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.