballs!  It
isn't but five or six years since they murdered, and what's more, eat
sev'ral men of a sealin' vessel that was wrecked somewhere about here.
For killin' 'em, mebbe they might have had reason, seein' as there had
been blame on both sides, an' some whites have behaved no better than
the savages.  But jest fur that, we, as are innocent, may hev to pay fur
the misdeeds o' the guilty!  Now, Captain, you perceive the wharfor o'
my not wantin' you to land over yonder.  Ef we went now, like as not
we'd have a crowd o' the ugly critters yellin' around us, hungering for
our flesh."

"But, if that's so," queried the captain, "shall we be any safer here?"

"Yes, we're safe enough here--'s long as the wind's blowin' as 'tis now,
an' I guess it allers does blow that way, round this speck of an island.
It must be all o' five mile to that land either side, an' in their
rickety canoes the Feweegins never venture fur out in anythin' o' a
rough sea.  I calculate, Captain, we needn't trouble ourselves much
about 'em--leastways, not jest yet."

"Ay--but afterward?" murmurs Captain Gancy, in a desponding tone, as his
eyes turn upon those by the boat.

"Wal, sir," says the old sealer, encouragingly, "the arterwards 'll have
to take care o' itself.  An' now I guess I'd better determine ef thar
ain't some way o' helpin' Caesar to a spark o' fire.  Don't look like
it, but looks are sometimes deceivin'."

And, so saying, he strolls off among the bunches of tussac-grass, and is
soon out of sight.

But it is not long before he is again making himself heard, by an
exclamation, telling of some discovery--a joyful one, as evinced by the
tone of his voice.  The two youths hasten to his side, and find him
bending over a small heath-like bush, from which he has torn a handful
of branches.

"What is it, Chips?" ask both in a breath.

"The gum plant, sure," he replies.

"Well, what then?  What's the good of it?" they further interrogate.
"You don't suppose that green thing will burn--wet as a fish, too?"

"That's jest what I do suppose," replied the old sailor, deliberately.
"You young ones wait, an' you'll see.  Mebbe you'll lend a hand, an'
help me to gather some of it.  We want armfuls; an' there's plenty o'
the plants growin' all about, you see."

They do see, and at once begin tearing at them, breaking off the
branches of some, and plucking up others by the roots, till Seagriff
cries, "Enough!"  Then, with arms full, they return to the beach in high
spirits and with joyful faces.

Arrived there, Seagriff selects some of the finest twigs, which he rubs
between his hands till they are reduced to a fine fibre and nearly dry.
Rolling these into a rounded shape, resembling a bird's nest, click!
goes his flint and steel--a piece of "punk" is ignited and slipped into
the heart of the ball.  This, held on high, and kept whirling around his
head, is soon ablaze, when it is thrust in among the gathered heap of
green plants.  Green and wet as these are, they at once catch fire and
flame up like kindling-wood.

All are astonished and pleased, and not the least delighted is Caesar,
who dances over the ground in high glee as he prepares to resume his
vocation.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1.  The _Fucus giganteus_ of Solander.  The stem of this remarkable
seaweed, though but the thickness of a man's thumb, is often over one
hundred and thirty yards in length, perhaps the longest of any known
plant.  It grows on every rock in Fuegian waters, from low-water mark to
a depth of fifty or sixty fathoms, and among the most violent breakers.
Often loose stones are raised up by it, and carried about, when the weed
gets adrift.  Some of these are so large and heavy that they can with
difficulty be lifted into a boat.  The reader will learn more of it
further on.

Note 2.  _Dactylis caespitosa_.  The leaves of this singular grass are
often eight feet in length, and an inch broad at the base, the
flower-stalks being as long as the leaves.  It bears much resemblance to
the "pampas grass," now well known as an ornamental shrub.



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.



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 of
_Anativae_, 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 Chilian _jota_ [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--
the _amphibia_ in 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.  Of course, 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 not _all_ in 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're _Ailikoleeps_.  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, _it_ ain'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 the
_akifka-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 shell necklace.  [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 Fuegian
_bric-a-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
only _one_ to 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
sinking _Calypso_.  "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
side _en echelon_, 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.  Their fiendish 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's_ a 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 a _williwaw_!" 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.



CHAPTER ELEVEN.

WHY "LAND OF FIRE."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

------------------------------------------------------------------------

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

Note 2.  The beeches are the _Fagus Betuloides_ and _Fagus Antarchia_.
The former partakes also of the character of a birch.  It is an
evergreen, while the leaves of the other fall off in the autumn.  The
"Winter's-bark" (_Drimys Winletii_) is a laurel-like evergreen, which
produces an aromatic bark, somewhat resembling cinnamon.  It derives its
name, not from the season, but from a Captain Winter, who first carried
the bark to England in 1579.

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



CHAPTER TWELVE.

A CATASTROPHE NOT ANTICIPATED.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"At that glasheer, Captin'.  The big 'un derect in front of us."

"Well, what of it?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh! that's well understood," asserts the skipper, acquainted with the
latest theory of glacier movement.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But how?"

"How?  Why, by swampin' or smashin' the only one we've got, the which--"

"Thunder an' airthquakes!  See yonder!  The very thing we're talkin'
'bout, I vow!"

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

A CHANGE OF QUARTERS DETERMINED ON.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Thet's true, sir, ef we _could_ move at oncet.  But we can't--leastways
not to-day."

"Why not?"

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

"Why, there's an hour of daylight yet, or more!"

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

"I don't understand you, Chips.  The distance can't be more than two or
three hundred yards."

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

"How so?" queried the skipper.

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

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

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

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

------------------------------------------------------------------------

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



CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

A FUEGIAN FISH-HUNT.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

A ROUGH OVERLAND ROUTE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How do you know that?" inquires the skipper.

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

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

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

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

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

------------------------------------------------------------------------

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



CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

BY THE "KITCHEN MIDDEN."

The programme determined on is carried out to the letter.  But as the
days pass, and no ship appears, their impatience becomes despondency--
almost despair.  Yet this is for the best, as it strengthens a
resolution already in their thoughts, but not finally decided upon.
This is to build a boat.  Nor, in this case, is necessity--mother of
invention--the sole impelling influence.  Other circumstances aid in
suggesting the scheme, because they favour its execution.  There is
timber in plenty on the spot, needing only to be hewn into shape and put
together.  The oars, mast, and sail are already on hand; but, above all,
Chips is a ship's carpenter, capable of turning out any sort of craft,
from a dinghy to the biggest of long-boats.

All these advantages taken into account, the task is set about without
further hesitation, and hopefully.  A great drawback, however, is their
not being provided with proper tools.  They have only a common wood-axe,
a hand-saw, hammer, auger, and their sailor-knives; nor would they be so
well off but for having had them on shore during their brief sojourn in
the cove.  Other tools left in the gig are doubtless in her still.

Doing their best with those on hand, the axe is first brought into play,
the negro being the one to wield it.  In early life he has cut down many
a tree on the banks of the Mississippi, hundreds bigger than any to be
found in the Fuegian forests.  So with a confident air he attacks the
tree which Seagriff points out to be felled first, saying, "Dis nigger
fetch it down quick as de shake ob a nanny-goat's tail, see if him
don't."

And he proceeds to confirm his boast by a vigorous assault upon the
tree, a beech, one of those that have been barked.  This circumstance,
too, is in their favour, and saves them time, for the barked trees
having been long dead, their timber is now dry and seasoned, ready for
working up at once.  But caution is called for in selecting those to be
cut down.  Were they taken indiscriminately, much of Caesar's labour
might be thrown away; for, as has been said, many of the trees are
heart-decayed, without showing outward sign of it, the result of an
ever-humid atmosphere.  Aware of this, Chips tries each one by tapping
it with the auger before Caesar lays his axe to it.  [Note 1.]

For days after, the chipping strokes of the axe, with the duller thuds
of wood mallets on wedges, awaken echoes in the Fuegian forest such as
may never have been heard there before.  When felled, the trunks are cut
to the proper length, and then split into rough planks by means of
wedges, and are afterwards smoothed with the knives.

With such insufficient tools, the work is necessarily slow, and is still
further retarded by another requirement, food, which has meanwhile to be
procured.  The supply, however, proves less precarious than was
anticipated, the kelp-bed yielding an unlimited amount of shell-fish.
Daily at ebb-tide, when the rocks are uncovered, the two youths swim out
to it and bring off a good number of limpets and mussels; they also
continue to catch other fish, and now and then a calf seal is clubbed,
which affords a change of diet, a delicate one, too, the fry of the
young seal being equal to that of lamb.  The scurvy-grass and wild
celery, moreover, enable "the doctor" to turn out more than one variety
of soup.

But for the still pervading fear of a visit from the savages, and other
anxieties about the future, their existence would be tolerable, if not
enjoyable.  It is in no way monotonous, constant work in the
construction of the boat, with other tasks, securing them against that;
and, in such intervals of leisure as they have, kind Nature here, as
elsewhere, treats them to many a curious spectacle.  One is afforded by
the "steamer-duck," [Note 2] a bird of commonest occurrence in Fuegian
waters; it is of the genera of Oceanic ducks or geese, having affinity
with both.  It is of gigantic size, specimens having been taken over
three feet in length and weighing thirty pounds.  It has an enormous
head--hence one of its names, Loggerhead duck--with a hard powerful beak
for smashing open the shells of molluscs, which form its principal food.
Its wings are so short and weak that flight in the air is denied it.
Still it uses them effectually in flapping, which, aided by the beating
of its broad webbed feet, upon stout legs set far back on the body,
enables it to skim over the surface of the water at the rate of fifteen
miles an hour!  In its progress, says Darwin, "it makes such a noise and
splashing that the effect is exceedingly curious."  The great naturalist
further states that he is "nearly sure the steamer-duck moves its wings
alternately, instead of both together, as other birds move theirs."  It
is needless to say that it is from this propulsion by its wings, like
the paddles of a steam-vessel, that the bird has derived the name by
which it is now best known.  But it has even yet another, or had in
those days when steam was unknown, the old navigators of Narborough's
time calling it the Racehorse, by reason of its swiftness.  A flock
habitually frequents the kelp-bed, so that the boat-builders have them
almost continuously before their eyes, and derive amusement from
watching their odd ways and movements; listening also to the strange
sounds that proceed from them.  At ebb-tide, when the rocks are above
water, the steamers assemble on them, and, having finished their repast
of shell-fish, sit pluming themselves, all the while giving utterance to
a chorus of noises that more resembles the croaking of bull-frogs than
the calling of birds.  They are shy notwithstanding, both difficult to
approach and hard to kill, the last on account of their strong bony
skulls and dense coat of feathers.  But no one much cares to kill them;
their flesh tasting so rank and fishy, that the man must be hungry who
could eat, much less relish it.  Withal, sailors who have been for
months on a diet of "salt junk," not only eat, but pronounce it highly
palatable.

Seals are observed every day; on one occasion a seal-mother giving a
curious display of maternal solicitude in teaching her calf to swim.
First taking hold of it by the flipper, and for a while supporting it
above water, with a shove she sends the youngster adrift, leaving it to
shift for itself.  In a short time the little creature becomes
exhausted; she takes a fresh grip on its flipper, and again supports it
till it has recovered breath, after which there is another push off,
followed by a new attempt to swim, the same process being several times
repeated to the end of the lesson.

A still rarer and more remarkable spectacle is furnished by a couple of
whales.  One calm clear morning, with the water of the strait waveless
and smooth as a mirror, two of these grand cetaceans are seen swimming
along, one in the wake of the other, and so close in shore that they
might almost be reached with the boat-hook.  As they swim past the spot
where the boat-builders are at work, they, from their elevated position,
can look down on their spout-holes, and even see them wink!  The huge
creatures, slowly gliding on, pass under a beech-tree growing by the
water's edge, so near that their heads are almost brushed by its
drooping branches.  While still beneath it one of them blows, sending
aloft a spout that, returning in a shower of spray, falls upon the
leaves with a pattering as of heavy rain.

Soon after, sheering off into mid-channel, and continuing their course,
they blow again and again, each steam-like spray, with the sun upon it,
showing like a silvery cloud, which hangs in the air for more than a
minute ere becoming altogether dissipated.

The marine monsters have come along the arm from the west, and are
proceeding eastward--no doubt making the traverse from ocean to ocean,
in the same direction as the castaways propose to go, if permitted to
finish their boat.  But will they be permitted?  That is the
ever-recurring question, and constant cause of uneasiness.  Their
anxiety about it becomes even keener as the time passes, and their task
draws nearer completion.  For, although weeks have now elapsed since the
departure of the fishing party, and nothing more has been seen of them
or any other savages, nor have any fires been visible at night, nor any
smoke by day--still the Fuegians may appear at any moment; and their
fears on this score are not diminished by what Seagriff says in giving
the probable reason for their non-appearance:

"I guess they've gone out seaward, along the west coast, seal-huntin'.
The old seals are tamer at this seezun then any other, an' easier stolen
upon.  But the year's on the turn now, an' winter's settin' in;
therefur, we may look out any minute for the ugly critters comin' soon.
Ef we only hed the boat finished an' afloat!  How I wish she was in the
water now!"

As all wish the same, there is no relaxation of effort to bring about
the desired end.  On the contrary, his words inspire them to renewed
energy for hastening its accomplishment.

Alas! all to no purpose.  One morning at daybreak, while on the lookout
with his glass, Captain Gancy sees coming eastward, along the arm, a
fleet of canoes crowded with people, to all appearance the same craft
encountered in Whale-boat Sound.

Believing that they are the same, he cries out in a voice that quivers,
despite his efforts to keep it firm, "There they are at last!  Heaven
have mercy on us!"

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1.  Nearly all the larger trees in the Fuegian forests have the
heartwood decayed, and are worthless as timber.  Out of fifteen cut down
by Captain King's surveying party, near Port Famine, more than half
proved to be rotten at the heart.

Note 2.  The _Micropterus brachypterus_ of Quoy and Guimard.  The
"steamer-duck" is a feature almost peculiar to the inland Fuegian
waters, and has always been a bird of note among sailors, like the "Cape
pigeons" and "Mother Carey's chickens."  There is another and smaller
species, called the "flying steamer," as it is able to mount into the
air.  It is called by naturalists _Micropterus Patachonica_.



CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

UNWELCOME VISITORS.

"There they are at last!  Heaven have mercy on us!"  At these grave
words, more fear-inspiring from being spoken by Captain Gancy, work is
instantly suspended, the boat-builders dropping their tools as though
they burned the hands that grasped them.

For some minutes the alarm runs high, all thinking their last hour is at
hand.  How can they think otherwise, with their eyes bent on those black
objects, which, though but as specks in the far distance, grow bigger
while they stand gazing at them, and which they know to be canoes full
of cruel cannibal savages?  For they have no doubt that the approaching
natives are the Ailikoleeps.  The old Ailikoleep wigwam, and the fact
that the party that so lately visited the cove were of this tribe, make
it evident that this is Ailikoleep fishing-ground, while the canoes now
approaching seem to correspond in number with those of the party that
assailed them.  If they be the same, and if they should come on shore by
the kitchen midden, then small hope of more boat-building, and, as is
only too likely, small hope of life for the builders.

One chance alone now prevents the castaways from yielding to utter
despair--the savages _may_ pass on without landing.  In that case they
cannot be seen, nor will their presence there be suspected.  With
scrupulous adherence to their original plan, they have taken care that
nothing of their encampment shall be visible from the water; tent,
boat-timbers--everything--are screened on the water side by a thick
curtain of evergreens.  Their fire is always out during the day, and so
there is no tell-tale smoke to betray them.

Soon Captain Gancy observes what further allays apprehension.  With the
glass still at his eye, he makes out the savages to be of both sexes and
all ages--even infants being among them, in the laps of, or strapped to,
their mothers.  Nor can he see any warlike insignia--nothing white--the
colour that in all other countries is emblematic of peace, but which, by
strange contrariety, in Tierra del Fuego is the sure symbol of war.

The people in the canoes, whoever they may be, are evidently on a
peaceful expedition; possibly they are some tribe or community on its
way to winter quarters.  And they _may_ not be Ailikoleeps after all;
or, at all events, not the former assailants of Whale-boat Sound.

These tranquillising reflections occur while the Fuegians are yet
far-off.  When first sighted, they were on the opposite side of the
strait, closely hugging the land, the water in mid-channel being rough.
But, as they come nearer, they are seen to change course and head
diagonally across for the southern side, which looks as if they intended
putting in at the old wigwam.  Doubtless some of them may have once
lived in it, and eaten of the molluscs, the shells of which are piled
upon the kitchen midden.

The castaways note this movement with returning alarm, now almost sure
that an encounter is inevitable.  But again are they gratified at seeing
the canoes turn broadside toward them, with bows set sharp for the
southern shore, and soon pass from sight.

Their disappearance is caused by the projecting spit, behind which they
have paddled, when closing in upon the land.

For what purpose have they put in there?  That is the question now asked
of one another by the boat-builders.  They know that, on the other side
of the promontory, there is a deep bay or sound running far inland; how
far they cannot tell, having given it only careless glances while
gathering cranberries.  Probably the Fuegians have gone up it, and that
may be the last of them.  But what if they have landed on the other side
of the spit to stay there?  In this case, they will surely at some time
come round, if but to despoil the kelp-bed of its shell-fish treasures.

All is conjecture now, with continuing apprehension and suspense.  To
put an end to the latter, the two youths, alike impatient and impetuous,
propose a reconnaissance, to go to the cranberry ridge and take a peep
over it.

"No!" objects Seagriff, restraining them.  "Ef the savagers are ashore
on t'other side, an' should catch sight o' ye, yer chances for gettin'
back hyar wouldn't be worth counting on.  They can run faster than
chased foxes, and over any sort o' ground.  Therefur, it's best fer ye
to abide hyar till we see what's to come of it."

So counselled, they remain, and for hours after nothing more is seen
either of the canoes or of their owners, although constant watch is kept
for them.  Confidence is again in the ascendant, as they now begin to
believe that the savages have a wintering-place somewhere up the large
inlet, and are gone to it, maybe to remain for months.  If they will
stay but a week, all will be well, as by that time the boat will be
finished, launched, and away.

Confidence of brief duration, dispelled almost as soon as conceived!
The canoes again appear on the open water at the point of the
promontory, making around it, evidently intending to run between the
kelp-bed and the shore, and probably to land by the shell-heap.  With
the castaways it is a moment of dismay.  No longer is there room for
doubt; the danger is sure and near.  All the men arm themselves as best
they can, with boat-hook, axe, mallet, or other carpentering tool,
resolved on defending themselves to the death.

But now a new surprise and puzzle greets them.  As the canoes, one after
another, appear around the point, they are seen to be no longer crowded,
but each seems to have lost nearly half its crew.  And of those
remaining nearly all are women and children--old women, too, with but
the younger of the girls and boys.  A few aged men are among them, but
none of the middle-aged or able-bodied of either sex.  Where are these?
and for what have they left the canoes?  About this there is no time for
conjecture.  In less than five minutes after their re-appearance, the
paddled craft are brought to shore by the shell-heap, and all--men,
women, children, and dogs--scramble out of them.  The dogs are foremost,
and are first to find that the place is already in possession.  The
keen-scented Fuegian canines, with an instinctive antipathy to white
people, immediately on setting paw upon land, rush up to the camp and
surround it, ferociously barking and making a threatening show of teeth;
and it is only by vigorously brandishing the boat-hook that they can be
kept off.

Their owners, too, are soon around the camp; as they come within sight
of its occupants, one after another crying out in surprise, "_Akifka
akinish_!"  ("White man!")

The castaways now see themselves begirt by an array of savage creatures,
such as they have never seen before, though they have had dealings with
uncivilised beings in many lands.  Two score ugly old women, wrinkled
and blear-eyed, and with tangled hair hanging over their faces, every
one a match for Macbeth's witches, and with them a number of old men
stoop-shouldered, and of wizard aspect, each a very Caliban.  Even the
boys and girls have an impish, unearthly look, like the dwarfs that
figure on the stage in a Christmas pantomime.  But neither old nor young
show fear, or any sign of it.  On the contrary, on every face is a
fierce, bold expression, threatening and aggressive, while the hoarse
guttural sounds given out by them seem less like articulate speech than
like the chattering of apes.  Indeed, some of the old men are themselves
more like monkeys than human beings, reminding Captain Gancy of the time
when he was once beset in a South African _kloof_, or ravine, by a troop
of barking and gibbering dog-faced baboons.

For a time all is turmoil and confusion, with doubting fear on the part
of the white people, who cannot tell what is to be the issue.  Mrs
Gancy and Leoline have retired into the tent, while the men stand by its
entrance, prepared to defend it.  They make no demonstration of
hostility, however, but keep their weapons as much as possible out of
sight, and as calmly as possible await the action of the savages.  To
show distrust might give offence, and court attack--no trifling matter,
notwithstanding the age and apparent imbecility of the savages.
Seagriff knows, if the others do not, that the oldest and feeblest of
them--woman or man--would prove a formidable antagonist; and, against so
many, he and his four men companions would stand but a poor chance.
Luckily, he recalls a word or two of their language which may conciliate
them and, as soon as he has an opportunity of making himself heard, he
cries out, in a friendly tone, "_Arre!  Cholid_!"  ("Brothers!
Sisters!")

This appeal has the effect intended, or seems to have.  With
exclamations of astonishment at hearing an _akifka akinish_ address them
in their own tongue, the expression of their faces becomes less fierce,
and they desist from menacing gestures.  One of the men, the oldest, and
for this reason having chief authority, draws near and commences patting
Seagriff on the chest and back alternately, all the while giving
utterance to a gurgling, "chucking" noise that sounds somewhat like the
cluck of a hen when feeding her chicks.

Having finished with the old sealer, who has reciprocated his quaint
mode of salutation, he extends it to the other three whites, one after
the other.  But as he sees "the doctor," who, at the moment, has stepped
from within the wigwam, where he had been unperceived, there is a sudden
revulsion of feeling among the savages--a return to hostility, the
antipathy of all Fuegians to the African negro being proverbially
bitter.  Strange and unaccountable is this prejudice against the negro
by a people almost the lowest in humanity's scale.

"_Ical shiloke!  Uftucla_!"  ("Kill the black dog!") they cry out in
spiteful chorus, half a dozen of them making a dash at him.

Seagriff throws himself in front, to shield him from their fury, and,
with arms uplifted, appealingly calls out, "_Ical shiloke--zapello_!"
("The black dog is but a slave.")

At this the old man makes a sign, as if saying the _zapello_ is not
worth their anger, and they retire, but reluctantly, like wolves forced
from their prey.  Then, as if by way of appeasing their spite, they go
stalking about the camp, picking up and secreting such articles as tempt
their cupidity.

Fortunately, few things of any value have been left exposed, the tools
and other highly-prized chattels having been stowed away inside the
tent.  Luckily, also, they had hastily carried into it some dried fungus
and fish cured by the smoking process, intended for boat stores.  But
Caesar's outside larder suffers to depletion.  In a trice it is
emptied--not a scrap being left by the prowling pilferers.  And
everything, as soon as appropriated, is eaten raw, just as it is found--
seal's flesh, shell-fish, beech-apples, berries, everything!  Even a
large squid, a hideous-looking monster of the octopus tribe thrown on
the beach near by, is gobbled up by them as though it were the greatest
of delicacies.

Hunger--ravenous, unappeasable hunger--seems to pervade the whole crew;
no doubt the fact that the weather has been for a long time very stormy
has interfered with their fishing, and otherwise hindered their
procuring food.  Like all savages, the Fuegian is improvident--more so,
even, than some of the brute creation--and rarely lays up store for the
future, and hence is often in terrible straits, at the very point of
starvation.  Clearly, it is so with those just landed; and having eaten
up everything eatable that they can lay their hands on, there is a
scattering off amongst the trees in quest of their most reliable food
staple--the beech-apple.  Some go gathering mussels and limpets along
the strand, while the more robust of the women, under the direction of
the old men, proceed to the construction of wigwams.  Half a score of
these are set up, long branches broken from the trees furnishing the
rib-poles, which are roofed over with old seal-skins taken out of the
canoes.  In a wonderfully short time they are finished, almost as
quickly as the pitching of a soldier's tent.  When ready for occupation,
fires are kindled in them, around which the wretched creatures crouch
and shiver, regardless of smoke thick and bitter enough to drive a
badger from its hole.  It is this that makes them blear-eyed, and even
uglier than Nature intended them to be.  But the night is now near
beginning, a chill, raw evening, with snow falling, and they can better
bear smoke than cold.  Nor are they any longer hungry.  Their search for
shell-fish and fungus has been rewarded with success, and they have
eaten gluttonously of both.

Meanwhile, our friends the castaways have been left to themselves, for
the time undisturbed, save by the dogs, which give them almost
continuous trouble.  The skulking curs, led by one of their kind, form a
ring around the camp, deafening the ears of its occupants with their
angry baying and barking.  Strangely enough, as if sharing the antipathy
of their owners, they seem specially hostile to "the doctor," more
furiously demonstrating their antagonism to him than to any of the
others.  The poor fellow is kept constantly on the alert to save his
shins from their sharp teeth.

Late in the evening, the old chief, whom the others call Annaqua ("the
arrow") pays the camp a visit, professing great friendship, and again
going through the patting and "chucking" process as before.  But his
professions ill correspond with his acts, as the aged sinner is actually
detected stealing the knife of Seagriff himself, and from his person,
too!--a feat of dexterity worthy the most accomplished master of
legerdemain, the knife being adroitly abstracted from its sheath on the
old sealer's hip during the exchange of salutations.  Fortunately, the
theft is discovered by young Chester, who is standing near by, and the
thief caught in the very act.  On the stolen article being taken from
under the pilferer's shoulder-patch of seal-skin, where he had
dexterously secreted it, he breaks out into a laugh, pretending to pass
it off as a joke.  In this sense the castaways are pleased to interpret
it, or to make show of so interpreting it, for the sake of keeping on
friendly terms with him.  Indeed, but that the knife is a serviceable
tool, almost essential to them, he would be permitted to retain it; and,
by way of smoothing matters over, a brass button is given him instead,
with which he goes on his way rejoicing.

"The old shark would steal the horns off a goat, ef they warn't well
fixed in," is Seagriff's remark, as he stands looking after their
departing visitor.  "Howsoever, let's hope they may be content wi'
stealin', and not take to downright robbery, or worse.  We'll hev to
keep watch all night, anyway, ez thar's no tellin' what they may be up
to.  _They_ never sleep.  They're perfect weasels."

And all night watch is kept, with a large fire ablaze, there being now
no reason for letting it go out.  Two of the party act as sentinels at a
time, another pair taking their place.  But indeed, throughout most of
the night, all are wakeful, slumber being denied them by the barking of
the dogs, and yelling of the savages, who, making good Seagriff's words,
seem as though sleep were a luxury they had no wish to indulge in.  And
something seems to have made them merry, also.  Out of their wigwams
issue sounds of boisterous hilarity, as though they were celebrating
some grand festival, with now and then a peal of laughter that might
have proceeded from the lungs of a stentor.  Disproportionate as is the
great strength of a Fuegian to his little body, his voice is even more
so; this is powerful beyond belief, and so loud as to be audible at
almost incredible distances.  Such a racket as these wild merry-makers
within the wigwams are keeping up might well prevent the most weary of
civilised mortals from even once closing his eyes in sleep.  And the
uproar lasts till daylight.

But what the cause of their merriment may be, or what it means, or how
they can be merry at all under such circumstances, is to the castaways
who listen anxiously to their hoarse clamour, a psychological puzzle
defying explanation.  Huddled together like pigs in a pen, and surely
less comfortable in the midst of the choking smoke, contentment even
would seem an utter impossibility.  That there should exist such an
emotion as joyfulness among them is a fact which greatly astonishes Ned
Gancy and young Chester.  Yet there can be no doubt that they are
contented for the time, and even happy, if that word can ever be truly
applied to creatures in a savage condition like theirs; and their loud
merriment is, perhaps, a proof of Nature's universal beneficence, that
will not permit the life of these lowest and, apparently, most wretched
of human beings to be all misery!  Far more miserable than they, that
night--or, at least, far more burdened with the _sense_ of misery--are
those whom fate has cast into the power of these savage creatures, and
who are obliged to listen to their howlings and hyena like laughter.



CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

FUEGIAN FOOD-PROVIDING.

To the castaways every hour of that night is one of fear and agonising
suspense.  Not so much from apprehension of immediate as of future
danger.  With the occupants of the wigwam in such good humour, it is not
likely that they can be contemplating an attack at present.  But when
those who are absent return--what then?  This is the fear now uppermost
in the minds of Captain Gancy's little party.

Nor does morning do aught to dispel their anxiety; on the contrary, it
is intensified by the behaviour of the savages, who are again in a sour
temper after their night's carouse.  For, having eaten up all their
gatherings of yesterday, they are again hungry.  Young and old, there
are nearly a hundred of them, all ravenous gluttons, to say nothing of
the swarm of curs requiring to be fed.

By earliest daylight they come crowding around the camp, as though they
expected to find something eatable there.  Disappointed in their hope,
they grin and chatter, showing their teeth like the dogs.  More
especially are their menaces directed toward "the doctor;" and the poor
fellow is frightened to a death-like pallor, notwithstanding his sable
skin.  He takes refuge within the tent--still a sacred precinct--and
does not dare to venture out again.  To propitiate them, presents are
made--the last things that can well be parted with.  To Annaqua is given
a pipe, with some tobacco, while the most importunate, and seemingly
most important, of the women have each a trifle bestowed on them.

The gifts restore their good humour, or at least make them contented for
the time; and, having obtained all that can be given them, they scatter
away over the ground, going about their business of the day.

The wherewithal for breakfast is, of course, their first consideration,
and this they find along the strand and around the edge of the woods,
though more sparingly than in their search yesterday.  Only enough is
obtained to afford them a stinted repast--a mere luncheon.  But the
kelp-bed is still to be explored, and for this they must wait until the
tide begins to ebb.

Meanwhile, they do not remain idle, another resource engaging them--a
feat for which the Fuegian native has obtained a world-wide celebrity--
namely, diving for sea-eggs.  A difficult, dangerous industry it is, and
just on this account committed to the women, who alone engage in it.

Having dispatched their poor breakfast, half a dozen of the younger and
stronger women take to the canoes--two in each--and paddle out to a part
of the water where they hope to find the sea-urchins.  [Note 1.]

Arriving there, she who is to do the diving prepares for it by attaching
a little wicker-basket to her hip, her companion being entrusted to keep
the canoe in place, a task which is no easy one in water so rough as
that of the sea-arm chances to be now.

Everything ready, the diver drops over, head foremost, as fearlessly as
would a water-spaniel, and is out of sight for two or three minutes;
then the crow-black head is seen bobbing up again, and swimming back to
the canoe with a hand-over-hand stroke, dog-fashion, the egg-gatherer
lays hold of the rail to rest herself, while she gives up the contents
of her basket.

Having remained above water just long enough to recover breath, down she
goes a second time, to stay under for minutes as before.  And this
performance is repeated again and again, till at length, utterly
exhausted, she climbs back into the canoe, and the other ties on the
basket and takes her turn at diving.

Thus, for hours, the submarine egg-gatherers continue at their arduous,
perilous task; and, having finished it, they come paddling back to the
shore, trembling, and their teeth clinking like castanets.

On landing, they make straight for the wigwams, and seat themselves by a
fire--almost in it--leaving the spoil to be brought up by others.

Then follows the "festival" of _chabucl-lithle_ (sea-eggs), as they call
it, these being their favourite diet.  But, in the present case, the
"festival" does not prove satisfactory, as the diving has yielded a poor
return, and others of the savages therefore prepare to explore the
kelp-bed--the reef being now above water.

Presently, enough of it is bare to afford footing, and off go the
shell-gatherers in their canoes, taking the dogs along with them.  For
these are starving, too, and must forage for themselves.  This they do
most effectually, running hither and thither over the reef, stopping now
and then to detach a mussel or limpet from its beard-fastening to the
rock, crunch the shell between their teeth, and swallow the contents.

The Fuegian dogs are also trained to procure food for their masters in a
manner which one of them is now seen to put into practice.  On the more
outlying ledges some sea-fowl, themselves seeking food, still linger
fearlessly.  Engrossed in their grubbing, they fail to note that an
enemy is near--a little cock-eared cur, that has swum up to the ledge,
and, without bark or yelp, is stealthily crawling toward it.  Taking
advantage of every coign of concealment, the dog creeps on till, at
length, with a bound, like a cat springing at a sparrow, it seizes the
great seabird, and kills it in a trice, as a fox would a pheasant.

The shell-gatherers remain on the reef till the rising water forces them
to quit.  But their industry meets with less reward than was
anticipated, and they return to the shore all out of sorts and enraged
at the white people, whom they now look upon in the light of
trespassers; for they know that to them is due the scarcity of bivalves
among the kelp, where they had expected to reap a plentiful harvest.
Proof of its having been already garnered is seen in a heap of recently
emptied shells lying under the trees near by--a little kitchen midden of
itself.

Luckily the Fuegians have found enough to satisfy their immediate wants,
so neither on that day nor the next do they make further display of
violence, though always maintaining a sullen demeanour.  Indeed, it is
at all times difficult to avoid quarrelling with them, and doubtful how
long the patched-up truce may continue.  The very children are
aggressive and exacting, and ever ready to resent reproof, even when
caught in the act of pilfering--a frequent occurrence.  Any tool or
utensil left in their way would soon be a lost chattel, as the little
thieves know they have the approval of their elders.

So, apart from their anxieties about the future, the white people find
it a time of present trouble.  They, too, must provide themselves with
food, and their opportunities have become narrowed--are almost gone.
They might have starved ere this, but for their prudent forethought in
having secreted a stock in the tent.  They do not dare to have a meal
cooked during daylight, as some of the savages are always on the alert
to snatch at anything eatable with bold, open hand.  Only in the
midnight hours, when the Fuegians are in their wigwams, has "the doctor"
a chance to give the cured fish a hurried broil over the fire.

It is needless to say that all work on the boat is suspended.  In the
face of their great fear, with a future so dark and doubtful, the
builders have neither the courage nor heart to carry on their work.  It
is too much a question whether it may ever be resumed.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1.  The "sea-eggs" are a species of the family Echinids.  Diving
for them by the Fuegian women is one of their most painful and dangerous
ways of procuring food, as they often have to follow it when the sea is
rough and in coldest weather.



CHAPTER NINETEEN.

AN ODD RENEWAL OF ACQUAINTANCE.

For three days the castaways lead a wretched life, in never-ceasing
anxiety--for three nights, too, since all the savages are rarely asleep
at any one time.  Some of them are certain to be awake, and making night
hideous with unearthly noises; and, having discovered this to be the
time when the whites do their cooking, there are always one or two
skulking about the camp fire, on the lookout for a morsel.  The dogs are
never away from it.

When will this horrid existence end? and how?  Some change is sure to
come when the absent members of the tribe return.  Should they prove to
be those encountered in Whale-Boat Sound, the question would be too
easily answered.  But it is now known that, although Ailikoleeps, they
cannot be the same.  The cause of their absence has also been discovered
by the ever alert ears of Seagriff.  The savages had heard of a stranded
whale in some sound or channel only to be reached overland, and thither
are they gone to secure the grand booty of blubber.

The distance is no doubt considerable, and the path difficult, for the
morning of a fourth day has dawned, and still they are not back.  Nor
can anything be seen of them upon the shore of the inlet, which is
constantly watched by one or more of the women, stationed upon the
cranberry ridge.

On this morning the savages seem more restless and surly than ever, for
they are hungrier than ever, and nearly famishing.  They have picked the
kelp-reef clean, leaving not a mussel nor limpet on it; they have
explored the ribbon of beach as far as it extends, and stripped the
trees of their fungus parasites till none remain.  And now they go
straying about, seeming like hungry wolves, ready to spring at and tear
to pieces anything that may chance in their way.

"There's an ugly look in their eyes, I don't like," said Seagriff, aside
to the Captain, "specially in some of the old women.  Wi' them 'tair a
thing o' life or death when they get to starvation point, and that's
near now.  One of 'em 'ud have to be sacrificed, ef not one of us.  You
hear how they're cackling, wi' thar eyes all the time turning towards
us."

By this time the old men, with most of the women, have drawn together in
a clump, and are evidently holding council on some subject of general
interest--intense interest, too, as can be told by their earnest
speechifying, and the gesticulation that accompanies it.  Without
comprehending a word that is said, Seagriff knows too well what they are
talking about; their gestures are too intelligible with the lurid glare
in their ghoul-like eyes.  All that he sees portends a danger that he
shrinks from declaring to his companions.  They will doubtless learn it
soon enough.

And now he hears words that are known to him,--"_ical-akinish_" and
"_shiloke_;" hears them repeated again and again.  It is the black man,
"the doctor," who is doomed!

The negro himself appears to have a suspicion of it, as he is trembling
in every fibre of his frame.  He need not fear dying, if the others are
to live.  Rather than surrender him for such sacrifice, they will die
with him in his defence.

All are now convinced that the crisis, long apprehended, has come; and,
with their weapons in hand, stand ready to meet it.  Still, the savages
appear to disagree, as the debate is prolonged.  Can it be that, after
all, there is mercy in their breasts?  Something like it surely stirs
Annaqua, who seems endeavouring to dissuade the others from carrying out
the purpose of which most are in favour.  Perhaps the gifts bestowed on
him have won the old man's friendship; at all events, he appears to be
pleading delay.  Ever and anon he points in the direction of the
cranberry ridge, as though urging them to wait for those gone after the
whale; and once he pronounces a word, on hearing which Henry Chester
gives a start, then earnestly listens for its repetition.  It is--as he
first thought--"_Eleparu_."

"Did you hear that?" asks the young Englishman in eager haste.

"Hear what?" demands Ned Gancy, to whom the question is addressed.

"That word `_Eleparu_.'  The old fellow has spoken it twice!" says
Henry.

"Well, and if he has?" queries Ned.

"You remember our affair at Portsmouth with those three queer creatures
and the wharf-rats?"

"Of course I do.  Why do you ask?"

"One of them, the man, was named Eleparu," answers Chester; adding, "The
girl called him so, and the boy too."

"I didn't hear that name."

"No?" says Henry; "then it must have been before you came up."

"Yes," answers young Gancy, "for the officer who took them away called
the man York, the boy Jemmy, and the girl Fuegia."

"That's so.  But how did she ever come to be named _Fuegia_?"

"That does seem odd; just now--"

"Hark!  Hear that? the old fellow has just said `Ocushlu!'  That's the
name the other two gave the girl.  What can it mean?"

But now the youths' hurried dialogue is brought to an abrupt end.
Annaqua has been out-voted, his authority set at nought, and the council
broken up.  The triumphant majority is advancing toward the camp, with
an air of fierce resolve; women as well as men armed with clubs,
flint-bladed daggers, and stones clutched in their closed fists.  In
vain is it now for Seagriff to call out "Brothers!  Sisters!"  The
savages can no longer be cajoled by words of flattery or friendship; and
he knows it.  So do the others, all of whom are now standing on the
defensive.  Even Mrs Gancy and Leoline have armed themselves, and come
out of the tent, determined to take part in the life-and-death conflict
that seems inevitable.  The sailor's wife and daughter both have braved
danger ere now, and, though never one like this, they will meet it
undaunted.

It is at the ultimate moment that they make appearance, and seeing them
for the first time, the savage assailants halt, hesitatingly--not
through fear, but rather with bewilderment at the unexpected apparition.
It moves them not to pity, however, nor begets within them one throb of
merciful feeling.  Instead, the Fuegian hags but seem more embittered at
seeing persons of their own sex so superior to them, and, recovering
from their surprise, they clamorously urge the commencement of the
attack.

Never have the castaways been so near to death with such attendant
horrors.

So near to it do they feel, that Captain Gancy groans, under his breath,
"Our end is come!"

But not yet is it come.  Once more is the Almighty Hand opportunely
extended to protect them.  A shout interrupts the attack--a joyous shout
from one of the women watchers, who now, having forsaken her post, is
seen coming down the slope of the spit at a run, frantically waving her
arms and vociferating:

"_Cabrelua!  Cabrelua_!"  ("They come! they come!")

The savages, desisting from their murderous intent, stand with eyes
turned toward the ridge, on the crest of which appears a crowd of moving
forms that look like anything but human beings.  On their way to the
beach, they are forced into single file by the narrowness of the path,
and become strung out like the links of a long chain.  But not even when
they come nearer and are better seen, do they any more resemble human
beings.  They have something like human heads, but these are without
necks and indeed sunken between the shoulders, which last are of
enormous breadth and continued into thick armless bodies, with short
slender legs below!

As they advance along the beach at a slow pace, in weird, ogre-like
procession, the white people are for a time entirely mystified as to
what they may be.  Nor can it be told until they are close up.  Then it
is seen that they _are_ human beings after all--Fuegian savages, each
having the head thrust through a flitch of whale-blubber that falls,
poncho-fashion, over the shoulders, draping down nearly to the knees!

The one in the lead makes no stop until within a few yards of the party
of whites, when, seeing the two youths who are in front, he stares
wonderingly at them, for some moments, and then from his lips leaps an
ejaculation of wild surprise, followed by the words:

"Portsmout'!  Inglan'!"

Then, hastily divesting himself of his blubber mantle, and shouting back
to some one in the rear, he is instantly joined by a woman, who in turn
cries out:

"Yes, Portsmout'!  The _Ailwalk' akifka_!"  ("The white boys.")

"Eleparu!  Ocushlu!" exclaims Henry Chester, all amazement; Ned Gancy,
equally astonished, simultaneously crying out:

"York!  Fuegia!"



CHAPTER TWENTY.

GONE BACK TO BARBARISM.

This renewal of acquaintance, under circumstances so extraordinary as
those detailed in the previous chapter, calls for explanation; for,
although the incident may appear strange, and even improbable, it is,
nevertheless, quite reasonable.  How it came about will be learned from
the following relation of facts:--

In the year 1838, the English Admiral Fitzroy--then Captain Fitzroy--
while in command of H.M.S. _Beagle_, engaged in the survey of Tierra del
Fuego, had one of his boats stolen by the natives of Christmas Sound.
Pursuing the thieves, he made capture of a number of their relatives,
but unfortunately not of the actual culprits.  For a time he held the
captives as hostages, hoping by that means to effect the return of the
boat.  Disappointed in this, however, he at length released them all,
save three who voluntarily remained on board the _Beagle_.

These were two young men and a little girl; and all of them were soon
after baptised by the sailors.  One of the men had the name "Boat
Memory" bestowed upon him, because he had been taken at the place where
the boat was stolen.  The other was christened "York Minster," after a
remarkable mountain, bearing a fancied resemblance to the famed
cathedral of York, near which he was captured.  "Fuegia Basket," as the
girl was called, was named from the wickerwork craft--a sort of
coracle--that the crew of the stolen boat had improvised to carry them
back to their ship.

Later on, the commander of the _Beagle_, while exploring the channel
which now bears his ship's name, picked up another native of a different
tribe.  This was a young boy, who was bought of his own uncle for a
button--his unnatural relative freely parting with him at the price!
The transaction suggested the name given him, "Jemmy Button."

Returning soon after to England, Fitzroy, with truly philanthropic
motives, took the four Fuegians along with him.  His intentions were to
have them educated and Christianised, and then restored to their native
country, in hopes that they might do something toward civilising it.  In
pursuance of this plan, three of the Fuegians were put to school; the
fourth, Boat Memory, having died soon after landing at Plymouth.

When Captain Fitzroy thought their training sufficiently advanced for
his purpose, this humane officer, at his own expense, chartered a vessel
to convey them back to Tierra del Fuego, intending to accompany them
himself; and he did this, although a poor man, and no longer commanding
a ship in commission; the _Beagle_, meanwhile, having been dismantled
and laid up.  Think of that, my young readers, and give praise to such
noble self-sacrifice and disinterested philanthropy.

By good fortune, however, Captain Fitzroy was spared this part of the
expense.  The survey of Tierra del Fuego and adjacent coasts had not
been completed, and another expedition was sent out by the British
Admiralty, and the command of it entrusted to him.  So proceeding
thither in his old ship, the _Beagle_, once more in commission, he
carried his Fuegian _proteges_ along with him.

There went with him, also, a man then little known, but now of
world-wide and universal fame, a young naturalist named Darwin--Charles
Darwin--he who for the last quarter of a century and till his death has
held highest rank among men of science, and has truly deserved the
distinction.

York Minster, Jemmy Button, and Fuegia Basket (in their own country
respectively called Eleparu, Orundelico, and Ocushlu) were the three
odd-looking individuals that Ned and Henry had rescued from the
wharf-rats of Portsmouth; while the officer who appeared on the scene
was Fitzroy himself, then on the way to Plymouth, where the _Beagle_,
fitted out and ready to put to sea, was awaiting him.

In due time, arriving in Tierra del Fuego, the three natives were left
there, with every provision made for their future subsistence.  They had
all the means and appliances to assist them in carrying out Captain
Fitzroy's humane scheme: carpentering tools, agricultural implements,
and a supply of seeds, with which to make a beginning.  [Note 1.]

Since then nearly four years have elapsed, and lo!--the result.  Perhaps
never were good intentions more thoroughly brought to nought, nor
clearer proofs given of their frustration, than these that Henry Chester
and Ned Gancy have now before their eyes.  Though unacquainted with most
of the above details, they see a man, all but naked, his hair in matted
tangle, his skin besmeared with dirt and blubber, in everything and to
all appearances as rude a savage as any Fuegian around him, who is yet
the same whom they had once seen wearing the garb and having the manners
of civilisation!  They see a girl, too,--now woman-grown--in whom the
change, though less extreme, is still strikingly sadly for the worse.
In both, the transformation is so complete, so retrograde, so contrary
to all experience, that they can scarcely realise it.  It is difficult
to believe that any nature, however savage, after such pains had been
taken to civilise it, could so return to itself!  It seems a very
perversity of backsliding!

But this is not a time for the two young men to inquire into the cause
of this falling away, nor might that be a pleasant subject to those who
have thus relapsed, so they refrain from appearing even to notice it.
They are too overjoyed in knowing that they and their companions are no
longer in danger.

Of their safety they have full and instant assurance, by the behaviour
of Eleparu, who has taken in the situation at a glance.  Apparently head
of the community, with a shout and authoritative wave of the hand he
sends off those who so lately had threatened to attack them.  But all
seem friendly enough, now that they see him so, having, indeed, no
reason to be otherwise.  Hunger chiefly had made them hostile; and now
they need hunger no more.

Accordingly, they at once set about appeasing their appetites--on
blubber!  Not with indiscriminate appropriation of it, for it is a
supply that must carry them over days, or perhaps weeks.  Annaqua, with
another of the old men, serves it out in equal rations, first cutting it
into strips, like strings of sausages, then measuring off
different-sized pieces, according to the sex and age of the recipients.

Strange to say, notwithstanding the keen hunger of those seeking relief,
not one of them touches a morsel till the partition is complete and each
has his share.  Then, at a given signal, they fall to, bolting the
blubber raw--only a few of the more fastidious holding it a second or
two in the blaze of the fires, scarcely long enough to scorch it!

During these unpleasant _saturnalia_, mutual explanations are exchanged
between Eleparu and the two young men of his former brief but memorable
acquaintance.  He first inquires how they come to be there; then tells
his own story, or such part of it as he desires them to know.  They
learn from him that Ocushlu is now his wife; but when questioned about
the boy, and what has become of him, he shows reserve, answering, "Oh,
Jemmy Button--he not of our people; he Tekeneeka.  English officer
brought Jemmy back too--left him at Woolya--that his own country--lie
out that way;" and he points eastward along the arm.

Observing his reticence on the subject of Orundelico, the questioners
forbear asking further, while other matters of more importance claim
their attention.

Meanwhile, Ocushlu is engaged in conversation with Mrs Gancy and
Leoline.  She is about the same age as the latter; but in other respects
how different they are, and what a contrast they form!  The poor Fuegian
herself seems to realise it, and with sadness of heart.  Who could
interpret her thoughts when, after gazing at the beautiful white girl,
clean-skinned and becomingly attired, her glance is turned to her own
slightly-clad and uncleanly self?  Perhaps she may be thinking of the
time when, a schoolgirl at Walthamstow, she, too, wore a pretty dress,
and perchance bitterly regrets having returned to her native land and
barbarism.  Certainly, the expression on her countenance seems a
commingling of sadness and shame.

But whatever, at the moment, may be her reflections or feelings,
ingratitude is not among them.  Having learned that Leoline is the
sister of one of the youths who so gallantly espoused the cause of her
companions and herself in a far-off foreign land, she takes from her
neck a string of the much-prized violet shells, and hangs it around that
of the white girl, saying, "For what your brother did at Portsmouth."

The graceful act is reciprocated, and with interest, both mother and
daughter presenting her with such articles of apparel as they can spare,
among them the costly scarf they so nearly had to part with in a less
satisfactory way.

Equally grateful proves Eleparu.  Seeing the unfinished boat, and
comprehending the design, he lends himself to assist in its execution.
No slight assistance does he prove; as, during the many months passed on
board the _Beagle_, York had picked up some knowledge of ship-carpentry.
So the task of boat-building is resumed, this time to be carried on to
completion.  And with so great expedition, that in less than a week
thereafter, the craft is ready for launching, and on the next day it is
run off the "chocks" into the water, a score of the Fuegian men lending
helping hands.

On the following morning, with the party of castaways and all their
belongings on board, it is shoved off, and moves swiftly away, amidst a
paean of friendly shouts from the savages.  Eleparu leads the
valedictory salute, and Ocushlu waves the red scarf high over her head.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1.  A young missionary named Mathews, who had volunteered, was
taken out and left with them.  But Captain Fitzroy, revisiting Woolya,
the intended mission station, a few days after, found Mathews threatened
with death at the hands of those he had hoped to benefit.  During the
interval, the savages had kept the poor fellow in constant fear for his
life, even Jemmy Button and York having been unable to protect him.
Captain Fitzroy took him away, and he afterwards carried on missionary
work among the Maories of New Zealand.



CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

BOAT AHOY!

The new boat behaves handsomely, even excelling in speed the lost gig,
the oars and sailing-gear of which, luckily saved, have fitted it out
complete.  Under canvas, with a fair wind, they easily make ten knots an
hour; and as they have such a wind for the remainder of the day, are
carried into the Beagle Channel without need of wetting an oar.

At sunset they are opposite Devil Island, at the junction of the
south-west and north-west arms of the channel; and as the night
threatens to be dark, with a fog already over the water, they deem it
prudent to put in upon the isle, despite its uncanny appellation.

Landing, they are surprised to see a square-built hut of large size,
quite different from anything of Fuegian construction, and evidently the
work of white men.

"I reck'n the crew o' some sealin' vessel hez put it up," surmises
Seagriff; in doubt adding, "Yit I can't understan' why they should
a-squatted hyar, still less built a shanty, seein' it ain't much of a
lay fer seal.  I guess they must hev got wracked somewhar near, and war
castaways, like ourselves."

About the builders of the hut he has surmised wrongly.  They were _not_
sealers, nor had they been wrecked, but were a boat's party of real
sailors--man-of-war's men from the very ship which gave the channel its
name, and at the date of its discovery.  Nor did the island deserve the
harsh name bestowed upon it, and which originated in the following
incident:

A screech-owl had perched above the head of one of the _Beagle's_
sailors who slept under a tree outside the hut, and awakened him with
its lugubrious "whoo-woo-woah!" and so frightened the superstitious tar,
that he believed himself hailed by one of the malevolent deities of
weird Fireland!

"Well," says Captain Gancy, after an inspection of the untenanted
building, "it'll serve us a turn or two, whoever may have built it.  The
roof appears to be all tight and sound, so we needn't be at the bother
of turning the boat-sail into a tent this time."

A fire is kindled inside the hut, and all gather round it, the night
being chilly cold.  Nor are they afraid of the blaze betraying them
here, as the fog will prevent its being seen from any distance.
Besides, they are in every way more confident than hitherto.  They have
passed beyond the country of the Ailikoleeps with their lives
miraculously preserved, and everything now looks well for getting to
Good Success Bay--the haven of safety they are seeking.  It is now not
over two hundred miles distant, and with winds and tides favouring, in
three days, or less, they may reach it.

Still, there is cause for anxiety, even apprehension, as the old sealer
is too well aware.

"We ain't out o' the wood yit," he says, employing a familiar backwoods
expression often heard by him in boyhood, adding, in like figurative
phrase, "we still hev to run the gauntlit o' the Tekeneekas."

"But surely we've nothing to fear from them?" interrogates the younger
Gancy; Henry Chester affirming, "No, surely not."

"Why hevn't we?" demands Seagriff.

"Because," answers the young Englishman, "they are Jemmy Button's
people, and I'd be loth to believe _him_ ungrateful after our experience
with his old companions, and from what I remember of him.  What do you
think, Ned?"

"I agree with you entirely," replied the younger Gancy.

"Wal, young masters, thet may all be, an' I'd be only too pleased to
be-hope it'll turn out so.  But agin it, thar's a contrary sarcumstance,
in thar bein' two sarts o' Tekeneekas: one harmless and rayther friendly
disposed torst white people, t'other bein' jest the revarse--'most as
bad as the Ailikoleeps.  The bad uns are called Yapoos, an' hev thar
squattin' groun' east'ard 'long the channel beyont, whar a passage leads
out, knowed as the Murray Narrer.  Tharfer, it'll all depend on which o'
the two lots Mister Button belongs to."

"If he is _not_ of the Yapoos, what then?" questions the skipper.

"Wal, knowin' thet, an' we'll know it afore comin' to the Yapoo country,
it bein' beyont t'other, then our best way 'll be to make southart
through the Murray Narrer.  Thet 'ud take us out to the open sea ag'in,
with a big 'round about o' coastin'; still, in the end, it mout be the
safer way.  'Long the outside shore, thar ain't so much likelihood o'
meetin' Feweegins of any kind: and ef we did meet 'em, 'twould be easier
gettin' out of thar way, s'long's we're in a boat sech ez we hev now."

The last observation contains a touch of professional pride; the old
ship's carpenter having, of course, been chief constructor of the craft
that is so admirably answering all their ends.

"Well, then," says the Captain, after reflection, "I suppose we'll have
to be guided by circumstances.  And from what has passed, we ought to
feel confident that they'll still turn up in our favour."

This remark, showing his continued trust in the shielding power of an
Omnipotent Hand, closes the conversation, and all soon after retire to
rest, with a feeling of security long denied them.  For, although lately
under the protection of Eleparu, they had never felt full confidence,
doubting, not his fidelity, but his power to protect them.  For the
authority of a Fuegian chief--if such there be--is slight at the best,
and made nought of on many occasions.  Besides, they could not forget
that one fearful moment of horror, to be remembered throughout life.

Having passed the night in peaceful slumber, they take their places in
the boat as soon as there is light enough to steer by.  There is still a
fog, though not so dense as to deter them from re-embarking, while, as
on the day before, the wind is all in their favour.  With sail filled by
the swelling breeze, they make rapid way, and by noon are far along the
Beagle Channel, approaching the place where the Murray Narrow leads out
of it, trending southward.  But now they see what may prove an
interruption to their onward course.  Through the fog, which has become
much less dense, a number of dark objects are visible, mottling the
surface of the water.  That they are canoes can be told by the columns
of smoke rising up over each, as though they were steam-launches.  They
are not moving, however, and are either lying-to or riding at anchor.
None are empty, all have full complements of crew.

As the canoes are out in the middle of the channel, and right ahead, to
pass them unobserved is impossible.  There is no help for it but to risk
an encounter, whatever may result; so the boat is kept on its course,
with canvas full spread, to take the chances.

While yet afar off, Captain Gancy, through his glass, is able to
announce certain facts which favour confidence.  The people in the
canoes are of both sexes, and engaged in a peaceful occupation--they are
fishing.  They who fish are seated with some sort of tackle in hand,
apparently little rods and lines, short as coach-whips, with which at
intervals they draw up diminutive fish, by a quick jerk landing them in
the canoes.  All this he made out through the glass.

But the time for observation is brief.  The boat, forging rapidly
onward, is soon sighted by the canoemen, who, starting to their feet,
commence a chorus of shouts, which come pealing over the water, waking
echoes along both shores.  And something is seen now which gives the
boat's people a thrill of fear.  Above one of the canoes suddenly
appears a white disc, seemingly a small flag, not stationary, but waved
and brandished above the head of the man who has hoisted it.

At sight of the dreaded white--the Fuegian symbol of war--well may the
boat-voyagers experience fear; for, from their former experience, they
feel certain that this display must be intended as a warlike challenge.

But to their instant relief, they soon learn that it is meant as a
signal of peace, as words of friendly salutation reach their ears.

The man who is waving the signal shouts, "Boat ahoy! down your sail--
bring to!  Don't be 'fraid.  Me Jemmy Button.  We Tekeneekas--friends of
white people--brothers!"

Hailed in such fashion, their delight far exceeds their surprise, for
Jemmy Button it surely is; Henry Chester and Ned Gancy both recognise
him.  It is on his side that amazement reaches its maximum height when
he recognises them, which he does when his native name, Orundelico, is
called out to him.

He waits not for the boat to come up, but plunging into the water, swims
to meet it.  Then clambering over the rail, he flings his arms wide
open, to close, first around the young Englishman, then the American,
but both in a like friendly, fraternal embrace.



CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

TEKENEEKA HOSPITALITY.

Once more are the castaways in a land-locked cove begirt by high wooded
hills, with their boat moored at its inner end, and their tent set up on
shore.  It is a larger embayment than that where the gig came to grief,
though not much wider at the mouth; and there is little resemblance
between the two landing-places, since at the present one the boat is not
the only craft.  Ten or more of Fuegian canoes lie alongside her, while
on a broad, grassy flat, above water-mark, stands alike number of
wigwams, their smoke-blackened thatches in strong contrast with the
white, weather-bleached boat-sail, which is again serving as a tent.
The wigwams are of Tekeneeka construction, differing, as already said,
from those of the Ailikoleeps, in being acutely cone-shaped and in
having their floors sunk several feet below the surface of the ground.
Their ribs, moreover, are stout tree-trunks instead of slender saplings,
while the thatches are partly of rushes and partly of broad strips of
bark.

Such are the dwellings of Orundelico's people, though but for a part of
the year, while they engage in a certain fishery of periodical
occurrence.  On an island, down the Murray Narrow, they have a larger
"wigwamery" of more permanent residences, and there the very old and
young of the community now are, only the able-bodied being at the
fishing-station.

When they were with the Ailikoleeps, the castaways believed themselves
among the lowest and most degraded beings in the human scale; but about
this they have now changed their minds, a short acquaintance with the
Tekeneekas having revealed to them a type of man still lower, and a
state of existence yet more wretched, if that be possible; indeed,
nothing can come much nearer to the "missing link" than the natives of
central Tierra del Fuego.  Though of less malevolent disposition than
those who inhabit the outside coasts, they are also less intelligent and
less courageous, while equally the victims of abject misery.

Alas!  Jemmy Button is no longer Jemmy Button, but again the savage
Orundelico, he too having gone back to barbarism.  His dress, or rather
the absence of it, his greasy and mud-bedaubed skin, his long unkempt
hair, and the wild animal-like expression of his features--all attest
his relapse into a condition of savagery, total and complete.  Not a
vestige of civilised man remains with him to show that he has ever been
a mile from the Murray Narrow.

But stay, I am wronging him--twice wronging him.  He has not entirely
forgotten the foreign tongue taught him on board the _Beagle_ and during
a year's residence in England; while something he remembers also--
something better--the kindness there shown him and the gratitude due for
it.

He is paying the debt now as best he can, and on this account Captain
Gancy has consented to make a brief stop at the fishing-station.  There
are also two other distinct reasons for his doing so.  Before proceeding
farther, he wishes to obtain more information about the Yapoos, and he
needs a fresh supply of provisions--that furnished by Eleparu having
been neither abundant nor palatable.

Orundelico can do better for them, even to providing fresh meat--a thing
they have not tasted for a long time.  They are now in a region where
roams the guanaco [Note 1]; and the Tekeneekas are hunters as well as
fishermen.  A party has been sent inland to procure one or more of these
animals, and the boat-voyagers are awaiting its return before continuing
their interrupted voyage.

Meanwhile, the hospitality shown them by Jemmy Button is as generous as
his limited means will allow.  To make their time pass agreeably, he
entertains them with accounts of many odd manners and customs, and also
of such strange phenomena of nature as are peculiar to his country.  The
Tekeneekas, he assures them, are a peaceful people, never going to war
when they can avoid it.  Sometimes, however, they are forced into it by
certain neighbouring tribes that make marauds upon them.  The
Ailikoleeps are enemies of theirs, but a wide belt of neutral territory
between the two prevents frequent encounters.  They more often have
quarrels with the Yapoos living to the eastward, though these are
tribally related to them.  But their most dreaded foes are the Oensmen,
whose country lies north of the channel, beyond the range of high
mountains that borders it.  The Oensmen he describes as giants, armed
with a terrible weapon--the "bolas."  [Note 2.]  But, being exclusively
hunters, they have no canoes; and when on a raid to the southern side of
the channel, they levy on the craft of the Yapoos, forcing the owners to
ferry them across.

Orundelico's own people can fight too, and bravely, according to his
account; but only do so in defence of their homes and at the last
extremity.  They are not even possessed of warlike weapons--neither the
deadly club nor the flint-bladed dagger--their spears, bows, and slings
being used only as implements for fishing and the chase.

Besides the _harmaur_ (guanaco), they hunt the _hiappo_ (sea-otter) and
the _coypu_, or South American beaver, [Note 3], which is also found in
Tierra del Fuego.  The chase of the otter takes place out in the open
water, where the amphibious animal is surrounded by the well-trained
dogs in a wide circle; they then close in upon it, diving whenever it
goes under to prevent its escape through the enfilading ring.

Of the tekeneeka mode of fishing he treats them to an actual exhibition.
No hooks are used, the bait, a lump of seal flesh, being simply
attached to a hair-line.  The fish, seizing it, is gently drawn to the
surface, then dexterously caught by the left hand, and secured before it
can clear its teeth from the tough fibrous bait.  The rods used in this
primitive style of angling are of the rudest kind--mere sticks, no
longer than coach-whip shafts.

In hunting the _harmaur_, or, as they also call it, _wanakaye_
(evidently a corruption of "guanaco"), one of their modes is to lie in
wait for it on the limb of a tree which projects over the path taken by
these animals, the habit of which is to follow one another in single
file, and along old frequented tracks.  Above these, among the branches,
the Tekeneeka hunter constructs a sort of wattle staging or nest.
Seating himself on this, he awaits the coming of the unsuspicious
creature, and, when it is underneath, plunges his spear down between its
ribs, the blade of the spear being a bone taken from some former victim
of its own species.

Orundelico also shows them the Fuegian mode of fire-kindling, the first
sparks being obtained from the _cathow_, or fire-stone, [Note 4], two
pieces of which every Fuegian carries about him, as a habitual smoker
does his flint and steel or box of matches.  The inflammable material
used by the natives is of three sorts: the soft down of certain birds, a
moss of fine fibre, and a species of dry fungus found attached to the
under side of half-rotten trees.  The _cathows_, rasped against each
other like flints, emit sparks which ignite the tinder, when the flame
is produced in the way that the old sealer has employed since they have
been in the country.

From Orundelico his guests get to know more of those matters about which
his former associate, Eleparu, was so reticent, and as they now learn,
with good reason.

"York bad fella," he answers, on being questioned, "he rob me after
Inglis officer leave us all at Woolya.  Took 'way my coat, trousers,
tools--everything.  Yes, York very bad man.  He no Tekeneeka; him
blubber-eating Ailikoleep."

Strange words from a man who, while giving utterance to them, is
industriously masticating a piece of raw seal flesh.

Is there a people or nation on earth that does not believe itself
superior to some other?

Jemmy further declares that the hostile party encountered in Whale-Boat
Sound must have been Ailikoleeps; though Eleparu had denied it.  Still,
as there are several communities of Ailikoleeps, it may have been one
with which Eleparu's people have no connection.

With a grateful remembrance of their late host's behaviour, the
castaways are loth to believe all that is alleged against him by their
present generous entertainer; though they feel some of it must be true,
or why should Eleparu have been so reticent as to the relations between
them?  [Note 5.]

Like York, Jemmy has become a Benedict, and his wife is with him at the
fishing-station.  They have also an "olive-branch," which has been left
at the other wigwamery--a daughter, who, if she grow up with but the
least resemblance to her mother, will be anything but a beauty, Jemmy's
"helpmeet" being as ugly as can well be imagined.  Withal, she is of a
kindly gentle disposition, quite as generous as Ocushlu, and does her
best to entertain her husband's guests.

Notwithstanding all the hospitality extended to them, the castaways find
the delay irksome, and are impatient to be gone.  Glad they are when at
length a shout heard from the hills announces the approach of the
hunters; and still more gratified at seeing them issue from the wood,
bearing on their backs the four quarters of a guanaco as large as a
year-old bullock.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1.  The guanaco, by some supposed to be the llama in its wild
state, is found on the eastern side of Tierra del Fuego.  Its range
extends to the farthest southern point by the Straits of Lemaire; and,
strange to say, it is there of a much larger size than on the plains of
Patagonia, with a rougher coat and a longer tail.

Note 2.  Jemmy Button's "Oensmen" are the _Yacana-cunnees_, kindred of
the Patagonians, who at some distant time have crossed the Magellan
Strait, and now rove over the large tract to which Narborough gave the
name of "King Charles's South Land."  They are a hunting tribe, the
guanaco being the chief object of their pursuit and source of
subsistence.

Note 3.  _Myopotamus coypus_.  It is found in many South American
rivers, and, less frequently, in Fuegian waters.  In habits and
otherwise the coypu is much like the beaver, but is a smaller animal,
and has a rounder tail.

Note 4.  Iron pyrites.  It is found on several of the mountainous
islands of western Tierra del Fuego, and is much-prized by the natives
for the purpose indicated.  Being scarce in most places, it is an
article of inter-tribal commerce, and is eagerly purchased by the
Patagonians, in whose territory it is not found.

Note 5.  The robbery was actually committed.  After being left at
Woolya, York and Fuegia found their way to the country that they had
been taken from farther west; but not until they had stripped their
former associate of most of the chattels that had been given him by
Captain Fitzroy.



CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

THE DREADED OENSMEN.

From the information they have gained about the Yapoos, which shows them
to be ferocious and treacherous, and hostile to white men, Captain Gancy
decides upon running out to seaward through the Murray Narrow--a resolve
in harmony with the advice given him by his Fuegian host and the trusted
Seagriff as well.  The inlet in which they are is just outside the
entrance to the Narrow, on its western side, and once round a separating
tongue of land, they will be in it.  As if fortune favoured their taking
this route instead of following the Beagle Channel, a fine breeze has
set in from almost due north, and is still blowing when the spoil-laden
hunters return.

To take advantage of it, immediate departure must be made, and is
determined upon.  Down comes the tent, and its component parts are
transferred to the boat with all their other belongings.  Enough, also,
of the guanaco meal to last them for a much longer voyage than they hope
to have the necessity of making.

What if they make no voyage at all?  What if they are not even allowed
to embark?  But why should these questions occur to them?--for they do
occur.

Because, just as they all have come down to the boat, and are preparing
to step into it, something is seen on the water outside, near the
opposite shore of the channel, which painfully suggests to them a fleet
of canoes crowded with men, and evidently making across for the cove.

"The Yapoos!" exclaims Orundelico in a voice betokening great alarm.

But not so great as when, the instant after, he again cries out:

"O Lor'!  The Oensmen 'long with them!"

Captain Gancy, quickly covering the canoes with his glass, makes out,
what is yet undistinguishable by the naked eye of any other than a
Fuegian, that there are two sorts of men in them, quite different in
appearance; unlike in form, facial aspect, dress--everything.  Above
all, are they dissimilar in size, some being of gigantic stature; the
others alongside of them appearing like pigmies!  The latter are seated
or bent down working the paddles; while the big men stand erect, each
with an ample robe of skin hanging toga-like from his shoulders,
cloaking him from neck to ankles.

It is seen, also, that the canoes are lashed two and two, like
double-keeled catamarans, as though the heavy stalwart Oensmen dare not
trust themselves to embark in the ordinary Fuegian craft.

"O Lor', O Lor'!" repeats Orundelico, shivering from crown to toe.  "The
Oensmen, shoo'.  The time of year they come plunder; now _oosho_ [red
leaf].  They rob, kill, murder us all if we stay here.  Too late now get
pass um.  They meet us yonner.  We must run to hills; hide in woods."

The course he counsels is already being taken by his compatriots; all of
whom, men and women, on hearing the word "Oensmen"--the most terrifying
bogey of their babyhood--have made a rush to the wigwams and hastily
gathered up the most portable of their household goods.  Nor do they
stay for Jemmy; but all together, shouting and screaming, strike off
into the woods--his own wife with them!

Orundelico, left alone with the boat's people, remains by them but for a
brief moment, urging them to flight also.

"Oensmen bad--very bad," he keeps affirming.  "They worse than
Ailikoleep--more cruel.  Kill you all if you stay here.  Come hide in
the woods--there you safe."

"What's to be done?" interrogates the captain, as usual appealing to
Seagriff.  "If we retreat inland, we shall lose the boat--even if we
save ourselves."

"Sartain, we'd lose her, and I don't think thar's need to.  Let me hev
another look through yer glass, capting."

A hasty glance enables him to make a rough estimate of the distance
between the cove's mouth and the approaching canoes.

"I guess we kin do it," he says, with a satisfied air.

"Do what?"

"Git out o' this cove 'fore they shet us up in it.  Ef we kin but make
'roun' that p'int eastart we'll be safe.  Besides, it ain't at all
likely we could escape t'other way, seein' how we're hampered."

This, with a side glance toward Mrs Gancy and Leoline:

"On land they'd soon overtake us, hide or no hide--sure to.  Tharfer,
our best, our _only_ chance, air by the water," he affirms.

"By the water be it, then," calls out Captain Gancy, decisively.  "We
shall risk it!"

"Yes, yes!" agreed the late _Calypso's_ second and third officers.
"Anything but lose our boat!"

Never did crew or passengers get more quickly on board a craft, nor was
there ever a more unceremonious leave-taking between guests and host,
than that between the castaways and Orundelico.

On his side, the hurry is even greater: he scarcely waits, as it were on
the doorstep, to see them off.  For as soon as he is convinced they are
really going, he turns his back on them and hastily darts in among the
trees like a chased squirrel.

The instant that everybody is in the boat it is shot out into the water
like an arrow from a bow, and brought head around, like a teetotum.
Then, with the four oars in the hands of four men who work them with
strength and will, it goes gliding, ay, fairly bounding, on for the
outside channel.

Again it is a pull for very life, and they know it.  If they had any
doubt of it before, there can be none now, for as they draw near to the
entrance of the cove they see the canoes spreading out to intercept
them.  The big fierce-looking men, too, are in a state of wild
excitement, evidently purposing an attack.  They cast off their skin
wraps from their shoulders, displaying their naked bronze bodies and
arms, like those of a Colossus.  Each has in his hand what appears to be
a bit of cord uniting two balls, about the size of small oranges.  It is
the bolas, an innocent-_looking_ thing, but in reality a missile weapon
as deadly in practised hands as a grenade or bomb-shell.  That the giant
savages intend casting them is clear.  Their gestures leave no room for
doubting it; they are only waiting until the boat is near enough.

The fugitives are well-nigh despairing, for she is almost near enough
now.  Less than two cables' lengths are between her and the foremost of
the canoes, each holding a course straight toward the other.  It seems
as though they _must_ meet.  Forty strokes more, and the boat will be
among the canoes.  Twenty will bring her within reach of the bolas.

And the strokes are given; but no longer to propel it in that direction,
for the point of the land spit is now on her beam, the helm is put
hard-a-port, bringing the boat's head round with a sharp sheer to
starboard, and she is clear of the cove!

The mast being already stepped, Ned and Henry now drop their oars and
hasten to hoist sail.  But ere the yard can be run up to the masthead,
there comes a whizzing, booming sound--and it is caught in the _bolas_!
The mast is struck too, and the balls, whirling around and around, lash
it and the yard together, with the frumpled canvas between, as tight as
a spliced spar!

And now dismay fills the hearts of the boat's people: all chance of
escape seems gone.  Two of their oars for the time are idle, and the
sail, as it were, fast furled.  But no: it is loose again! for, quick as
thought, Harry Chester has drawn his knife, and, springing forward, cut
the lapping cord with one rapid slash.  With equal promptness Ned Gancy,
having the halyards still in hand, hoists away, the sheet is hauled taut
aft, the sail instantly fills, and off goes the boat, like an impatient
steed under loosened rein and deep-driven spurs--off and away, in gay
careering dance over the water, quickly leaving the foiled, furious
giants far--hopelessly far--in the wake!

------------------------------------------------------------------------

This was the last peril encountered by the castaways that claims record
here.  What came after were but the ordinary dangers to which an open
boat is exposed when skirting along a rock-bound storm-beaten coast,
such as that which forms the southern and western borders of Tierra del
Fuego.  But still favoured by the protecting hand of Heaven, they passed
unharmed through all, reaching Good Success Bay by noon of the third day
after.

There were their hearts made glad by the sight of a ship at anchor
inshore, Seagriff still further rejoicing on recognising it as a sealing
vessel, the very one on which, years before, he had cruised while
chasing the fur-coated amphibia through the waters of Fireland.

Yet another and greater joy is in store for them all--a very thrill of
delight--as, pulling up nearer to the ship, they see a large boat--a
pinnace--swinging by its painter at her side, with the name _Calypso_
lettered on its stern.  Over the ship's rail, too, is seen a row of
familiar faces--those of their old shipmates, whom they feared they
might never see again.  There are they all--Lyons and nine others--and
all uniting in a chorus of joyous salutation.

Now hands are being shaken warmly on both sides, and mutual accounts
rendered of what had happened to each party since their forced
separation.  As it turns out, the tale of peril and adventure is nearly
all on the side of those who took to the gig, the crew of the pinnace
having encountered but little incident or accident.  They had kept to
the outside coast and circumnavigated it from the Milky Way to the
Straits of Le Maire.  They had fallen in with some natives, but luckily
had not been troubled by them.

They who had been troubled by them more than once, and whose lives had
been endangered and almost lost, might well be thankful to Captain
Fitzroy, one of whose objects in carrying the four Fuegians to England
and back to their own country is thus told by himself:--

"Perhaps a shipwrecked seaman may hereafter receive help and kind
treatment from Jemmy Button's children, prompted, as they can hardly
fail to be, by the traditions they will have heard of men of other
lands, and by the idea, however faint, of their duty to God, as well as
to their neighbours."

The hopeful prediction has borne good fruit, even sooner than Captain
Fitzroy looked for.  But for his humane act Captain Gancy and all dear
to him would have doubtless left their bones, unburied, on some lone
spot in the _Land of Fire_.