A SAD ROMANCE OF THE WILDERNESS
From long familiarity with such interiors as that of the kashga, and
by a powerful exercise of will, the missionary was able to remain
long after poor Phil had taken his departure, and also to partake of
several of the Eskimo dainties already mentioned. It was largely by
thus conforming in a measure to the ways of the natives when with them
that he had gained their confidence and acquired the popularity that
paved the way for future usefulness. Still, it was with a great sigh of
relief and an eager inhaling of fresh air that he finally emerged from
that fetid atmosphere.
Phil in the meantime had been amusing himself by climbing the dome-like
roofs of the houses, and obtaining such glimpses as he might of their
interiors through the smoke-holes. He never gazed long though, for the
vile odors issuing from those apertures always drove him away after a
single glance below.
“How can human beings endure such vile, disgusting smells?” he
exclaimed, as the missionary rejoined him.
“They are not vile and disgusting to them,” laughed the other. “If
noticed at all, they are extremely agreeable. You must remember that
the atmosphere which you find so unendurable is that to which the
Eskimo has always been accustomed. As soon as he is born his entire
body is liberally smeared with rancid oil, and to the day of his death
this coating of grease, frequently renewed, affords his best protection
against cold and wet.
“His staples of food are fish and meat often in a state of partial
decay, and always odorous. Thus the smells that to your unaccustomed
nostrils are so offensive, are to him associated with all that makes
life pleasant or even possible. At the same time he exhibits the
greatest aversion to those perfumes that you consider most pleasing.
A whiff of cologne will make him ill, and flowers that to us are
sweet-scented are to him unendurable. Thus you see the sense of
smell, like all other senses, can be educated to adapt itself to any
conditions, and, happily for the Eskimo, he finds nothing objectionable
in the nauseous odors surrounding him.”
“That is so,” reflected Phil, “for now I remember that the Aleuts
of the Pribyloff Islands could not understand what I meant when I
complained of the awful stench rising from the decomposing bodies of
thousands of seals lying at their very doors.”
With the aid of the missionary and Chitsah, Phil traded off the small
stock of goods he had brought with him for half a dozen parkas, or
outer garments, made from reindeer-skin with the hair still attached,
as many pairs of winter boots, and a number of other articles made
from seal-skin. Each of the parkas had a hood at the back, which could
be drawn up over the head. The edge of this hood was trimmed with
wolf-skin taken from the back, where the hair is longest. When the hood
is in use these long hairs surround the wearer’s face with a bristling
fringe that affords a surprising amount of protection from driving snow
and icy winds.
The tarbossa, or Eskimo boots, were made of the skin of reindeer legs
on which the hair is short and stiff, and were provided with soles of
seal-skin, turned up over toes and heels, where they are gathered in
little puckers that the native women chew or shape with their teeth.
The upper end of one of these boots is tied about the wearer’s knee,
while a second set of thongs at the ankle holds it in place at that
point.
Besides these things, Phil purchased a number of Eskimo wolf-traps,
the cruel ingenuity and extreme simplicity of which exceeded anything
of the kind he had ever seen. They were merely bits of stiff whalebone
about one foot long, with sharpened points, folded into the smallest
possible compass, and confined in that position by a lashing of sinew.
For use this harmless-looking affair is thrust into a piece of meat,
which is frozen and thrown down on the snow. Mr. Wolf swallows meat,
trap and all, with such relish that he at once searches for another
bit just like it. In the meantime the trap has begun its deadly work
in his stomach. Its sinew lashing softens, weakens, and finally breaks
under the steady strain of the compressed whalebone. Thus released the
bone springs into its original shape, thrusts its sharp points into the
wolf’s vitals, and often kills him instantly. If not at once, death
ensues in a very short time, and when the thrifty Eskimo cuts up his
wolf he generally recovers his trap and prepares it to be set again.
The sledge-party from Anvik had started from there before daylight of
that morning with a view to returning the same night. So as soon as the
missionary had visited every house in Makagamoot and Phil had concluded
his trading, the dogs, which Chitsah had been obliged to guard all
this time from an overwhelming onslaught by their Eskimo cousins,
were headed homeward, and the return journey was begun. Chitsah drove
the leading sledge, which was laden with the several hundred pounds
of dried fish that the missionary had received as a wedding-fee, the
missionary drove the other, which bore Phil’s purchases, and the Yankee
lad trudged beside him.
“Are you often called on to marry two people of different races?” asked
the latter, who was thinking over the events of their recent visit.
“No, not often; though it is not uncommon for white men, who have
become permanent settlers in the country, to marry native women, and I
once married a Chinese man to an Eskimo girl. My strangest experience
in that line, though, was gained some years ago, when I first came to
this country. Wishing to familiarize myself with the entire valley,
I took a trip on the company’s steamer to the head of navigation. We
stopped to trade at every Indian camp, and at one of these, near Fort
Yukon, a couple came on board to get married. The man was a tall,
good-looking fellow, but a full-blooded Cree Indian, from the distant
interior. His companion was also in Indian costume, but the moment I
looked at her face I saw, to my amazement, that she was a white girl.
She was quite young, but had the saddest face I think I ever saw. I
remonstrated with her against the step she proposed to take, but in a
perfectly calm voice, and speaking most excellent English, though with
a Scotch accent, she assured me that she was well aware of what she was
about to do, and that it was her firm resolve to marry the Indian who
stood beside her. Both he and she gave the name of McLeod, and under
that name I married them.
“After the ceremony was over she told me her story. It seems that, in
spite of her fair skin, she was a half-breed daughter of the Scotch
factor of a Hudson Bay trading-post and his Indian wife. When she was
thirteen years old her father sent her to Scotland to be educated.
She made the long trip by canoe and sledge from the distant post where
she was born to York Factory, on Hudson Bay, in safety, and there took
passage in the company’s annual ship for London. From there she was
sent to Edinburgh, where for five years she lived with relatives and
attended school. Then she received a note of recall from her father,
and was obliged to retrace the wearisome journey over thousands of
miles of sea and wilderness to her home in the far Northwest. It was
terrible for her to leave the dear friends and pleasant associations of
so many years, and hardest of all to separate from the young Scotchman
who had won her heart and her promise to marry him as soon as he should
come to claim her in her own home. While she returned to Hudson Bay
in a company’s ship, he was forced to travel by way of New York and
through the States.
“When the girl reached her home she immediately told her parents of her
engagement, and that her lover was even then on his way to marry her.
To her dismay her father flew into a violent rage, informed her that
he had already selected a husband for her in the person of one of the
company’s employés stationed at Fort Liard, and declared that she must
marry him at once. In vain did the girl plead with him and endeavor to
change his cruel determination, and in vain did the mother take her
part. The tyrannical father only grew the more obstinate, and when,
after months of weary wanderings, the Scotch lover appeared at the
fort, he was driven from it with bitter words. He was not allowed to
see, or even communicate with, the girl, but was ordered to leave the
country at once.
“There was nothing to do but obey. The factor was also the only
magistrate of a vast region, and ruled it with a rod of iron. None
could dwell within his jurisdiction without his knowledge, none obtain
employment without his consent. The forts held all the necessaries
of life, and none could be purchased elsewhere. A band of Indians was
ordered to convey the unfortunate youth several hundreds of miles away
and there leave him. This they did, but what afterwards became of him I
do not know.
“By some means the girl learned of her lover’s visit to the fort, of
his harsh reception, and of his cruel banishment. The knowledge broke
her heart. She became dejected and miserable, and spent her days in
weeping. At this her father became so furious that he sent for the
man to whom he had promised her to come and marry her at once. He
furthermore upbraided his daughter in the presence of all the employés
of the fort, and said such cruel things about the man she loved that,
declaring she could bear it no longer, she ran out, mounted her pony,
and fled to her mother’s tribe. There she promised to marry a young
Indian who had long admired her, and at once set out with his family
for the Yukon, where they hoped to find a priest. As it happened, I was
the first whom they encountered, and the result I have already told.”
“What became of them after that?” asked Phil, who was deeply interested
in this sad romance of the wilderness.
“I do not know. They dared not return to the territory governed by her
father, and the last I heard of them they were living by themselves
somewhere on the upper Yukon, where the man was making a precarious
livelihood by trapping. I tried to induce them to come and make their
home at the mission, but poor Ellen McLeod answered that she should
never again dwell among people of her father’s race.”
“Poor girl,” sighed Phil, who had a very tender heart for the troubles
of others. “I wonder if we should have any chance of meeting them if we
took our trip up the river? By-the-way, sir, don’t you think Serge and
I might be trusted to make that trip this winter?”
“I should not care to advise you to do it,” replied the missionary,
“knowing its dangers as I do. And certainly you could not go without
Captain Hamer’s consent, for you would require a more expensive outfit
than any one save he could furnish.”
“I suppose so,” admitted Phil, ruefully, “but I can’t help thinking
something will turn up to make it seem best to let us go.”
They were by this time nearing Anvik, and though the sun had long since
set, the river was flooded with moonlight. All at once a dark figure
darted out from the shore and came running towards them. As it drew
near, Kurilla’s well-known voice shouted, breathlessly:
“Cap’n Phil’s fadder gone up river! Yaas, he fadder!”
[Illustration: “CAP’N PHIL’S FADDER GONE UP RIVER! YAAS, HE FADDER!”]
“My father!” cried Phil. “It can’t be. You must be crazy, for my father
is thousands of miles from here.”
“True, all same. You fadder, yaas!”