Chapter V: Fighting the Firelanders

It was the dead of a dreary winter in the Straits of Magellan, about the beginning of July--the seasons, as I need hardly tell my young readers, being quite the reverse of ours--the dead of a dreary winter; and no one who has ever traversed this region of fogs and storms in a sailing ship at such a time will be likely to forget the feeling of gloom that often settles down on board, both fore and aft. The men try hard to fight against it. They smoke, they sing, they fiddle, they dance--on every available excuse the captain may even splice the main-brace; but all pleasures are transient, and do not come directly from the heart.

This was the case now on board the good barque _Boo-boo-boo_. Willie and Sandie felt depressed; even Tyro the collie seemed in low spirits or out of sorts.

At times the days would be bright and clear enough, and with probably a strong wind blowing, and a white and chafing sea, the rugged rocks and mountains would be seen on the distant horizon like threatening storm-clouds.

Even pieces of ice were not unfrequently met with; but strangest sight of all were the half-naked savages in their queer little boats that crossed the barque’s hawse, or, hanging on to her sides, begged for alms.

These were Firelanders, or Terra del Fuegians.

“And,” said Captain D’Acre, “mild and cringing though they now appear, they are among the most implacable savages in the world, and cannibals to boot. Heaven help the merchant ship that runs on shore on their inhospitable coast; unless they can defend their lives, a short shrift is theirs. They are killed, and eaten afterwards.”

Sandie shuddered.

“I could tell you some terrible stories connected with these Firelanders, boys, but the weather is depressing enough. No need to sink your spirits to zero. Besides, we are still among them. We must not hulloo till we are out of the wood.”

Very little sail, comparatively speaking, could now be carried, for to a sailing ship the passage of the Straits presents dangers innumerable.

But to those days, so bright and clear, succeed nights of inky darkness and silence, a darkness that the light streaming from the binnacle, or upwards from the dead-lights, seemed to pierce as with arrows of gold.

There was a mystery, nay, even a strange fascination to Sandie--who was deeply imbued with romance and superstition--in nights like these.

Perhaps even the men felt something of this as well, for hardly would they speak above a whisper, and even walked along the decks in silence, as if dreading to wake an echo. But Sandie would lean over the bulwarks, and peer into the intense black darkness, listening breathlessly, as if he expected some voice to hail him from the inky deep.

Sometimes his heart almost stood still with a nameless dread, as near by he could hear a sullen plash and boom. What was it? He could never even guess.

No one was ever sorry when the long dark nights wore away, and the cheerless dawn came slowly creeping over the sea from a lurid yellow horizon, flecked with ugly clouds, like the wings of demon bats.

On the 7th of July, early in the morning, a sudden storm arose, accompanied by sleet and hail, that there was no facing. The cold was intense. Yet bravely the _Boo-boo-boo_ kept as near to the wind as ever barque could do.

It ended, however, in her being blown very considerably out of her course.

Towards afternoon the wind went down as quickly as it had arisen, and very uneasy indeed did the captain feel, not only on account of the dead calm that ensued, but because pine-clad hills and rocks were within a measurable distance, and because he knew that another black dark night would succeed the stormy day.

Aberdeen men are noted for their forethought, or canniness, and Captain D’Acre was no exception.

About three o’clock he called a council. All hands, officers included, were had aft, and then the skipper addressed them.

“Men,” he said, “we’re not cowards. Cowards don’t grow in Bonnie Scotland. But I confess to you that I feel uneasy. We are not far off a shore that is infested--haunted, you may call it--by fierce and implacable savages. They will attack us to-night, if they think they can capture the ship. It is best to be prepared. (‘Hurrah!’) Well, we have plenty of arms. We shall get them up. Luckily, pistols and rifles and ammunition are part of our cargo. But there is another thing to take into consideration: we shall not know at what part of the ship, bow, or stern, or quarter, these fiends shall board. Therefore, I propose to get up the sheep-netting. It is strong enough to repel boarders, if placed double all round, on top of the bulwarks. See that done, mate. Moreover,” he continued, “we have oceans of lamps. Let them be all trimmed and lit, but covered up. They should be placed here and there on deck, so as to light us up fore and aft when the enemy comes, by simply hauling off the tarpaulin. Men, I shall not splice the main-brace now, but when the danger is over, when the long black night has worn away, and daylight finds us far from danger, then I’ll splice it twice.”

The men cheered. The mate ordered them forward, and work was commenced at once.

The sheep or calf netting was got up, and all along the bulwarks fore and aft, port and starboard, a barricade erected that it would take savages some time to cut through.

There was a sword or cutlass for every man and a good revolver also.

By the time everything was finished and the lamps lit and covered, black night had fallen.

The barque was uncomfortably near to the shore, and there was not a breath of wind, though the sails hung there ready to catch it when it came.

Coffee and biscuits, with cold meat, were served out to all hands about nine o’clock; then came the long dreary spell of waiting--waiting for a horror to come--waiting for something awful to happen--the very uncertainty as to the shape that something might assume making the waiting all the worse to bear.

High above them on a hill-top, about eleven o’clock, they noticed a fire suddenly spring up. It cast a ruddy glare across the waters, a blood-red path in the pitchy darkness, that was terrible to behold.

In a short time fire after fire shone out on the hill-tops all along the coast.

“You see those fires,” cried the captain to his men. “They are to summon the black and infernal clans. We’ll have them here in hundreds in another hour.”

“We’re ready,” cried a bold voice from among the men. “Never fear, sir. We’ll show them Glenorchy.”

“Hurrah!” cried the others.

The mate now approached the captain, evidently with a proposal.

“Yes, why shouldn’t we?” replied D’Acre; “everything is fair in love and war, especially against such demons as these. Do so, by all means.”

The proposal was to get up steam in the engine used on board for making soft water from salt, and if the worst came to the worst, and the savages obtained a footing on board, to turn the boiling hose upon them. It seemed very dreadful, but life is sweet.

Another long hour of suspense and waiting passed slowly, drearily away. The fires had died down on the hills and gone out, and the silence was intense.

Sandie was leaning over the bulwarks as usual, gazing into the mysterious blackness. Near him was Tyro.

Suddenly, without warning of any kind, the dog placed his forepaws against the bulwarks and barked loudly, fiercely.

“Good dog!” said the captain.

“Men, be ready; they are coming!”

“Uncover the lamps!”

This was done, and instantaneously the ship’s deck and every spar and rope was revealed in a light almost as bright as day.

At the same time a yell rang up from the water, so savage, so demoniacal, that it almost paralysed the nerves of those who heard it.

It was answered next moment, however, by a truly British cheer.

The Firelanders had chosen the bows at which to board. The boarding-netting, however, was something they had not reckoned for. They could be seen in scores, like demons, hacking at it with their knives from the outside.

But volley after volley was poured into them from the revolvers. Then a charge was made with swords.

Sandie had no fear now, and his good sword thrust more than one savage wounded to the water beneath. The fight was a terrible one while it lasted, and it really seemed that for every cannibal killed two more appeared.

If they should once gain a footing on board, then well those brave men knew that the brave barque would be at their mercy.

Every revolver was now empty, and there was no time to reload.

It was a case, therefore, of cut and thrust; but it soon became evident that the white men’s arms were getting tired battling against such terrible odds.

But now the captain’s voice was heard high over the din of battle and the yells of savage strife.

“Give ’em the hose, mate. Fetch it along. Be calm. Cheerily does it.”

Three or four blacks had already reached on board, and more than one white man fell stabbed to the heart.

But now the mate dashes forward with the hose.

How shall I describe the scene that followed, or the sickening yells of those now terror-stricken savages?

They tumbled backwards into the sea, or down with fearful thuds on top of their frail canoes. Mercy, I fear, this swarthy mate knew not. Nay, he even commanded lights to be held overboard, that he might play on the laden canoes; but these were speedily deserted, as, leaving their arms, the cannibals leapt wildly and shrieking into the sea, and commenced swimming shorewards through the blackness and the darkness of this fearful night.

The whole battle had not occupied over half-an-hour, and though the savages must have suffered terribly, it was found that the _Boo-boo-boo_ had only two men killed and three wounded.

Just an hour afterwards, greatly to the joy of all on board, a light breeze began to blow off the shore; the sails no longer flapped, but filled, and the brave barque was soon standing steadily out to sea, and away from that blood-stained cannibal isle.

* * * * *

It was nearly a whole week after the above adventure before the _Boo-boo-boo_ got quite clear of the straits, and turned her jibboom to the nor’ard and west.

Hopes began to rise high now in every breast. Surely the worst of their dangers were past and gone.

The wounded were doing well.

The two poor fellows who had been slain were buried at daylight next morning, the captain himself conducting the burial service.

The bodies were placed side by side on a grating. Each was sewn in a hammock, which was weighted with iron.

The service was most impressive, and as the captain prayed and gave out a hymn to sing, it is no departure from the truth to say, that tears chased each other adown many a brave and weather-beaten face, tears the men strove in vain to hide.

“We commit these bodies to the deep.”

Here the grating was tilted, and with a dull and sullen plash the bodies sank, to appear no more till the sea gives up its dead.

“We commend their spirits to the living God who gave them.”

* * * * *

The captain had closed the book, and a few minutes afterwards the men were going about their duties, as if there was no such thing as death and sorrow in the wide wide world.

I wish I could say that all the troubles of the good barque _Boo-boo-boo_ were now over and done with. I wish it for this reason, that I am no lover of horrors. I neither like to read about nor to write about them. But I have an “ower true” tale to relate, and I am the last person in the world, I trust, or one of the last persons, to shirk a duty.

For a day or two, then, all went well. The wind blew fair, the waves sparkled and shone in the sunshine, as if elfin fingers were scattering their sides with diamonds.

Then suddenly the wind veared round to the west, but fell considerably.

Except on tack and half tack there was no way of making headway against it.

But to make matters worse, a fog came down upon the ship so dense that the jibboom could not be descried from the binnacle, and the men, even by the foremast, loomed out like tall and ghastly spectres.

This was the _musgo_, so much dreaded in these regions.

But nobody thought even now that the _Boo-boo-boo_ was a doomed ship.

Read on, and you shall learn the terrible truth.