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.