Майн Рид
The Land of Fire: A Tale of Adventure
Chapter Eighteen.
Fuegian Food-Providing
To the castaways every hour of that night is one of fear and agonising suspense. Not so much from apprehension of immediate as of future danger. With the occupants of the wigwam in such good humour, it is not likely that they can be contemplating an attack at present. But when those who are absent return – what then? This is the fear now uppermost in the minds of Captain Gancy’s little party.
Nor does morning do aught to dispel their anxiety; on the contrary, it is intensified by the behaviour of the savages, who are again in a sour temper after their night’s carouse. For, having eaten up all their gatherings of yesterday, they are again hungry. Young and old, there are nearly a hundred of them, all ravenous gluttons, to say nothing of the swarm of curs requiring to be fed.
By earliest daylight they come crowding around the camp, as though they expected to find something eatable there. Disappointed in their hope, they grin and chatter, showing their teeth like the dogs. More especially are their menaces directed toward “the doctor;” and the poor fellow is frightened to a death-like pallor, notwithstanding his sable skin. He takes refuge within the tent – still a sacred precinct – and does not dare to venture out again. To propitiate them, presents are made – the last things that can well be parted with. To Annaqua is given a pipe, with some tobacco, while the most importunate, and seemingly most important, of the women have each a trifle bestowed on them.
The gifts restore their good humour, or at least make them contented for the time; and, having obtained all that can be given them, they scatter away over the ground, going about their business of the day.
The wherewithal for breakfast is, of course, their first consideration, and this they find along the strand and around the edge of the woods, though more sparingly than in their search yesterday. Only enough is obtained to afford them a stinted repast – a mere luncheon. But the kelp-bed is still to be explored, and for this they must wait until the tide begins to ebb.
Meanwhile, they do not remain idle, another resource engaging them – a feat for which the Fuegian native has obtained a world-wide celebrity – namely, diving for sea-eggs. A difficult, dangerous industry it is, and just on this account committed to the women, who alone engage in it.
Having dispatched their poor breakfast, half a dozen of the younger and stronger women take to the canoes – two in each – and paddle out to a part of the water where they hope to find the sea-urchins.20
Arriving there, she who is to do the diving prepares for it by attaching a little wicker-basket to her hip, her companion being entrusted to keep the canoe in place, a task which is no easy one in water so rough as that of the sea-arm chances to be now.
Everything ready, the diver drops over, head foremost, as fearlessly as would a water-spaniel, and is out of sight for two or three minutes; then the crow-black head is seen bobbing up again, and swimming back to the canoe with a hand-over-hand stroke, dog-fashion, the egg-gatherer lays hold of the rail to rest herself, while she gives up the contents of her basket.
Having remained above water just long enough to recover breath, down she goes a second time, to stay under for minutes as before. And this performance is repeated again and again, till at length, utterly exhausted, she climbs back into the canoe, and the other ties on the basket and takes her turn at diving.
Thus, for hours, the submarine egg-gatherers continue at their arduous, perilous task; and, having finished it, they come paddling back to the shore, trembling, and their teeth clinking like castanets.
On landing, they make straight for the wigwams, and seat themselves by a fire – almost in it – leaving the spoil to be brought up by others.
Then follows the “festival” of chabucl-lithlé (sea-eggs), as they call it, these being their favourite diet. But, in the present case, the “festival” does not prove satisfactory, as the diving has yielded a poor return, and others of the savages therefore prepare to explore the kelp-bed – the reef being now above water.
Presently, enough of it is bare to afford footing, and off go the shell-gatherers in their canoes, taking the dogs along with them. For these are starving, too, and must forage for themselves. This they do most effectually, running hither and thither over the reef, stopping now and then to detach a mussel or limpet from its beard-fastening to the rock, crunch the shell between their teeth, and swallow the contents.
The Fuegian dogs are also trained to procure food for their masters in a manner which one of them is now seen to put into practice. On the more outlying ledges some sea-fowl, themselves seeking food, still linger fearlessly. Engrossed in their grubbing, they fail to note that an enemy is near – a little cock-eared cur, that has swum up to the ledge, and, without bark or yelp, is stealthily crawling toward it. Taking advantage of every coign of concealment, the dog creeps on till, at length, with a bound, like a cat springing at a sparrow, it seizes the great seabird, and kills it in a trice, as a fox would a pheasant.
The shell-gatherers remain on the reef till the rising water forces them to quit. But their industry meets with less reward than was anticipated, and they return to the shore all out of sorts and enraged at the white people, whom they now look upon in the light of trespassers; for they know that to them is due the scarcity of bivalves among the kelp, where they had expected to reap a plentiful harvest. Proof of its having been already garnered is seen in a heap of recently emptied shells lying under the trees near by – a little kitchen midden of itself.
Luckily the Fuegians have found enough to satisfy their immediate wants, so neither on that day nor the next do they make further display of violence, though always maintaining a sullen demeanour. Indeed, it is at all times difficult to avoid quarrelling with them, and doubtful how long the patched-up truce may continue. The very children are aggressive and exacting, and ever ready to resent reproof, even when caught in the act of pilfering – a frequent occurrence. Any tool or utensil left in their way would soon be a lost chattel, as the little thieves know they have the approval of their elders.
So, apart from their anxieties about the future, the white people find it a time of present trouble. They, too, must provide themselves with food, and their opportunities have become narrowed – are almost gone. They might have starved ere this, but for their prudent forethought in having secreted a stock in the tent. They do not dare to have a meal cooked during daylight, as some of the savages are always on the alert to snatch at anything eatable with bold, open hand. Only in the midnight hours, when the Fuegians are in their wigwams, has “the doctor” a chance to give the cured fish a hurried broil over the fire.
It is needless to say that all work on the boat is suspended. In the face of their great fear, with a future so dark and doubtful, the builders have neither the courage nor heart to carry on their work. It is too much a question whether it may ever be resumed.
Chapter Nineteen.
An Odd Renewal of Acquaintance
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 “shiloké;” 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!”
Chapter Twenty.
Gone back to Barbarism
This renewal of acquaintance, under circumstances so extraordinary as those detailed in the previous chapter, calls for explanation; for, although the incident may appear strange, and even improbable, it is, nevertheless, quite reasonable. How it came about will be learned from the following relation of facts: —
In the year 1838, the English Admiral Fitzroy – then Captain Fitzroy – while in command of H.M.S. Beagle, engaged in the survey of Tierra del Fuego, had one of his boats stolen by the natives of Christmas Sound. Pursuing the thieves, he made capture of a number of their relatives, but unfortunately not of the actual culprits. For a time he held the captives as hostages, hoping by that means to effect the return of the boat. Disappointed in this, however, he at length released them all, save three who voluntarily remained on board the Beagle.
These were two young men and a little girl; and all of them were soon after baptised by the sailors. One of the men had the name “Boat Memory” bestowed upon him, because he had been taken at the place where the boat was stolen. The other was christened “York Minster,” after a remarkable mountain, bearing a fancied resemblance to the famed cathedral of York, near which he was captured. “Fuegia Basket,” as the girl was called, was named from the wickerwork craft – a sort of coracle – that the crew of the stolen boat had improvised to carry them back to their ship.
Later on, the commander of the Beagle, while exploring the channel which now bears his ship’s name, picked up another native of a different tribe. This was a young boy, who was bought of his own uncle for a button – his unnatural relative freely parting with him at the price! The transaction suggested the name given him, “Jemmy Button.”
Returning soon after to England, Fitzroy, with truly philanthropic motives, took the four Fuegians along with him. His intentions were to have them educated and Christianised, and then restored to their native country, in hopes that they might do something toward civilising it. In pursuance of this plan, three of the Fuegians were put to school; the fourth, Boat Memory, having died soon after landing at Plymouth.
When Captain Fitzroy thought their training sufficiently advanced for his purpose, this humane officer, at his own expense, chartered a vessel to convey them back to Tierra del Fuego, intending to accompany them himself; and he did this, although a poor man, and no longer commanding a ship in commission; the Beagle, meanwhile, having been dismantled and laid up. Think of that, my young readers, and give praise to such noble self-sacrifice and disinterested philanthropy.
By good fortune, however, Captain Fitzroy was spared this part of the expense. The survey of Tierra del Fuego and adjacent coasts had not been completed, and another expedition was sent out by the British Admiralty, and the command of it entrusted to him. So proceeding thither in his old ship, the Beagle, once more in commission, he carried his Fuegian protégés along with him.
There went with him, also, a man then little known, but now of world-wide and universal fame, a young naturalist named Darwin – Charles Darwin – he who for the last quarter of a century and till his death has held highest rank among men of science, and has truly deserved the distinction.
York Minster, Jemmy Button, and Fuegia Basket (in their own country respectively called Eleparu, Orundelico, and Ocushlu) were the three odd-looking individuals that Ned and Henry had rescued from the wharf-rats of Portsmouth; while the officer who appeared on the scene was Fitzroy himself, then on the way to Plymouth, where the Beagle, fitted out and ready to put to sea, was awaiting him.
In due time, arriving in Tierra del Fuego, the three natives were left there, with every provision made for their future subsistence. They had all the means and appliances to assist them in carrying out Captain Fitzroy’s humane scheme: carpentering tools, agricultural implements, and a supply of seeds, with which to make a beginning.21
Since then nearly four years have elapsed, and lo! – the result. Perhaps never were good intentions more thoroughly brought to nought, nor clearer proofs given of their frustration, than these that Henry Chester and Ned Gancy have now before their eyes. Though unacquainted with most of the above details, they see a man, all but naked, his hair in matted tangle, his skin besmeared with dirt and blubber, in everything and to all appearances as rude a savage as any Fuegian around him, who is yet the same whom they had once seen wearing the garb and having the manners of civilisation! They see a girl, too, – now woman-grown – in whom the change, though less extreme, is still strikingly sadly for the worse. In both, the transformation is so complete, so retrograde, so contrary to all experience, that they can scarcely realise it. It is difficult to believe that any nature, however savage, after such pains had been taken to civilise it, could so return to itself! It seems a very perversity of backsliding!
But this is not a time for the two young men to inquire into the cause of this falling away, nor might that be a pleasant subject to those who have thus relapsed, so they refrain from appearing even to notice it. They are too overjoyed in knowing that they and their companions are no longer in danger.
Of their safety they have full and instant assurance, by the behaviour of Eleparu, who has taken in the situation at a glance. Apparently head of the community, with a shout and authoritative wave of the hand he sends off those who so lately had threatened to attack them. But all seem friendly enough, now that they see him so, having, indeed, no reason to be otherwise. Hunger chiefly had made them hostile; and now they need hunger no more.
Accordingly, they at once set about appeasing their appetites – on blubber! Not with indiscriminate appropriation of it, for it is a supply that must carry them over days, or perhaps weeks. Annaqua, with another of the old men, serves it out in equal rations, first cutting it into strips, like strings of sausages, then measuring off different-sized pieces, according to the sex and age of the recipients.
Strange to say, notwithstanding the keen hunger of those seeking relief, not one of them touches a morsel till the partition is complete and each has his share. Then, at a given signal, they fall to, bolting the blubber raw – only a few of the more fastidious holding it a second or two in the blaze of the fires, scarcely long enough to scorch it!
During these unpleasant saturnalia, mutual explanations are exchanged between Eleparu and the two young men of his former brief but memorable acquaintance. He first inquires how they come to be there; then tells his own story, or such part of it as he desires them to know. They learn from him that Ocushlu is now his wife; but when questioned about the boy, and what has become of him, he shows reserve, answering, “Oh, Jemmy Button – he not of our people; he Tekeneeka. English officer brought Jemmy back too – left him at Woolya – that his own country – lie out that way;” and he points eastward along the arm.
Observing his reticence on the subject of Orundelico, the questioners forbear asking further, while other matters of more importance claim their attention.
Meanwhile, Ocushlu is engaged in conversation with Mrs Gancy and Leoline. She is about the same age as the latter; but in other respects how different they are, and what a contrast they form! The poor Fuegian herself seems to realise it, and with sadness of heart. Who could interpret her thoughts when, after gazing at the beautiful white girl, clean-skinned and becomingly attired, her glance is turned to her own slightly-clad and uncleanly self? Perhaps she may be thinking of the time when, a schoolgirl at Walthamstow, she, too, wore a pretty dress, and perchance bitterly regrets having returned to her native land and barbarism. Certainly, the expression on her countenance seems a commingling of sadness and shame.
But whatever, at the moment, may be her reflections or feelings, ingratitude is not among them. Having learned that Leoline is the sister of one of the youths who so gallantly espoused the cause of her companions and herself in a far-off foreign land, she takes from her neck a string of the much-prized violet shells, and hangs it around that of the white girl, saying, “For what your brother did at Portsmouth.”
The graceful act is reciprocated, and with interest, both mother and daughter presenting her with such articles of apparel as they can spare, among them the costly scarf they so nearly had to part with in a less satisfactory way.
Equally grateful proves Eleparu. Seeing the unfinished boat, and comprehending the design, he lends himself to assist in its execution. No slight assistance does he prove; as, during the many months passed on board the Beagle, York had picked up some knowledge of ship-carpentry. So the task of boat-building is resumed, this time to be carried on to completion. And with so great expedition, that in less than a week thereafter, the craft is ready for launching, and on the next day it is run off the “chocks” into the water, a score of the Fuegian men lending helping hands.
On the following morning, with the party of castaways and all their belongings on board, it is shoved off, and moves swiftly away, amidst a paean of friendly shouts from the savages. Eleparu leads the valedictory salute, and Ocushlu waves the red scarf high over her head.
