“Wal, knowin’ thet, an’ we’ll know it afore comin’ to the Yapoo country, it bein’ beyont t’other, then our best way ’ll be to make southart through the Murray Narrer. Thet ’ud take us out to the open sea ag’in, with a big ’round about o’ coastin’; still, in the end, it mout be the safer way. ’Long the outside shore, thar ain’t so much likelihood o’ meetin’ Feweegins of any kind: and ef we did meet ’em, ’twould be easier gettin’ out of thar way, s’long’s we’re in a boat sech ez we hev now.”
The last observation contains a touch of professional pride; the old ship’s carpenter having, of course, been chief constructor of the craft that is so admirably answering all their ends.
“Well, then,” says the Captain, after reflection, “I suppose we’ll have to be guided by circumstances. And from what has passed, we ought to feel confident that they’ll still turn up in our favour.”
This remark, showing his continued trust in the shielding power of an Omnipotent Hand, closes the conversation, and all soon after retire to rest, with a feeling of security long denied them. For, although lately under the protection of Eleparu, they had never felt full confidence, doubting, not his fidelity, but his power to protect them. For the authority of a Fuegian chief—if such there be—is slight at the best, and made nought of on many occasions. Besides, they could not forget that one fearful moment of horror, to be remembered throughout life.
Having passed the night in peaceful slumber, they take their places in the boat as soon as there is light enough to steer by. There is still a fog, though not so dense as to deter them from re-embarking, while, as on the day before, the wind is all in their favour. With sail filled by the swelling breeze, they make rapid way, and by noon are far along the Beagle Channel, approaching the place where the Murray Narrow leads out of it, trending southward. But now they see what may prove an interruption to their onward course. Through the fog, which has become much less dense, a number of dark objects are visible, mottling the surface of the water. That they are canoes can be told by the columns of smoke rising up over each, as though they were steam-launches. They are not moving, however, and are either lying-to or riding at anchor. None are empty, all have full complements of crew.
As the canoes are out in the middle of the channel, and right ahead, to pass them unobserved is impossible. There is no help for it but to risk an encounter, whatever may result; so the boat is kept on its course, with canvas full spread, to take the chances.
While yet afar off, Captain Gancy, through his glass, is able to announce certain facts which favour confidence. The people in the canoes are of both sexes, and engaged in a peaceful occupation—they are fishing. They who fish are seated with some sort of tackle in hand, apparently little rods and lines, short as coach-whips, with which at intervals they draw up diminutive fish, by a quick jerk landing them in the canoes. All this he made out through the glass.
But the time for observation is brief. The boat, forging rapidly onward, is soon sighted by the canoemen, who, starting to their feet, commence a chorus of shouts, which come pealing over the water, waking echoes along both shores. And something is seen now which gives the boat’s people a thrill of fear. Above one of the canoes suddenly appears a white disc, seemingly a small flag, not stationary, but waved and brandished above the head of the man who has hoisted it.
At sight of the dreaded white—the Fuegian symbol of war—well may the boat-voyagers experience fear; for, from their former experience, they feel certain that this display must be intended as a warlike challenge.
But to their instant relief, they soon learn that it is meant as a signal of peace, as words of friendly salutation reach their ears.