"There they are at last! Heaven have mercy on us!" At these grave
words, more fear-inspiring from being spoken by Captain Gancy, work is
instantly suspended, the boat-builders dropping their tools as though
they burned the hands that grasped them.
For some minutes the alarm runs high, all thinking their last hour is at
hand. How can they think otherwise, with their eyes bent on those black
objects, which, though but as specks in the far distance, grow bigger
while they stand gazing at them, and which they know to be canoes full
of cruel cannibal savages? For they have no doubt that the approaching
natives are the Ailikoleeps. The old Ailikoleep wigwam, and the fact
that the party that so lately visited the cove were of this tribe, make
it evident that this is Ailikoleep fishing-ground, while the canoes now
approaching seem to correspond in number with those of the party that
assailed them. If they be the same, and if they should come on shore by
the kitchen midden, then small hope of more boat-building, and, as is
only too likely, small hope of life for the builders.
One chance alone now prevents the castaways from yielding to utter
despair--the savages _may_ pass on without landing. In that case they
cannot be seen, nor will their presence there be suspected. With
scrupulous adherence to their original plan, they have taken care that
nothing of their encampment shall be visible from the water; tent,
boat-timbers--everything--are screened on the water side by a thick
curtain of evergreens. Their fire is always out during the day, and so
there is no tell-tale smoke to betray them.
Soon Captain Gancy observes what further allays apprehension. With the
glass still at his eye, he makes out the savages to be of both sexes and
all ages--even infants being among them, in the laps of, or strapped to,
their mothers. Nor can he see any warlike insignia--nothing white--the
colour that in all other countries is emblematic of peace, but which, by
strange contrariety, in Tierra del Fuego is the sure symbol of war.
The people in the canoes, whoever they may be, are evidently on a
peaceful expedition; possibly they are some tribe or community on its
way to winter quarters. And they _may_ not be Ailikoleeps after all;
or, at all events, not the former assailants of Whale-boat Sound.
These tranquillising reflections occur while the Fuegians are yet
far-off. When first sighted, they were on the opposite side of the
strait, closely hugging the land, the water in mid-channel being rough.
But, as they come nearer, they are seen to change course and head
diagonally across for the southern side, which looks as if they intended
putting in at the old wigwam. Doubtless some of them may have once
lived in it, and eaten of the molluscs, the shells of which are piled
upon the kitchen midden.
The castaways note this movement with returning alarm, now almost sure
that an encounter is inevitable. But again are they gratified at seeing
the canoes turn broadside toward them, with bows set sharp for the
southern shore, and soon pass from sight.
Their disappearance is caused by the projecting spit, behind which they
have paddled, when closing in upon the land.
For what purpose have they put in there? That is the question now asked
of one another by the boat-builders. They know that, on the other side
of the promontory, there is a deep bay or sound running far inland; how
far they cannot tell, having given it only careless glances while
gathering cranberries. Probably the Fuegians have gone up it, and that
may be the last of them. But what if they have landed on the other side
of the spit to stay there? In this case, they will surely at some time
come round, if but to despoil the kelp-bed of its shell-fish treasures.
All is conjecture now, with continuing apprehension and suspense. To
put an end to the latter, the two youths, alike impatient and impetuous,
propose a reconnaissance, to go to the cranberry ridge and take a peep
over it.
"No!" objects Seagriff, restraining them. "Ef the savagers are ashore
on t'other side, an' should catch sight o' ye, yer chances for gettin'
back hyar wouldn't be worth counting on. They can run faster than
chased foxes, and over any sort o' ground. Therefur, it's best fer ye
to abide hyar till we see what's to come of it."
So counselled, they remain, and for hours after nothing more is seen
either of the canoes or of their owners, although constant watch is kept
for them. Confidence is again in the ascendant, as they now begin to
believe that the savages have a wintering-place somewhere up the large
inlet, and are gone to it, maybe to remain for months. If they will
stay but a week, all will be well, as by that time the boat will be
finished, launched, and away.
Confidence of brief duration, dispelled almost as soon as conceived!
The canoes again appear on the open water at the point of the
promontory, making around it, evidently intending to run between the
kelp-bed and the shore, and probably to land by the shell-heap. With
the castaways it is a moment of dismay. No longer is there room for
doubt; the danger is sure and near. All the men arm themselves as best
they can, with boat-hook, axe, mallet, or other carpentering tool,
resolved on defending themselves to the death.
But now a new surprise and puzzle greets them. As the canoes, one after
another, appear around the point, they are seen to be no longer crowded,
but each seems to have lost nearly half its crew. And of those
remaining nearly all are women and children--old women, too, with but
the younger of the girls and boys. A few aged men are among them, but
none of the middle-aged or able-bodied of either sex. Where are these?
and for what have they left the canoes? About this there is no time for
conjecture. In less than five minutes after their re-appearance, the
paddled craft are brought to shore by the shell-heap, and all--men,
women, children, and dogs--scramble out of them. The dogs are foremost,
and are first to find that the place is already in possession. The
keen-scented Fuegian canines, with an instinctive antipathy to white
people, immediately on setting paw upon land, rush up to the camp and
surround it, ferociously barking and making a threatening show of teeth;
and it is only by vigorously brandishing the boat-hook that they can be
kept off.
Their owners, too, are soon around the camp; as they come within sight
of its occupants, one after another crying out in surprise, "_Akifka
akinish_!" ("White man!")
The castaways now see themselves begirt by an array of savage creatures,
such as they have never seen before, though they have had dealings with
uncivilised beings in many lands. Two score ugly old women, wrinkled
and blear-eyed, and with tangled hair hanging over their faces, every
one a match for Macbeth's witches, and with them a number of old men
stoop-shouldered, and of wizard aspect, each a very Caliban. Even the
boys and girls have an impish, unearthly look, like the dwarfs that
figure on the stage in a Christmas pantomime. But neither old nor young
show fear, or any sign of it. On the contrary, on every face is a
fierce, bold expression, threatening and aggressive, while the hoarse
guttural sounds given out by them seem less like articulate speech than
like the chattering of apes. Indeed, some of the old men are themselves
more like monkeys than human beings, reminding Captain Gancy of the time
when he was once beset in a South African _kloof_, or ravine, by a troop
of barking and gibbering dog-faced baboons.
For a time all is turmoil and confusion, with doubting fear on the part
of the white people, who cannot tell what is to be the issue. Mrs
Gancy and Leoline have retired into the tent, while the men stand by its
entrance, prepared to defend it. They make no demonstration of
hostility, however, but keep their weapons as much as possible out of
sight, and as calmly as possible await the action of the savages. To
show distrust might give offence, and court attack--no trifling matter,
notwithstanding the age and apparent imbecility of the savages.
Seagriff knows, if the others do not, that the oldest and feeblest of
them--woman or man--would prove a formidable antagonist; and, against so
many, he and his four men companions would stand but a poor chance.
Luckily, he recalls a word or two of their language which may conciliate
them and, as soon as he has an opportunity of making himself heard, he
cries out, in a friendly tone, "_Arre! Cholid_!" ("Brothers!
Sisters!")
This appeal has the effect intended, or seems to have. With
exclamations of astonishment at hearing an _akifka akinish_ address them
in their own tongue, the expression of their faces becomes less fierce,
and they desist from menacing gestures. One of the men, the oldest, and
for this reason having chief authority, draws near and commences patting
Seagriff on the chest and back alternately, all the while giving
utterance to a gurgling, "chucking" noise that sounds somewhat like the
cluck of a hen when feeding her chicks.
Having finished with the old sealer, who has reciprocated his quaint
mode of salutation, he extends it to the other three whites, one after
the other. But as he sees "the doctor," who, at the moment, has stepped
from within the wigwam, where he had been unperceived, there is a sudden
revulsion of feeling among the savages--a return to hostility, the
antipathy of all Fuegians to the African negro being proverbially
bitter. Strange and unaccountable is this prejudice against the negro
by a people almost the lowest in humanity's scale.
"_Ical shiloke! Uftucla_!" ("Kill the black dog!") they cry out in
spiteful chorus, half a dozen of them making a dash at him.
Seagriff throws himself in front, to shield him from their fury, and,
with arms uplifted, appealingly calls out, "_Ical shiloke--zapello_!"
("The black dog is but a slave.")
At this the old man makes a sign, as if saying the _zapello_ is not
worth their anger, and they retire, but reluctantly, like wolves forced
from their prey. Then, as if by way of appeasing their spite, they go
stalking about the camp, picking up and secreting such articles as tempt
their cupidity.
Fortunately, few things of any value have been left exposed, the tools
and other highly-prized chattels having been stowed away inside the
tent. Luckily, also, they had hastily carried into it some dried fungus
and fish cured by the smoking process, intended for boat stores. But
Caesar's outside larder suffers to depletion. In a trice it is
emptied--not a scrap being left by the prowling pilferers. And
everything, as soon as appropriated, is eaten raw, just as it is found--
seal's flesh, shell-fish, beech-apples, berries, everything! Even a
large squid, a hideous-looking monster of the octopus tribe thrown on
the beach near by, is gobbled up by them as though it were the greatest
of delicacies.
Hunger--ravenous, unappeasable hunger--seems to pervade the whole crew;
no doubt the fact that the weather has been for a long time very stormy
has interfered with their fishing, and otherwise hindered their
procuring food. Like all savages, the Fuegian is improvident--more so,
even, than some of the brute creation--and rarely lays up store for the
future, and hence is often in terrible straits, at the very point of
starvation. Clearly, it is so with those just landed; and having eaten
up everything eatable that they can lay their hands on, there is a
scattering off amongst the trees in quest of their most reliable food
staple--the beech-apple. Some go gathering mussels and limpets along
the strand, while the more robust of the women, under the direction of
the old men, proceed to the construction of wigwams. Half a score of
these are set up, long branches broken from the trees furnishing the
rib-poles, which are roofed over with old seal-skins taken out of the
canoes. In a wonderfully short time they are finished, almost as
quickly as the pitching of a soldier's tent. When ready for occupation,
fires are kindled in them, around which the wretched creatures crouch
and shiver, regardless of smoke thick and bitter enough to drive a
badger from its hole. It is this that makes them blear-eyed, and even
uglier than Nature intended them to be. But the night is now near
beginning, a chill, raw evening, with snow falling, and they can better
bear smoke than cold. Nor are they any longer hungry. Their search for
shell-fish and fungus has been rewarded with success, and they have
eaten gluttonously of both.
Meanwhile, our friends the castaways have been left to themselves, for
the time undisturbed, save by the dogs, which give them almost
continuous trouble. The skulking curs, led by one of their kind, form a
ring around the camp, deafening the ears of its occupants with their
angry baying and barking. Strangely enough, as if sharing the antipathy
of their owners, they seem specially hostile to "the doctor," more
furiously demonstrating their antagonism to him than to any of the
others. The poor fellow is kept constantly on the alert to save his
shins from their sharp teeth.
Late in the evening, the old chief, whom the others call Annaqua ("the
arrow") pays the camp a visit, professing great friendship, and again
going through the patting and "chucking" process as before. But his
professions ill correspond with his acts, as the aged sinner is actually
detected stealing the knife of Seagriff himself, and from his person,
too!--a feat of dexterity worthy the most accomplished master of
legerdemain, the knife being adroitly abstracted from its sheath on the
old sealer's hip during the exchange of salutations. Fortunately, the
theft is discovered by young Chester, who is standing near by, and the
thief caught in the very act. On the stolen article being taken from
under the pilferer's shoulder-patch of seal-skin, where he had
dexterously secreted it, he breaks out into a laugh, pretending to pass
it off as a joke. In this sense the castaways are pleased to interpret
it, or to make show of so interpreting it, for the sake of keeping on
friendly terms with him. Indeed, but that the knife is a serviceable
tool, almost essential to them, he would be permitted to retain it; and,
by way of smoothing matters over, a brass button is given him instead,
with which he goes on his way rejoicing.
"The old shark would steal the horns off a goat, ef they warn't well
fixed in," is Seagriff's remark, as he stands looking after their
departing visitor. "Howsoever, let's hope they may be content wi'
stealin', and not take to downright robbery, or worse. We'll hev to
keep watch all night, anyway, ez thar's no tellin' what they may be up
to. _They_ never sleep. They're perfect weasels."
And all night watch is kept, with a large fire ablaze, there being now
no reason for letting it go out. Two of the party act as sentinels at a
time, another pair taking their place. But indeed, throughout most of
the night, all are wakeful, slumber being denied them by the barking of
the dogs, and yelling of the savages, who, making good Seagriff's words,
seem as though sleep were a luxury they had no wish to indulge in. And
something seems to have made them merry, also. Out of their wigwams
issue sounds of boisterous hilarity, as though they were celebrating
some grand festival, with now and then a peal of laughter that might
have proceeded from the lungs of a stentor. Disproportionate as is the
great strength of a Fuegian to his little body, his voice is even more
so; this is powerful beyond belief, and so loud as to be audible at
almost incredible distances. Such a racket as these wild merry-makers
within the wigwams are keeping up might well prevent the most weary of
civilised mortals from even once closing his eyes in sleep. And the
uproar lasts till daylight.
But what the cause of their merriment may be, or what it means, or how
they can be merry at all under such circumstances, is to the castaways
who listen anxiously to their hoarse clamour, a psychological puzzle
defying explanation. Huddled together like pigs in a pen, and surely
less comfortable in the midst of the choking smoke, contentment even
would seem an utter impossibility. That there should exist such an
emotion as joyfulness among them is a fact which greatly astonishes Ned
Gancy and young Chester. Yet there can be no doubt that they are
contented for the time, and even happy, if that word can ever be truly
applied to creatures in a savage condition like theirs; and their loud
merriment is, perhaps, a proof of Nature's universal beneficence, that
will not permit the life of these lowest and, apparently, most wretched
of human beings to be all misery! Far more miserable than they, that
night--or, at least, far more burdened with the _sense_ of misery--are
those whom fate has cast into the power of these savage creatures, and
who are obliged to listen to their howlings and hyena like laughter.