CAUGHT BY THE ARCTIC ICE
We ran to shelter in a small cove and under the lee of a ledge pitched
our tent, using poles that the Eskimos had thoughtfully provided, and
anchoring the tent down with bowlders.
When I say the rocks here are scoured bare, I mean it literally. There
was not a stick of wood growing as big as your finger. On the lower
George, below the Narrows, and for long distances on the Ungava coast
there is absolutely not a tree of any kind to be seen. The only
exception is in one or two bays or near the mouth of streams, where a
stunted spruce growth is sometimes found in small patches. There are
places where you may skirt the coast of Ungava Bay for a hundred miles
and not see a shrub worthy the name of tree, even in the bays.
The Koksoak (Big) River, on which Fort Chimo is situated, is the
largest river flowing into Ungava Bay. The George is the second in
size, and Whale River ranks third. Between the George River and Whale
River there are four smaller ones--Tunulik (Back) River, Kuglotook
(Overflow) River, Tuktotuk (Reindeer) River and Mukalik (Muddy) River;
and between Whale River and the Koksoak the False River. I crossed all
of these streams and saw some of them for several miles above the
mouth. The Koksoak, Mukalik and Whale Rivers are regularly traversed
by the Indians, but the others are too swift and rocky for canoes.
There are several streams to the westward of the Koksoak, notably Leaf
River, and a very large one that the Eskimos told me of, emptying into
Hope's Advance Bay, but these I did not see and my knowledge of them is
limited to hearsay.
The hills in the vicinity of George River are generally high, but to
the westward they are much lower and less picturesque.
After our camp was pitched we had an opportunity for the first time to
make the acquaintance of our companions. The chief was a man of about
forty years of age, Potokomik by name, which, translated, means a hole
cut in the edge of a skin for the purpose of stretching it. The next
in importance was Kumuk. Kumuk means louse, and it fitted the man's
nature well. The youngest was Iksialook (Big Yolk of an Egg).
Potokomik had been rechristened by a Hudson's Bay Company agent
"Kenneth," and Kumuk, in like manner, had had the name of "George"
bestowed upon him, but Iksialook bad been overlooked or neglected in
this respect, and his brain was not taxed with trying to remember a
Christian cognomen that none of his people would ever call or know him
by.
Potokomik was really a remarkable man and proved most faithful to us.
It is, in fact, to his faithfulness and control over the others,
particularly Kumuk, that Easton and I owe our lives, as will appear
later. He was at one time conjurer of the Kangerlualuksoakmiut, or
George River Eskimos, and is still their leader, but during a visit to
the Atlantic coast, some three or four years ago, he came under the
influence of a missionary, embraced Christianity, and abandoned the
heathen conjuring swindle by which he was, up to that time, making a
good living. Now he lives a life about as clean and free from the
heathenism and superstitions of his race as any Eskimo can who adopts a
new religion. The missionary whom I have mentioned led Potokomik's
mother to accept Christ and renounce Torngak when she was on her
deathbed, and before she died she confessed to many sins, amongst them
that of having aided in the killing and eating, when driven to the act
by starvation, of her own mother.
After our tent was pitched and the Eskimos had spread the _Explorer's_
sail as a shelter for themselves, Kumuk and Iksialook left us to look
for driftwood and, in half an hour, returned with a few small sticks
that they had found on the shore. These sticks were exceedingly scarce
and, of course, very precious and with the greatest economy in the use
of the wood, a fire was made and the kettle boiled for tea.
At first the Eskimos were always doing unexpected things and springing
surprises upon us, but soon we became more or less accustomed to their
ways. Not one of them could talk or understand English and my Eskimo
vocabulary was limited to the one word "Oksunae," and we therefore had
considerable difficulty in making each other understand, and the
pantomime and various methods of communication resorted to were often
very funny to see. Potokomik and I started in at once to learn what we
could of each other's language, and it is wonderful how much can be
accomplished in the acquirement of a vocabulary in a short time and how
few words are really necessary to convey ideas. I would point at the
tent and say, "Tent," and he would say, "Tupek"; or at my sheath knife
and say, "Knife," and he would say, "Chevik," and thus each learned the
other's word for nearly everything about us and such words as "good,"
"bad," "wind" and so on; and in a few days we were able to make each
other understand in a general way, with our mixed English and Eskimo.
The northeast wind and low-hanging clouds of the morning carried into
execution their threat, and all Sunday afternoon and all day Monday the
snowstorm raged with fury. I took pity on the Eskimos and on Sunday
night invited all of them to sleep in our tent, but only Potokomik
came, and on Monday morning, when I went out at break of day, I found
the other two sleeping under a snowdrift, for the lean-to made of the
boat sail had not protected them much. After that they accepted my
invitation and joined us in the tent.
It did not clear until Tuesday morning, and then we hoisted sail and
started forward out of the river and into the broad, treacherous waters
of Hudson Straits, working with the oars to keep warm and accelerate
progress, for the wind was against us at first until we turned out of
the river, and we had long tacks to make.
At the Post, as was stated, there is a rise and fall of tide of forty
feet. In Ungava Bay and the straits it has a record of sixty-two feet
rise at flood, with the spring or high tides, and this makes navigation
precarious where hidden reefs and rocks are everywhere; and there are
long stretches of coast with no friendly bay or harbor or lee shore
where one can run for cover when unheralded gales and sudden squalls
catch one in the open. The Atlantic coast of Labrador is dangerous
indeed, but there Nature has providentially distributed innumerable
safe harbor retreats, and the tide is insignificant compared with that
of Ungava Bay. "Nature exhausted her supply of harbors," some one has
said, "before she rounded Cape Chidley, or she forgot Ungava entirely;
and she just bunched the tide in here, too."
That Tuesday night sloping rocks and ominous reefs made it impossible
for us to effect a landing, and in a shallow place we dropped anchor.
Fortunately there was no wind, for we were in an exposed position, and
had there been we should have come to grief. A bit of hardtack with
nothing to drink sufficed for supper, and after eating we curled up as
best we could in the bottom of the boat. No watch was kept. Every one
lay down. Easton and I rolled in our blankets, huddled close to each
other, pulled the tent over us and were soon dreaming of sunnier lands
where flowers bloom and the ice trust gets its prices.
Our awakening was rude. Some time in the night I dreamed that my neck
was broken and that I lay in a pool of icy water powerless to move.
When I finally roused myself I found the boat tilted at an angle of
forty-five degrees and my head at the lower incline. All the water in
the boat had drained to that side and my shoulders and neck were
immersed. The tide was out and we were stranded on the rocks. It was
bright moonlight. Kumuk and Iksialook got up and with the kettle
disappeared over the rocks. The rising tide was almost on us when they
returned with a kettle full of hot tea. Then as soon as the water was
high enough to float the boat we were off by moonlight, fastening now
and again on reefs, and several times narrowly escaped disaster.
It was very cold. Easton and I were still clad in the bush-ravaged
clothing that we had worn during the summer, and it was far too light
to keep out the bitter Arctic winds that were now blowing, and at night
our only protection was our light summer camping blankets. When we
reached the Post at George River not a thing in the way of clothing or
blankets was in stock and the new stores were not unpacked when we
left, so we were not able to re-outfit there.
Wednesday night we succeeded in finding shelter, but all day Thursday
were held prisoners by a northerly gale. On Friday we made a new
start, but early in the afternoon were driven to shelter on an island,
where with some difficulty we effected a landing at low tide, and
carried our goods a half mile inland over the slippery rocks above the
reach of rising water. The Eskimos remained with the boat and worked
it in foot by foot with the tide while Easton and I pitched the tent
and hunted up and down on the rocks for bits of driftwood until we had
collected sufficient to last us with economy for a day or two.
That night the real winter came. The light ice that we had encountered
heretofore and the snow which attained a considerable depth in the
recent storms were only the harbingers of the true winter that comes in
this northland with a single blast of the bitter wind from the ice
fields of the Arctic. It comes in a night--almost in an hour--as it
did to us now. Every pool of water on the island was congealed into a
solid mass. A gale of terrific fury nearly carried our tent away, and
only the big bowlders to which it was anchored saved it. Once we had
to shift it farther back upon the rock fields, out of reach of an
exceptionally high tide. For three days the wind raged, and in those
three days the great blocks of northern pack ice were swept down upon
us, and we knew that the _Explorer_ could serve us no longer. There
was no alternative now but to cross the barrens to Whale River on foot.
With deep snow and no snowshoes it was not a pleasant prospect.
Our hard-tack was gone, and I baked into cakes all of our little stock
of flour and corn meal. This, with a small piece of pork, six pounds
of pemmican, tea and a bit of tobacco was all that we had left in the
way of provisions. The Eskimos had eaten everything that they had
brought, and it now devolved upon us to feed them also from our meager
store, which at the start only provided for Easton and me for ten days,
as that had been considered more than ample time for the journey. I
limited the rations at each meal to a half of one of my cakes for each
man. Potokomik agreed with me that this was a wise and necessary
restriction and protected me in it. Kumuk thought differently, and he
was seen to filch once or twice, but a close watch was kept upon him.
With infinite labor we hauled the _Explorer_ above the high-tide level,
out of reach of the ice that would soon pile in a massive barricade of
huge blocks upon the shore, that she might be safe until recovered the
following spring. Then we packed in the boat's prow our tent and all
paraphernalia that was not absolutely necessary for the sustenance of
life, made each man a pack of his blankets, food and necessaries, and
began our perilous foot march toward Whale River. I clung to all the
records of the expedition, my camera, photographic films and things of
that sort, though Potokomik advised their abandonment.
At low tide, when the rocks were left nearly uncovered, we forded from
the island to the mainland. It was dark when we reached it, and for
three hours after dark, bending under our packs, walking in Indian
file, we pushed on in silence through the knee-deep snow upon which the
moon, half hidden by flying clouds, cast a weird ghostlike light.
Finally the Eskimos stopped in a gully by a little patch of spruce
brush four or five feet high, and while Iksialook foraged for handfuls
of brush that was dry enough to burn, Potokomik and Kumuk cut snow
blocks, which they built into a circular wall about three feet high, as
a wind-break in which to sleep, and Easton and I broke some green brush
to throw upon the snow in this circular wind-break for a bed. While we
did this Iksialook filled the kettle with bits of ice and melted it
over his brush fire and made tea. There was only brush enough to melt
ice for one cup of tea each, which with our bit of cake made our
supper. . We huddled close and slept pretty well that night on the snow
with nothing but flying frost between us and heaven.
We were having our breakfast the next morning a white arctic fox came
within ten yards of our fire to look us over as though wondering what
kind of animals we were. Easton and I were unarmed, but the Eskimos
each carried a 45-90 Winchester rifle. Potokomik reached for his and
shot the fox, and in a few minutes its disjointed carcass was in our
pan with a bit of pork, and we made a substantial breakfast on the
half-cooked flesh.
That was a weary day. We came upon a large creek in the forenoon and
had to ascend its east bank for a long distance to cross it, as the
tide had broken the ice below. Some distance up the stream its valley
was wooded by just enough scattered spruce trees to hold the snow, and
wallowing and floundering through this was most exhausting.
During the day Kumuk proposed to the other Eskimos that they take all
the food and leave the white men to their fate. They had rifles while
we had none, and we could not resist. Potokomik would not hear of it.
He remained our friend. Kumuk did not like the small ration that I
dealt out, and if they could get the food out of our possession they
would have more for themselves.
That night a snow house was built, with the exception of rounding the
dome at the top, over which Potokomik spread his blanket; but it was a
poor shelter, and not much warmer than the open. When I lay down I was
dripping with perspiration from the exertion of the day and during the
night had a severe chill.
The next day a storm threatened. We crossed another stream and halted,
at twelve o'clock, upon the western side of it to make tea. The Eskimos
held a consultation here and then Potokomik told us that they were
afraid of heavy snow and that it was thought best to cache everything
that we had--blankets, food and everything--and with nothing to
encumber us hurry on to a tupek that we should reach by dark, and that
there we should find shelter and food. Accordingly everything was left
behind but the rifles, which the Eskimos clung to, and we started on at
a terrific pace over wind-swept hills and drift-covered valleys, where
all that could be seen was a white waste of unvarying snow. We had
been a little distance inland, but now worked our way down toward the
coast. Once we crossed an inlet where we had to climb over great
blocks of ice that the tide in its force had piled there.
Just at dusk the Eskimos halted. We had reached the place where the
tupek should have been, but none was there. Afterward I learned that
the people whom Potokomik expected to find here had been caught on
their way from Whale River by the ice and their boat was crushed.
Another consultation was held, and as a result we started on again.
After a two hours' march Potokomik halted and the others left us.
Easton and I threw ourselves at full length upon the snow and went to
sleep on the instant. A rifle shot aroused us, and Potokomik jumped to
his feet with the exclamation, "Igloo!" We followed him toward where
Kumuk was shouting, through a bit of bush, down a bank, across a frozen
brook and up a slope, where we found a miserable little log shack. No
one was there. It was a filthy place and snow had drifted in through
the openings in the roof and side. The previous occupant of the hut
had left behind him an ax and an old stove, and with a few sticks of
wood that we found a fire was started and we huddled close to it in a
vain effort to get warm. When the fire died out we found places to lie
down, and, shivering with the cold, tried with poor success to sleep.
I had another chill that night and severe cramps in the calves of my
legs, and when morning came and Easton said he could not travel another
twenty yards, I agreed at once to a plan of the Eskimos to leave us
there while they went on to look for other Eskimos whom they expected
to find in winter quarters east of Whale River. Potokomik promised to
send them with dogs to our rescue and then go on with a letter to Job
Edmunds, the Hudson's Bay Company's agent at Whale River. This letter
to Edmunds I scribbled on a stray bit of paper I found in my pocket,
and in it told him of our position, and lack of food and clothing.
Potokomik left his rifle and some cartridges with us, and then with the
promise that help should find us ere we had slept three times, we shook
hands with our dusky friend upon whose honor and faithfulness our lives
now depended, and the three were gone in the face of a blinding
snowstorm.
Shortly after the Eskimos left us we heard some ptarmigans clucking
outside, and Easton knocked three of them over with Potokomik's rifle.
There were four, but one got away. It can be imagined what work the
.45 bullet made of them. After separating the flesh as far as possible
from the feathers, we boiled it in a tin can we had found amongst the
rubbish in the hut, and ate everything but the bills and
toe-nails--bones, entrails and all. This, it will be remembered, was
the first food that we had had since noon of the day before. We had no
tea and our only comfort-providing asset was one small piece of plug
tobacco.
Fortunately wood was not hard to get, but still not sufficiently
plentiful for us to have more than a light fire in the stove, which we
hugged pretty closely.
The storm grew in fury. It shrieked around our illy built shack,
drifting the snow in through the holes and crevices until we could not
find a place to sit or lie that was free from it. On the night of the
third day the weather cleared and settled, cold and rasping. I took
the rifle and looked about for game, but the snow was now so deep that
walking far in it was out of the question. I did not see the track or
sign of any living thing save a single whisky-jack, but even he was shy
and kept well out of range.
We had nothing to eat--not a mouthful of anything--and only water to
drink; even our tobacco was soon gone. Day after day we sat, sometimes
in silence, for hours at a time, sometimes calculating upon the
probabilities of the Eskimos having perished in the storm, for they
were wholly without protection. I had faith in Potokomik and his
resourcefulness, and was hopeful they would get out safely. If there
had been timber in the country where night shelter could be made, we
might have started for Whale River without further delay. But in the
wide waste barrens, illy clothed, with deep snow to wallow through, it
seemed to me absolutely certain that such an attempt would end in
exhaustion and death, so we restrained our impatience and waited. On
scraps of paper we played tit-tat-toe; we improvised a checkerboard and
played checkers. These pastimes broke the monotony of waiting
somewhat. No matter what we talked about, our conversation always
drifted to something to eat. We planned sumptuous banquets we were to
have at that uncertain period "when we get home," discussing in the
minutest detail each dish. Once or twice Easton roused me in the night
to ask whether after all some other roast or soup had not better be
selected than the one we had decided upon, or to suggest a change in
vegetables.
We slept five times instead of thrice and still no succor came. The
days were short, the nights interminably long. I knew we could live
for twelve or fifteen days easily on water. I had recovered entirely
from the chills and cramps and we were both feeling well but, of
course, rather weak. We had lost no flesh to speak of. The extreme
hunger had passed away after a couple of days. It is only when
starving people have a little to eat that the hunger period lasts
longer than that. Novelists write a lot of nonsense about the pangs of
hunger and the extreme suffering that accompanies starvation. It is
all poppycock. Any healthy person, with a normal appetite, after
missing two or three meals is as hungry as he ever gets. After awhile
there is a sense of weakness that grows on one, and this increases with
the days. Then there comes a desire for a great deal of sleep, a sort
of lassitude that is not unpleasant, and this desire becomes more
pronounced as the weakness grows. The end is always in sleep. There
is no keeping awake until the hour of death.
While, as I have said, the real sense of hunger passes away quickly
there remains the instinct to eat. That is the working of the first
law of nature--self-preservation. It prompts one to eat anything that
one can chew or swallow, and it is what makes men eat refuse the
thought of which would sicken them at other times. Of course, Easton
and I were like everybody else under similar conditions. Easton said
one day that he would like to have something to chew on. In the refuse
on the floor I found a piece of deerskin about ten inches square. I
singed the hair off of it and divided it equally between us and then we
each roasted our share and ate it. That was the evening after we had
"slept" five times.
After disposing of our bit of deerskin we huddled down on the floor
with our heads pillowed upon sticks of wood, as was our custom, for a
sixth night, after discussing again the probable fate of the Eskimos.
While I did not admit to Easton that I entertained any doubt as to our
ultimate rescue, as the days passed and no relief came I felt grave
fears as to the safety of Potokomik and his companions. The severe
storm that swept over the country after their departure from the shack
had no doubt materially deepened the snow, and I questioned whether or
not this had made it impossible for them to travel without snowshoes.
The wind during the second day of the storm had been heavy, and it was
my hope that it had swept the barrens clear of the new snow, but this
was uncertain and doubtful. Then, too, I did not know the nature of
Eskimos--whether they were wont to give up quickly in the face of
unusual privations and difficulties such as these men would have to
encounter. They were in a barren country, with no food, no blankets,
no tent, no protection, in fact, of any kind from the elements, and it
was doubtful whether they would find material for a fire at night to
keep them from freezing, and, even if they did find wood, they had no
ax with which to cut it. How far they would have to travel surrounded
by these conditions I had no idea. Indians without wood or food or a
sheltering bush would soon give up the fight and lie down to die. If
Potokomik and his men had perished, I knew that Easton and I could hope
for no relief from the outside and that our salvation would depend
entirely upon our own resourcefulness. It seemed to me the time had
come when some action must be taken.
It was a long while after dark, I do not know how long, and I still lay
awake turning these things over in my mind, when I heard a strange
sound. Everything had been deathly quiet for days, and I sat up. In
the great unbroken silence of the wilderness a man's fancy will make
him hear strange things. I have answered the shouts of men that my
imagination made me hear. But this was not fancy, for I heard it
again--a distinct shout! I jumped to my feet and called to Easton:
"They've come, boy! Get up, there's some one coming!" Then I hurried
outside and, in the dim light on the white stretch of snow, saw a black
patch of men and dogs. Our rescuers had come.