“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 (Note 3) 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!
Note 1. 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!”