WINTER TRAVEL BENEATH THE ARCTIC AURORA
With the advent of darkness and the dying out of the wind there came
such an increase of cold that from all parts of the forest were heard
sharp, crackling sounds caused by the cruel pinchings of a bitter
frost. Phil had thrust his thermometer into the snow at the head of
his bed, and was surprised to find, on looking at it, that it already
registered fifteen degrees below zero. He had been so warmed with
violent exercise that it had not seemed so very cold; but now he
shivered and drew closer to the fire.
For his cooking, Serge was first obliged to melt snow in order to
obtain water; but now the teakettle was singing merrily, bacon and
dried venison were sizzling together in the capacious fry-pan; and on
the opposite side of the fire the two Indians were rapturously sniffing
the delicious odors that came from it. They were toasting a fat salmon
impaled on a slender stick, and at the same time whetting their
appetite by frequent bites from a lump of pemmican that was handed from
one to the other.
Phil asked for a bit of this when Serge took it from its bag, for, he
said, “I have read of pemmican all my life, and from the amount of
praise bestowed on it by the writers, think it must be pretty fine
eating.” So he tried it, took one mouthful, and flung the rest to
Musky, who had drawn close to him, and was watching his experiment with
undisguised interest.
“Whew-w!” sputtered Phil, ejecting the tasteless morsel from his mouth.
“If that’s pemmican, then those who like it may keep it to themselves;
but I certainly don’t want any more of it. I suppose, though, it is
because my taste has not been cultivated to appreciate it any more than
it has raw seal’s liver and similar dainties.”
Before supper both Phil and Serge afforded the Indians considerable
amusement by devoting a basin of the precious water to a thorough
cleansing of their faces and hands. Kurilla and Chitsah not only
considered this a waste of time, water, and soap, but, as the former
remarked, with an expressive shake of his head:
“No good. More clean, more quick git dirty, yaas.”
“Which sentiment,” said Phil, in a low tone, to Serge, “explains why
Indians and Eskimos and the like generally sit on one side of the fire
when white men occupy the other.”
Throwing a handful of tea into the chynik, lifting it from the fire the
moment it again came to a boil, and then setting it in a warm place to
“draw,” Serge next removed the cooked meat from the fry-pan to a heated
plate. Into the hot grease that remained he placed a double handful
of broken biscuit, previously soaked for a few minutes in the brass
kettle. When this had absorbed every drop of grease and begun to brown,
it was ready to be eaten with molasses as a dessert.
“One of the very best dinners I ever ate in all my life, old man!”
declared Phil, after half an hour of uninterrupted devotion to plate
and cup. “I believe it is fully equal to that gorgeous spread you had
ready for me on Oonimak after my experience with the sea-otter hunters.
As for the tea! Well, I never realized before what a good thing tea
is, and how much a fellow can drink of it. Have I had six or twenty
of those big tin cups full? No matter, it’s either one or the other,
and every one of them has gone right to the spot where it will do the
most good. Wouldn’t my Aunt Ruth be horrified, though, if she could
see us dispose of that amount of straight tea? She used to consider
one small cup, with plenty of milk in it, about the proper thing for a
boy’s daily allowance. But then Aunt Ruth never enjoyed the advantage
of drinking her tea out-of-doors, with the mercury away down below
freezing.”
“Don’t you mean below zero?” suggested Serge, who was refilling the
chynik with hot water, and setting it on to boil, that what virtue
still remained in the tea-leaves might be extracted for the use of the
Indians.
“Certainly not!” retorted Phil. “Why, it has grown at least twenty
degrees warmer during the past half-hour.” So saying, he reached for
the thermometer and held it to the light, where, to his disgust, he saw
that it registered three degrees lower than when he last looked, or
eighteen degrees below zero.
“You prevaricating old tin villyan!” he cried. “You are away off, and
you know it. Oh, if I could only get one cup of that tea inside of you!
It would bring you to your senses quick enough.”
The Indians had their own wooden bowls, or “kantags,” horn spoons, and
tin cups, and while they ate their supper they were again amused by
seeing Serge wash all his dishes and cooking utensils with hot, soapy
water. They allowed their favorite dogs to lick their kantags clean,
and it must be admitted that the operation was quickly and thoroughly
performed.
After supper a line was rigged, and on it were hung mittens,
travelling-boots, and the pads of dry grass that are worn inside of
them as insoles. Serge set a big kettle of deer meat, pemmican, and
oatmeal on the fire to simmer into a stew for breakfast and lunch
the next day. He also fixed a slab of snow where, as it melted, it
would drip into the teakettle. By his advice Phil bathed his swollen
ankles with water as hot as he could bear it and rubbed tallow on
the blistered places. This treatment was to be followed by a dash of
ice-water and a brisk rubbing the first thing in the morning.
On the other side of the fire the Indians indulged in the long-pipe
smoke that after a hard day’s work affords the chief enjoyment of their
monotonous lives. When it was finished Kurilla went out for a final
look at the sledges and dogs, and threw a couple more logs on the fire.
Then he rolled up in his rabbit-skin robe for as many hours of sleep
as he could obtain before it would be necessary to again replenish the
fire and incidentally to take another smoke.
Removing only their heavy outer parkas, with their feet incased in
soft arctic sleeping-socks, their heads protected by close-fitting fur
caps, and sheltered from the cold by the triple thickness of their
fur-lined sleeping-bags, Phil and Serge lay on their bear-skins, feet
to the fire, and slept the untroubled sleep of tired and healthy youth.
About them clustered the solemn trees of that Northern forest, just
beyond lay the river frozen into white silence, and above all glowed
the exquisite mysterious sky-tintings of an aurora, pervading all space
with its flashing brilliancy quivering with ceaseless motion, though
giving forth neither heat nor sound and but little light. With the
rising moon frost crystals glistened in the air, and the long-drawn
howl of a wolf echoed mournfully through the forest. Every dog in the
camp promptly answered it, while Kurilla arose with a shiver and mended
the fire; but of all this the two lads lying side by side on their rude
couch knew nothing.
It was Phil who first awoke and looked out from his warm nest. With a
shudder at the bitterness of the air he would have withdrawn his head
and snuggled down for another nap, but for two thoughts that just then
flashed into his mind. One was of his father, whom he believed to be
encamped within one hundred miles or so of him on that very river, and
whom he was bound to overtake. The second thought was that as leader
of the expedition it was his place to set the others an example. It
would be pleasant to lie there and sleep until sunrise, but braver
to set forth at once. In another minute he had struggled from the
sleeping-bag, pulled on his heavy parka, and was shouting, cheerily:
“Come, wake up! wake up! Tumble out, all hands! Don’t you see the sun
a-shining, and hear the little birds a-singing?”
“Looks more like the moon, and sounds like dogs,” growled Serge,
sleepily, as he sat up and rubbed his eyes. “My! but it _is_ cold!”
“Yes,” admitted Phil. “Fifty below at least, and more, I’ll be bound.”
It really seemed as cold as that, and when his thermometer showed only
twenty degrees below zero he declared it to be a fraud, and unworthy
of further consideration. None but those who have experienced similar
conditions can imagine the misery of that camp-breaking and getting
under way. The hunting from their snowy lairs and harnessing of
unwilling dogs, the lashing of loads and the tying of knots with numbed
fingers, the longing to hug the fire in one’s arms, and the hundred
other forms of torture incident to the relentless cold, all combined to
give Phil a rude foretaste of what that journey was to be. Amid all the
wretchedness Serge was, as usual, the comforter, and with his smoking
stew and hot tea did much towards restoring cheerfulness.
It wanted some hours to sunrise when the sledges pulled out from
camp, regained the river, and resumed their northward journey. The
sky was overcast, and an ominous moaning sounded through the forest.
Soon a breeze began to blow in angry gusts full in the faces of our
travellers, and by sunrise it was sweeping furiously down the river,
whirling the dry snow in blinding clouds and driving the icy particles
with stinging force into face and eyes. Noses and cheeks became white
and numb, the deadly cold was driven through fur and flannel until it
penetrated the very marrow. Even the dogs plodded on with lowered heads
and pitiful whimperings, while their masters were obliged to turn their
backs to the gale every few minutes for breath and a momentary respite
from the fierce struggle.
“’Tis _poorga_――yaas!” shouted Kurilla.
“Aye, _poorga_!” answered Serge, and for the first time Phil
comprehended the full significance of the terrible word which means the
wind of death.
By noon human endurance could hold out no longer, and, ready to drop
with cold, pain, and exhaustion, Phil led his train to camp in a belt
of timber so thick that even that fierce wind could not penetrate it,
though among the tree-tops it shrieked and howled with demoniac fury.
Thus from camp to camp, through sunshine and darkness, storm and calm,
stinging cold and whirling snows, the little party toiled onward,
making twenty, thirty, and as high as forty miles a day. They passed
the Indian settlement of Nulato, once a noted Russian trading-post,
at the end of ten days’ travel, and a week later gained the mission
station of old Fort Adams, four hundred miles from their point of
departure. At several Indian villages they had heard of the party in
advance of them, whose camps they also sometimes found. The trail
was growing fresh, and at Fort Adams they expected to gain definite
information of those whom they sought, if indeed they did not overtake
them at that point. At any rate, they would find a missionary there
from whom they would surely receive news.
The first word obtained by Kurilla from the mission Indians, who
swarmed forth to greet them, was that the missionary was absent, and
that those whom they sought had passed only the day before. The second
was that one of that party had returned but an hour previous, and was
even now in the missionary’s house.
“You fadder, yaas,” added Kurilla, reassuringly, with a grin of
delight, as he led Phil in that direction.
[Illustration: “YOU FADDER, YAAS”]
With a loudly beating heart the excited lad opened the door. There sat
a man――a white man――in an attitude of the deepest dejection. He was
long and lank. His fur garments ill became him. Phil’s heart sank; for
in this uncouth figure there was no trace of his own dear father. Then,
as the woe-begone face was slowly turned to meet his, he uttered a
gasping shout of amazed recognition.
“Jalap Coombs, by all that is wonderful!”