CHRISTMAS ON THE TANANA
“Look here,” said Phil, referring to the mate’s last surprising
statement, “wasn’t your friend Mr. Roberson in the habit of drawing the
long bow?”
“No,” replied Jalap Coombs, in surprise at the question; “he couldn’t
abide ’em.”
“Couldn’t abide what?”
“Bows, nor yet arrers, since when he were a kid some boys put up a game
on him that they called William Tell, which allers did seem to me the
foolishest game, seeing that his name warn’t William, but Kite, and he
warn’t expected to tell anything, only just to stand with a punkin on
his head for them to shoot their bow-arrers at. Waal, the very fust one
missed the punkin and plunked poor Kite in the stummick, after which he
didn’t have no use for a long bow nor a short bow, nor yet a bow of any
kind.”
“I don’t blame him,” laughed Serge. “But we would very much like to
know how he determined latitude by tea and coffee.”
“Easy enough,” was the reply. “You see, tea is drunk mostly in cold
latitoods similar to this, and coffee in warm. The higher the latitood,
the hotter and stronger the tea, and the less you hear of coffee. At
forty-five or thereabouts they’s drunk about alike, while south of
that coffee grows blacker and more common, while tea takes a back seat
till you get to the line, where it’s mighty little used. Then as you
go south of that the same thing begins all over again; but there’s not
many would notice sich things, and fewer as would put ’em to practical
use like old Kite done.”
“Mr. Coombs,” said Phil, “you sound pretty well thawed out, and if that
is the case we’ll get under way again.”
“Aye, aye, sir!” responded the mate, thrashing his long arms vigorously
across his chest to restore circulation, and then slipping resignedly
into his fur bag. “Anchor’s apeak, sir.” And away sped the sledges up
the broad level of the Tanana.
Every member of the party had by this time become so thoroughly broken
in to his duties that when they made camp that night the promptness
with which it was prepared, as well as the ensuing comfort, was a
revelation to Jalap Coombs, who declared that there had been nothing
like it in the camps of the other party.
“Of course not,” said Phil, “for they haven’t got Serge Belcofsky
along, so how could their comfort equal ours?”
At this Serge, covered with confusion, replied, “Nonsense, Phil! You
know it is because we have got such capital campmen as Kurilla and
Chitsah with us.”
At this the face of the elder Indian beamed with pleasure. He did not
exactly understand the conversation; but believing that he ought to
make some reply, he pointed to Jalap Coombs, and, looking at Phil,
remarked:
“You fadder. Yaas.”
But the journey up the Tanana was by no means an unbroken record of
swift movings from one comfortable camp to another, or of jokes and
pleasantries. The days were now at their shortest, so that each could
boast only about four hours of sunlight, and even that was frequently
obscured by fierce storms, when the howling winds cut like knives,
and it required every ounce of Phil Ryder’s pluck as well as Serge
Belcofsky’s dogged determination to keep the little party in motion.
The feet of the poor dogs were often so pierced by ice slivers that
their tracks were marked with blood. The older and more experienced
would bite at these and pull them out. Others would howl with pain,
while some would lie down and refuse to work until they were put in
boots, which were little bags of deer-hide drawn over their feet and
fastened with buckskin thongs.
It was a journey of constant and painful struggle and of dreary
monotony, each day being only the same endless succession of ice-bound
river, snow-covered hills, and sombre forest. Especially depressing
was the night of the 24th of December, when, with an icy wind moaning
through the tree-tops of the subarctic forest, and the shivering dogs
edging towards the fire for a share of its grateful warmth, Phil and
Serge and Jalap Coombs reminded each other that this was Christmas Eve.
Never before had Phil spent one away from home, nor had the others ever
been so utterly removed from the cheering influences of the joyous
season. So Phil described what he knew was taking place in far-distant
New London at that very hour, and Serge told of merry times in quaint
old Sitka, while Jalap Coombs recalled many a noble plum-duff that had
graced Christmas feasts far out at sea, until they all grew homesick,
and finally crawled into their sleeping-bags to dream of scenes as
remote from those surrounding them as could well be imagined.
As they always selected a camping-place and prepared for the long night
by the last of the scanty daylight or in the middle of the afternoon,
so they always resumed their journey by the moonlight or starlight,
or even in the darkness of two or three o’clock the next morning. On
Christmas morning they started, as usual, many hours before daylight,
and, either owing to the vagueness of all outlines, or because his
thoughts were far away, the young leader mistook a branch for the main
river, and headed for a portion of the mighty wilderness that no white
man had ever yet explored.
About noon they passed a forlorn native village of three or four
snow-covered huts, the occupants of which gazed at the unaccustomed
sight of white travellers in stolid amazement. They had gone nearly a
mile beyond this sole evidence of human occupation to be found in many
a weary league when Phil suddenly stopped.
“Look here!” he exclaimed, “what do you two say to going back, making
a camp near that village, and having some sort of a Christmas, after
all? It doesn’t seem right for white folks to let the day go by without
celebrating it somehow.”
As the others promptly agreed to this proposition the sledges were
faced about, and a few minutes later the music of Musky’s jingling
bells again attracted the wondering natives from their burrows.
Camp was made on a wooded island opposite the village, and while the
others were clearing the snow from a space some fifty feet square, and
banking it up on the windward side, Phil took his gun and set forth to
hunt for a Christmas dinner. An hour later he returned with four arctic
hares and a brace of ptarmigan, or Yukon grouse, whose winter plumage
was as spotless as the snow itself.
He found Serge and Jalap Coombs concocting a huge plum-duff, while
from the brass kettle a savory steam was already issuing. Kurilla and
Chitsah had chopped a hole through four feet of ice and were fishing,
while a few natives from the village hovered about the outskirts of
the camp, watching its strange life with curious interest. They were
very shy, and moved away when Phil approached them, seeing which he
called Kurilla and bade him tell them that a present would be given to
every man, woman, and child who should visit the camp before sunset.
At first they could not comprehend this startling proposition, but
after it had been repeated a few times the youngest of them, a mere
boy, uttered a joyous shout and started on a run for the village. A
few minutes later its entire population, not more than twenty-five
in all, including babes in arms, or rather in the hoods of their
mother’s parkas, came hurrying over from the mainland filled with eager
expectancy.
To every man Phil presented a small piece of tobacco, to every woman
a handful of tea, and to every child a biscuit dipped in molasses.
With each present he uttered, very distinctly, the word “Christmas.”
At length one child――though whether it were a boy or a girl he could
not make out, for their fur garments were all exactly alike――looked up
with a bashful smile and said “Kikmuk.” In a minute all the others had
caught the word, and the air rang with shouts of “Kikmuk,” mingled with
joyous laughter.
[Illustration: “KIKMUK”]
Then they all trooped back to the village, shouting “Kikmuk” as they
went; and so long as they live the word will be associated in their
minds with happiness and good-will. Three of them, a man and two women,
afterwards returned, bringing with them a pair of dainty moccasins, a
fox-skin, and an intestine filled with melted fat, which they timidly
presented to Phil, Serge, and Jalap Coombs respectively. The last named
regarded his gift rather dubiously, but accepted it with a hearty
“Kikmuk,” and remarked that it would probably be good for his feet,
which it afterwards proved to be.
These three were invited to dine with Kurilla and Chitsah, an
invitation which they accepted, and so became the guests of the
Christmas dinner. On their side of the fire the feast consisted
largely of the fish the Indians had just caught, to which were added
unstinted tea and a liberal supply of the plum-duff. On the other side
were mock-turtle soup _à la can_, baked fish, rabbit fricassee, roast
grouse, plum-duff, hard bread, tea, and cocoa; all of which combined
to form what Phil pronounced to be the very best Christmas dinner he
had ever eaten, in which sentiment Serge and Jalap Coombs heartily
concurred.
Even the dogs were given cause to rejoice that Christmas had at length
come to their snowy land by receiving a double ration of dried fish,
which put them into such good spirits that they spent the greater part
of the night in a rollicking game of romps.
On the Indian side of the fire the unwonted good cheer so overcame
the shyness of the villagers that the man ventured to ask questions
regarding the intentions and destination of this sledge party of
strangers. When these were stated by Kurilla, he remained silent for a
minute. Then he delivered a long and animated speech.
As a result of this, and when it was finished, Kurilla left his own
side of the fire and, approaching Phil, said:
“You go Forty Mile?”
“Yes. We are going to Forty Mile, of course.”
“No like um Tanana?”
“Certainly, I like the Tanana well enough. I shall like it better,
though, when we have seen the last of it.”
“No can see um now.”
“Why not? There it is right out yonder.”
“No. Him Kloot-la-ku-ka. Tanana so” (pointing to the way they had
come). “You go so way” (pointing up-stream), “get lose; mebbe no fin’;
plenty bad. Yaas!”
So, all on account of keeping Christmas and trying to bring a little
of its joy into the hearts of those children of the wilderness, Phil’s
mistake was discovered before its consequences became disastrous, and
he was once more enabled to place his little party on the right road to
Sitka.