The Land of Fire Part 12

One chance alone now prevents the castaways from yielding to utter despair--the savages _may_ pa.s.s 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 gla.s.s still at his eye, he makes out the savages to be of both s.e.xes 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 a.s.sailants 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 sh.e.l.ls 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 sh.o.r.e, and soon pa.s.s 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 sh.e.l.l-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 ash.o.r.e 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 sh.o.r.e, and probably to land by the sh.e.l.l-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 s.e.x. 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 sh.o.r.e by the sh.e.l.l-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 hoa.r.s.e 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 sc.r.a.p being left by the prowling pilferers. And everything, as soon as appropriated, is eaten raw, just as it is found-- seal's flesh, sh.e.l.l-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 sh.e.l.l-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 pa.s.s 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 bra.s.s b.u.t.ton 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 circ.u.mstances, is to the castaways who listen anxiously to their hoa.r.s.e 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 sh.o.r.e, 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 sh.e.l.l-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 sh.e.l.l 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 c.o.c.k-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 sh.e.l.l-gatherers remain on the reef till the rising water forces them to quit. But their industry meets with less reward than was antic.i.p.ated, and they return to the sh.o.r.e all out of sorts and enraged at the white people, whom they now look upon in the light of trespa.s.sers; for they know that to them is due the scarcity of bivalves among the kelp, where they had expected to reap a plentiful harvest.