and Ujarak does not love her, else he could not have treated her so
badly. Why did the Great Spirit allow that?" demanded the Eskimo, with
some bitterness of tone.
"I know not, Angut, yet I know it is for good, because the Great Spirit
is our Great Father, and if human fathers know how to treat their
children well, does the Great Father of all not know?"
The Eskimo gravely bowed his head in assent to this proposition, and the
seaman continued--
"I have spoken to you more than once, Angut, about the men in our land
called surgeons--that you call knife-men,--how they will cut and carve
your body, and tie you down sometimes, and give you terrible and
prolonged suffering for the purpose of curing you and relieving your
pain."
"True," replied Angut, who at once saw the drift of his friend's remark;
"but then you _know_ that the knife-man's object is good. It is to
cure, to relieve."
"But suppose," argued Rooney, "that you did _not_ know that his object
was good--that you looked on him as a cruel, bloody, heartless monster,
who cared not for your cries of pain--would your ignorance change his
character?"
"No, no; he would remain good, whatever you might think," said Angut
quickly; "I see. I see. I will try to think as you think--the Great
Father is good, _must_ be good. And He will prove it some day. Don't
you think so, Ridroonee?"
"Ay, truly, I think so; I am sure of it. But listen! Do you not hear
sounds?"
They both listened intently, and gazed towards the northern headland of
the bay, which at the time was bathed in brilliant moonlight. Presently
two black specks, one larger than the other, were seen to round the
point, and the chattering of women's voices was heard.
It was Arbalik in a kayak, preceding an oomiak propelled by several
women. In her impatience to join her lord, Madame Okiok had insisted on
a forced march. A few minutes more, and the women landed amid noisy
demonstrations of satisfaction. Ere long the united party were busy
round the unfailing lamps, enjoying social intercourse over an
intermediate meal which, as it came between supper and breakfast, has
not yet obtained a name.
CHAPTER TWENTY.
THE CHASE CONTINUED AND DISASTROUSLY INTERRUPTED.
The day following that on which the wives of Simek and Okiok, and the
mothers of Arbalik and Ippegoo with the spinster Sigokow arrived, the
southern Eskimos resumed their route northward, and the pursuers
continued their journey to the south--the former in their sledges over
the still unmelted ice-foot along the shore; the latter, in kayaks, by a
lead of open water, which extended as far as the eye could reach.
Angut, Okiok, and Simek led the way in kayaks, the kayak damaged by the
seal having been repaired. The other men were forced to embark in the
women's boat. Eskimo men deem this an undignified position, and will
not usually condescend to work in oomiaks, which are invariably paddled
by the women, but Rooney, being influenced by no such feelings, quietly
took the steering paddle, and ultimately shamed Arbalik and Ippegoo as
well as the sons of Okiok into lending a hand.
During the first part of the voyage all went well, but next day the lead
of open water was found to trend off the land, and run out into the
pack, where numerous great glaciers were seen--some aground, others
surging slowly southward with the Polar current.
"I don't like the look of it," remarked Angut, when the other leaders of
the party ranged alongside of him for a brief consultation.
"Neither do I," said Simek. "The season is far advanced, and if there
should be a general break-up of the ice while we are out among the
floes, we should be lost."
"But it is impossible for us to travel by land," said Okiok. "No man
knows the land here. The sea runs so far in that we might spend many
moons in going round the bays without advancing far on our journey."
"So there is nothing left for us but to go on by water," said Angut,
with decision. "Nunaga must be rescued."
"And so must Tumbler," said Okiok.
"And so must Pussi," said Simek.
"What are you fellows consulting about?" shouted Red Rooney, coming up
at that moment with the others in the oomiak.
"We are talking of the danger of the ice breaking up," answered Angut.
"But there is no other way to travel than by the open lead, so we have
decided to go on."
"Of course you have," returned Rooney; "what else can we do? We _must_
risk something to save Nunaga, Pussi, and Tumbler, to say nothing of
Kabelaw. Get along, my hearties!"
How Rooney translated the last phrase into Eskimo is a point on which we
can throw no light,--but no matter.
In a short time the party reached the neighbourhood of one of the
largest bergs, one of those gigantic masses of ice which resemble
moderately-sized mountains, the peaks of which rose several hundred feet
above the sea-level, while its base was more than a mile in diameter.
There were little valleys extending into its interior, through which
flowed rivulets, whose winding courses were broken here and there by
cascades. In short, the berg resembled a veritable island made of white
sugar, the glittering sun-lit slopes of which contrasted finely with its
green-grey shadows and the dark-blue depths of its wide rifts and
profound caverns.
The lead or lane of water ran to within fifty yards of this ice-island,
so that Rooney had a splendid view of it, and, being of a romantic turn
of mind, amused himself as the oomiak glided past by peopling the white
cliffs and valleys with snow-white inhabitants. While he was thus
employed, there occurred a sudden crashing and rending in the
surrounding pack which filled him with consternation. It produced
indeed the same effect on the Eskimos, as well it might, for the very
catastrophe which they all dreaded was now taking place.
A slight swell on the sea appeared to be the originating cause, but,
whatever it was, the whole surface was soon broken up, and the
disintegrated masses began to grind against each other in confusion. At
the same time the lead which the voyagers had been following grew
narrower, and that so rapidly, that they had barely time to jump upon a
mass of ice when the opening closed and crushed the oomiak and Okiok's
kayak to pieces.
Angut and Simek had time to lift their kayaks on to the ice, but that,
as it turned out, was of no advantage.
"Make for the berg," shouted Angut to the women, at the same time
seizing the hand of Kunelik, who chanced to be nearest to him, and
assisting her to leap from one heaving mass to another. Rooney
performed the same act of gallantry for old Kannoa, who, to his
surprise, went over the ice like an antique squirrel. Okiok took his
own wife in hand. As for Pussimek, she did not wait for assistance, but
being of a lively and active, as well as a stout and cheery disposition,
she set off at a pace which caused her tail to fly straight out behind
her, and made it difficult for Simek to keep up with her. Ippegoo and
Arbalik, with the sons of Okiok, tried their best to save the two
kayaks, for well they knew the danger of being left on the ice without
the means of escaping; but the suddenness of the disruption, the width
of the various channels they had to leap, and the instability of the
masses, compelled them, after much delay, to drop their burdens and save
themselves. They only managed to reach the berg with extreme
difficulty.
"Thank God, all safe!--but we have had a close shave," exclaimed Rooney,
as he held out his hand to assist Ippegoo, who was the last of the party
to clamber up the rugged side of the berg from the broken floe-pieces
which were grinding against it.
"I wish we could say with truth `All safe,'" was Okiok's gloomy
response, as he surveyed the ice-laden sea; "we have escaped being
crushed or drowned, but only to be starved to death."
"A living man may hope," returned Angut gravely.
"Ay, and where there is life," added Rooney, "there ought to be
thankfulness."
"I would be more thankful," said Ippegoo, with a woe-begone expression,
"if we had saved even a spear; but what can we do without food or
weapons?"
"Do? my son," said Kunelik; "can we not at least keep up heart? Who
ever heard of any good coming of groaning and looking miserable?"
"Right you are, old girl," cried Rooney, giving the mother of Ippegoo a
hearty pat on the shoulder. "There is no use in despairing at the very
beginning of our troubles; besides, is there not the Great Spirit who
takes care of us, although we cannot see or hear Him? I believe in God,
my friends, and I'll ask Him to help us now."
So saying, to the surprise of the Eskimos, the seaman uncovered his
head, and looking upwards, uttered a few words of earnest prayer in the
name of Jesus.
At first the unsophisticated natives looked about as if they expected
some visible and immediate answer to the petition, but Rooney explained
that the Great Spirit did not always answer at once or in the way that
man might expect.
"God works by means of us and through us," he said. "We have committed
the care of ourselves to Him. What we have now to do is to go to work,
and do the best we can, and see what things He will throw in our way, or
enable us to do, in answer to our prayer. Now, the first thing that
occurs to me is to get away from where we stand, because that
overhanging cliff beside us may fall at any moment and crush us. Next,
we should go and search out some safe cavern in which we may spend the
night, for we sha'n't be able to find such a place easily in the dark,
and though it will be but a cold shelter, still, cold shelter is better
than none--so come along."
These remarks of the sailor, though so familiar--perhaps commonplace--to
us, seemed so just and full of wisdom to the unsophisticated natives,
and were uttered in such an off-hand cheery tone, that a powerful effect
was created, and the whole party at once followed the seaman, who, by
this display of coolness, firmness, and trustfulness in a higher power,
established a complete ascendancy over his friends. From that time they
regarded him as their leader, even although in regard to the details of
Eskimo life he was of course immeasurably their inferior.
They soon found a small cave, not far from the spot where they had
landed--if we may use that expression--and there made preparation to
spend the night, which by that time was drawing on.
Although their craft had been thus suddenly destroyed and lost, they
were not left absolutely destitute, for each one, with that prompt
mental activity which is usually found in people whose lives are passed
in the midst of danger, had seized the bear-skin, deerskin, or fur bag
on which he or she happened to be sitting, and had flung it on to the
floes before leaping thereon; and Ippegoo, with that regard for internal
sustenance which was one of his chief characteristics, had grasped a
huge lump of seal's flesh, and carried it along with him. Thus the
whole party possessed bedding, and food for at least one meal.
Of course the meal was eaten not only cold but raw. In the
circumstances, however, they were only too thankful, to care much about
the style of it. Before it was finished daylight fled, the stars came
out, and the aurora borealis was shooting brilliantly athwart the sky.
Gradually the various members of the party spread their skins on the
most level spot discoverable, and, with lumps of ice covered with bits
of hide for pillows, went to sleep with what resembled free-and-easy
indifference.
Two of the party, however, could not thus easily drop into happy
oblivion. Red Rooney felt ill at ease. His knowledge of those Arctic
seas had taught him that their position was most critical, and that
escape would be almost miraculous, for they were eight or ten miles at
least off the land, on a perishable iceberg, with an ice-encumbered sea
around, and no means of going afloat, even if the water had been free.
A feeling of gloom which he had not felt before, and which he could not
banish, rendered sleep impossible; he therefore rose, and sauntered out
of the cave.
Outside he found Angut, standing motionless near the edge of an
ice-cliff, gazing up into the glorious constellations overhead.
"I can't sleep, Angut," said the seaman; "I suppose you are much in the
same way?"
"I do not know. I did not try," returned the Eskimo in a low voice; "I
wish to think, not to sleep. Why cannot the Kablunet sleep?"
"Well, it's hard to tell. I suppose thinking too much has something to
do with it. The fact is, Angut, that we've got into what I call a fix,
and I can't for the life of me see how we are to get out of it. Indeed
I greatly fear that we shall never get out of it."
"If the Great Spirit wills that our end should be _now_," said Angut,
"is the Kablunet afraid to die?"
The question puzzled Rooney not a little.
"Well," he replied, "I can't say that I'm afraid, but--but--I don't
exactly _want_ to die just yet, you see. The fact is, my friend, that
I've got a wife and children and a dear old grandmother at home, and I
don't quite relish the idea of never seein' them again."
"Have you not told me," said Angut, with a look of solemn surprise,
"that all who love the Great Spirit shall meet again up there?" He
pointed to the sky as he spoke.
"Ay, truly, I said that, and I believe that. But a man sometimes wants
to see his wife and children again in _this_ life--and, to my thinkin',
that's not likely with me, as things go at present. Have _you_ much
hope that we shall escape?"
"Yes, I have hope," answered the Eskimo, with a touch of enthusiasm in
his tone. "I know not why. I know not how. Perhaps the Great Spirit
who made me put it into me. I cannot tell. All around and within me is
beyond my understanding--but--the Great Spirit is all-wise,
all-powerful, and--good. Did you not say so?"
"Yes, I said so; and that's a trustworthy foundation, anyhow," returned
the sailor meditatively; "wise, powerful, and good--a safe anchorage.
But now, tell me, what chances, think you, have we of deliverance?"
"I can think of only one," said Angut. "If the pack sets fast again, we
may walk over it to the land. Once there, we could manage to live--
though not to continue our pursuit of Ujarak. _That_ is at an end."
In spite of himself, the poor fellow said the last words in a tone which
showed how deeply he was affected by the destruction of his hope to
rescue Nunaga.
"Now my friend seems to me inconsistent," said Rooney. "He trusts the
Great Spirit for deliverance from danger. Is, then, the rescue of
Nunaga too hard for Him?"
"I know not," returned Angut, who was, how ever, cheered a little by his
friend's tone and manner. "Everything is mystery. I look up, I look
around, I look within; all is dark, mysterious. Only on this is my mind
clear--the Great Spirit is good. He cannot be otherwise. I will trust
Him. One day, perhaps, He will explain all. What I understood not as a
little boy, I understand now as a man. Why should there not be more
light when I am an older man? If things go on in the mind as they have
been going ever since I can remember, perfect light may perhaps come at
last."
"You don't think like most of your countrymen," said Rooney, regarding
the grave earnest face of his friend with increased interest.
There was a touch of sadness in the tone of the Eskimo as he replied--
"No; I sometimes wonder--for their minds seem to remain in the childish
condition; though Okiok and Simek do seem at times as if they were
struggling into more light. I often wonder that they think so little,
and think so foolishly; but I do not speak much about it; it only makes
them fear that I am growing mad."
"I have never asked you, Angut--do your tribes in the north here hold
the same wild notions about the earth and heavens as the southern
Eskimos do?"
"I believe they do," replied Angut; "but I know not all they think in
the south. In this land they think,"--here a smile of good-natured pity
flickered for a moment on the man's face--"that the earth rests on
pillars, which are now mouldering away by age, so that they frequently
crack. These pillars would have fallen long ago if they had not been
kept in repair by the angekoks, who try to prove the truth of what they
say by bringing home bits of them--rotten pieces of wood. And the
strange thing is, that the people believe them!"
"Why don't you believe them, Angut?"
"I know not why."
"And what do your kinsmen think about heaven?" asked Rooney.
"They think it is supported on the peak of a lofty mountain in the
north, on which it revolves. The stars are supposed to be ancient
Greenlanders, or animals which have managed in some mysterious way to
mount up there, and who shine with varied brightness, according to the
nature of their food. The streaming lights of winter are the souls of
the dead dancing and playing ball in the sky."
"These are strange ideas," observed Rooney; "what have you to say about
them?"
"I think they are childish thoughts," replied the Eskimo.
"What, then, are your thoughts about these stars and streaming lights?"
persisted the seaman, who was anxious to understand more of the mind of
his philosophical companion.
"I know not what I think. When I try to think on these things my mind
gets confused. Only this am I sure of--that they are, they must be, the
wonderful works of the Good Spirit."
"But how do you know that?" asked Rooney.
Angut looked at his questioner very earnestly for a few moments.
"How does Ridroonee know that he is alive?" he asked abruptly.
"Oh, as to that, you know, everything tells me that I am alive. I look
around, and I see. I listen, and I hear. I think, and I understand--
leastwise to some extent,--and I _feel_ in mind and heart."
"Now will I answer," said Angut. "Everything tells me that the Great
Spirit is good, and the Maker of all things. I look, and I see Him in
the things that exist. I listen, and I hear Him in the whispering wind,
in the running water, in the voice of man and beast. I think, and I
understand Him to some extent, and I _feel_ Him both in mind and heart."
"I believe you are right, Angut, and your words bring strongly to my
remembrance many of the words of the Great Spirit that my mother used to
teach me when I was a little boy."
From this point in the conversation Angut became the questioner, being
anxious to know all that the Kablunet had to tell about the mysterious
Book, of which he had spoken to him more than once, and the teachings of
his mother.
It was long past midnight when the descending moon warned them to turn
their steps towards the ice-cave where they had left their slumbering
companions.
"The frost is sharp to-night," remarked Rooney as they were about to
enter.
Angut turned round, and cast a parting glance on sea and sky.
"If it holds on like this," continued the sailor, "the ice will be firm
enough to carry us to land in the morning."
"It will not hold on like this," said Angut. "The Innuit are very
ignorant, but they know many things about the weather, for they are
always watching it. To-morrow will be warm. We cannot escape. It will
be safest and wisest to remain where we are."
"Remaining means starving," said the sailor in a desponding tone.
"It may be so; we cannot tell," returned the Eskimo.
With these uncomfortable reflections, the two men entered the cavern
quietly, so as not to disturb their comrades. Spreading their bearskins
on the ice-floor, they laid heads on ice-pillows, and soon fell into
that dreamless, restful slumber which is the usual accompaniment of
youth, health, and vigour.
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.
SHOWS A GLOOMY PROSPECT--STARVATION THREATENED, AND WONDERFULLY AVERTED.
Angut was a true prophet. When Rooney awoke next morning, his ears told
him that the rushing of ice-cold rivulets through ice-valleys, and the
roar of ice-born cataracts had increased considerably during the hours
of darkness.
The warmth which caused this did not, indeed, at first strike him, for
the air of the cavern and the character of his bed had chilled him so
much that he was shivering with cold. On glancing at his still sleeping
comrades in misfortune, he observed that these tough creatures slept
with the peaceful aspect of infants, whom, being both fat and rotund,
they resembled in nearly everything except size.
Rising and going quietly out, he beat his arms vigorously across his
chest until circulation was fully restored. Then he mounted a
neighbouring ice-ledge, and saw at a glance that their case had become
desperate.
"Angut was right," he murmured bitterly, and then stood for a long time
contemplating the scene in silence.
Considered apart from their circumstances, the scene was indeed
glorious. Not only had the warmth of the air begun to swell the
rivulets which leaped and brawled down the pale-green slopes around him,
but the pack had opened out, so as to completely change the aspect of
the sea. Instead of being clothed with ice, showing only a lane of
water here and there, it was now an open sea crowded with innumerable
ice-islets of every fantastic shape and size.
It added something to the bitterness of the poor man's feelings that
this state of things would, he knew, have been the very best for their
escape in kayaks and oomiaks, for a profound calm prevailed, and the
sea, where clear of ice, glittered in the rising sun like a shield of
polished gold.
He was roused from his meditations by the sound of footsteps behind him.
Turning quickly, he beheld Ippegoo holding his jaws with both hands and
with an expression of unutterable woe on his face.
"Halo, Ippe, what's wrong with you?"
A groan was the reply, and Rooney, although somewhat anxious, found it
difficult to restrain a laugh.
"I've got--oh! oh! oh! oh!--a mad tooth," gasped the poor youth.
"A mad tooth! Poor fellow!--we call that _toothache_ where I come
from."
"What care I whether you call it mad tooth or _tootik_?" cried Ippegoo
petulantly. "It is horrible! dreadful! awful!--like fire and fury in
the heart."
The sufferer used one or two more Eskimo expressions, suggestive of
excruciating agony, which are not translatable into English.
"If I only had a pair of pincers, but--look, Ippe, look," said Rooney,
pointing to the sea, in the hope of distracting his mind from present
pain by referring to threatening danger; "look--our kayaks being lost,
we have no hope of escaping, so we must starve."
His little device, well-meant though it was, failed. A groan and glance
of indifference was the Eskimo's reply, for starvation and danger were
familiar and prospective evils, whereas toothache was a present horror.
We fear it must be told of Ippegoo that he was not celebrated for
endurance of pain, and that, being fond of sympathy, he was apt to give
full vent to his feelings--the result, perhaps, of having an
over-indulgent mother. Toothache--one of the diseases to which
Greenlanders are peculiarly liable--invariably drew forth Ippegoo's
tenderest feelings for himself, accompanied by touching lamentations.
"Come, Ippe, be more of a man. Even your mother would scold you for
groaning like that."
"But it is so shriekingly bad!" returned the afflicted youth, with
increasing petulance.
"Of course it is. I know that; poor fellow! But come, I will try to
cure you," said Rooney, who, under the impression that violent physical
exertion coupled with distraction of mind would produce good effect, had
suddenly conceived a simple ruse. "Do you see yon jutting ice-cliff
that runs down to a point near the edge of the berg?"
"Yes, I see," whimpered Ippegoo.
"Well, it will require you to run at your top speed to get there while
you count fifteen twenties. Now, if you run there within that time--at
your very top speed, mind--" Rooney paused, and looked serious.
"Yes; well?" said Ippegoo, whose curiosity had already begun to check
the groans.
"If you run there," continued the seaman, with a look and tone of deep
solemnity, "at the very toppest speed that you can do, and look round
that ice-point, you will see--"
"What?" gasped Ippegoo excitedly--for he was easily excited.
"_Something_," returned Rooney mysteriously. "I cannot tell exactly
what you will see, because I am not an angekok, and have no torngak to
tell me; but I am quite sure that you will see _something_! Only, the
benefit of seeing it will depend on your running as fast as you can.
Now, are you ready?"
"Yes, quite ready," exclaimed the youth, tightening his girdle of
sealskin eagerly.
"Well then--_away_!" shouted Rooney.