WHY THE CUTTER DEPARTED WITHOUT HER PASSENGERS
Phil and Serge, in planning their expedition to Northeast Point to
visit the sea-lion hunters, expected to walk the entire distance, which
is about ten miles. At breakfast-time, however, they were told by the
inspector that he had arranged to have them taken in a bidarrah, or
large open boat, the wooden frame of which is covered with sea-lion
skins. He also had a supply of provisions put up for them, had ordered
out a crew of six men to row the bidarrah, and had taken every
precaution to make their trip comfortable and enjoyable. The boat was
to return that same day, and would bring the lads back in plenty of
time for supper, which they had been invited to take with the priest of
the little Greek church.
Although the morning was damp and chilly, both lads thoroughly enjoyed
the unique trip up the coast. Phil had brought along his kamleika,
which kept him perfectly dry, and Serge did not seem to mind the
dampness any more than the natives themselves, who fairly revel in
wet, foggy weather, and are never more uncomfortable than when the sun
shines out warm, as it occasionally does, even over the Pribyloffs.
On the present trip there was just fog enough to keep the crew of the
bidarrah in good spirits, without hanging so low as to conceal the
shore line. Consequently, the wonderful seal-life in the water and on
land, through and past which the boat moved, was plainly visible. From
end to end of the island the coast was crowded with it, and by the time
the bidarrah reached its destination Phil declared that he believed all
the “sea-bears” of the world must be collected in that one place.
They found the camp of the hunting-party in and about an old native
hut that reminded the visitors of the one they had occupied on Oonimak
Island. It was behind a range of low sand-dunes, and just beyond it
they caught sight of the chief attraction of the place, a small herd of
sea-lions, great shaggy fellows, very much larger than seals, ramping
and floundering about behind an enclosure of strings. The situation
struck our lads as so comical that they laughed at it until they were
actually tired with laughing. For an hour they watched the frantic
efforts of the uncouth beasts to discover some point of escape that
was not guarded by a fluttering white rag. At the end of that time
they were called to dinner, which was served in the old hut, and which
proved so much better than they expected that they ate it with real
enjoyment.
One of the hunters who could speak a little English told them that if
the wind proved favorable that night he and his companions would make
another drive, and Phil declared that he meant to stay, in the hope of
seeing it.
“It must be one of the most curious hunting scenes in the world,” he
said, “and I shall probably never have another chance to see it. I
don’t live in Alaska, you know; besides, I’d a thousand times rather
spend a night out here than in the village, where I must breathe the
awful-smelling air of the killing-grounds. So if you will make my
excuses to the priest, like a good fellow, I think I’ll stay. We have
plenty of time, you know.”
“All right,” replied Serge; “but as I want to see those queer old
Russian books the priest promised to show us, I think I’ll go back in
the bidarrah.”
As this boat was ready to leave directly after dinner, the lads bade
each other good-bye, Phil promising to make his way to the village on
foot early the following morning, so as to reach it in plenty of time
to rejoin the _Phoca_.
After his friend’s departure he again visited the captive lions, and
wondered, as he watched them, if they were the same as those he had
read of on the so-called “seal rocks” of San Francisco. If his friend
the inspector had been there, he would have told him they were not;
that the seal-rock sea-lions were of a variety found only on the
Californian coast, and that they do not attain more than half the size
of their great Alaskan cousins.
When tired of this amusement Phil wandered to a point commanding a fine
view of the great seal herds, and became so absorbed in watching them
that the afternoon passed before he knew it, and he was surprised when
the hunter who could speak English called him to an early supper. After
it, Phil and this hunter went together to the beach, where, to the
lad’s great disappointment, the latter said he feared there would be no
sea-lion drive that night, as the wind showed signs of changing.
While they talked of this a boat appeared, coming from the direction of
the village. One of its occupants, all of whom were natives, stepped
ashore, and talked for a minute with the hunter.
“He says,” remarked the latter, turning to Phil, “that they are bound
for Walrus Island after eggs, and that if you want to go they will take
you. They will stay all night, but will start back for the village
early in the morning.”
“That suits me!” exclaimed Phil; “so long as there isn’t to be any
lion-hunt, a hunt for birds’ eggs in an Arctic rookery is the next best
thing. Besides, if these fellows will carry me back to town in their
boat, I shall be saved the long, lonely tramp, for which I didn’t care
very much anyhow.”
With this Phil bade his hunter friend good-bye and stepped into the big
boat, which was immediately shored off and headed for Walrus Islet, six
miles away.
About an hour later the inmates of the hunting-camp were startled
by the sudden appearance among them of Serge Belcofsky, hot and
breathless, as though he had run all the way from the village.
“Where is my friend?” he shouted, darting searching glances about the
dim interior.
“Gone to Morzovia for eggs,” replied the English-speaking hunter.
“Oh!” groaned Serge. “How could he do such a thing? Now we shall be too
late, and the cutter will go without us.”
His distress was so real that, while not wholly understanding its
cause, the good-natured Aleut took pity on him and said: “My bidarkie
is here. It has two holes. If you like, we will go to Morzovia. You may
then fetch your friend back. I will come in the bidarrah.”
Anything was better than a whole night of inaction. It was possible
that the cutter would wait for them, and they might yet get back to the
village in time. Thus thinking, Serge eagerly accepted this generous
offer, and a few minutes later the light bidarkie was skimming the
darkening waters of the open sea in the direction of Walrus Islet.
To understand the existing condition of affairs we must have been at
the village about the time Phil and Serge were eating dinner with the
sea-lion hunters. A newly-arrived steamer had just dropped anchor near
the _Phoca_, and her master, a stoutly-built German named Kuhn, was
on his way to visit and report to Captain Matthews. His ship was the
_Norsk_, a tramp steamer from San Francisco, bound for the mouth of the
great Yukon River, with men and supplies for a new Alaskan fur-trading
company. He had touched at St. Paul for information and, if possible,
to obtain a pilot.
More important than all the rest of his news, in Captain Matthews’
estimation, was that of a certain mysterious schooner which the master
of the _Norsk_ had seen in Oonalaska harbor. He could learn nothing
definite as to her movements, but it was commonly reported that she had
been chartered at a big price to go into Bering Sea after seal-skins.
“Confound these poachers!” exclaimed Captain Matthews. “I no sooner get
rid of one than another appears. Mr. Ramey, you will please go ashore
with the gig, intercept Mr. Ryder and Mr. Belcofsky the moment they
return from Northeast Point, and bring them back with you. Tell them we
shall leave for the southward the moment they get on board, and that at
any rate we must be out of here before sunset.”
As the third lieutenant was rowed towards the village his mind was
filled with unpleasant reflections. Those chaps were to come on board
again, after all, and through them he would be made a butt of ridicule
for the wardroom mess. It was tough luck, and he wished they were in
Halifax, or some other distant port, at that moment, instead of on the
seal island of St. Paul.
When he reached the landing he found that they had not returned. He
also found the egg-bidarrah just about to start for an all-night’s trip
to Walrus Islet. Now Mr. Ramey had picked up a fair knowledge of the
Aleut language, armed with which, and a silver dollar, he approached
the native skipper of the egg-boat. “The young white gentlemen,” he
said, “wish very much to visit Morzovia. They are now coming in a
bidarrah from Northeast Point. Here is a dollar, which is yours if you
will kindly stop when you meet that bidarrah and invite them to go with
you.”
The native willingly agreed to do this, and a moment later he had the
satisfaction of seeing the egg-boat shove off. “The scheme may work, or
it may not,” he said to himself. “At any rate, it is worth trying. It
gives me one more chance, and it won’t hurt those young beggars to wait
here a week or so longer, until some other ship comes along to take
them off.”
Half-way up the coast the egg-boat met the other bidarrah, and Serge
received an invitation to go to Walrus Islet, which he declined. When
he reached the village he found Mr. Ramey patiently waiting.
“Where is Ryder?” asked the young officer.
“He decided to stay behind and spend the night with the hunters,” was
the reply.
“Then he’ll be apt to get left, for the cutter is to sail as soon as
you and I can get aboard.”
Serge was thunderstruck. For a moment he knew not what to do or say.
Then a sudden plan flashed into his mind.
“Mr. Ramey,” he said, “I am going overland to fetch my friend: it is
the quickest way. Will you kindly beg Captain Matthews to wait for us
just as long as he can? I know we can be back before midnight.”
“Very well, Mr. Belcofsky; do as you please,” replied the officer. Then
without another word Serge set off on a run for the distant point where
he expected to find Phil.
Mr. Ramey returned to the ship and reported that he believed the young
gentlemen had gone to Walrus Islet egg-hunting, and it was doubtful if
they returned before the afternoon of the following day.
“The young scamps!” exclaimed Captain Matthews. “So they have given me
the slip, after all! Well, I can’t wait for them now, but will come
back and pick them up after we run down this new poacher.”
On hearing this Mr. Ramey was greatly troubled, and became filled with
a fear that haunted him for some days.
So the _Phoca_ sailed away, and her recent passengers were left behind.