ESQUIMO KINDNESS.
THE company made slow and tiresome progress by Littleton Island, and
were carrying their entire load forward in parcels to the mainland at
the northern opening of Etah Bay, when the sad news was whispered to Dr.
Kane, who was with the advanced party, that Ohlsen was dead. A gloom
spread over the whole company. The fact was carefully concealed from the
Esquimo, who were sent to Etah under the pretext of bringing back a
supply of birds, the entire dog force being given them to hasten their
departure.
The funeral service, though attended by sincere grief, was necessarily
brief. The body was sewed up in Ohlsen's own blankets, the burial
service read, the prayer offered, and it was borne by his comrades in
solemn procession to a little gorge on the shore, and deposited in a
trench made with extreme difficulty. A sheet of lead, on which his name
and age was cut, was laid upon his breast; a monument of stones was
erected over it, to preserve it from the beasts of prey, and to mark the
spot. They named the land which overshadowed the spot Cape Ohlsen.
Having given two quiet hours, after the funeral service, to the solemn
occasion, the work at the drag-ropes was continued. The Esquimo
returned in full force, and with abundant provisions. They took their
turn at the drag-ropes with a shout; they carried the sick on their
sledges, and relieved the whole expedition from care concerning their
supplies. They brought in one week eight dozen sea-fowl--little
auks--caught in their hand-nets, and fed men and dogs. All ate, hunger
was fully satisfied, care for the time departed, the men broke out into
their old forecastle songs, and the sledges went merrily forward with
laugh and jest.
Passing round Cape Alexander, down Etah Bay, a short distance toward the
settlement, the expedition encamped. The long-sought, coveted open water
was only three miles away; its roar saluted their ears, and its scent
cheered their hearts. The difficult and delicate work of preparing the
boats for the sea-voyage now commenced. In the mean time the people of
Etah, men, women, and children, came and encamped in their midst,
leaving only three persons--two old women and a blind old man--in the
settlement. They slept in the "Red Eric," and fed on the stew cooked for
them in the big camp-kettle. Each one had a keepsake of a file, a knife,
a saw, or some such article of great value. The children had each that
great medicine for Esquimo sickness, a piece of soap, for which they
merrily shouted, "Thank you, thank you, big chief." There was joy in the
Esquimo camp which knew but one sorrow--that of the speedy departure of
the strangers. At the mention of this one woman stepped behind a tent
screen and wept, wiping her teary face with a bird-skin.
Dr. Kane rode to Etah to bid the aged invalids good-bye. Then came the
last distribution of presents. Every one had something, but the great
gift of amputating knives went to the chief, Metek, and the patriarch,
Nessark. The dogs were given to the community at large, excepting
Toodla-mik and Whitey; these veterans of many well-fought battle-fields
were reserved to share the homeward fortunes of their owners. Toodla was
no common dog, but earned for himself a place in dog history. As we are
to meet the dogs no more in our narrative, we will give Toodla's
portrait to be set up with our pen sketches. He was purchased at
Upernavik, and so he received the advantages of, at least, a partially
civilized education. His head was more compact, his nose less pointed
than most dogs of his kind, and his eye denoted affection and
self-reliance, and his carriage was bold and defiant. Toodla, at the
commencement of the cruise, appointed himself general-in-chief of all
the dogs. Now it often happens, with dogs as well as with men, that to
assume superiority is much easier than to maintain it. But Toodla's
generalship was never successfully disputed. The position, however, cost
him many a hard-fought battle, for the new comers naturally desired to
test his title to rule. These he soundly whipped on their introduction
to the pack. He even often left the brig's side, head erect, tail
gracefully curled over his back, and moved toward a stranger dog with a
proud, defiant air, as much as to say, "I am master here, sir!" If this
was doubted, he vindicated his boasting on the spot. Such tyranny
excited rebellions of course, and strong combinations were formed
against him; but dogs which had been trounced individually make weak
organizations, and the coalitions gave way before Toodla's prowess. It
is but fair, however, to say that he had strong allies upon whom he fell
back in great emergencies--the sailors. Toodla died in Philadelphia, and
still lives--that is, his stuffed skin still exists in the museum of the
Philadelphia Academy of Natural Sciences. His reputation is of the same
sort as that of many of the heroes of history, and worth as much to the
world.
Dr. Kane having distributed the presents and disposed of the dogs, there
was nothing now but the farewell address to render the parting ceremony
complete. Dr. Kane called the natives about him and spoke to them
through Petersen as interpreter. He talked to them as those from whom
kindness had been received, and to whom a return was to be made. He told
them about the tribes of their countrymen farther south whom he knew,
and from whom they were separated by the glaciers and the sea; he spoke
of the longer daylight, the less cold, the more abundant game, the
drift-wood, the fishing-nets, and kayaks of these relatives. He tried to
explain to them that under bold and cautious guidance they might, in
the course of a season or two, reach this happier region.
During this talk they crowded closer and closer to the speaker, and
listened with breathless attention to his remarks, often looking at each
other significantly.
Having thus parted with the natives, our exploring party hauled their
boats to the margin of the ice. The "Red Eric" was launched, and three
cheers were given for "Henry Grinnell and Homeward Bound." But the storm
king said, "Not yet!" He sounded an alarm in their ears, and they drew
the "Eric" from the water and retreated on the floe, which broke up in
their rear with great rapidity. Back, back, they tramped, wearily and
painfully, all that night, until the next day they found a sheltering
berg near the land, where they made a halt. Here they rested until the
wind had spent its wrath, and the sea had settled into a placid quiet.
Their voyaging on the floe with drag-ropes and sledges was ended.