"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.