UP THE FIORD IN AN OOMIAK.
The morning came fresh and sparkling as the eyes of our fair
oarswomen, who, singing to the music of their splashing oars, came
stealing over the still waters, bearing the good pastor in his arctic
gondola, while we were yet at breakfast.
Their arrival alongside made a sensation. Such a boat, propelled in
such a fashion, was a sight new to sailors’ eyes; and it did not
seem easy for our people to reconcile such uses and occupations for
womankind with a sailor’s ideas of gallantry; for a sailor is always
quite willing for a woman to be a princess, and as such he would
always like to look upon her, but he would never want her for a
cook. He could never be happy unless he could abuse the cook, and he
never would abuse a woman. But as for pulling at an oar, why, what
in the world should he ever do, if he were not allowed to express
his preferences as to what might happen to the eyes of any one who
disturbed the stroke? and he never would condemn a woman’s eyes.
Clearly, a woman would not do to pull an oar. But they were good to
have a little pleasantry with, even if they did not understand a word
that was said to them.
The people all crowded their heads over the bulwarks when the strange
boat came up, and Welch addressed himself thus to the stroke-oar,
when he had made out her peculiar style of costume: “Ah! my beauty,
from the cut of your rig, it’s a blood-relation of Brian O’Lin’s that
you are;” which created a good laugh at the girl’s expense, without
her, however, being at all aware of the cause of it. Not getting any
response from that quarter, he turned his attention to the bow-oar.
“And my bow-oar, honey, with the red top-knot: ah! sure and she’s a
beauty. Say, my darlin, you’re the one I’d like to be shipmates with
till the boat sinks.”
The bow-oar, more compliant than the stroke, nodded, smiled
graciously, and said, “Ab!” and a great deal more which Welch did not
understand.
“Ab?” he repeated, inquiringly; “and a pity it is that a foreigner
you are, for I’d like to have a bit of a chat with you.”
Somebody told Welch that _ab_ meant yes.
“And you’ll be shipmates with me?” inquired the sailor, with
eagerness.
The bow-oar said “Ab!” again.
“Ah, then, and it’s too willin’ ye are, honey, entirely; and I’ll not
ship with you at all, at all. But you’re a well-rigged craft alow and
aloft, for all that, and I’d like to have the overhaulin’ of you.”
“You’ll get overhauled yourself, and your hull scuttled, and your
top-gallant rigging scattered over the sea, if you tackle that craft
again,” was the sharp reply which the fireman received to this very
lively address. But it did not come from the bow-oar. It was from the
Prince, who had just got out of bed, and, without pausing to comb
his hair, had rushed to the gangway, to behold in the bow-oar the
fair Concordia, and to discover that a sailor was making advances to
her. The Prince was quite indignant. He soon, however, had Concordia
on deck, when the others followed, and then, conducting them all to
the galley, the Prince fed them bountifully. Meanwhile, preparation
was being made for the journey. Some of us, however, embraced the
opportunity to examine with more care than we had been able to
before the strange-looking boat in which it was proposed to perform
the journey.
We go down into it before the cargo is stowed, and Mr. Anthon
explains to us the method of its construction. It is not at all
likely that the reader of this book will ever desire or have occasion
to make such a boat for his own use; but it may perhaps not be
uninteresting to him to know how he might proceed, if he should so
desire. According to the pastor, it would be something after this
fashion:
You will first obtain five round sticks of wood thirty-six feet
long, more or less, according to the length you desire to make the
boat. These must be as light as possible, and not over two inches
in diameter. Since the country produces no wood, you will of course
have to go to the governor for the materials, which he keeps in his
store-house, replenishing the stock each year by shipments from
Denmark. But since you will not find a stick thirty-six feet long,
you will have to procure several, which you lash together until you
have obtained the requisite length. Having done this, you place three
of them on the ground parallel with each other, the outer ones being
six feet apart. Then across them, at the middle, you lash, with firm
thongs of raw seal-hide, a piece of inch plank three inches wide
and six feet long. Then you bring the ends of the three long sticks
together, lashing them firmly. Next you lash other pieces of board
across at intervals of two feet. Of course these are of different
lengths. Thus you have obtained the bottom of your oomiak. This done,
you proceed to erect the skeleton, fastening the stem and stern posts
firmly with lashings; also the ribs. The ribs in their place, you
secure along the inside of them, at about sixteen inches above the
floor, a strip of plank. On this you place the thwarts, the middle
one being six feet long, the others shorter, as you approach either
end. Ten thwarts is the proper number. This completes the skeleton,
all but the placing of the rails or gunwales, which are the two
remaining thirty-six feet sticks. These being fastened with thongs to
the ribs, and to the stem and stern posts, your skeleton is finished,
and it is exceedingly light, strong, and elastic. But now, instead of
covering this novel sort of boat-skeleton with planking, you stretch
over it a coat of seal-hide (it can scarcely be called leather).
It has been, however, tanned and dried, and afterwards thoroughly
saturated with oil, until it is as impervious to water as a plate
of iron. A number of skins are necessarily required, and these the
women will sew together for you so firmly with sinew thread that not
a drop of water can find its way through the seams. This skin coat,
being cut and fashioned to fit the skeleton as neatly as a slipper to
the foot, is drawn on and firmly tied. It is very soft when you draw
it on, but when it dries it is as tight and hard as a drum-head; and
when the skin becomes a little old, the light will come through it as
through parchment. When afloat in the oomiak, you can always discover
how much water you are drawing by looking through the side of it.
This is not a pleasant operation, however, for a novice or a nervous
person, since one can hardly resist the impression that he is in a
very treacherous sort of craft.
This light and elastic boat is propelled with short oars having broad
blades, which are tied to the gunwale, instead of being thrust out
through rowlocks. These oars are shod with bone, to protect them from
the ice. A single mast is erected in the bow, upon which is run up a
square sail when the wind is fair. If the owner of the boat is rich
enough, he gets the material for his sail from the governor; but if
not, he makes it out of seal-skins.
I have observed that he gets the wood from the governor’s stores: not
all of it, however, for the obliging sea brings him an occasional
tree that has floated with the ocean current from the forests of
Siberia; or a plank, perhaps, that has fallen overboard from a
passing vessel; or a spar or other portion of a wreck. Thus, before
the Danes came here, did the Esquimaux obtain all the wood they
used. From this source they also procured their iron, in the shape
of spikes, nails, bands, and bars, attached to these waifs of the
sea. Thus do the ocean currents, which carry heat and cold to the
uttermost parts of the earth, scatter also blessings to mankind.
After some unavoidable delays (always occurring when any body sets
out anywhere and some other body is to go with him), we finally got
all our traps in the oomiak. The photographers were aboard with their
cameras, baths, and plates; the artists with their sketch-books,
stools, and pencils; the surveyors with their sextants, barometers,
compasses, and tape-lines; the hunters with their weapons,
game-bags, and ammunition; the steward with his cooking fixtures,
and substantial eatables and drinkables; “the Arctic Six” were at
their stations; and “All aboard!” was the signal to shove off. The
fair oarswomen dipped their paddles, rising with the act, and coming
down with a good solid thud upon the thwart when the paddles took
the water. The light boat shot away from the ship over the unruffled
waters of the silvery-surfaced fiord; and at last we were off.
The day could not have been better chosen. The sky was cloudless;
and the great mountains, by which we were on every side surrounded,
climbed up into a pearly atmosphere, and their crests of ice and snow
blended softly with the pure and lovely air. Every body was in the
best possible spirits; every thing was novel, from the boat and its
strange crew to the strange shore past which we were gliding, and
which presented sometimes cliffs of immense height, and sometimes
slopes of green, above which the atmosphere quivered in the sun’s
warm rays.
I could but contrast my situation with that of a few days before,
when I was sweltering in the summer heat of New York. The atmosphere
was soft like that of budding spring, though close to the Arctic
Circle, and within the region lighted by the midnight sun.
The scenery was everywhere grand and inspiring. The shores, though
destitute of human life, were yet rich in historical association. As
we passed along, it was hard to realize that voices were not calling
to us from the shore; and where miles of rich meadow-land stretched
before us, girdling the cliffs with green, the fancy, now catching
the lowing of cattle and the bleating of sheep, would sometimes
detect the shouts of herdsmen; while again we seemed to hear,
“By distance mellowed, o’er the water’s sweep,”
the “song and oar” of some gay inhabitant of the fiord, descendant of
that brave band of men who, under the leadership of sturdy Eric, had
on these sloping plains, beneath the ice-crowned hills and within the
rampart of the ice-girt isles, sought an asylum from their enemies.
But if the fancy discovered those evidences of life, as it recalled
the people who once were happy here in this peaceful, pastoral scene,
the eye failed to detect any such tokens whatever. An occasional
seal, that put up its half-human head to peer at us, or a sparrow or
butterfly, that hovered about us when we neared the shore, or now and
then a flock of water-fowl, were the only living things we saw.
The spirit of the scene was contagious. Even our native crew were
not wanting in the emotional feelings of the hour. Encouraged by
their pastor, they broke forth in concert, and with rich melodious
voices, timed to the paddles’ stroke, they sang an old Norse hymn:
“Oh, hear thou me, thou mighty Lord,
And this my cry, oh, heed;
Oh, give me faith; I trust thy word;
Oh, help me in my need;”
and as the refrain was echoed back to us over the waters from hill
and dale, it struck the fancy more and more that human voices came to
us from the depths of those solitudes.
Five hours of this pleasant experience brought us near the end of
the fiord, where the water is narrowed to about two miles; but long
before this the solemnity of the day had been at times broken by
incidents very different from those above described. In fact, there
was a great deal of liveliness mingled with the seriousness which
every body felt at times, perhaps in spite of himself. The Prince
was, as usual, at the bottom of the most of it. That young gentleman
had come out to enjoy himself, and have a good time of it generally,
and his disposition was not to be restrained by any of the ghosts
of ancient Northmen who might haunt the fiord. He attached himself
to Concordia as a matter of course. Speaking metaphorically, there
can be no doubt that he had had his eye upon that pantalooned lady
(now bow-oar) ever since he first discovered her peeping around the
corner of the house in Julianashaab. It was not to be supposed,
therefore, that he would on the present occasion relax his visual
energies, and his first procedure was to place himself beside her on
the thwart, where he carried his admiration so far as to insist upon
relieving the fair oarswoman of her oar, which resulted in a great
deal of sport between the parties immediately interested, and filled
the minds of the other damsels with immense disgust—whether because
no one offered them the same gallant attentions, or whether because
the bow-oar was constantly interfering with the stroke, was not
discovered; but I greatly suspect it was the latter rather than the
former.
Thus, with alternate gayety and solemnity, did we speed on through
the pleasant sunshine. In a general way we might say that there was
universal enjoyment in that oomiak; but outside of it there was not
altogether so happy a condition of affairs. The lively proceedings of
Concordia and the Prince struck terror into one heart which beat its
troubled discord in the confinement of a native kayak. The unhappy
possessor of this discordant heart was a half-breed, whose name was
Marcus, and who, although a half-savage, was yet wholly a Christian
in the matter of name and baptism.
This Marcus was a fine-looking fellow, with brown hair and eyes, a
frank open face, the complexion, though not the features, leaning
rather to the Esquimaux than the Danish hue. The only trouble with
him was—and this appeared to distress him greatly—that he loved
Concordia. Judging from that distress, he must have loved her
desperately.
Marcus was a great favorite with the pastor, and he always
accompanied him everywhere he went. His duty was a simple one enough,
but a very necessary one, as boating is performed in the Greenland
fiords. It was to paddle along beside the oomiak in the capacity of
courier, if occasion made it necessary to use one; or, in case of
need, to act as outrider—two functions which at once suggest the
dangers of oomiak navigation. Suppose, for instance, Mr. Anthon is
caught in a heavy blow, and is broadside to the wind. His boat is
liable to be blown over, owing to its lightness. Marcus is near at
hand; he pulls up quickly alongside, seizes the gunwale of the boat,
bears his weight upon it, and prevents a catastrophe. Again, the
oomiak runs against a sharp piece of ice, which the steersman has
not seen in time to avoid; a hole is cut in the skin, and in rushes
the water. The boat is headed for the land, and the pastor and his
ladies get ashore with their lives. But where shall they go, or what
shall they do? They are, perhaps, on an island, or, if not, they
have to scale a mountain and descend again before they can reach
a settlement. Marcus saves them this labor, and very likely their
lives, by flying away in his kayak and bringing succor.
Twice during the day it seemed to me that we had met with a fatal
accident of this nature. The skin of the boat was cut and the water
entered, but the circumstance caused no alarm. The cuts proved to
be small, and one woman only left her oar to repair them. This she
did, and very speedily, by thrusting into the cut a small piece of
blubber, which answered every purpose until we reached a convenient
landing-place, when the boat was drawn up on the beach far enough for
the woman to get at the hole with the sinew-threaded needle, when a
patch was quickly fastened over it, and the skin was as good as ever.
That Marcus was jealous of the Prince, any body could see with half
an eye. But a kayak is a most inconvenient place for a jealous lover.
It is only a little over a foot wide, and does not weigh half as much
as the man himself. If he meditates mischief to his rival, his own
situation becomes a very dangerous one, since the least indiscretion
in his movements, or the imprudent withdrawal of his eyes from his
frail boat, would very likely cause him to find himself suddenly
floating head down, with his bladder-like kayak inextricably
fastened to his heels—a position that would very speedily cure the
most ardent lover in the world of the highly ridiculous passion of
jealousy.
Compromising, therefore, between the impulse of jealousy and the
restraints of prudence, Marcus paddled close to the forward part of
our oomiak, where the Prince and Concordia were seated, as if he
would overhear their conversation, and so possess himself of some
remark of the fickle lady to treasure up against her, thus the more
effectually to insure the destruction of his peace of mind—a pastime,
by-the-way, in which lovers are very apt to indulge themselves.
If this was, however, his design, he unfortunately failed in it,
since there was no conversation audible. Like Hai-dee, our heroine
had long since discovered that her Don did not understand a word she
said. Yet, judging from his liveliness of manner, the Prince must
have learned something agreeable to his feelings; and it was clear
enough that he was being instructed after a fashion quite equal, if
not superior, to the ordinary forms of speech, for this fair lady of
the oar
“Had recourse to nods, and signs,
And smiles, and sparkles of the speaking eye,
And read (the only book she could) the lines
Of his fair face,”
which seemed to be quite enough to satisfy her capricious fancy.
The time passed scarcely less pleasantly to the rest of the party
than to the Prince, although in a very different manner. At least
there was no lack of lively episodes, and we all found ourselves
much surprised when we discovered that we were approaching the end
of the fiord, which had now assumed less the appearance of a river
and more that of a lake. Before us the water was lost to view by a
great curve, from the middle of which there appeared a fine valley
stretching away to the base of the Redkammen, one of the noblest
mountains to the artist’s eye, and one of the boldest landmarks to
the mariner in all the country, conspicuous as Greenland is for its
lofty and commanding scenery.
And there Redkammen stood in its solitary grandeur, away up in a
streak of fleecy summer clouds, its white top now melting with them
into space, now standing out against a sky of tenderest blue. Then
came a cloak of darker vapor, which, resting on the mountain’s
summit, trailed away into the heavens, bridging the space which
divides the known from the vast unknown.