IN ESKIMO LAND AND IN TROUBLE
No sooner were we at anchor in Hopedale Harbor than I noticed the
approach of several large boats filled with strange-looking, brown
folk, different from any I had ever before seen. For a moment I was
at a loss to explain them; then suddenly I remembered that we had
arrived in Eskimo Land. I stared with interest and surprise. These
were not the kind of people I had seen in pictures! These were not the
grotesque, fur-swathed barbarians that my mind had conceived. With the
exception of dark skin and rather high cheek-bones, they looked not so
very different from ourselves, and they lacked that ferocious look I
had seen stamped on their countenances in the Sunday supplements. As
they came alongside they greeted us with expansive grins and a babble
of good-natured banter which displayed their white teeth and black
flashing eyes.
“Ochshinai! Taku oomiak-swa!” came from the boats, and I later learned
that this meant, “Hello, look at the big ship.”
The Commander came on deck at this juncture and was greeted with
an enthusiastic outburst, for his generosity and kindliness are
remembered by more than one denizen of this isolated land. Immediately
he entered into conversation with them, as he is well acquainted with
the language. While he was thus engaged, Robbie appeared on deck and
took in the situation at one glance. He then descended into the cabin
with an inscrutable smile on his face. We did not realize what he was
about until he reappeared laden with tobacco and candy. At once he
was surrounded by a laughing, chattering mob striving to wheedle from
him some of the coveted articles. With a deliberate air, born of long
experience at this game, he began distributing these much-desired
treasures. To each one he presented one article, and saw that none was
slighted or obtained an undue share of the spoils, in spite of many
ingenious and good-natured attempts to defraud him. Each attempt was
regarded as a sporting proposition, and loud were the laughs among
the natives when one of their number was detected trying to “gyp the
system.”
Soon Mr. Perrit, the head missionary, arrived and officially welcomed
us to Hopedale. Mr. Perrit is a strapping six footer with curly blonde
hair--a regular Viking. He is one of the most earnest missionaries on
the coast, and none has a greater and more well-deserved popularity
than he. He remained aboard for some time, and after his departure
we went ashore to consummate the purpose for which we had come to
Hopedale--namely, to obtain warm Eskimo clothing for the colder weather
to be encountered farther north.
We soon had the storekeeper booked up with orders, and he immediately
set the entire female population to work chewing skins. The Eskimo
tailor differs considerably from the Broadway type. In the first place
it is a she instead of a he, and in lieu of shrinking the material she
chews it. Since the material consists of sealskin or other heavy hides,
it requires a thorough chewing to render it pliable. After the chewing
is completed, she cuts the skin to the proper size and shape by means
of an ooloo, or woman’s knife--a knife shaped like an old-fashioned
chopping knife. Then she takes the material and sews it together with
sinew from the back of a deer. This sinew has the useful property of
swelling when wet, and once it has been wet, it never again contracts.
This swelling completely closes the needle hole and renders the
garment water-tight. It is no easy task to wield a needle in this tough
hide, but these strong-fingered women turn out a very finished product.
The fit may leave something to be desired as the measurements are taken
by eye and the garment constructed accordingly, but they are warm and
comfortable.
In addition to the clothes, we also laid in a supply of sealskin boots,
as the Labrador product is far superior to the Greenland variety. The
workmanship is more thorough, and the water-resisting qualities are
better. These boots are made of harp seal and are the best things going
for Arctic work. With a handful of grass in the sole to form insulation
against the cold and to act as a pad against pebbles or sharp ice, they
are as comfortable an article of footwear as one can desire.
Another reason for our coming to Hopedale was to secure our old
interpreter, Abram Bromfield, who had been with the Commander on
numerous previous trips. Abie lived about thirty miles from Hopedale at
the head of a large bay known as Jack Lane’s Bay. Therefore, after we
had obtained our clothing, we set our course for his home. While on the
way we noticed that the vessel was not turning up her customary speed,
but as the engine was functioning perfectly we decided that it must
have been an illusion created by the effects of tide or wind.
On our arrival at Jack Lane’s Bay, the Commander and McDonald took one
of the small boats and started up the Bay for Abie’s house. Early the
next morning they returned accompanied by the whole Bromfield family
who brought us several thick, tender, juicy venison steaks and a large
mess of fresh-caught trout. Old Sam Bromfield, Abie’s father, aged
seventy, also brought his accordion and gave us a rare treat by dancing
the good old folk dances and playing some of the songs of yesteryear.
The following morning at two o’clock sharp, the mate slid back the
forecastle hatch and uttered the familiar cry, “All hands on deck!” In
spite of sleep-numbed brains and the well-nigh irresistible desire to
return to the alluring arms of Morpheus, we snapped back, “Yes, sir,”
and hit the deck with despatch.
In getting under weigh my particular job was to stow the chain in the
chain locker, and in a few moments my ears were greeted with: “Stand
by the chain!” I made a dash over Dick’s bunk and dived into the
locker just in time to grab the chain as the great electric winch by
my ear was beginning its raucous clatter, and the muddy chain was
commencing its rapid descent. A few minutes later there lay at my feet
a huge mound of rusted links, and I heard the creak of the tackle with
which the anchor is brought to the cat-head. The engine-room telegraph
jangled; a sudden vibration indicated the throwing in of the clutch,
and I prepared to go on deck. Suddenly I noticed the absence of the
customary ripple which can be heard from the chain locker when the
vessel is under weigh. I listened intently, but no murmur of gurgling
water greeted my straining ears. Could the engineer have mistaken the
signal? No, the engine was running as usual. I dashed on deck wondering
what could be the trouble. The Commander stood by the wheel, on his
face a puzzled expression. The rest of the crew were bending over the
stern, vainly endeavoring to fathom the trouble.
[Illustration: Maynard Williams (left), photographer, National
Geographic Society, Lieut. Benjamin Rigg (right), U. S. Coast and
Geodetic Survey.]
It was still nearly as dark as midnight; just a faint touch of red in
the east. In a moment more the _Peary_ came sliding along through the
morning vapors like a great, grey ghost, her black smoke flickering
across the face of the waning moon like a dark forerunner of disaster.
Shortly our ears were assailed by a shrill blast from her siren. The
Commander realizing that there was something radically wrong with
our propulsive apparatus, ordered a boat lowered to take him over to
the _Peary_ that he might acquaint them with our predicament. In a
few moments he had spanned the intervening stretch of water, and we
saw the vessel stop as she came down on the boat. The Commander then
told Commander McDonald of our trouble and instructed him to continue
the voyage to Greenland and await our arrival at Disko Island, where
we would rejoin him as soon as our trouble had been adjusted. In
the meanwhile we had again let go the anchor to keep the _Bowdoin_
from drifting; then we pulled a small boat under the stern for a
closer inspection. There the Commander joined us and took part in the
investigation. As we had surmised, the propeller was sadly damaged.
There was no other recourse but to beach the vessel and change the
propeller. With this end in view, the Commander despatched Dick Salmon
with one of our motor boats to enlist the aid of the Bromfields and
their staunch motor boat. It was decided that it would be advisable
to return to Hopedale where there were better facilities.
[Illustration: The _Bowdoin_ passing an iceberg off west coast of
Greenland.]
[Illustration: The _Bowdoin_ caught in a nip, at Melville Bay.]
The day being calm, our sails were not of much assistance, and we had
to depend in the main on the Bromfield motor boat. How that little
motor ever stood the strain is more than I can understand, but stand it
she did, and after ten hours of slow progress we limped into Hopedale.
There, since the tide was right, we immediately beached the vessel
on an adjacent sand-spit and waited for the low tide to lay bare the
propeller. Unfortunately we had arrived at the period of neap or small
tides. The rise and fall was so small that the propeller was scarcely
more accessible at low tide than at high. Luckily, however, the tides
were increasing daily, and in about a week they would enter on the
period of spring, or large tides. Therefore, all we could do was to
wait philosophically for the much-needed higher water and pull the
vessel a little farther in on each high tide.
But this philosophical calm which we had decided to cultivate was not
given an opportunity to flourish. Another infliction beset us. We were
welcomed back not only by the inhabitants but by a singing, stinging
scourge of blood-thirsty mosquitoes. This savage horde had but come
to maturity during the past few days, and they descended upon us as
did the locusts upon the Egyptians. Before we could stretch mosquito
nettings across the hatches, the whole interior of the vessel was
infested. We slapped and scratched; sprayed kerosene in all directions;
made crude swatters and attacked the noisome pestilence en masse, but
all to no avail. In every possible way we strove to devise some means
of wholesale annihilation. In the meantime we had stretched netting
across all the openings, but this was like locking the stable door
after the horse is stolen. We resorted to every conceivable method of
extinction and some inconceivable ones, but the insects continued their
attacks with unabated ferocity. Nowhere else have I ever encountered
such insectivorous persistence. They came from every nook and cranny.
But just as we were beginning to despair of discomforting our
persecutors, someone had the inspiration of burning plug tobacco. This
was an extreme and extravagant measure, dictated by desperation alone,
since tobacco was held second only to the safety of the expedition by
the devotees of the weed. Regretfully each contributed his quota of
tobacco as a burnt offering on the altar of Comfort. In a short time
the forecastle was thick with acrid, blue smoke. It was suffocating.
But it was efficacious, and soon the inside of the nettings was black
with insects struggling for deliverance. We withdrew the nettings, and
in a dense swarm they sought safety in flight. Drawing a thick, dizzy
breath of relief, we sat on the edges of our bunks and watched the
last stragglers disappear. The next problem was to rid the forecastle
of smoke, a task almost as difficult as the former problem, but
accomplished after much discomfort and effort.
In the midst of the earlier confusion, one wiser than his fellows hit
upon what he considered a happy solution of the entire difficulty; to
wit, leaving both mosquitoes and smoke in undisputed possession of the
forecastle by going aloft and sleeping in the crow’s nest. Ten minutes
elapsed, when much to our surprise, we heard the rattle of the rigging
and muttered imprecations as our intellectual giant returned to our
humble company, covered with mosquitoes. Without stopping to answer our
jibes, he disappeared where the smoke was thickest.