Wild Life in the Land of the Giants: A Tale of Two Brothers

Chapter Twelve
“Come to me, Jack, I cannot come to you.”

Peter Jeffries, now chief mate of the dear old Salamander, could no more help chaffing Jill and me, than a monkey can help pulling its mother’s tail. And we used to tell him so.

For instance, brother and I nearly always kept watch together, merely for company’s sake. You see we were both put in the same watch because the Salamander required no third mate. So Peter did not hesitate to remind us often enough that we were only one man between the two of us. But the fact was we were kept together on the Salamander, at auntie’s wish, in order to become perfect sailors under bold Captain Coates, and not, as Peter would have it, that we might have our socks seen to by Mrs Coates, and our pocket-handkerchiefs aired by the black but comely Leila.

However, by way of paying him out for it, Jill would sometimes keep Peter’s watch for him, and let him have four hours extra in, thus returning wheat for chaff.

During the next year of our life, Jill and I grew to to be quite men – seventeen, you know, or nearly – and Jill reminded Peter that he could thrash him now, for we really were taller.

The resemblance between us was not a whit marred, and to tell you the truth we took a pride in it, and, just for the fun of the thing, always dressed exactly alike, even to our scarves.

About this time we were bound from the Cape to Rio, which we made in fine form, though we kept a good look-out for Russian cruisers, it being war time. We often met ships that made us fidget for the time being, but the danger was never extreme at the best.

From Rio we started for San Francisco, meaning at first to go round the Horn, but Captain Coates changed his mind, and determined to penetrate through the Straits of Magellan.

We received the first intimation of the captain’s intention from Peter, when he came on deck one lovely morning to join my brother and me in our walk.

There was about a six-knot breeze blowing aslant our course from the south-west by west, so though every stitch of canvas was set, there was not a deal doing.

“The old man says you’re to keep a few points closer to the wind,” said Peter.

“All right,” I replied, giving the necessary orders.

Peter was in one of his funny moods to-day, I knew, because he asked Jill if, having nothing else to do, he would mind whistling for some more wind.

“For a capful, if you like,” said Jill, merrily; “may I have your cap to hold it in?”

“Now, youngster, I own you’re smart, but never cheek your superior officer. Besides, I’m older than either of you, and if you’re both good boys I’m going to marry your sister.”

We laughed outright.

“Thank you,” said Jill, “that is very good. I remember you told Mattie herself that last time we were home, and I thought at the time cheek couldn’t well go further.”

“If anybody marries Mattie,” continued Jill, “it must be Jack.”

“Jack! What! Marry his sister?”

I grew suddenly serious.

“My dear Peter,” I said, “it is strange that through all these years it never occurred to me to tell you that Mattie is not our sister, though we call her so, and love her just the same, but – ”

“Just the same as a sister?” said Peter, interrupting me. He had a smile on his face, but it was a made one – one of those smiles that curl round the lips, but never reach as far as the eyes; at the same time in those eyes was a look of such earnestness as I but seldom saw there.

Jill and I were standing side by side looking at Peter, and as the latter spoke, our hands touched. I knew then, as I do now – though neither my brother nor I ever spoke of it – that the same thought thrilled through both of us: “Could Peter be in love with our little Mattie? To be sure she was barely fifteen, but then – ”

“I ought to have told you,” I continued, “that there is a sad mystery about Mattie’s birth and parentage.”

“Ha!” said Peter, “a story, eh? Well, we will have it to-night in the first watch.”

“Very well.”

Peter brightened up again immeasurably.

“Do you know why we altered course?” he asked.

“Usual thing, I suppose.”

“No, not the usual thing.

“We’re going to try to push through the straits. Fine weather, clear skies, a spanking bit of a breeze, and good luck will do it, though it is risky enough in all weathers for sailing ships, ’cause of course you’re in and out, off and on, tacking and running, and all kinds of capers, and never off a lee-shore, morn, noon, and night, till you’re out into the Pacific Ocean.

“Ever hear of Magellan, Greenie?” he continued, looking at poor Jill. He often called Jill “Greenie,” which he said was a pet name.

Now Jill and I knew all the history of the great navigator of ancient times. Our Aunt Serapheema took good care of that.

“Magellan? let me see,” said Jill. “Oh yes, there used to be a Magellan who kept a draper’s shop in Upper High Street.”

“Well,” said Peter, “that is true enough, but I hardly think that is the man. However, I’ve been through the straits before.”

“Do they charge anything for letting you through,” said Jill, quietly.

Peter laughed till he had to wriggle about in all directions. “I tell you what it is, Greenie, you’ll be the death of me some day. Well, we shall touch at the Land of the Giants.”

“Are there really giants?”

“I’m not going to spin any yarn from personal experience, child, because I can’t to any extent. But our bo’s’n told me it was a land of giants. There are giant plains – they call them pampas – giant lakes and rivers, giant hills and forests – awful in their gloom – giant men and women, giant cocks and hens – ”

“Yes, the ostriches.”

“And the whole is defended round the coast by giant cliffs, alive with giant birds; but we’ll see for ourselves in a day or two, Greenie, if you’ll only whistle for the wind.”

“If it comes.”

“Yes, if it comes.”

That same night in the first watch, which happened to be Peter’s, we told, or rather I told, him all I knew of Mattie’s history.

He was silent for some time afterwards, leaning quietly over the weather bulwarks, watching the phosphorescence in the sea. That was a glorious sight indeed, but Peter was not thinking about that at all. “Did it ever occur to you, Jack,” he said at length, “that this Adriano whom you so befriended – ”

“Who so befriended us.”

” – Might be one of the sailors saved from the wreck? might be even Mattie’s father?”

“No, no, no,” I cried, “not that, Peter. It certainly was unaccountable that when she first saw Adriano she seemed to recognise him, but remember that she could have been little over a year old when the shipwreck occurred. Besides, I wouldn’t like to think of Adriano, friend and all as he must always rest in my memory, being Mattie’s father.”

“Liking has nothing to do with it one way or another.”

“No, certainly not.”

“Assuredly not,” from Jill.

“But,” I insisted, “the two shipwrecked sailors assured Nancy Gray that the lady’s husband had not been on board.”

“Jack,” said Peter, “you’re a capital sailor, but you would have made but a poor lawyer. Depend upon it there are wheels within wheels in the mystery that surrounds poor Mattie.”

“It will be all the better if it is never cleared up,” I said firmly, “and I hope it won’t be – there!”

“Well, I think otherwise. But one of the two men told the clergyman something. Do you know what that was?”

“No, and it didn’t seem to signify.”

“Didn’t it? There again I differ, and if you won’t think me officious, I’m going to probe this matter as deeply as I can.”

“Do as you please, Peter; I only hope you won’t find out – ”

“What?”

“Anything disagreeable.”

“No fear of that, Jack. I pride myself in being able to read character, and there is that in Mattie’s face and eyes that tells me she is a lady born.”

“That has not been denied, Peter.”

“No, but not only of gentle but unsullied birth.”

As he spoke there came again, I thought, that same strange dreamy look in Peter’s eyes; but I could not be sure, though the light from the companion fell full in his face.

He extended his hand, and I grasped it. It was as if we were signing a compact of some kind, I hardly knew what.

Then Jill and I went below.

Mrs Coates sat near the stove, which was burning brightly, in her little rocking chair, reading; her black maid sitting not far off sewing; in front of the fire a big pleasant-faced cat was singing a duet with the brightly burnished copper kettle, and the great lamp swung in its gymbals from a beam over head.

I could not help pausing in the doorway for a moment to admire the homelike cosiness of the scene. By and by down came Captain Coates.

“Jill, my lad,” he said, as he seated himself by the little piano, “trot on deck and relieve Peter a bit.”

When Peter came down he went at once for his clarionet, and we had very sweet music indeed.

This, or something like it, is the way we usually spent our evenings in fine weather.

In two days time we were, or thought we were, not far off the entrance to the First Narrows, but the horizon was hazy.

The same afternoon a great red-funnelled steamer hove in sight, and came ploughing and churning on in our direction. She was English, and homeward bound. How glad we were! We did not take ten minutes to finish our letters. They carried all kinds of tender messages and wishes and hopes, and told how well and happy we were and expected to remain.

I went in charge of the boat with the letters, and was very kindly received. As I stood on the deck of the fine steamer, I really could not help wishing I was going home. It was but for a moment; then I remembered I had duties that called me elsewhere.

The ships parted with cheers, and the flock of seagulls, Cape pigeons, and albatrosses that had been following the steamer divided, one half going on after her, the others electing to share our fortunes, and pick up our cook’s tit-bits from off the water.

We were now in Possession Bay, which surrounds the entrance to the First Narrows of Magellan Straits; but though the wind was fair, there was a strange haze lying low all round the horizon, so our good captain determined to keep “dodging” or tacking about till the weather should clear.

Captain Coates had told us at dinner that for his part he would sooner go round the Horn any day, than through the Straits, but he had important business at Sandy Point – a Chilian town of small dimensions on the Patagonia shore – and – “duty is duty.”

The sun went down blood-red in the haze, and with as little sail as possible on her we went tacking to and fro. Two great albatrosses were sailing round and round, sometimes coming so close that we could hear the rustle of their feathers and note the glitter of their green eyes and the shape of their powerful beaks. I could not help thinking of the words of Coleridge in that weird poem, “The Ancient Mariner.”

 
At length did come an albatross,
    Thorough the fog it came,
As if it had been a Christian soul
    We hailed it in God’s name.
 
 
And a good south wind sprang up behind,
    The albatross did follow,
And every day for food or play
    Came to the mariner’s “hollo!”
 

It may have been these lines that I conned over to myself, or the mournful sough to that was in the wind to-night; but, at all events, some sort of heaviness seemed to lie about my heart that I could not account for.

About three hours after sunset, the moon had asserted itself. Very high in air it shone, right overhead almost, and although but half a moon, was exceedingly bright and silver-like. But half-moons give the stars a chance, and to-night, though the haze lay houses high all along the horizon, the sky above was darkly blue, and so clear that you could mark the changing radiance of colour of many of the stars that sparkled as dew-drops do in the sun’s rays.

I noted all this with satisfaction, I cannot say with pleasure. There was that unbanishable feeling of heaviness at my heart, which I have mentioned. It was getting late, however, so I went below to our cosy saloon, and was soon chatting cheerfully with our little mother, Mrs Coates. As I was turning to come down the companion, I had heard Peter sing out to Jill, “Oh, look at that great grampus!” And both had gone to see it.

We expected the captain down every minute to play, as was his wont, and rather wondered he did not come.

Suddenly on deck was heard the sound of footsteps hurrying aft, and at the same moment that awful shout – who that has ever heard it is likely to forget it till his dying day – ?

“Man overboard!”

Mrs Coates started to her feet, clutching at the arm of the chair to prevent herself from falling.

With a sudden and terrible fear at my heart I went rushing up the ladder.

Peter was there – alone.

“Where is Jill?” I gasped.

“It is he,” was all he could answer.

I knew where he had fallen, from the direction in which all eyes were turned. A life-buoy had already been thrown, and the usual hurried orders were being issued.

From out of the dark depths of the sea I thought I could hear my brother’s voice, as I had heard it once before, in innocent pleading tones, when he was a child —

“Come to me, Jack, come to me; I cannot come to you.”

Next moment I was in the water, and the ship was some distance off. She seemed to move so fast away.

Here was the life-buoy. In my anguish I dashed it aside. I could support my brother. Many a time I had done so in the waves before our cottage door at home.

I felt glad the ship had gone, with her noise and bustling decks. I could listen.

“Jill,” I shouted, “coo-ee! Jill, I’m here.”

Then, to my joy, a faint answering shout came down the wind.

On – on – on I swam. Taking desperate strokes. Shouting one moment, listening the next.

At last, at last.

He was sinking, but I was not weary.

I remember hearing the clunk-clank of the oars of a coming boat.

Then that was lost to me; there came a terrible roaring in my ears, sparks flashed across my eyes, and —

When next I became conscious, I was lying in my bunk.

One anxious glance upwards. Oh, joy! it was Jill’s hand I held in mine.

So I slept.

Chapter Thirteen
The Straits of Magellan – Firelanders – The Storm – The Ship Strikes

To rub shoulders with death always leaves a chilly feeling in my heart for a day or two. It is as though the King of Terrors had just encircled me for one brief moment in his icy mantle, and let me free again.

I felt thus next morning, anyhow, but very thankful to Heaven, when I saw Jill quietly dressing. I did not chide him.

“Are you better, brother?” he said, with his father’s smile.

I knew he was penitent, and grateful, and all the rest of it, because he said “brother.” At ordinary times I was simply “Jack.”

I was softened.

“I’m all right,” I answered. “But, Jill, you must be more careful.”

“I’ll try, brother.”

Then I turned out, and began to dress, singing as usual.

Mrs Coates did come to breakfast, but looked worn and nervous. Peter was full of banter and nonsense. Captain Coates was keeping watch to let Peter “feed,” as Peter called it. But presently our worthy skipper would come below, and make a terrible onslaught on the cold ham. Nothing ever interfered with his appetite much. He was a philosopher, although a lean one, and always looked upon the bright side of life, and the bread-and-butter side.

“I sha’n’t get over the fright for a month,” said poor Mrs Coates. “Peter tells me he was standing on the bulwark, hardly holding on to anything.”

“I’ve scolded him well,” I said, “and if we meet the mail boat I’ve a good mind to send him back to mother and Mattie.”

“Wouldn’t you feel lop-sided, Jack, without the child?” said Peter. “And the Salamander would only have half a second mate. No; we’ll stick to Jill, only next time he wants a cold bath, we’ll find means to oblige him without having to call all hands.”

“Mrs Coates, I’ll have another egg, please,” said Jill.

“Well,” said Peter, “by all the coolness – ”

“Hands make sail!”

This last was a shout on deck, and in five minutes more we were all “upstairs,” as Mrs Coates phrased it.

We were entering the First Narrows, the low, moundy shores of Patagonia on our right, the gloomy grandeur of the frowning mountains of Tierra del Fuego on our left, the sea all dark between.

I have said “gloomy grandeur,” but gloom can hardly be associated with glaciers, ice, and snow; and surely, too, the myriads of wheeling birds were doing all they could to dispel the gloom; still, it lay on the sea, it hung on the dark cliffs, and hovered on the mists that had not yet risen from the mountain summits.

Indeed, everything in and around this strange ocean highway has an air of gloom. You cannot help feeling you are at the end of the world. There is something weird in the very appearance of the water, weird and treacherous too; and albeit the forests that clothe the lower sides of the mountains, some hundred miles farther on, are wildly picturesque, surmounted as they are by rugged hills, snow-white cliffs, and glittering glaciers, they look black, inhospitable, threatening.

The weather continued fine, the wind was fair. We kept quietly on all day, through the Second Narrows, and into Broad Reach, the captain having timed things well. The wind was now more abeam, but less in force, so that we should make a pleasant night of it.

Never have I seen a more glorious sunset than we now had. To gaze on that splendid medley of light and colour, that hung over the western hills, seemed to give one a foretaste of the beauty of heaven itself. But with all its dazzling, thrilling loveliness, it did not make us feel happy. At all events it kept us silent.

Next day, early, we reached Sandy Point. A strange wee town of long, low wooden huts with shingle roofs, a little church, a great prison, and a ricketty pier, very foreign-looking, and not at all elevating to the mind. But the gentleman – a Chilian he was – who came off to transact business with Captain Coates was the quintessence of politeness, doubly distilled.

We had to stop two hours here, so Jill and I, with Mrs Coates, went on shore to see the giants, and buy guanaco skins for our friends at home.

The giants were not in. At least I saw none of them. But there were shops, and I fear that both Jill and I spent more money on ostrich feathers than we had any right to do.

Early in the afternoon we once more weighed anchor, and stood away down the Reach, the breeze keeping steadily up all day, but, unfortunately for us, going down with the sun. It was my watch from twelve till four; the moon did not shine out brightly to-night, being obscured with clouds, a by no means unusual occurrence in this dreary region.

Jill did not keep me company either; he was tired, he said, and had turned early in. Perhaps it was this fact that was the occasion of my strange depression of spirits, a depression which I could neither walk off nor talk off, nor gambol off, albeit I tried hard to do so with our dogs, the beautiful deerhound and collie. They indeed appeared as little inclined for play to-night as I had ever seen them.

“They seems to have something on their minds,” said Ritchie, a sturdy old sailor who had sailed the seas off and on for twenty years.

“You’re not superstitious, Ritchie?” I asked.

Ritchie took three or four pulls at his pipe before he replied.

“I dunno, young sir, what you’d call superstitious, but I’ve seen some queer things in my time, and something was sure to ’appen arterwards. Once, sir – ”

“Stay, Ritchie,” I cried. “Don’t let’s have any of your ghost stories to-night I couldn’t stand them. The truth is, I’m a bit down-hearted.”

“Go and have a tot o’ rum; I’ll j’ine you.”

“No, Ritchie, that wouldn’t do either you or me good in the long run. But I dare say I’m feeling a trifle lonely; my brother isn’t the thing, I fear.”

“Nonsense, sir, nonsense. Never saw him looking better, nor you either, sir. I knows what’s the matter.”

“Well?”

“It’s the musgo that’s coming.”

“The musgo?”

“Ay, you’re new to the Straits, I must remember. The musgo is a fog, ‘a fiend fog’ I’ve heard it called. You always feel low-like afore it rolls down. To-morrow, sir, you’ll hardly see your finger afore you.”

“So dark!”

“It’s dark and it’s white – just as if it rolled off the snow, and so cold. You’ll see.”

“You said this moment, Ritchie, I wouldn’t see.”

This was a most miserable attempt at a joke on my part, and I felt so at the time.

Ritchie laughed as if it was his duty to laugh.

“Look, look!” I cried. “Look at the fire away in shore yonder, near the cliff foot.”

“I sees him.”

“And look, another on the lee bow – if we have a lee bow to-night – another on the quarter, and is that one far away yonder like a star?”

“That’s one. Them’s the canoe Indians a signalling to each other.”

“The natives of Tierra del Fuego?”

“Yes, drat ’em, and a bad, treacherous lot they be. They’re saying now – ‘Look out, there is a barque becalmed.’”

“Would they attack a ship?”

Ritchie laughed.

“Give them a chance only,” he said, “and there isn’t a more murderous, bloodthirsty lot ever launched a boat.

“I was broken down here once, or a bit farther up. It was in the little steamer Cordova, a Monte Videan. Smashed our seven, we did. Very little wind, and hardly a bit o’ sail to hoist. They weren’t long in spotting the difficulty. Durin’ the day, a miserable-looking woman and boy came in a canoe to sell skins and to beg. They must ’ave spotted that we had only a few hands. For at the darkest hour of midnight the ship was attacked.”

“Anything occur?”

“Well, it was like this: There wasn’t a longer-headed chap ever sailed than our skipper. A Scot he was, and clever for that. He knew these Fuegian fiends well, and was prepared.

“We had lights ready to get up at a moment’s notice. If we’d had arms we’d have used those, but with the exception of two or three revolvers we were defenceless. But we had coals, lumps as big as the binnacle. And we had boiling water and the hose ready. Mercy on us though, young sir, I think I hear the blood-curdling yell of those savages now, as they boarded at our bows. Up went the lights. Up came the hose, and – they caught a Tartar. It was cruel? Maybe, but it was self-defence.”

“And the coals?”

“We sank their canoes with these. A kick would knock a Fuegian canoe in bits any day, so our task was easy. They sent an arrow to the very heart of poor Bill Wheeler, and he fell backwards dead, and they harpooned another of our men; but few of them went back with a whole skin, I’ll warrant.”

Before my watch was over there was no more wind than would have sufficed to move a child’s paper boat, but the night was not quite so dark, the moon escaping now and then to cast a few silvery rays on the water or light up the rugged tops of the distant sierras, then being speedily engulfed once more in great inky-dark clouds.

The situation was by no means a desirable one, for currents run here like mill streams, and we were a measurable distance from the wild, desolate shore.

Ritchie was right; and when I went on deck next morning before breakfast, I found that the musgo was thick and white around us, and though it was easy enough to see one’s finger at arm’s length, it is no exaggeration to say it was impossible to see the jib-boom end from the foremast.

We must have been somewhere off Point Gallant, in an ugly place, so it is no wonder the captain concluded to anchor if he could get near enough to find soundings.

The wind was rising now, and though but in puffs which just gave the Salamander a send now and then, we were forging ahead at perhaps two knots an hour.

It continued like this all day long, but the wind had increased by evening, and almost threatened a gale. We could not now be far off the English Reach, which, as a glance at a map will show you, is narrow, and therefore dangerous in the extreme. So long, therefore, as we had a surety of width of water, we determined to lay to with as little sail as possible on her.

Night seemed to come on a full hour sooner. It was a night I shall never forget. Anxiety was depicted on every face that there was a chance of getting a glimpse at. And though the captain tried to speak cheerfully in his wife’s presence, it was evident his thoughts were not with his words. Every extra puff of the still rising wind must have felt going through his heart like a knife. I know it did through mine. Even Peter was serious for once.

On going forward I saw Ritchie standing by the winch.

“What do you think of it now, Ritchie?” I asked.

“Think of it, lad?” he replied. “I think it’s likely to be a case with the old Salamander before four bells in the morning watch.”

“You’re a pessimist,” I said. This was a favourite expression of poor aunt’s.

“It’s the mist that’ll do it,” he said. “Look, see sir, if the wind gets no higher the musgo will continue. Then we may drift quietly on shore and strike. If it does blow a real gale, away goes the musgo and out comes the moon; that would be a poor enough outlook, but we’d see what we were doing.”

Hour after hour went by, and though the storm increased, there was never a sign of the musgo rolling off. No one thought of turning in to-night. The captain never even suggested when he came below, as he now and then did, that even Mrs Coates should go to her cabin.

There was something very awful in this waiting, waiting, waiting. And for what? Had any one dared ask himself this question, he would hardly have been brave enough to have answered it.

It must have been about four in the morning. I could not say for certain, for bells I do not think had even been struck, when suddenly, without a moment’s warning, the wind increased to a shrieking, roaring squall of more than gale-force, and next minute we had struck and were engulfed in breakers.