THE WALRUS HUNT
Meanwhile, on the ice-locked shores of Great Bear Lake, preparations for
departure were being made by the airplane party. The gasoline must all be
strained through a chamois-skin to insure them against water in the
engines, and this, with the temperature at thirty to forty below, was no
mean task. There was a careful selection of foodstuffs to be taken along.
It was decided also that the five dogs should go, for they would provide
transportation, in case of accident, and could be killed and eaten as a
last resort. The entire equipment was given a thorough overhauling. All
this took three days of arduous toil.
When, at last, all was in readiness, and the earth began to drop away
beneath them, the dogs put their noses in the air and chorused a canine
Arctic dirge. But their howls were lost in the noise of the engines.
As for the boys, their cheeks burned. Truly, this was to be their
greatest adventure--"An adventure quite worthy the heart of a true
soldier," as the Major had expressed it. Many problems they left
behind unsolved, but these were quite crowded out of their minds by
the one supreme problem: Would they reach the Pole, and would they
reach it first?
Somewhere on the shores of Melville Bay, near the banks of Melville
Island, frozen in the ice for the winter, was the little gasoline
schooner which had engaged to furnish them fuel for the last lap of the
journey north and the return. The gas would cost a pretty penny, to be
sure, for it would compel the trader to return to Nome earlier than he
had intended doing, but money seemed no object to the zealous explorer.
Setting their course a little east of north, they shot directly away.
Bruce, who was driving, settled back easily in his place. The machine was
soaring beautifully. The engines worked in perfect time. Everything
promised a safe and speedy trip. Now and again a belated flock of
snow-geese, as if drawn by an invisible thread, shot by them; and now,
far below, they caught sight of moving brown specks, which told of
caribou still passing southward from the summer pasture in the unexplored
lands far to the North. The fleeting panorama was of constantly changing
interest and beauty.
Soon they left the land behind. They were passing over Prince Albert
Sound. Its surface was already white with ice. Land again, then Melville
Sound--last lap on this three hundred mile journey. Bruce found himself
unable to believe they were over a great body of salt water. Surely these
squares, rising from the surface, white and glistening in the moonlight,
were village roofs covered with snow. Surely, these other squares lying
flat upon the surface were town lots, and the broader ones stretches of
field and meadow, where grain would ripen in summer and flowers bloom.
And the spots of open water, made black by the whiteness about them,
were fishing-ponds where one might lazily dip his line and dream.
But as he shook himself back into reality, a startling question had come
to him. His lips put it in words.
"How are we going to tell that schooner when we see it?" he barked
through the Major's telephone. "Won't she be buried in snow?"
"Probably will," admitted the Major, "but there's sure to be a native
village near by, and though their houses are built of snow, they always
have a litter of black things about--sleds, hunting implements, skins,
and the like. We can't miss it."
"Natives. M-m-m," Bruce mumbled. "Nagyuktogmiut, or something like that.
Hope the white man happens to be about when we land. I've read
Stefansson's account of them. They treated him all right, but when old
Thunderbird, his own self, brings them some white men, they may not be so
glad to see them, and those chaps have copper-pointed spears and arrows,
not to speak of rifles."
"The Indians didn't bother us," phoned back the Major.
"That's right. Well, I hope this is our lucky day." Bruce again gave his
whole attention to driving. Then, as they made out in the distance some
high elevations, that might be land or might be clouds, he dropped to a
lower level and scanned the surface of the ice for a black spot which
would tell of human habitations. The village, he knew, might be fifty
miles from land, for these Eskimos lived on the ocean's roof during the
entire winter and hunted seal and great-seal, moving only now and again
when game became scarce.
"There they are, over to the right," he exclaimed presently. He set his
machine in the general direction indicated. Soon a black patch began to
appear among the lights and shadows. Surely here was the village they
sought. The realization set his heart thumping violently.
"Drop in close and look for a landing."
The Major twisted in his seat and scanned the ice narrowly as he spoke.
"Just beyond them seems to be a broad flat pan. Looks safe. Try it"
Bruce cut off his engines and began circling down. It was the dead of
night. Apparently every person about the village was asleep. Now he could
distinguish sleds and skins hung on ice-piles to dry. Now he located the
double rows of dome houses. They were going to pass right over these, but
high enough to miss them.
Then, rapidly, things happened. A vagrant current of wind seized them and
they "bumped" in air. The next instant it was evident that a crash was
inevitable. They were swooping straight down upon a row of snow-domes.
But the machine was heavy, the snow-houses, mere shells, without the sign
of a shock, yielding to the compact, went spinning away in little bits,
revealing scores of sleepers snug beneath their deerskins. They had
awakened Bedlam. Men shouted, women and children screamed, dogs barked.
"Like knocking over a bee-hive," chuckled Barney.
Bruce, with a remarkably cool head, brought his machine to the smooth
surface beyond. In a moment she was slowing up to a perfect landing.
"Quick! The machine-gun!" exclaimed Barney.
Bruce gave one startled look behind them, then began working feverishly.
Already Barney and the Major were unstrapping themselves.
Across the ice in the vague moonlight a motley throng, a hundred strong,
was charging down upon them. Half-naked, their brown arms gleaming, they
seemed the inhabitants of some South Sea isle rather than Eskimos of the
Farthest North. Copper-pointed spears gleamed yellow and gold, while here
and there the dark barrel of a hunting rifle was to be seen.
"Go slow," warned the Major. "Remember it's men, women and children
instead of wolves this time. They're wild, but they're human. Send a
volley into the ice-piles at the left. Show 'em what you've got and
they'll stop--perhaps."
As Bruce turned the barrel of his deadly weapon, he caught the low
rumble of many voices. The natives were chanting a witching song to
destroy the power of evil spirits.
"Tat-tat-tat-tat." The machine-gun spoke. Bits of ice flew wildly. The
mob halted for a moment, then plunged on, still chanting that
maddening song.
Just at the moment when a massacre seemed inevitable, there came a roar
from the right. Turning, Bruce saw the form of a bearded man apparently
rising from a hole in a giant ice-cake. At the sound the wild mob halted.
"Hey! You fellows!" the stranger bellowed. "What's the matter with you?"
Then he turned to the natives and began to harangue them in a tongue
quite unknown even to the Major.
The instant Bruce saw the red-whiskered giant rise, seemingly from the
ocean, his hand relaxed on the machine-gun and he stood in ready
expectation. The Eskimos appeared to understand the words which the
stranger flung at them, for, though they continued their weird
incantation, they lowered their weapons and did not attempt to approach
nearer the white men.
Presently their weapons began clattering to the ice. Taking this as a
sign of friendliness, the explorers stepped out to meet them. Seeing
this, the natives gathered into a compact group, their song rising to a
wild humming howl, but they made no move to attack. When the strangers
were quite close, one native, braver than his companions, stepped
forward. Still chanting, he handed each explorer a small cube of whale
blubber. One cube remained in his own hand. This he proceeded to
swallow, indicating at the same time that the strangers were to follow
his example.
The moment the cubes disappeared the wild chorus ceased and the natives
crowded forward to extend a hearty welcome.
It was, however, a very long time before one of them was persuaded to
come near the airplane.
"I haven't a doubt," said the Major, "that they still believe that we
rode here on the back of old Thunder-bird himself. And why not? If we
can build schooners many times as large as their largest skin-boats and
run them by noise alone, if we can kill at a distance by a magic of great
noises, why couldn't we tame the Thunder-bird himself and make him carry
us? It is my firm conviction that if one of us were to return here in a
year or two, he would hear the most outlandish tales of the Kabluna who
rode the Thunder-bird."
The natives had returned to their camp to dress and to repair the damage
done by the airplane. The white men were approaching what appeared to be
the den of the bearded stranger, when the Major gave a cry of joy:
"Masts! Boys, we have finished the first lap of our journey. The den of
the stranger is the cabin to his schooner. He is the trader who is to
furnish us gasoline!"
The Major's surmise proved to be correct, and they were soon sitting
happily around a rough galley table, sipping at steaming "mulligan"--a
rich Arctic stew--and coffee.
"And now," said the Major, "for a few hours of sleep. After that your
time is your own for twelve hours."
"Twelve hours!" exclaimed Bruce in surprise. "Don't we start for the
Pole at once?"
"Young gentlemen," said the Major smiling, "your enthusiasm is gratifying
in the extreme. But flying, especially in high latitudes, is very trying
on the nerves--even such nerves as yours. Remember that in the Arctic,
where anything at all is liable to happen at a moment's notice, we must
always be at our best. So get some relaxation. What will you do with your
twelve hours?"
"I heard a walrus barking a half-hour ago!" exclaimed Barney eagerly.
"I'm for a walrus hunt," agreed Bruce.
"Good! That will stretch your legs a bit," said the Major. "But don't go
too far, nor take too many chances. Remember you have a mission to
accomplish here in the North."
The three adventurers were soon sleeping soundly in the bunks of the
Gussie Brown, and far away, bobbing his head through a water-hole
and shaking the icicles from his moustache, a great bull-walrus
barked at the moon.
When they awoke from dreamless slumber, the boys' first thought was of
the promised walrus hunt. They scrambled into their fur garments, and
hurrying to the surface of the floe, listened for the hoarse call of
their quarry, the walrus. They did not have to wait long.
"There he barks!" exclaimed Bruce, putting his hand to his ear.
"And again," Barney hurried below to secure a native harpoon and
skin-rope. Bruce provided himself with a high-power magazine rifle.
"We're off!" Barney shouted joyously to the Major, as he gulped down a
cup of steaming coffee and took a last bite of sour-dough bread.
"Good luck! And may you come back!" bantered the Major. Had he known how
real was his jesting prophecy of danger, he would not have joked.
As a rule, walrus-hunting in the Arctic is not a sport, it is a task--the
day's work of providing food for a village. It is as exciting as the
"hog-killing day" of a middle-west farmer. The hog may run amuck of the
farmer, and so may the walrus of the hunter; the chances are about equal.
The walrus seldom shows fight. Before he is harpooned, he either is quite
indifferent to the presence of the hunter, or slips away to the water at
sight of him. If harpooned, he makes every effort to escape, and only in
rare instances shows fight. The boys had been told all this by the trader
over their coffee the night before.
It was evident, then, that they must slip up on their prey without being
seen. This would be a comparatively simple matter, since the tumbled
ridges of ice afforded ideal hiding-places. When close enough, Barney,
who was the stronger of the two, was to drive the harpoon-point through
the thick skin of the creature. This harpoon-point was fastened to a
rawhide rope. He must instantly drive a copper-pointed lance into the
ice, and wrapping the skin-rope about it, close to the ice-surface, hold
on like grim death until Bruce dispatched the creature with his rifle.
Wherever the beast was, in a small water-hole kept opened by himself, or
a larger one formed by the shifting floes, their success would depend on
Barney's ability to keep the rope free from jagged edges which might cut
it, and Bruce's skill at quickly getting in a fatal shot. At regular
intervals the walrus must rise for air, and this would give the
opportunity for Bruce to get in his work.
"He's a moose!" whispered Bruce, as they crept close to the rather broad
waters-hole and eyed the creature through a crack between upended
ice-cakes.
"Tusks two feet and a half long! Must weigh a ton and a half!" Already
Barney felt his muscles ache from the strain.
"Well, here's for it!" He exclaimed, coiling his skin-rope. The next
instant there came a loud thwack, which told that the boy's shaft had
found its mark. Instantly there was a hoarse bellow and then a wild
splashing in the water. Bruce was at the top of a pressure ridge, ready
for action. Barney had made his shaft secure, but then there came a
strain that made the veins stand out on his forehead. Suddenly the strain
slackened.
"Be ready! He's coming--" Barney did not finish, for from the churning
water the walrus thrust his massive head, snorting and foaming. The
rifle cracked.
Silently the great creature sank, but this time the foaming water showed
a fleck of red where the walrus disappeared.
"Got him!" cried Bruce triumphantly.
But this time the strain on the lance was redoubled.
"Try--try to hit a vital--vital spot," panted Barney, as the strain
lessened once more. "Behind front flipper--in the eye."
Again the water foamed. Again the rifle cracked. More blood! Another
plunge, and again the strain seemed redoubled.
"I--can't--hold much--longer," Barney gasped.
Springing down from the pinnacle, Bruce ran to the edge of the pool,
and, leaping upon a floating ice-cake, waited again.
This time his aim was better.
The strain when the walrus sank was not so great.
"Doing fine," breathed Barney. "Next time we'll--"
Again he did not finish, for, unexpectedly, his friend shot up in the
air, to fall sprawling upon the cake of ice and cling there while it
tilted to an angle of forty-five degrees. The walrus had risen beneath
the cake and split it in two. Bruce was stunned by his fall, but Barney's
warning cry roused him. One glance revealed his perilous position. The
piece of ice to which he clung had been thrust toward the center of the
pool. Even now the gap was too wide for him to leap. To plunge into the
water, with the thermometer forty below, was to court death.
While he hesitated, the walrus rose to the surface. With a bellow that
sprayed bloody foam about him, he charged the cake of ice. If ever there
was need for a cool brain, it was now. Bruce, gripping his rifle,
crouched and waited. Reaching the cake, the walrus hooked his tusks over
its edge till it tilted to a perilous angle. Bruce's feet shot from
under him, but by a quick movement he caught the upper edge of the ice.
Pulling himself up till he could brace his feet, he took steady aim at
the beast's wild and bloodshot eye. It was a perfect shot. The walrus,
crumpling, began to sink into the water. Seeing this, Bruce clung to the
cake until the tusk slipped off. In another moment the uncertain raft
was at rest.
"Well, we got him," he panted, sitting limply on the ice. "But for mine
in the future, give me the cozy dangers of aviation. I don't see much
relaxation in this game."
The ice-cake soon drifted so that Bruce could jump ashore. With their
combined efforts the boys were able to draw the dead walrus close in and
tie him securely to the ice edge. Then they returned to camp to send a
happy band of natives out for the meat and blubber.
"That head will make a fine trophy to hang in the front parlor of
that five-room bungalow," laughed Barney, as a native brought it in
that night.
"You may have it for your den," said Bruce with a shiver. "I never want
to look a walrus in the face again."
"To-morrow," said the Major, as they prepared to retire, "the race will
be resumed."