presence of those who had died there--died horribly--men whose bodies
had withered, with slow suffering, in frigid blasts and famine, who
possibly had prolonged their suffering by feeding upon their own doomed
companions--and of others who had perished swiftly in the sudden yawning
of the leprous white mouth of the hungry frozen sea. It is said by some
that souls live only after death by the energy of great emotions, great
loves, or great ambitions generated throughout life. It seemed to me, in
those hours of intoxication, that I could feel the implacable,
unsatisfied desire of these disembodied things, who had vibrated with
one aim and still yearned in the spirit for what now they were
physically unable to attain. It seemed that my brain was fired with the
intensity of all these dead men's ambition, that my heart in sympathy
beat more turbulently with the throb of their dead hearts; I felt
growing within me, irresistibly, what I did not dare, for fear it might
not be possible, to confide to Bradley--a determination, even in the
face of peril, to essay the Pole!
From this time onward, and until I turned my back upon the fruitless
silver-shining place of desolation at the apex of the world, I felt the
intoxication, the intangible lure of the thing exhilarating, buoying me
gladsomely, beating in my heart with a singing rhythm. I recall it now
with marveling, and am filled with the pathos of it. Yet, despite all
that I have suffered since because of it, I regret not those enraptured
hours of perpetual glitter of midnight suns.
One morning we reached the northern shore of Melville Bay, and the bold
cliffs of Cape York were dimly outlined through a gray mist. Strong
southern winds had carried such great masses of ice against the coast
that it was impossible to make a near approach, and as a strong wind
continued, there was such a heavy sea along the bobbing line of outer
ice as to make it quite impossible to land and thence proceed toward the
shore.
We were desirous of meeting the natives of Cape York, but these ice
conditions forced us to proceed without touching here, and so we set our
course for the next of the northernmost villages, at North Star Bay. By
noon the mist had vanished, and we saw clearly the steep slopes and warm
color of crimson cliffs rising precipitously out of the water. The coast
line is about two thousand feet high, evidently the remains of an old
tableland which extends a considerable distance northward. Here and
there were short glaciers which had worn the cliffs away in their
ceaseless effort to reach the sea. The air was full of countless gulls,
guillemots, little auks and eider-ducks.
As the eye followed the long and lofty line of crimson cliffs, there
came into sight a towering, conical rock, a well-known guidepost for the
navigator. Continuing, we caught sight of the long ice wall of Petowik
Glacier, and behind this, extending far to the eastward, the
scintillating, white expanse of the overland-ice which blankets the
interior of all Greenland.
The small and widely scattered villages of the Eskimos of this region
are hemmed in by the ice walls of Melville Bay on the southward, the
stupendous cliffs of Humboldt Glacier on the north, an arm of the sea to
the westward, and the hopelessly desolate Greenland interior toward the
east.
There is really no reason why many Eskimos should not live here, for
there is abundant food in both sea and air, and even considerable game
on land. Blue and white foxes are everywhere to be seen. There is the
seal, the walrus, the narwhal, and the white whale. There is the white
bear, monarch of the Polar wilds, who roams in every direction over his
kingdom. The principal reason why the population remains so small lies
in the hazardous conditions of life. Children are highly prized, and a
marriageable woman or girl who has one or more of them is much more
valuable as a match than one who is childless.
The coast line here is paradoxically curious, for although the coast
exceeds but barely more than two hundred miles of latitude it presents
in reality a sea line of about four thousand miles when the great
indentations of Wolstenholm Sound, Inglefield Gulf, and other bays,
sounds and fiords are measured.
We sailed cautiously now about Cape Atholl, which we were to circle; a
fog lay upon the waters, almost entirely hiding the innumerable
icebergs, and making it difficult to pick our course among the dangerous
rocks in this vicinity.
Rounding Cape Atholl, we sailed into Wolstenholm Sound and turned our
prow toward the Eskimo village on North Star Bay.
North Star Bay is guarded by a promontory expressively named Table
Mountain, "Oomanaq." As we neared this headland, many natives came out
in kayaks to meet us. Inasmuch as I knew most of them personally, I felt
a singular thrill of pleasure in seeing them. Years before, I learned
their simple-hearted faithfulness. Knud Rasmussen, a Danish writer,
living as a native among the Eskimos, apparently for the sake of getting
local color, was in one of the canoes and came aboard the ship.
As it was necessary to make slight repairs to the schooner, we here had
to follow the primitive method of docking by preliminary beaching her.
This was done at high tide when the propeller, which had been bent--the
principal damage to the ship--was straightened. At the same time we gave
the yacht a general looking-over, and righted a universal joint whose
loosening had disabled the engine.
Meanwhile the launch kept busy scurrying to and fro, our quest being
occasionally rewarded with eider-ducks or other game. Late at night, a
visit was made to the village of Oomanooi. It could hardly be called a
village, for it consisted merely of seven triangular sealskin tents,
conveniently placed on picturesque rocks. Gathered about these in large
numbers, were men, women and children, shivering in the midnight chill.
These were odd-looking specimens of humanity. In height, the men
averaged but five feet, two inches, and the women four feet, ten. All
had broad, fat faces, heavy bodies and well-rounded limbs. Their skin
was slightly bronzed; both men and women had coal-black hair and brown
eyes. Their noses were short, and their hands and feet short, but thick.
A genial woman was found at every tent opening, ready to receive
visitors in due form. We entered and had a short chat with each family.
Subjects of conversation were necessarily limited, but after all, they
were about the same as they would have been in a civilized region. We
conversed as to whether or not all of us had been well, of deaths,
marriages and births. Then we talked of the luck of the chase, which
meant prosperity or need of food. Even had it been a civilized
community, there would have been little questioning regarding national
or international affairs, because, in such case, everyone reads the
papers. Here there was no comment on such subjects simply because nobody
cares anything about them or has any papers to read.
That a prominent Eskimo named My-ah had disposed of a few surplus wives
to gain the means whereby to acquire a few more dogs, was probably the
most important single item of information conveyed. I was also informed
that at the present time there happened to be only one other man with
two wives.
Marriage, among these folk, is a rather free and easy institution. It
is, indeed, not much more than a temporary tie of possession. Men
exchange partners with each other much in the manner that men in other
countries swap horses. And yet, the position of women is not so humble
as this custom might seem to indicate, for they themselves are
permitted, not infrequently, to choose new partners. These exceedingly
primitive ideas work out surprisingly well in practice in these isolated
regions, for such exchanges, when made, are seemingly to the advantage
and satisfaction of all parties; no regrets are expressed, and the feuds
of divorce courts, of alimony proceedings, of damages for alienation of
affection, which prevail in so-called civilization, are unknown.
It is certainly a curious thing that these simple but intelligent people
are able to control their own destinies with a comfortable degree of
success, although they are without laws or literature and without any
fixed custom to regulate the matrimonial bond.
It would seem as if there ought to be a large population, for there is
an average of about three fat, clever children for each family, the
youngest as a rule picturesquely resting in a pocket on the mother's
back. But the hardships of life in this region are such that accidents
and deaths keep down the population.
Each tent has a raised platform, upon which all sleep. The edge of this
makes a seat, and on each side are placed stone lamps in which blubber
is burned, with moss as a wick. Over this is a drying rack, also a few
sticks, but there is no other furniture. Their dress of furs gives the
Eskimos a look of savage fierceness which their kindly faces and easy
temperament do not warrant.
On board the yacht were busy days of barter. Furs and ivory were
gathered in heaps in exchange for guns, knives and needles. Every
seaman, from cabin boy to captain, suddenly got rich in the gamble of
trade for prized blue-fox skins and narwhal tusks.
The Eskimos were equally elated with their part of the bargain. For a
beautiful fox skin, of less use to a native than a dog pelt, he could
secure a pocket knife that would serve him half a lifetime!
A woman exchanged her fur pants, worth a hundred dollars, for a red
pocket handkerchief with which she would decorate her head or her igloo
for years to come.
Another gave her bearskin mits for a few needles, and she conveyed the
idea that she had the long end of the trade! A fat youth with a fatuous
smile displayed with glee two bright tin cups, one for himself and one
for his prospective bride. He was positively happy in having obtained
nine cents' worth of tin for only an ivory tusk worth ninety dollars!
With the coming of the midnight tide we lifted the schooner to an even
keel from the makeshift dry-dock on the beach. She was then towed out
into the bay by the launch and two dories, and anchored.
Our first walrus adventures began in Wolstenholm Sound during the
beautiful nightless days of mid-August. The local environment was
fascinating. The schooner was anchored in North Star Bay, a lake of
glitter in which wild men in skin canoes darted after seals and
eider-ducks. On grassy shores were sealskin tents, about which fur-clad
women and children vied with wolf-dogs for favorite positions to see the
queer doings of white men. A remarkable landmark made the place
conspicuous. A great table-topped rock rose suddenly out of a low
foreland to an altitude of about six hundred feet. About this giant
cliff, gulls, guillemots and ravens talked and winged uproariously. The
rock bore the native name of Oomanaq. With the unique Eskimo manner of
name-coining, the village was called Oomanooi.
Wolstenholm Sound is a large land-locked body of water, with arms
reaching to the narrow gorges of the overland sea of ice, from which
icebergs tumble ceaslessly. The sparkling water reflected the
surroundings in many shades of blue and brown, relieved by strong
contrasts of white and black. On the western sky line were the chiseled
walls of Acponie and other islands, and beyond a steel-gray mist in
which was wrapped the frozen sea of the Polar gateway. Fleets of
icebergs moved to and fro, dragging tails of drift bejeweled with blue
crystal.
Far out--ten miles from our outlook--there was a meeting of the
currents. Here, small pieces of sea-ice slowly circled in an eddy, and
upon them were herds of walruses. We did not see them, but their shrill
voices rang through the icy air like a wireless message. This was a
call to action which Mr. Bradley could not resist, and preparations were
begun for the combat.
The motor boat--the most important factor in the chase--had been
especially built for just such an encounter. Covered with a folding
whale-back top entirely painted white to resemble ice, we had hoped to
hunt walrus under suitable Arctic cover.
Taking a white dory in tow, two Eskimo harpooners were invited to
follow. The natives in kayaks soon discovered to their surprise that
their best speed was not equal to ours--for the first time they were
beaten in their own element. For ages the Eskimos had rested secure in
the belief that the kayak was the fastest thing afloat. They had been
beaten by big ships, of course, but these had spiritual wings and did
not count in the race of man's craft. This little launch, however, with
its rapid-fire gas explosions, made their eyes bulge to a wondering,
wide-open, seal-like curiosity. They begged to be taken aboard to watch
the loading of the engines; they thought we fed it with cartridges.
After a delightful run of an hour, a pan of ice was sighted with black
hummocks on it. "_Ahwek! Ahwek!_" the Eskimos shouted. A similar sound
floated over the oily waters from many walrus throats. The walruses were
about three miles to the southwest. At a slower speed we advanced two
miles more. In the meantime Mr. Bradley cleared the deck for action. The
direction of the hunting tactics was now turned over to My-ah. The mate
was at the wheel. I pushed the levers of the gasoline kicker. Our line
of attack was ordered at right angles to the wind. As we neared the
game, the engines were stopped.
Looking through glasses, the sight of the gregarious herd made our
hearts quicken. They were all males of tremendous size, with glistening
tusks with which they horned one another in efforts for favorable
positions. Some were asleep, others basked in the sun with heads turning
lazily from side to side. Now and then, they uttered sleepy, low grunts.
They were quivering in a gluttonous slumber, while the organs piled up
their bank account of fat to pay the costs of the gamble of the coming
winter night.
With muffled paddles the launch was now silently propelled forward,
while the kayaks stealthily advanced to deliver the harpoons. The Eskimo
reason for this mode of procedure is based on a careful study of the
walrus' habits. Its nose in sleep is always pointed windwards. Its ears
are at all times sensitive to noises from every direction, while the
eyes during wakeful moments sweep the horizon. But its horizon is very
narrow. Only the nose and the ear sense the distant alarm. We advanced
very slowly and cautiously, and that only when all heads were down. Our
boat slowly got within three hundred yards of the herd. Preparing their
implements to strike, the Eskimos had advanced to within fifty feet. The
moment was tense. Of a sudden, a tumultuous floundering sound smote the
air. The sleeping creatures awoke, and with a start leaped into the sea.
Turning their kayaks, the Eskimos paddled a wild retreat and sought the
security of the launch. The sport of that herd was lost to us. Although
they darted about under water in a threatening manner, they only rose to
the surface at a safe distance.
Scanning the surroundings with our glasses, about two miles to the
south another group was sighted. This time Bradley, as the chief nimrod,
assumed direction. The kayaks and the Eskimos were placed in the dory.
Tactics were reversed. Instead of creeping up slowly, a sudden rush was
planned. No heed was taken of noise or wind. The carburetor was opened,
the spark lever of the magneto was advanced to its limit, and we shot
through the waters like a torpedo boat. As we neared the herd, the dory,
with its Eskimos, was freed from the launch. The Eskimos were given no
instructions, and they wisely chose to keep out of the battle.
As we got to within two hundred yards, the canvas top of the launch fell
and a heavy gun bombardment began. The walruses had not had time to
wake; the suddenness of the onslaught completely dazed them. One after
another dropped his ponderous head with a sudden jerk as a prize to the
marksmen, while the launch, at reduced speed, encircled the
walrus-encumbered pan. Few escaped. There were heads and meat and skins
enough to satisfy all wants for a long time to follow. But the game was
too easy--the advantage of an up-to-date sportsman had been carried to
its highest degree of perfection. It was otherwise, however, in the
walrus battles that followed later--battles on the success of which
depended the possibility of my being able to assail the northern ice
desert, in an effort to reach the Polar goal.
Oomanooi was but one of six villages among which the tribe had divided
its two hundred and fifty people for the current season. To study these
interesting folk, to continue the traffic and barter, and to enjoy for a
short time the rare sport of sailing and hunting in this wild region,
we decided to visit as many of the villages as possible.
In the morning the anchor was raised and we set sail in a light wind
headed for more northern villages. It was a gray day, with a quiet sea.
The speed of the yacht was not fast enough to be exciting, so Mr.
Bradley suggested lowering the launch for a crack at ducks, or a chase
at walrus or a drive at anything that happened to cut the waters. His
harpoon gun was taken, as it was hoped that a whale might come our way,
but the gun proved unsatisfactory and did not contribute much to our
sport. In the fleet launch we were able to run all around the schooner
as she slowly sailed over Wolstenholm Sound.
Ducks were secured in abundance. Seals were given chase, but they were
able to escape us. Nearing Saunders Island, a herd of walruses was seen
on a pan of drift ice far ahead. The magneto was pushed, the carburetor
opened, and out we rushed after the shouting beasts. Two, with splendid
tusks, were obtained, and two tons of meat and blubber were turned over
to our Eskimo allies.
The days of hunting proved quite strenuous, and in the evening we were
glad to seek the comfort of our cosy cabin, after dining on eider-ducks
and other game delicacies.
A few Eskimos had asked permission to accompany us to a point farther
north. Among them was a widow, to whom, for herself and her children, we
had offered a large bed, with straw in it, between decks, but which,
savage as she was, she had refused, saying she preferred the open air on
deck. There she arranged a den among the anchor chains, under a shelter
of seal skins.
In tears, she told us the story of her life, a story which offered a
peep into the tragedy and at the same time the essential comedy of
Eskimo existence. It came in response to a question from me as to how
the world had used her, for I had known her years before. At my simple
question, she buried her face in her hands and for a time could only
mutter rapidly and unintelligibly to her two little boys. Then, between
sobs, she told me her story.
Ma-nee--such was her name--was a descendant of the Eskimos of the
American side. A foreign belle, and, although thin, fair to look upon,
as Eskimo beauty goes, her hand was sought early by the ardent youths of
the tribe, who, truth to tell, look upon utility as more desirable than
beauty in a wife. The heart of Ma-nee throbbed to the pleadings of one
Ik-wa, a youth lithe and brave, with brawn and sinews as resilient as
rubber and strong as steel, handsome, dark, with flashing eyes, yet with
a heart as cruel as the relentless wind and cold sea of the North.
Ma-nee married Ik-wa and bore to him several children. These, which
meant wealth of the most valuable kind (children even exceeding in value
dogs, tusks and skins), meant the attainment of Ik-wa's selfish purpose.
Ma-nee was fair, but her hands were not adroit with the needle, nor was
she fair in the plump fashion desirable in wives.
Ik-wa met Ah-tah, a good seamstress, capable of much toil, not
beautiful, but round and plump. Whereupon, Ik-wa took Ah-tah to wife,
and leading Ma-nee to the door of their igloo, ordered her to leave.
Cruel as can be these natives, they also possess a persistence and a
tenderness that manifest themselves in strange, dramatic ways. Ma-nee,
disconsolate but brave, departed. There being at the time a scarcity of
marriageable women in the village, Ma-nee was soon wooed by another, an
aged Eskimo, whose muscles had begun to wither, whose eyes no longer
flashed as did Ik-wa's, but whose heart was kind. To him Ma-nee bore two
children, those which she had with her on deck. To them, unfortunately,
descended the heritage of their father's frailities; one--now
eight--being the only deaf and dumb Eskimo in all the land; the other,
the younger, aged three, a weakling with a pinched and pallid face and
thin, gaunt arms. Ma-nee's husband was not a good hunter, for age and
cold had sapped his vigor. Their home was peaceful if not prosperous;
the two loved one another, and, because of their defects, Ma-nee grew to
love her little ones unwontedly.
Just before the beginning of the long winter night, the old father,
anxious to provide food and deer skins for the coming months of
continuous darkness, ventured alone in search of game among the
mountains of the interior. Day after day, while the gloom descended,
Ma-nee, dry eyed waited. The aged father never came back. Returning
hunters finally brought news that he had perished alone, from a gun
accident, in the icy wilderness, and they had found him, his frozen,
mummied face peeping anxiously from the mantle of snow. Ma-nee wept
broken-heartedly.
Ma-nee gazed into the faces of the two children with a wild, tragic
wistfulness. By the stern and inviolable law of the Eskimos, Ma-nee knew
her two beloved ones were condemned to die. In this land, where food is
at a premium, and where every helpless and dependent life means a
sensible drain upon the tribe's resources, they have evolved that
Spartan law which results in the survival of only the fittest. The one
child, because of its insufficient senses, the other because it was
still on its mother's back and under three at the time its father died,
and with no father to support them, were doomed. Kind-hearted as the
Eskimos naturally are, they can at times, in the working out of that
code which means continued existence, be terribly brutal. Their fierce
struggle with the elements for very existence has developed in them an
elemental fierceness. From probable experience in long-past losses of
life from contagion, they instinctively destroy every igloo in which a
native dies, or, at times, to save the igloo, they heartlessly seize the
dying, and dragging him through the low door, cast him, ere breath has
ceased, into the life-stilling outer world.
This inviolable custom of ages Ma-nee, with a Spartan courage,
determined to break. During the long night which had just passed,
friends had been kind to Ma-nee, but now that she was defying Eskimo
usage, she could expect no assistance. Brutal as he had been to her,
hopeless as seemed such prospects, Ma-nee thought of the cruel Ik-wa and
determined to go to him, with the two defective children of her second
husband, beg him to accept them as his own and to take her, as a
secondary wife, a servant--a position of humiliation and hard labor. In
this determination, which can be appreciated only by those who know how
implacable and heartless the natives can be, Ma-nee was showing one of
their marvellous traits, that indomitable courage, persistence and
dogged hopefulness which, in my two later companions, E-tuk-i-shook and
Ah-we-lah, enabled them, with me, to reach the Pole.
I admired the spirit of Ma-nee, and promised to help her, although the
mission of reuniting the two seemed dubious.
Ma-nee was not going to Ik-wa entirely empty-handed, however, for she
possessed some positive wealth in the shape of several dogs, and three
bundles of skins and sticks which comprised her household furniture.
We soon reached the village where Ma-nee was to be put ashore. Very
humbly, the heroic mother and her two frail children went to Ik-wa's
tent. Ik-wa was absent hunting, and his wife, who had supplanted Ma-nee,
a fat, unsociable creature, appeared. Weeping, Ma-nee told of her plight
and begged for shelter. The woman stolidly listened; then, without a
word, turned her back on the forlorn mother and entered her tent. For
the unintentional part we had played she gave us exceedingly cold,
frowning looks which were quite expressive.
Ma-nee now went to the other villagers. They listened to her plans, and
their primitive faces lighted with sympathy. I soon saw them serving a
pot of steaming oil meat in her honor--a feast in which we were urgently
invited to partake, but which we, fortunately, found some good excuse
for avoiding. Although she had violated a custom of the tribe, these
people, both stern-hearted and tender, recognized the greatness of a
mother-love which had braved an unwritten law of ages, and they took her
in. Several months later, on a return to the village, I saw Ik-wa
himself. Although he did not thank me for the unwitting part I had
played in their reunion, he had taken Ma-nee back, and near his own
house was a new igloo in which the mother lived with her children.