The Land of Fire: A Tale of Adventure

“Ay, Mister Henry, that’s all true as to the numbers. But ef they war only one to our five, he wouldn’t regard the odds a bit. They’re like wild animals, an’ fight jest the same. I’ve seed a Feweegin, only a little mite uv a critter, make attack on a whale-boat’s crew o’ sealers, an’ gi’e sev’ral uv ’em ugly wounds. They don’t know sech a thing as fear, no more’n a trapped badger. Neyther do thar weemen, who fight jest the same’s the men. Thar ain’t a squaw in that canoe as cudn’t stan’ a tussle wi’ the best o’ us. ’Sides, ye forgit thet we haven’t any weepens to fight ’em with ’ceptin’ our knives.” This was true; neither gun, pistol, nor other offensive arm having been saved from the sinking Calypso. “An’ our knives,” he continues, “they’d ’a’ been o’ but little use against their slings, wi’ the which they kin send a stone a good hundred yards.[10 - Seagriff does not exaggerate. Their skill with this weapon is something remarkable. Captain King thus speaks of it: “I have seen them strike a cap, placed upon the stump of a tree fifty or sixty yards off, with a stone from a sling.” And again, speaking of an encounter he had with Fuegians, “It is astonishing how very correctly they throw them, and to what a distance. When the first stone fell close to us, we all thought ourselves out of musket-shot!”] Ay, Mister Henry, an’ the spears too. Ef we hedn’t got holt o’ them, some uv ’em mout be stickin’ in us now. Ez ye may see, they’re the sort for dartin’.”

The English youth, exulting in the strength and vigour of growing manhood, is loth to believe all this. He makes no response, however, having eased his feelings, and being satisfied with the display he has made of his gallantry by that well-timed blow with the oar.

“In any case,” calmly interposes the skipper, “we may be thankful for getting away from them.”

“Yis, Capting,” says Seagriff, his face still wearing an anxious expression, “ef we hev got away from ’em, the which ain’t sartin yit. I’ve my fears we haven’t seen the last o’ that ugly lot.”

While speaking, his eyes are fixed on the canoe in an earnest, interrogating gaze, as though he sees something to make him uneasy. Such a thing he does see, and the next instant he declares, in excited tones, “No! Look at what they’re doin’!”

“What?” asks the Captain.

“Sendin’ up a signal smoke. Thet’s thar trick, an’ ne’er another.”

Sure enough, a smoke is seen rising over the canoe, quite different from that previously observed – a white, curling cloud more like steam or what might proceed from straw set on fire. But they are not left long conjecturing about it, ere their attention is called to another and similar smoke on the land.

“Yonder!” exclaims Seagriff. “Thar’s the answer. An’ yonder an’ yonder!” he adds, pointing to other white puffs that shoot up along the shore like the telegraphy of a chain of semaphores.[11 - A kind of telegraph or apparatus for conveying information by means of signals visible at a distance, and as oscillating arms or flags by daylight and lanterns at night. A simple form is still employed.]

“’Tair lookin’ bad for us now,” he says in undertone to the Captain, and still gazing anxiously toward the shores. “Thar’s Feweegins ahead on both sides, and they’re sure to put out fur us. Thet’s Burnt Island on the port bow, and Cath’rine to starboard, both ’habited by Ailikoleeps. The open water beyant is Whale-boat Soun’; an’ ef we kin git through the narrer atween, we may still hev a chance to show ’em our starn. Thar’s a sough in the soun’, that tells o’ wind thar, an’ oncet in it we’ll get the help o’ the sail.”

“They’re putting out now,” is the Captain’s rejoinder, as through his glass he sees canoe after canoe part from the shore, one shooting out at every point where there is a smoke.

When clear of the fringe of overhanging trees, the canoes are visible to the others; fifteen or twenty of them leaving the land on both sides, and all making toward the middle of the strait, where it is narrowest, evidently with the design of heading off the boat.

“Keep her well to starboard, Capting!” sings out the old sealer, “near as may be to the p’int o’ Cath’rine Island. Ef we kin git past thet ’fore they close on us, we’ll be safe.”

“But hadn’t we better put about and put back? We can run clear of them that way.”

“Cl’ar o’ the canoes ahead, yis! But not o’ the others astarn. Look yonder! Thar’s more o’ ’em puttin’ out ahint – the things air everywhar!”

“’Twill be safer to run on, then, you think?”

“I do, sir. B’sides, thar’s no help for ’t now. It’s our only chance, an’ it ain’t sech a bad un, eyther. I guess we kin do it yit.”

“Lay out to your oars, then, my lads,” cries the skipper, steering as he has been advised. “Pull your best, all!”

A superfluous command that, for already they are straining every nerve, all awake to the danger drawing nigh. Never in their lives were they in greater peril, never threatened by a fate more fearful than that impending now. For, as the canoes come nearer, it can be seen that there are only men in them; men of fierce aspect, every one of them armed.

“Nary woman nor chile!” mutters Seagriff, as though talking to himself. “Thet means war, an’ the white feathers stickin’ up out o’ thar skulls, wi’ thar faces chalked like circus clowns! War to the knife, for sartin!”

Still other, if not surer, evidences of hostility are the spears bristling above their heads, and the slings in their hands, into which they are seen slipping stones to be ready for casting. Their cries, too, shrilling over the water, are like the screams of rapacious birds about to pounce on prey which they know cannot escape them.

And now the canoes are approaching mid-channel, closing in from either side en échelon, and the boat must pass between them. Soon she has some of them abeam, with others on the bows. It is running the gauntlet, with apparently a very poor chance of running it safely. The failure of an oar-stroke, a retarding whiff of wind, may bring death to those in the gig, or capture, which is the same. Yet they see life beyond, if they can but reach it, – life in a breeze, the “sough” on the water, of which Seagriff spoke. It is scarcely two cables’ length ahead. Oh, that it were but one! Still they have hope, as the old sealer shouts encouragingly, “We may git into it yet. Pull, boys; pull wi’ might an’ main!”

His words spur them to a fresh effort, and the boat bounds on, the oars almost lifting her out of the water. The canoes abeam begin to fall astern, but those on the bows are forging dangerously near, while the savages in them, now on their feet, brandish spears and wind their slings above their heads. Their fiendish cries and furious gestures, with their ghastly chalked faces, give them an appearance more demoniac than human.

A stone is slung and a javelin cast, though both fall short. But will the next? They will soon be at nearer range, and the gig’s people, absolutely without means of protection, sit in fear and trembling. Still the rowers, bracing hearts and arms, pull manfully on. But Captain Gancy is appalled as another stone plashes in the water close to the boat’s side, while a third, striking the mast, drops down among them.

“Merciful Heaven!” he exclaims, despondingly, as he extends a sheltering arm over the heads of his dear ones. “Is it thus to end? Are we to be stoned to death?”

“Yonder’s a Heaven’s marcy, I do believe!” says Seagriff on the instant, “comin’ to our help ’roun’ Burnt Island. Thet’ll bring a change, sure!”

All turn their eyes in the direction indicated, wondering what he means, and they see the water, lately calm, surging and whirling in violent agitation, with showers of spray dashing up to the height of a ship’s mast.

“It’s a williwaw!” adds the old sealer, in joyous tone, though at any other time, in open boat, or even decked ship, it would have sent a thrill of fear through his heart. Now he hails it with hope, for he knows that the williwaw[12 - The “williwaw,” sometimes called the “wooley,” is one of the great terrors of Fuegian inland waters. It is a sort of squall with a downward direction, probably caused by the warmer air of the outside ocean, as it passes over the snowy mountains, becoming suddenly cooled, and so dropping with a violent rush upon the surface of the water, which surges under it as if struck by cannon shot.] causes a Fuegian the most intense fear, and oft engulfs his crazy craft, with himself and all his belongings. And at sight of the one now sweeping toward them the savages instantly drop sling and spear, cease shouting, and cower down in their canoes in dread silence.

“Now’s our chance, boys!” sings out Seagriff. “Wi’ a dozen more strokes we’ll be cl’ar o’ them – out o’ the track o’ the williwaw, too.”

The dozen strokes are given with a will. Two dozen ere the squall reaches them, and when it comes up, it has spent most of its strength, passing alike harmlessly over boat and canoes. But again the other danger threatens. The Fuegians are once more upon their feet, shaking their spears and yelling more furiously than ever; anger now added to their hostility. Yet louder and more vengefully they shout at finding pursuit is vain, as they soon do, for the diversion caused by the williwaw has given the gig an advantage, throwing all the canoes so far astern that there is no likelihood of its being caught. Even with the oars alone the gig could easily keep the distance gained on the slowly-paddled craft. It does better, however, having caught the breeze, and, with a swollen sail it glides on down Whale-boat Sound, rapidly increasing its advantage. On, still on, till under the gathering shadows of night the flotilla of canoes appears like tiny specks – like a flock of foul birds at rest on the distant water.

“Thar’s no fear o’ them comin’ arter us any furrer, I reck’n,” says the old sealer, in a glad voice. “’Tain’t likely that their country runs far in this direction.”

“And we may thank the Almighty for it,” is Captain Gancy’s grateful rejoinder. “Surely never was His hand more visibly extended for the protection of poor mortals! Let us thank Him, all!”

And the devout skipper uplifts his hands in prayer, the rest reverently listening. After the simple thanksgiving, he fervently kisses, first his wife, then Leoline. Kisses of mutual congratulation, and who can wonder at their being fervent? For they all have been very near to their last embrace on earth!

Chapter Eleven.

Why “Land of Fire.”

The night is down; but, although it is very dark, the boat-voyagers do not bring in to land. They are still far from confident that the pursuit has been relinquished; and, until it is abandoned, they are still in danger.

Ere long, they have sure evidence that it is not. Along the shores of the sound flash up fires, which, like the smoke seen in the daylight, are surely signals. Some are down upon the beaches, others high up against the hill-sides – just such lights as Magalhaens beheld three and a half centuries before, while passing through the strait which now bears his name.[13 - He discovered the Straits, or, more properly, Strait, in 1519. His name is usually given as “Magellan” by French and English writers, the Spaniards making it “Magallanes.” But, as he was a native of Portugal, and Magalhaens is the Portuguese orthography, it should be the one preferred. By sealers and others, Tierra del Fuego is often called “Fireland.” Lady Brassey heard it so called by the settlers at “Sandy Point,” in the Strait.] Hence, too, the name he bestowed on the unknown country lying south of them, “Tierra del Fuego” – “Land of Fire.”

The fugitives in the gig see fires on both shores – fifty or more – the lurid flames symbolising the fierce implacable hostility of the savages who have set them alight.

“We’re boun’ to keep on till we’ve got ’em all astarn,” says Seagriff. “So long’s thar’s a spark ahead, it’ll be dangersome to put in. They’d be for headin’ us off jest the same to-morrer, ez thar’s another long narrer to pass atween this an’ Darwin Soun’. ’Tair a bit lucky the night bein’ so dark that they can’t sight us from the shore. If they could, we’d ’a’ had ’em out arter us now.”

Under ordinary circumstances, the darkness would have made it difficult for them to proceed. But, oddly enough, the very thing which forces them to continue their retreat assists them in making it good, the fires on either side being like so many beacon-lights, enabling them to hold a course in mid-water. Thus guided, they run on as between two rows of street lamps, fortunately so far from either that the spread sail escapes being illumined by them. Fortunately, also, on reaching the next narrow, where it would be otherwise seen, there is a mist over the water. Screened by this, they succeed in passing through it unperceived, and enter Darwin Sound just as day is breaking. Here neither fires nor smokes are observed, a proof that they have passed out of the territory of the tribe which had attacked them.

Still, they do not yet seek the shore; the wind is too temptingly in their favour, and with sail up all day they run on into the north-west arm of the Beagle Channel, at length bringing to in a small cove on its southern side.

It is late afternoon when they make a landing; yet they have time to choose a camping-place ere darkness comes on. Not much choice is there, the only available spot being at the inner end of the cove. There a niche in the rocky beach forms a sort of natural boat-dock, large enough to admit the gig to moorings. And on the shore adjacent is the only patch of bare ground visible; at all other points the trees grow to the water’s edge, with overhanging branches.

Confident now that their late pursuers have been shaken off, they determine on making a stay here of at least a day or two. After this long spell of laborious work, with the excitement which accompanied it, they greatly need rest. Besides, all are now very hungry, having had no opportunity of cooking aught since they left the landing-place on the isle.

Where they are now there is no difficulty about fire, fuel being plentiful all about. And while Caesar is preparing the repast, the others transform the boat-sail into a tent, by setting up the oars, trestle-fashion, and resting the mast on them as a ridge-pole.

Having satisfied the cravings of appetite, and completed their arrangements for passing the night, it still lacks an hour of sunset, and with nothing better to be done, they sit by the fire and contemplate the landscape, at which hitherto they have but glanced. A remarkable landscape it is – picturesque beyond description, and altogether unlike the idea generally entertained of Fuegian scenery. That portion of it which an artist would term the “foreground” is the cove itself, which is somewhat like the shoe of a mule – running about a hundred yards into the land, while less than fifty feet across the mouth. Its shores, rising abruptly from the beach, are wooded with a thick forest, which covers the steep sides of the encircling hills as far as can be seen, and to the water’s edge. The trees, tall and grand, are of three kinds, almost peculiar to Tierra del Fuego. One is a true beech; another, as much birch as beech; the third, an aromatic evergreen of world-wide celebrity – the “Winter’s-bark.”[14 - The beeches are the Fagus Betuloides and Fagus Antarchia. The former partakes also of the character of a birch. It is an evergreen, while the leaves of the other fall off in the autumn. The “Winter’s-bark” (Drimys Winletii) is a laurel-like evergreen, which produces an aromatic bark, somewhat resembling cinnamon. It derives its name, not from the season, but from a Captain Winter, who first carried the bark to England in 1579.] But there is also a growth of buried underwood, consisting of arbutus, barberry, fuchsias, flowering currants, and a singular fern, also occurring in the island of Juan Fernandez, and resembling the zamia of Australia.

The sea-arm on which the cove opens is but little over a mile in width, the shore on its farther side being a sheer cliff, rising hundreds of feet above the water, and indented here and there by deep gorges with thickly-wooded sides. Above the cliff’s crest the slope continues on upward to a mountain ridge of many peaks, one of them a grand cone towering thousands of feet above all the others. That is Mount Darwin, wrapped in a mantle of never-melting snow. Along the intermediate space between the cliff’s crest and the snow-line is a belt of woodland, intersected by what might be taken for streams of water, were it not for their colour. But they are too blue, too noiseless, to be water. Yet, in a way, they are water, for they are glaciers, some of them abutting upon the sea-arm, and filling up the gorges that open upon it with façades as precipitous as that of the cliff itself. There are streams of water also which proceed from the melting of the snow above; cataracts that spout out from the wooded sides of the ravines, their glistening sheen vividly conspicuous amid the greenery of the trees. Two of these curving jets, projected from walls of verdure on opposite sides of a gorge, meet midway, and mingling, fall thence perpendicularly down, changing, long ere they reach the water below, to a column of white spray.

Such is the magnificent panorama spread before the eyes of our castaways, who, despite their forlorn lot, cannot help regarding it with wonder and admiration. Nor is their wonder diminished by what they see and hear close at hand. Little did they expect to find parrots and humming-birds in that high southern latitude; yet a flock of the former chatter above their heads, feeding on the berries of the Winter’s-bark; while numbers of the latter are seen, flitting to and fro, or poised on whirring wings before the bell-shaped blossoms of the fuchsias.[15 - The Fuegian parrot, or paroquet, is known to naturalists as Psittacus Imaragdinus, – the humming-bird as Melisuga Kingii. It was long believed that neither parrots nor humming-birds existed in Tierra del Fuego; Buffon, with his usual incorrectness, alleging that the specimens brought from it were taken elsewhere; other learned closet naturalists insisted on the parrots reported to exist there being “sea-parrots” (auks).] From the deeper recesses of the wood at intervals comes a loud, cackling cry, resembling the laugh of an idiot. It is the call-note of the black woodpecker. And, as if in response to it, a kingfisher, perched on the limb of a dead tree by the beach, now and then utters its shrill, ear-piercing scream.

Other fishing-birds of different species fly hither and thither over the water, now quite tranquil, the wind having died away.

A flock of white pelicans, in pursuit of finny prey, swim about the cove, their eyes looking into the depths, their long pick-axe beaks held ready for a plunge. Then, as a fish is sighted underneath, down go head and neck in a quick dart, soon to be drawn up with the victim writhing between the tips of the mandibles. But the prey is not secured yet. On each pelican attends a number of predatory gulls, wheeling over it in flight, and watching its every movement with a foregone and well-studied intent. For as soon as the fish is brought up, they swoop at it from all points with wild screams and flapping wings; and as the pelican cannot swallow the fish without first tossing it upward, the toss often proves fatal to its purpose. The prey let go, instead of falling back into the water, or down the pouch-like gullet held agape for it, is caught by one or more of the gulls, and those greedy birds continue the fight among themselves, leaving the pelican they have robbed to go diving again.

Night comes on, but not with the darkness anticipated. For still another wonder is revealed to them ere closing their eyes in sleep – the long continuance of twilight, far beyond anything of the kind they have ever experienced, Seagriff excepted. But its cause is known to them; the strange phenomenon being due to the fact that the sun, for some time after it has sunk below the horizon, continues to shine on the glistening ice of the glaciers and the snow of the mountain summits, thus producing a weird luminosity in the heavens, somewhat resembling the Aurora Borealis.