The Land of Fire: A Tale of Adventure

“Thet’s true, sir, ef we could move at oncet. But we can’t – leastways not to-day.”

“Why not?”

“It’s too nigh night; we wouldn’t hev time to git to the outer shore,” explained the carpenter.

“Why, there’s an hour of daylight yet, or more!”

“Thet’s cl’ar enough, Captin’. But ef thar were two hours o’ daylight, or twice thet, it wouldn’t be enough.”

“I don’t understand you, Chips. The distance can’t be more than two or three hundred yards.”

“Belike it aren’t more. But for all that, it’ll take us the half of a day, ef not longer, to cover it.”

“How so?” queried the skipper.

“Wal, the how is thet we can’t go by the beach; thar bein’ no beach. At the mouth o’ the cove it’s all cliff, right down to the water. I noticed thet as we war puttin’ inter it. Not a strip o’ strand at the bottom broad enough fur a seal to bask on. We’ll hev to track it up over the hills, an’ thet’ll take no end o’ time, an’ plenty o’ toilin’, too – ye’ll see, Captin’.”

“I suppose, then, we must wait for morning,” is the skipper’s rejoinder, after becoming satisfied that no practicable path leads out of the cove between land and water.

This constrains them to pass another night on the spot that has proved so disastrous, and the morning after, to eat another meal upon it – the last they intend tasting there. A meagre repast it is; but their appetites are now on keen edge, all the keener from the supply of food being stinted. For by one of nature’s perverse contrarieties, men feel hunger most when without the means of satisfying it, and most thirsty when no water can be had. It is the old story of distant skies looking brightest, and far-off fields showing greenest – the very difficulty of obtaining a thing whetting the desire to possess it, as a child craves some toy, that it soon ceases to care for when once in its possession. No such philosophic reflections occupy the thoughts of the castaways. All they think of, while at their scanty meal, is to get through with it as speedily as possible, and away from the scene of their disaster.

The breakfast over, the tent is taken down, the boat-sail folded into the most portable form, with mast, oars, and everything made ready for overland transport. They have even apportioned the bundles, and are about to begin the uphill climb, when, lo! the Fuegians!

Chapter Fourteen.

A Fuegian Fish-Hunt

Yes, the savages are once more in sight, a canoe-full of them just appearing around the point of the cliff, closely followed by another, and another, till four are under view in front of the cove. They are as yet far out on the sea-arm; but as they have come along it from the west, the castaways suppose them to be some of their late assailants, still persistently continuing the pursuit.

But no! Captain Gancy, quickly sighting through his binocular, declares them different – at least, in their array. They are not all men, more than half being women and children, while no warlike insignia can be discerned – neither white feathers nor chalked faces.

Seagriff, in turn taking the glass, further makes out that the men have fish-spears in their hands, and an implement he recognises as a fizgig, while the heads of dogs appear over the gunwales of the canoes, nearly a dozen in each.

“It’s a fishin’ party,” he pronounces. “For all thet, we’d best make a hide of it; thar’s no trustin’ ’em, anyway, so long as they think they hev the upper hand. A good thing our fire has gone out, else they’d ’a’ spied it afore this. An’ lucky the bushes be in front, or they’d see us now. Mebbe they’ll pass on along the arm, an’ – No! they’re turnin’ in toward the cove!”

This can be told by the apparent shortening of the canoes, as they are brought head around toward the inlet.

Following the old sealer’s advice, earnestly urged, all slip back among the trees, the low-hanging branches of which afford a screen for concealment like a closed curtain. The bundles are taken away, and the camp-ground is cleared of everything likely to betray its having been lately occupied by white people. All this they are enabled to do without being seen by the savages, a fringe of evergreens between the camp-ground and the water effectually masking their movements.

“But shouldn’t we go farther up?” says the skipper, interrogating Seagriff. “Why not keep on over the hill?”

“No, Captin’; we mustn’t move from hyar. We couldn’t, ’ithout makin’ sech a racket ez they’d be sure to hear. Besides, thar’s bare spots above, whar they mout sight us from out on the water; an’ ef they did, distance wouldn’t sarve us a bit. The Feweegins kin climb up the steepest places, like squir’ls up a tree. Once seen by ’em, we’d stan’ no chance with ’em in a run. Ther’fore, we’d better abide quietly hyar. Mebbe, arter all, they mayn’t come ashore. ’Tain’t one o’ thar landin’-places or we’d ’a’ foun’ traces of ’em. The trees would ’a’ been barked all about. Oh, I see what they’re up to now. A fish-hunt – surround wi’ thar dogs. Thet’s thar bizness in the cove.”

By this, the four canoes have arrived at the entrance to the inlet, and are forming in line across it at equal distances from one another, as if to bar the way against anything that may attempt to pass outward. Just such is their design, the fish being what they purpose enfilading.

At sight of them and the columns of ascending smoke, the pelicans and other fishing-birds take flight in a chorus of screams, some to remain soaring overhead, others flying altogether out of sight. The water is left without a ripple, and so clear that the spectators on shore, from their elevated point of view, can see to its bottom, all around the shore where it is shallow. They now observe fish of several sorts swimming affrightedly to and fro, and see them as plainly as through the glass walls of an aquarium.

Soon the fish-hunters, having completed their “cordon,” and dropped the dogs overboard, come on up the cove, the women plying the paddles, the men with javelins upraised, ready for darting. The little foxy dogs swim abreast of and between the canoes, driving the fish before them, as sheep-dogs drive sheep, one or another diving under at intervals to intercept such as attempt to escape outward. For in the translucent water they can see the fish far ahead, and, trained to the work, they keep guard against a break from these through the enclosing line. Soon the fish are forced up to the inner end of the cove, where it is shoalest, and then the work of slaughter commences. The dusky fishermen, standing in the canoes and bending over, now to this side, now that, plunge down their spears and fizgigs, rarely failing to bring up a fish of one sort or another; the struggling victim shaken off into the bottom of the canoe, there gets its death-blow from the boys.

For nearly an hour the curious aquatic chase is carried on, not in silence, but amid a chorus of deafening noises – the shouts of the savages and the barking and yelping of their dogs mingling with the shrieking of the seabirds overhead. And thrice is the cove “drawn” by the canoes, which are taken back to its mouth, the line re-formed, and the process repeated till a good supply of the fish best worth catching has been secured.

And now the spectators of the strange scene await with dread anticipation the approaching crisis. Will the savage fishermen come ashore, or go off without landing? In the former event, the castaways have small hope of remaining undiscovered. True, they are well concealed, not an inch of face or person is exposed; the captain and Seagriff alone are cautiously doing the vidette duty. Still, should the Fuegians come on shore, it must be at the ledge of rocks where of late lay the boat, the only possible beaching-place, and not half a stone’s throw from the spot where they are concealed.

“The thing we’ve most to be afeerd of is thar dogs,” mutters Seagriff. “Ef they should land, the little curs’ll be sure to scent us. An’ – sakes alive! – what’s that?”

The final exclamation, though involuntarily uttered aloud, is not heard, even by those standing beside him. Had it been the loudest shout it could not have been distinguished amid the noise that called forth and accompanied it, for it is drowned by the noise that called it forth. A thundering crash, followed by a loud crackling which continues for several seconds, and during its continuance drowning all other sounds. There is no mystery about it, however; it is but a falling tree – the one behind which “the doctor” had been standing, his hands pressed against it for support. Yielding to curiosity, he had been peering around its trunk contrary to orders, a disobedience that has cost him dear; for, as if in punishment, his bulky body has gone along with the tree, face foremost, and far down the slope.

Lost to sight in the cloud of dust that has puffed up over it, all believe him killed, crushed, buried amid the débris of shattered branches. But no! In a trice he is seen on his feet again coming out of the dust-cloud, no longer with a black skin, but chocolate-brown all over, woolly pate and clothing included, as though he had been for days buried in tan-bark! sneezing too, with violence. It is a spectacle to make the most sober-sided laugh, but the occasion is not one for merriment. All are too alarmed for that now, feeling sure of being discovered by the savages. How can it be otherwise, after such a catastrophe – nature itself, as it were, betraying them?

Yet to their pleased surprise it proves otherwise, and on the dust settling down, they see the savages still in their canoes, with not a face turned toward the land, none, at least, seeming to heed what has happened. The old sealer, however, is not surprised at their indifference, guessing its cause. He knows that in the weird forests of Tierra del Fuego there is many a tree standing, to all appearance sound in trunk, branches, everything, yet rotten from bark to heartwood, and ready to topple over at the slightest touch, even if but a gun be rested against it. The fall of such trees being a thing of common occurrence, and the natives accustomed to it, they never give it a second thought. The fishers in the canoes have not heeded it, while the sneezing of Caesar has been unheard by them amid the noises made by themselves, their dogs, and the shrieking seabirds still in full fracas overhead.

In the end, the very thing by which the castaways feared betrayal proves their salvation; for the Fuegians do land at length, and on the ledge. But, luckily, they do not stay on shore for any great time – only long enough to make partition of their spoil and roughly clean the fish. By good luck, also, the bits of fish thrown to them fully engage the attention of the dogs, which otherwise would have strayed inland, and so have come upon the party in hiding.

But perhaps the best instance of favouring fortune is the tree pushed down by “the doctor,” this having fallen right over the ground of the abandoned camp, and covered under a mass of rotten wood and dust the place where the tent stood, the fire-hearth, half-consumed faggots, everything. But for this well-timed obliteration, the sharp-eyed savages could not have failed to note the traces of its recent occupancy. As it is, they have no suspicion either of that or of the proximity of those who occupied it, so much engrossed are they with the product of their fish-hunt, a catch unusually large.

Still, the apprehensions of the concealed spectators are not the less keen, and to them it is a period of dread, irksome suspense, emphatically a mauvais quart d’heure. But, fortunately, it lasts not much longer. To their unspeakable delight, they at length see the savages bundle back into their canoes, and, pushing off, paddle away out of the cove.

As the last boat-load of them disappears around the point of rocks, Captain Gancy fervently exclaims, “Again we may thank the Lord for deliverance!”

Chapter Fifteen.

A Rough Overland Route

As soon as they are convinced that the canoes are gone for good, Seagriff counsels immediate setting out on the journey so unexpectedly delayed. It is now noon, and it may be night ere they reach their destination. So says he, an assertion that seems strange, as he admits the distance may be but a few hundred yards, certainly not over a mile.

They are about taking up their bundles to start, when a circumstance arises that causes further delay; this time, however, a voluntary and agreeable one. In a last glance given to the cove ere leaving it, two flocks of gulls are seen, each squabbling about something that floats on the surface of the water. Something white, which proves to be a dead fish, or rather a couple of them, which have been overlooked by the hunter-fishermen. They are too large for the gulls to lift and carry away; hence a crowd of the birds are buffeting their wings in conflict above them.

“A bit of rare good luck for us!” cries young Gancy, dropping a pair of oars he has shouldered. “Come, Harry! we’ll go a-fishing, too.”

The English youth takes the hint, and, without another word, both rush down to the water’s edge, where, stripping off coats, shoes, and other impedimenta, they plunge in.

In a few seconds the fish are reached and secured, to the great grief and anger of the gulls, who, now screaming furiously, wheel round the heads of the swimmers until they are on shore again.

Worth all their trouble is the spoil retrieved, as the fish prove to be a species of mullet, each of them over six pounds in weight.

Now assured of having something to eat at the end of their journey, they set out in much better spirits. But they make not many steps – if steps they can be called – before discovering the difficulties at which the old sealer has hinted, saying, “ye’ll see.” Steps, indeed! Their progress is more a sprawl than a walk; a continuous climb and scramble over trunks of fallen trees, many so decayed as to give way under their weight, letting them down to their armpits in a mass of sodden stuff, as soft as mud, and equally bedaubing. Even if disposed, they could no longer laugh at the cook’s changed colour, all of them now showing much the same.

But no place could be less incentive to laughter than that which they are in. The humid atmosphere around them has a cold, clammy feel, and the light is no better than shadowy twilight. A weird, unearthly silence pervades it, only broken by the harsh twitter of a diminutive bird – a species of creeper – that keeps them company on the way, the dismal woo-woo-a of an owl, and, at intervals, the rattling call-note of the Fuegian woodpecker. The last, though laugh-like in itself, is anything but provocative of mirth in those who listen to it, knowing that it is a sound peculiar to the loneliest, gloomiest recesses of the forests.

After toiling up the steep acclivity for nearly two hours, they arrive at a point where the tall timber abruptly ends. There are trees beyond – beeches, like the others, but so dwarfed and stunted as to better deserve the name of bushes. Bushes of low growth, but of ample spread; for in height, less than twenty inches, while their branches extend horizontally to more than that number of feet! They are as thickly branched as the box-edging of a garden walk, and so interwoven with several species of shrubs – arbutus, berberis, chamatis, donaria, and escalonia – as to present a smooth matted surface, seemingly that of the ground itself, under a close-cropped sward.

Mistaking it for this, the two young men, who are in the lead, glad at having escaped from the gloom of the forest with its many obstructions, gleefully strike out into what they believe to be open ground, only to find their belief a delusion, and the path as difficult as ever. For now it is over the tops of growing trees instead of the trunks of fallen ones, both alike impracticable. Every now and then their feet break through and become entangled, their trousers are torn and their shins scratched by the thorns of the berberries.

The others, following, fare a little better, from being forewarned, and proceeding with greater caution. But for all it is a troublesome march, calling for agility. Now a quick rush, as if over thin ice or a treacherous quagmire; anon, a trip-up and tumble, with a spell of floundering before feet can be recovered.

Fortunately, the belt of Lilliputian forest is of no great breadth, and beyond it, higher up, they come upon firmer ground, nearly bare of vegetation, which continues to the summit of the ridge.

Reaching this at length, they get a scenic view of “Fireland,” grander than any yet revealed to them. Mountains to the north, mountains to the south, east, and west; mountains piled on mountains all around, of every form and altitude. There are domes, cones, and pyramids; ridges with terraced sides and table-tops; peaks, spires, and castellated pinnacles, some of them having resemblance to artificial masonwork, as if of Titans! In the midst of this picturesque conglomeration, towering conspicuously above all, as a giant over ordinary men, is the snow-cone of Mount Darwin, on the opposite side of the strait, fit mate for Sarmiento, seen in the same range, north-westward. Intersecting the mountain chains, and trending in every direction, are deep ravine-like valleys, some with sloping sides thickly-wooded, others presenting façades of sheer cliffs, with rocks bare and black. Most of them are narrow, dark, and dismal, save where illumined by glaciers, from whose glistening surface of milky-white and beryl-blue the sun’s rays are vividly reflected. Nor are they valleys at all, but are arms of the sea, straits, sounds, channels, bays, inlets, many of them with water as deep as the ocean itself. Of every conceivable shape and trend are they; so ramifying and communicating with one another, that Tierra del Fuego, long supposed to be a mainland, is but an archipelago of islands closely clustered together.