THE THIRD LIEUTENANT’S HUMILIATING POSITION
A throng of villagers were assembled on the beach to witness the
landing of the boat, for in that distant community the arrival of
a ship bringing news from the great world is an event of general
interest. Every one knew Captain Matthews, and all wanted to shake
hands with him; but he found time to present our lads to the principal
men of the place, such as the government inspector, the company’s
agent, the priest, and the doctor who has charge of the hospital in
which all sick or wounded villagers are cared for free of expense to
themselves. All of these extended a cordial hospitality, and promised
that the lads should be well taken care of during their short stay, and
shown all the sights.
A good-looking young Aleut, who was the possessor of such a tremendously
long and mysterious name that neither Phil nor Serge dared try to
pronounce it, was introduced to them as the school-teacher, and as there
was no school at that season he at once offered to act as their guide.
“There is a drive going on now,” he said, in such perfect English as to
surprise them; “and if you care to see it we must go at once.”
Agreeing to this, the visitors started off with their guide in the
direction indicated.
“The one thing that gets me!” exclaimed Phil, holding his nose and
making a wry face, “is, how you people can stand this awful smell. It
is enough to breed sickness and cause death.”
“Smell?” repeated the guide. “Is there a smell? I suppose there must
be, for I have heard other strangers complain of it; but I don’t notice
it.”
“And yet you have a nose.”
“Certainly I have; but then I was born here, you know. You would get so
used to it in two or three weeks that you would not be troubled by it
any more than I am.”
“Would I?” asked Phil, incredulously.
“Yes. When I first returned from the East I must confess that I noticed
it a little for a day or two, but I quickly forgot it.”
“What part of the East did you visit?” inquired Serge, thinking that he
meant eastern Alaska, and perhaps Sitka.
“Rutland, Vermont, where I was educated,” replied the teacher, simply.
“You don’t say so!” cried Phil; “why, I am from New England myself. New
London, Connecticut, is my home, and that is where I met Serge, too.”
“Then I am doubly glad to make your acquaintance,” said the teacher,
“for I love New England almost as much as I do this island. The people
there were very kind to me. But here is the drive.”
A thousand seals, all young males, were being slowly driven by half a
dozen shouting Aleuts up from a beach, or “hauling-ground” as it is
called, two miles away. They were strung out in a long panting line,
for a seal finds it extremely difficult to drag himself along on dry
land, and must be allowed to rest every few minutes. To Phil’s surprise
they were as docile as sheep, and much more easy to drive, because they
could not run.
They had nearly reached the killing-ground when our lads met them,
and there they were allowed to rest for an hour, in order that they
might cool off. If this were not done, and if they were killed when
overheated, the hair and fur would drop out from the skin almost as
soon as the latter was removed, rendering it worthless.
While the seals were thus cooling, the killing-gang of about twenty
stalwart young natives, all armed with six-foot clubs and with
keen-edged knives, arrived upon the scene.
“Where do they get those tremendous base-ball bats?” inquired Phil. “Do
they come from the mainland?”
“Yes,” laughed the guide, “and from the other side of it, too. They are
killing-clubs, and are made on purpose for this work in your own town.”
“Not New London, Connecticut!”
“That’s the very place.”
“But why do you call them killing-clubs? Surely they don’t beat the
poor brutes to death with those things.”
“Not exactly. But they kill them with a single blow on the head, and
then cut their throats.”
“What a barbarous way!” cried Phil, indignantly.
“Oh no,” replied the teacher. “It may seem so to you, but it really is
not. The seal’s skull is so thin that a heavy blow crushes it and kills
him instantly.”
“Why not shoot them?”
“Because that would be a less certain and more expensive method,
and then the noise would alarm all the other seals. They are easily
panic-stricken, tame and fearless as they seem. For that reason not a
gun or a dog is allowed on these islands.”
While they were thus talking the killing-gang, by command of their
native foreman, was separating a “pod” of about two hundred seals
from the rest of the drove. These were urged to a short distance from
the others, where they were closely huddled together until they were
directly beneath the uplifted clubs. At another word of command the
cruel clubs descended with terrific force, and the work of killing was
begun.
“Oh!” cried Phil, “I can’t stand this! It is too horrible! Come on,
Serge. Let’s get away from here.”
So, to the surprise of the teacher, who had imagined that his new
friends would be particularly interested in this scene, to which he had
become hardened by a life-long familiarity, they turned from it and
hurried away.
If they had remained they would have seen the dead seals skinned with
marvellous dexterity, and the skins loaded into mule-carts to be driven
to a salt-house, where they would lie in pickle for several weeks
before being rolled into bundles of two each, and stored in the company
warehouse. At the end of the season, which closes in August, during
which month the seals shed their coats, the seventy or one hundred
thousand skins representing the year’s take would be shipped on the
company’s own steamer to San Francisco, and from there to London, to be
prepared for use, as described in a previous chapter.
But Phil was too sick at heart and disgusted with the scene he had just
witnessed to care for any further details of the business. So, followed
by Serge and the teacher, he set rapidly off in the direction of the
rookeries or breeding-grounds, in search of more agreeable scenes.
In the rookeries the lords of all they survey are the old bulls,
huge shaggy fellows, from six to eighteen or twenty years of age.
These arrive at the islands early in May, and each immediately takes
possession of a bit of the bowlder-strewn coast about twenty feet
square.
“He files a homestead claim on it,” as Serge laughingly remarked.
“Yes,” said the guide, “and he is ready to defend it with his life, if
necessary, against all rivals.”
Here he remains, unless some bull more powerful than he drives him
away, for the succeeding three months. During that time he neither eats
nor drinks, never visits the sea, and only takes the merest snatches
of sleep. His entire time is spent in roaring out fierce challenges to
his neighbors, fighting savage battles with them, stealing their wives
whenever he gets a chance, and in protecting his own against other seal
wife-stealers like himself. He will attack a man who ventures on his
domain as quickly as he will a brother-seal, and is altogether a most
pugnacious and disagreeable old fellow. He is three or four times as
large as the gentle little female seals who gather around him, and,
always holding himself erect with defiantly uplifted head, towers above
them to a height of several feet.
In the midst of all this fighting and incessant commotion the fat
roly-poly “pups” are born, and here they spend a month or so, under the
protecting care of their mothers. Then, as they are sociable little
chaps, they begin to herd together in great “pods,” and roam about
the rookery until they finally reach the water, which they at first
regard with great amazement and dislike. Gradually they paddle into its
shallow pools, and begin to learn to swim. This is such a hard lesson
that they do not master even its A B C for several weeks, and they
study it for at least a month before graduating into the deep-water
class.
These rookeries are never disturbed by the sealers, their drives being
always made from among the countless thousands of “holluschickie,”
or young male seals, whom the old bulls will not permit to occupy the
same ground with themselves, and who, when they wish to come ashore,
are forced to “haul up” on the adjacent beaches.
Our lads were immensely interested in the fights of the fierce old
bulls and fascinated by the comical antics of the pups, which at this
time had just learned how to swim.
While they were wandering here and there amid the files of this vast
seal army, whose members were too busy with their own concerns to pay
the slightest attention to them――unless, indeed, they happened to
intrude upon the domain of some old bull, who speedily warned them
off――they suddenly came upon so comical a sight that it caused them
to roar with laughter. It was nothing more nor less than the arrogant
young third lieutenant of the _Phoca_, his uniform torn and covered
with mud, seal hairs, and filth, trying to creep away on all-fours
from the territory of two of the most savage old bulls on the rookery.
As was afterwards learned, he had made a dash for a rocky ridge, from
which he hoped to secure a fine photograph, when, half-way up, his foot
had slipped, and, dropping his camera, he had pitched headlong directly
under the noses of two rival bulls who happened to be contesting a bit
of ground at the foot of the ridge. Instantly they devoted their entire
attention to him, and every time he attempted to rise they promptly
knocked him down. Then he tried to crawl away; but with each movement
he made they would rush at him with open mouths and gleaming teeth,
only to retreat a few feet and glare at him when he again lay still.
[Illustration: “EVERY TIME HE ATTEMPTED TO RISE THEY PROMPTLY KNOCKED
HIM DOWN”]
It was fortunate that our friends appeared on the scene when they
did; for the victim of this awkward predicament might have been kept
there until utterly exhausted if they had not. As it was, they
succeeded in so distracting the attention of the savage monsters that
he effected an escape. His camera was ruined, and he was filled with
wrath, not only against the seals, but against those who had witnessed
his ignominious position. In particular was he wroth against poor
Phil, probably because he of the three rescuers was least able to
restrain his laughter. With each new mental picture of the situation
he roared afresh until the tears streamed from his eyes. “Hang that
fellow!” muttered Mr. Ramey to himself. “He’s altogether too fresh! But
I’ll find some way to cause him to laugh from the other side of his
mouth――see if I don’t!”