The Land of Fire Part 7

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 sh.e.l.l 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 c.r.a.pe 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 s.n.a.t.c.h 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 sh.e.l.l 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." Sh.e.l.ls and sh.e.l.l-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 d.i.c.ker '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 sh.o.r.e like the telegraphy of a chain of semaph.o.r.es. [Note 2.]

"'Tair lookin' bad for us now," he says in undertone to the Captain, and still gazing anxiously toward the sh.o.r.es. "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 gla.s.s he sees canoe after canoe part from the sh.o.r.e, 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 pa.s.s 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 r.e.t.a.r.ding 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.