that I might be permitted to live and preach about the Great Spirit to
your countrymen for many years, He would have answered my prayer for
deliverance by taking me away from _all_ evil, to be with Jesus, _which
is far better_."
To the surprise of the missionary, a look of disappointment settled on
the face of Angut.
"What ails you?" he asked.
"From what you say," returned the Eskimo, somewhat coldly, "I see that,
with you, _whatever_ happens is best; _nothing_ can be wrong. There is
something which tells me here,"--he placed his hand on his breast--"that
that is not true."
"You misunderstand me, friend," said Egede; "I did not say that nothing
can be wrong. What I do say is that whatever God does is and must be
right. But God has given to man a free will, and with his free will
_man_ does wrong. It is just to save man from this wrong-doing that
Jesus came to earth."
"Free will?" murmured the Eskimo, with a recurrence of the perplexed
look. And well might that look recur, for his untrained yet
philosophical mind had been brought for the first time face to face with
the great insoluble problem of the ages.
"Yes," said Egede, "you have got hold of a thought which no man has ever
yet been able to fathom. Free will is a great mystery, nevertheless
every child knows that it is a great _fact_."
From this point Angut seemed to commune only with his own spirit, for he
put no more questions. At the same time the opening up of the pack
rendered the less philosophical among the Eskimos anxious to make some
practical efforts for their deliverance.
At Rooney's suggestion it was arranged that the boldest of the men
should take the missionary's boat--a very small one that could not carry
above a third of the party,--and examine the leads of open water, until
they should ascertain whether they seemed safe or practicable; then
return at once, and, if the report should be favourable, begin by taking
off the women and children. This plan was carried out. A favourable
report was brought back, the women were immediately embarked, and before
evening closed the whole party was landed on the mainland in safety.
Being too late to proceed further that day, the Eskimos ran up a rude
shelter of stones, moss, and sticks, the women being accommodated under
the upturned boat. Next day they found that the pack had continued to
ease off during the night, so that there was a lead of open water
between it and the shore.
"You have been praying during the night," said Okiok to Egede in an
abrupt manner, almost as if he were accusing him of taking an unfair
advantage of circumstances.
"Truly I have," answered the missionary, with an amused look, "but I did
not presume to ask the Great Spirit to help us in this particular way.
I left that to His wisdom and love. I have been taught to trust Him."
"And if you had not got an answer at all," returned Okiok, wrinkling his
brows in perplexity, "you would still have said that all was right?"
"Just so. If I get an answer it is well. If I get no answer it is
still well, for then I know that He sees delay to be best for me and I
feel sure that the answer will come at last, in the right way, and in
good time, for in the Book of the Great Spirit I am told that `all
things work together for good to them that love God.'"
"What!" exclaimed Angut, who had listened to the conversation with
intense interest; "would it be good for you if I killed you?"
"Of course it would, if God allowed it. Thousands of men and women in
time past have chosen to be killed rather than offend God by sinning."
"This is very strange teaching," said Angut, glancing at his friend
Okiok.
"It is the teaching of Jesus, the Son of God. I am only His servant,"
said the missionary, "and I hope to tell you much more that will seem
very strange before long; but at present we must arrange what is now to
be done, for it is the duty of all men to take advantage of
opportunities as they are presented to them."
The truth of this was so obvious that the Eskimos at once dropped into
the region of the practical by advising that the women should all get
into the boat and advance by water, while the men should walk by the
shore.
This being agreed to, the boat was launched. Although not an Eskimo
oomiak, the little craft, which was made of wood, and resembled a punt,
was propelled by oomiak paddles, so that Madame Okiok, who was appointed
steerswoman, felt herself quite at home when seated in her place.
Sigokow, being a powerful creature, physically as well as mentally, was
put in charge of the bow-paddle. The other women were ranged along the
sides, each with a paddle except old Kannoa who was allowed to sit in
the bottom of the craft as a passenger, and guardian of Pussi and
Tumbler.
As these last were prone to jump about under violent impulses of joyous
hilarity, and had an irresistible desire to lean over the sides for the
purpose of dipping their hands in the sea, the duty of the old woman,
although connected with children's play, was by no mean's child's play.
Three miles an hour being the average speed at which the boat went, the
walkers easily kept up with it. Only once did a difficulty occur when
they came to a narrow bay which, although not more than a mile or so
across from point to point, ran so far inland that the walkers could not
have gone round it without great loss of time.
"We must be ferried across here," said Egede; "but as it is past noon, I
think we had better call a halt, and dine before making the traverse."
"That is my opinion, too, sir," said Rooney, throwing down the bundle he
had been carrying.
As the invitation to feed seldom comes amiss to a healthy Eskimo,
Egede's proposal was at once agreed to, and in a few minutes they were
all busily engaged.
It was a pretty spot, that on which they dined. Bushes just beginning
to bud surrounded them; brilliant sunshine drew forth delicious scents
from the long, long frozen earth and the reviving herbage on which they
sat. It also drew forth gushing rivulets from the patches of snow and
heavy drifts, which here and there by their depth and solidity seemed to
bid defiance to the sweet influences of spring. The ice-laden sea sent
gentle wavelets to the pebbly shore. A group of large willows formed a
background to their lordly hall, and behind them, in receding and grand
perspective, uprose the great shoulders of Greenland's mountains.
On all those natural objects of interest and beauty, however, the
travellers did not at first bestow more than a passing glance. They
were too much engrossed with "metal more attractive," in the shape of
bear blubber; but when appetite began to fail conversation began to
flow. At that point it occurred to Pussi and Tumbler that they would go
and have some fun.
Child-nature is much the same all the world over and curiously enough,
it bears strong resemblance to adult nature. Having fed to satiety,
these chips of Simek and Okiok lifted up their eyes, and beheld the
surrounding shrubs. At once the idea arose--"Let us explore." The very
same impulse that sent Mungo Park and Livingstone to Africa; Ross,
Parry, Franklin, Kane, and all the rest of them toward the Pole, led our
little hero and heroine into that thicket, and curiosity urged them to
explore as far as possible. They did so, and, as a natural consequence,
lost themselves. But what cared they for that? With youth, and health,
and strength, they were as easy in their minds as Lieutenant Greely was
with sextant, chart, and compass. As to food, were they not already
victualled for, not a three years', but a three hours', expedition?
And their parents were not disturbed on their account. Eskimo fathers
and mothers are not, as a rule, nervous or anxious about their
offspring.
In a remarkably short space of time Pussi and Tumbler, walking hand in
hand, put more than a mile of "bush" between them and their
feeding-place.
"Oh! wha's dat?" exclaimed Pussi, stopping short, and gazing into the
thicket in front of her.
We pause to remind the reader that our little ones lisped in Eskimo, and
that, in order to delineate faithfully, our only resource is to
translate into lisping English.
"It's a man," exclaimed Tumbler.
"I tink him's a funny man," murmured the little girl, as the man
approached.
Pussi was right. But it was not his dress, so much as his gait and
expression, that were funny. For the stranger was obviously an Eskimo,
being flat and fat-visaged, black-and-straight haired, and seal-skinnily
clad.
The singular point about him was his walk. To all appearance it was a
recently acquired power, for the man frowned almost fiercely at the
ground as he advanced, and took each step with an amount of forethought
and deliberation which to the children seemed quite unaccountable. Nay,
after having taken a step, he would seem suddenly to repent, and draw
back, putting a foot behind him again, or even to one side or the
other--anywhere, in short, rather than in front. Coming up to the
children at last by this painful process, he became suddenly aware of
their presence, and opened his eyes to an extent that could only be
accounted for on the wild supposition that he had never seen a child in
all his life before.
Having stared for a minute or so with all the intensity of the most
solemn surprise, he blinked like a sleepy owl, his mouth expanded, and
his whole countenance beamed with good-will; but suddenly he changed
back, as if by magic, to the solemn-surprise condition.
This was too much for the children, who simultaneously burst into a
hilarious fit of laughter.
The fit seemed catching, for the man joined them with a loud roar of
delight, swaying to and fro with closed eyes as he did so.
The roar brought up Red Rooney, who had followed the children's steps
and happened to be close to them at the time of the explosion. He
looked at the man for a moment, and then his muttered remark, "Drunk as
a fiddler!" cleared up the mystery.
When the man opened his eyes, having finished his laugh, and beheld a
tall Kablunet gazing sternly at him, all the fire of his ancestors
blazed up in his breast, and came out at his eyes. Drawing his knife,
he sprang at our seaman with the murderous weapon uplifted.
Rooney caught his wrist, put a foot behind his leg, gave him a sort of
twirl, and laid him flat on his back. The fall caused the knife to spin
into the air, and the poor Eskimo found himself at the mercy of the
Kablunet.
Instead of taking the man's life, Rooney bade him sit up. The man did
so with a solemn look, not unmixed with perplexity.
There is a phase of that terrible vice drunkenness which is comic, and
it is not of the slightest use to ignore that fact. There were probably
few men who detested strong drink and grieved over its dire effects more
than Red Rooney. He had been led, at a time when total abstinence was
almost unknown, to hate the very name of drink and to become a total
abstainer. Yet he could not for the life of him resist a hearty laugh
when the befuddled Eskimo blinked up in his face with an imbecile smile,
and said--"Wh-whash 'e matter, y-you st-stupid ole' K-K-Kablunet?"
The difficulty and faulty nature of his pronunciation was such that
slipshod English serves admirably to indicate his state of mind,
although neither English nor Eskimo, Arabic nor Hebrew, will suffice to
describe in adequate terms the tremendous solemnity of his gaze after
the imbecile smile had passed away.
"You disreputable old seal," said Rooney, "where did you get the drink?"
Words are wanting to express the dignified look of injured innocence
with which the man replied--"I--I've had _no_ d-drink. Nosh a d-drop!"
"Yes, truly you _are_ a man and a brother," muttered Rooney, as he noted
this "touch of nature," and felt that he was in the company of "kin."
"What's your name, you walrus?"
"K-Kazho," answered the man indignantly.
"What!"
"K-Ka-zho," he repeated, with emphasis.
"I suppose you mean Kajo, you unnatural jellyfish."
Kajo did not condescend to say what he meant, but continued to eye the
Kablunet with lofty disdain, though the effect of his expression was
marred by his attention being distracted by Pussi and Tumbler, whose
faces were fiery red, owing to fits of suppressed laughter.
"Get up now, you old rascal," said Rooney. "Come along with me, and
I'll show you to my friends."
At first the Eskimo showed a disposition to resist, but when the
powerful seaman lifted him up by the neck of his coat, as if he had been
a little dog, and set him on his legs, he thought better of it, smiled
benignly, and moved on.
Hans Egede at once recognised this fellow as one of the most troublesome
of his flock.
"I have done my best to keep strong drink from that man," he explained
to Rooney, "but, as you must be aware from your long residence among
them, the traders _will_ supply the poor creatures with rum, and Kajo's
naturally sanguine temperament is unable to withstand its influence.
Over and over again he has promised me--with tears of, I believe, true
repentance in his eyes--to give it up; but as surely as the traders
offer it to him, and prevail on him to take one drop, so surely does he
give way to a regular debauch."
While he spoke to Rooney in the Danish tongue, the subject of
conversation stood with bowed head, conscience-smitten, before him, for,
although he did not understand the language, he guessed correctly that
the talk was about his own misdeeds.
"Come with me," said the missionary, taking the poor man by the arm,
leading him aside to some distance, and evidently entering into serious
remonstrance--while Kajo, as evidently, commenced energetic
protestations.
On returning, Egede said that the Eskimo told him his tribe had moved
along the coast to a better hunting-ground, and were at that moment
located in an old deserted village, just beyond the point for which they
were making, on the other side of the bay. He therefore advised that
they should start off at once, so as to reach the camp early in the
evening.
"Kajo tells me," added Egede, "that his kayak lies hid in the bushes at
no great distance; so he can go with us. He is not too drunk, I think,
to manage his light craft."
But Egede was wrong, for even while he was speaking Kajo had slipped
quietly behind a bush. There, after a cautious look round to see that
no one observed him, he drew a curious little flat earthenware bottle
from some place of concealment about his dress, applied it to his lips,
and took what Rooney would have styled "a long, hearty pull."
That draught was the turning-point. The comic and humorous were put to
flight, and nothing but fierce, furious savagery remained behind. Many
men in their cups become lachrymose, others silly, and some combative.
The fiery liquor had the latter effect on Kajo. Issuing from his place
of retirement with a fiendish yell and glaring eyes, he made an insane
attack on Angut. That Eskimo, having no desire to hurt the man, merely
stepped lightly out of his way and let him pass. Fortunately his knife
had been left on the ground where Rooney first met him, for he stumbled
and fell upon Kabelaw, into whom he would certainly have plunged the
weapon had it still been in his hand.
Jumping up, he looked round with the glaring eyes of a tiger, while his
fingers clutched nervously at the place where he was wont to carry the
lost knife.
Seeing his condition, Arbalik sprang towards him, but, stooping quickly,
Kajo darted out of his way. At the same moment he snatched up a knife
that had been left lying on the ground. The first effect of the last
draught seemed for the time to have increased the man's powers of
action, for, rushing round the circle, he came suddenly upon poor old
Kannoa, who chanced to be seated a little apart from the others.
Seizing her thin hair, Kajo brandished the knife in front of her throat,
and, glaring at the men, gave vent to a wild laugh of triumph.
It was evident that he was for the time quite mad and unaccountable for
his actions--though by no means unaccountable for taking the accursed
drink that reduced him to that state of temporary insanity. Red Rooney,
aghast with horror at the impending fate of the dear old remembrancer of
his grandmother, sprang forward with the agility of a wild cat, but his
energy, intensified though it was by rage, could not have prevented the
catastrophe if Ippegoo had not come to the rescue.
Yes, that mild youth was the instrument chosen to avert the blow. He
chanced to be standing beside a mass of turf which Okiok had cut from
the ground for the purpose of making a dry seat for Nuna. Seizing this,
Ippegoo hurled it at the head of the drunken Eskimo. Never before did
the feeble youth make such a good shot. Full on the flat face of the
drunkard it went, like the wad of a siege-gun, scattering earth and
_debris_ all round--and down went the Eskimo. Unable to check himself,
down also went Rooney on the top of him.
Next moment the luckless Kajo was secured with a piece of walrus-line,
and flung on one side, while the indignant party held a noisy
consultation as to what was to be done with him.
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.
THE ESKIMO ENCAMPMENT--A MURDER AND ITS CONSEQUENCES.
With Hans Egede, Red Rooney, and Angut as chief councillors, it may be
easily understood that the punishment awarded to Kajo was not severe.
He was merely condemned, in the meantime, to be taken to his own people
as a prisoner, and then let go free with a rebuke.
"But how are we to carry him there?" asked Egede. "He cannot walk, and
we must not delay."
"That's true," said Rooney; "and it will never do to burden the women's
boat with him. It is too full already."
"Did he not say that he had his kayak with him?" asked Angut.
"He did," cried Okiok, with the sudden animation of one who has
conceived an idea. "Run, Arbalik, Ippegoo, Ermigit, Norrak, and seek
for the kayak."
The youths named ran off to obey, with the alacrity of well-trained
children, and in half an hour returned in triumph with the kayak on
their shoulders. Meanwhile Kajo had recovered slightly, and was allowed
to sit up, though his hands were still bound.
"Now we'll try him. Launch the boat, boys," said Okiok, "and be ready
to paddle."
The young men did as they were bid, and Okiok, unloosening Kajo's bonds,
asked him if he could manage his kayak.
"O-of--c-course I can," replied the man, somewhat indignantly.
"Come, then, embark an' do it," returned Okiok, seizing his arm, and
giving it a squeeze to convince him that he was in the hands of a strong
man.
Kajo staggered towards his little vessel, and, lifting it with
difficulty, went down to the beach. He would certainly have fallen and
damaged it if Okiok had not stood on one side and Angut on the other to
prevent a fall. When the kayak was launched, he attempted to step into
the little oval opening in it, but with so little success that Okiok,
losing patience, lifted, him in, and crammed him down. Then he sent him
afloat with a vigorous push.
Feeling all right, with the familiar paddle in his hands, Kajo tried to
rouse himself, bethought him of flight, gave a hiccoughing cheer, and
went skimming away like a sword-fish.
"After him now, boys, and keep alongside," cried Okiok.
Responsive to the order, the boat shot after the kayak, but they had
barely got under weigh when Kajo made a false stroke with the paddle,
lost his balance, and disappeared.
"I expected that," remarked Okiok, with a laugh.
"But the poor man will drown," said Egede anxiously; "he is too drunk to
recover himself."
This was obvious, for the overturned craft seemed to quiver like a dying
whale, while its owner made wild but fruitless efforts to recover his
proper position; and it is certain that the poor man would then and
there have paid the penalty of his intemperance with his life, if the
boat had not ranged alongside, and rescued him.
"So then," said Angut to Egede, as they were bringing Kajo ashore, "this
is the effect of the mad waters that I have often heard of, but never
seen till now."
"Yes, Angut, you see the effect of them--at least on one man; but their
effects vary according to the nature of those who drink. Some men they
make violent, like Kajo; others become silly; while not a few become
heavy, stupid, and brutal. In my country most if not all of the murders
that take place are committed under the influence of strong drink. The
Red Indians, who dwell far to the south-west of your lands, call strong
drink `fire-water.' Your own name `mad waters' is better, I think."
Kajo was led forward at this moment, looking very much dejected, and
greatly sobered. He made no further attempt to resist, but, as a
precaution, his hands were again tied, and then he was left to dry in
the sun, and to his meditations, while the party made the traverse of
the bay.
This was accomplished in three trips. As the last party was about to
start, Okiok and Kajo alone remained on the shore.
"You had better think twice," said Rooney, as he was about to push off
the boat. "He may give you some trouble."
"Fear not," returned Okiok, with a grin, in which there were mingled fun
and contempt. "I have thought twice--three--four--ten times," and he
extended the fingers of both hands.
"Very good; we'll keep an eye on you," said Rooney, with a laugh.
"He runs no risk," remarked Egede, taking up one of the paddles to share
in the work. "His plan is one which Eskimos frequently adopt when one
of their kayaks has been destroyed by rocks or walruses."
The plan referred to consisted in making the man whose kayak has been
lost lie out on what may be called the deck of a friend's kayak. The
well-known little craft named the "Rob Roy Canoe" bears much resemblance
to the Eskimo kayak--the chief difference being that the former is made
of thin, light wood, the latter of a light framework covered with
sealskin. Both are long and narrow; decked entirely over, with the
exception of a hole in the centre; can hold only one person, and are
propelled with one double paddle having a blade at each end. The only
way, therefore, of helping a friend in distress with such craft is to
lay him out flat at full length on the deck, and require him to keep
perfectly still while you paddle to a place of safety.
Okiok intended to take the helpless drunkard across the bay in this
fashion, but for the sake of safety, resolved to do it in an unfriendly
manner.
When the boat had shot away, he pushed the kayak into the water until it
was afloat in the fore-part, arranged the spears which formed its
armament, made fast the various lines, and laid the paddle across the
opening. Then he went up to Kajo, who had been watching his movements
with much curiosity, not quite unmingled with discomfort.
"Go," he said, pointing to the kayak, "and lay yourself out in front, on
your face."
Kajo looked earnestly at the speaker. There was much less of the heroic
in his gaze by that time, and therefore more of manly determination; but
Okiok said "go" again. And Kajo went.
When he was laid flat on his face in front of the opening, with his feet
on either side, and his head towards the bow, Okiok proceeded to tie him
down there.
"You need not fear," he said; "I will not move." Okiok did not cease
his work, but he said--
"I will make sure that you do not move. Any man with the sense of a
puffin might be trusted to lie still for his own sake, but I have
learned this day that a man full of mad water is a fool--not to be
trusted at all."
Having expressed himself thus, and finished the lashing, he got softly
into his place, pushed off, and paddled gently over the sea.
He had not advanced far when Kajo, feeling uncomfortable, tried slightly
to alter his position, whereupon Okiok took up a spear that lay handy,
and gave him a slight prick by way of reminding him of his duty. The
rest of the voyage was accomplished in peace and safety.
In the evening the party arrived at the temporary abode of the tribe to
which Kajo belonged. By that time the Eskimo was thoroughly sober, but
the same could not be said of all his people--of whom there were upwards
of a hundred men, besides women and children. It was found that a
chance trader to Godhaab had brought a considerable quantity of rum, and
the families of which we now speak had secured several kegs.
All of these Eskimos were well acquainted with Egede, and a few of them
were friendly towards him; but many were the reverse. There was great
excitement among them at the time the party arrived--excitement that
could scarcely be accounted for either by the rum or by the unexpected
arrival.