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!"