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.

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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.

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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.

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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!

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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.

THE END