THE RETIRED SEA CAPTAIN.
Many years ago, close under the shadow of old Plymouth Rock, there was
born one day a fair-skinned, blue-eyed baby. Whether from heredity, or
environment, or both, the reason of his spirit will perhaps never
plainly appear, but as the child grew into manhood he seemed filled with
the same adventurous aspirations which had actuated his forefathers,
causing them to leave their homes in old England, and come to foreign
shores. Scarcely had he passed into his teens before he was devouring
tales of pirates, and kindred old sea yarns, and his heart was fired
with ambition to own a vessel and sail the high seas. Not that he
thirsted for a pirate's life, but a seafaring man's adventures he longed
for and decided he must have.
Under these conditions a close application at his desk in the village
school was an unheard-of consequence; and, having repeatedly smarted
under the schoolmaster's ferule, not to mention his good mother's
switches plucked from the big lilac bush by her door, he decided to run
away to the great harbor, and ship upon some vessel bound for a foreign
land.
This he did. Then followed the usual hard, rough life of a boy among
sailors in distant ports; the knotted rope's end, the lip blackening
language and curses, storms, shipwrecks and misfortunes; all followed as
a part of the life so hastily chosen by the adventurous young lad, until
he acquired familiarity with all that appertained thereto, and he was a
man.
Years passed. To say that fortune never came to him would not be true,
because she is always a fickle dame, and cannot change her character for
sailor men. So it came about that he finally stood on the captain's
bridge of different sorts of craft, and gave orders to those beneath
him.
And a typical sea captain was he. Gruff when occasion required,
rollicking as any when it pleased him, he was generous to a fault, and a
man of naturally good impulses. If he drank, he was never tipsy; if he
swore, he always had reason; and thus he excused himself when he thought
of his good old mother's early Bible teaching.
From Montevideo to Canton, from Gibraltar to San Francisco, from Cape of
Good Hope to the Arctic Ocean; thus ran his itinerary year after year.
Crossing Behring Strait from Siberia in the summer of 18--, he landed,
with his little crew, at Cape Prince of Wales, for the purpose of
trading with the natives. The furs of the animals of this region were
found to be exceptionally fine, thick and glossy, and the Eskimos easily
parted with them. For flour, tobacco and woolen cloth they willingly
gave their furs to the sailors, who looked admiringly upon the skins of
the polar bear, sea otter, beaver, silver, black and white fox, as well
as those of many other animals. These furs were sold in San Francisco,
and other trips were made to the Arctic Northwest.
Along the south coast of the Seward Peninsula there are few bays or
natural harbors. Golovin Bay is one of them. Here for many years the
Eskimos have subsisted upon the fine fish and game. The flesh and oils
of the white whale, seal and walrus being principally sought for, the
natives came to this bay from all directions.
After many years of wandering, and when the ambitions of the captain for
a seafaring life had been satisfied, an incident occurred which changed
the current of his life and decided him to settle permanently at Golovin
Bay.
During his visits on the peninsula his attention had been directed to a
bright and intelligent young Eskimo woman, lithe and lively, a good
swimmer, trapper and hunter. Like a typical Indian, she had a clear,
keen eye, steady nerves and common sense. She was a good gunner and
seldom missed her mark. She was fearless on land or sea, loved her free
out-door life, and was a true child of nature. Her name was Mollie.
One day in the early springtime, nearly a dozen years ago, when the
winter's ice was still imprisoned in the bays and sounds of Behring
Sea, though the warm sun had for weeks been shining and already seams
appeared upon the ice in many places, the captain attempted the trip by
dog-team from St. Michael to Golovin Bay. With him were four trusty
natives, and three dog-teams, the animals being of the hardy Eskimo
breed, and well-nigh impervious to cold, their long, thick hair making
an effective protection.
His men were experienced, knowing the country perfectly, including a
knowledge of winter trails and methods of traveling such as all Eskimos
possess, and though the weather was not just what the captain might have
wished, he decided to make the start, and left St. Michael in good shape
for the long trip. The strong sleds with high-back handle bar and railed
sides were firmly packed with freight, which was securely lashed down.
The dogs were driven in pairs, eleven to a sled, the eleventh being in
each case a fine leader and called such, besides having his own Eskimo
name, as did also the four men who were warmly dressed in furs from head
to foot. These natives were familiar with little English, but as the
captain had made himself acquainted with their language they had no
difficulty in making each other understood.
Early in the evening of that day they reached the Mission station of
Unalaklik, on the mainland, about fifty miles northeast of the island,
where they spent the night. In this settlement were white traders, as
well as missionaries and numbers of Eskimos, it being an old port of
considerable importance.
In the cold grey morning light Punni Churah and the men called to the
malemutes, patting their furry heads and talking kindly to them, for
many a weary, long mile of snow trail stretched northward for them that
day before they could rest and eat. Only at night, when their day's work
was done, were these faithful creatures ever fed on seal, fish, whale,
or walrus meat, for otherwise they would be drowsy, and not willing to
travel; so they were called early from their snow beds in a drift or
hollow, where they liked best to sleep, and made ready for the start.
Dressed in their squirrel skin parkies, with wide-bordered hoods upon
their heads, reindeer muckluks on their feet and mittens of skin upon
their hands, stood Ah Chugor Ruk, Ung Kah Ah Ruk, Iamkiluk and Punni
Churah, long lashed whips in hand, and waiting.
On one of the sleds, dressed and enveloped in furs, sat the captain,
before giving the order to start. At the word from him, the dogs sprang
to their collars, the little bells jingled, and away they all dashed.
Team after team, over the well-trodden trail they went, keeping up a
continuous and sprightly trot for hours, while behind at the handle bars
ran the natives, and rocks, hills and mountains were passed all
unnoticed.
That night another Eskimo village was reached, and sixty miles of snow
trail were left behind. Shaktolik lay on the shore southeast of a
portage which would have to be made over a small point of land jutting
out into Norton Bay.
During the night a storm came up which would necessarily much impede
their progress, being called in the western world a "blizzard." This
storm fiend, once met, is never forgotten. None but the man in the
Arctic has seen him. None know so well how to elude him. Like a Peele,
or a "tremblor" this Arctic king gathers his forces, more mighty than
armies in battle, and sweeps all opponents before him. To resist means
death. To crouch, cower or bow down to this implacable lord of the polar
world is the only way to evade his wrath when he rides abroad, and woe
to the man who thinks otherwise.
Not long had the wind and snow been blowing when the little train
prepared to move. Ahead they could see the sled tracks of other
"mushers" (travelers by dog-team), and the captain concluded to hurry
along, notwithstanding that Ah Chugor Ruk shook his head, and spat
tobacco juice upon the ground, and Ung Kah Ah Ruk demurred stoutly in
few words. Punni Churah thought as the rest, but would go ahead if the
captain so ordered, and they headed northwest for the portage.
On the dogs trotted for hours. The snow and sleet were blinding, the
wind had risen to a gale. The dogs traveled less rapidly now, and their
faces were covered with frost, the moisture freezing as they breathed.
By this time the natives wanted to camp where they were, or head about
northeast for another Eskimo village called Ungaliktulik, which would
make the journey longer by twenty-five miles, but the captain decided to
keep on as they were going.
By the middle of the afternoon the gale had increased to fury, causing
the thermometer to fall with great rapidity, while the snow was
blinding. The dogs were curling up in the wind like leaves before a
blaze.
Ah Chugor Ruk was ahead with his team. His leader suddenly halted.
"Muk-a-muk!" cried the Eskimo.
"Muk!" echoed Punni Churah, running up alongside to look, and then back
to the captain's sled, where he shouted something loudly in order to be
heard above the storm.
An ice crack crossed their trail. There was no help for it. There it
lay, dark and cold--the dreaded water.
In the blinding blizzard they could not see the width of the chasm. It
was too wide for them to bridge; it was death to remain where they
were--they must turn back, and they did so. The wind was not now in
their faces as before, which made traveling some easier, but they had
not gone far when: "Muk-a-muk!" from Punni this time, who was ahead.
Again the dogs stopped. Again Punni Churah came back, and reported.
They were adrift on a cake of ice. Wind from the northeast was blowing a
hurricane, carrying them on their ice cake directly out to sea; but the
snow was drifting in hummocks, and in one of them the natives began
digging a hole for a hut. When this was of sufficient size, they pitched
a sled cover of canvas over it, made the sleighs fast outside, and
crawled underneath. Once inside their temporary igloo, they made a fire
of white drilling and bacon, taken from the sled loads of merchandise;
melted snow for water, and boiled coffee, being nearly famished. Then
for hours they all slept heavily, the dogs being huddled together in the
snow, as is their habit, but the blizzard raged frightfully, and drove
the dogs nearer the men in the hut.
Crawling upon the canvas for more warmth, the poor, freezing creatures,
struggling for shelter, with the weight of their bodies caused the hut
to collapse, and all fell, in one writhing heap, upon the heads of the
unfortunates below. Howling, barking, struggling to free themselves from
the tangle, the pack of brutes added torment to the lot of the men; but
the storm raged with such terrific force that all lay as they fell,
until morning, under the snow.
None now disputed the storm king's sway. All were laid low before him.
With the united fury of fiends of Hades, he laughed in demoniacal glee
at the desperation of the Arctic travelers under his heel. The whole
world was now his. Far from the icy and unknown wastes of the interior,
around the great Circle and Rockies, riding above the heads of rivers
and mountains, he came from the Koyuk and Koyukuk. Like a child at play,
as if weary of so long holding them in his cold embrace, he drove the
massive ice floes out into ocean, only, perhaps, in childish fitfulness,
to bring them back directly, by gales quite contrary.
When morning dawned, the captain and his men crawled out of the crushed
snow hut, and, with hard work, made a new cave in the snow drift,
burying the sleighs in the old one. The dogs were starving, and, to
appease their appetites, were purloining bacon from the sled's stores;
but Providence, for once, was kind to them, and a large, fat seal of
several hundred pounds weight was shot that day on the edge of the ice
cake upon which they were camped, and this gave them food and fuel. Dogs
and natives were then well fed on the fresh seal meat and blubber, their
natural and favorite viands. From tin dishes upon the sleds, the natives
made little stoves, or lamps, using drilling for wicks, seal oil for
fuel, and their coffee was made. Among the stores on the sleds were
canned goods, beans, sausages, flour and other things, and on these the
captain subsisted.
Day after day passed. The storm gradually died away, and the sun came
out. Then watches were set to keep a lookout, and the captain took his
turn with his men. Walking about in the cold morning air, he could see
the mainland to the northwest, many miles away, and his heart sank
within him. Would he ever put his foot upon that shore again? How long
could they live on the ice cake if they floated far out in the Behring
Sea? To him the outlook was growing darker each day, though the natives
seemed not to be troubled.
Nearly two weeks passed. One night the captain was awakened by a hand on
his shoulder. It was Ung Kah Ah Ruk. The wind, he said, was blowing
steadily from the southwest, and if it continued they might be able to
reach the shore ice and the mainland. Anxiously together then they
watched and waited for long, weary hours, getting the sleds loaded, and
in readiness for a start; then, with bitterest disappointment, they
found the wind again changed to the southwest, which would carry them
out to sea as before.
What were they to do? This might be their best and only chance to
escape. The shore ice lay near them, but, as yet, beyond their reach.
This treacherous wind might continue for days and even weeks. From
experience they knew that the wind blew where he listed, regardless of
the forlorn creatures under him, and with the thermometer at forty
degrees below zero, as it was, swimming was out of the question. The
crack appeared a dozen or so feet in width, and escape was only
possible by reaching the other side.
Their strait was a desperate one. The captain decided to make the leap.
Removing his furs, he rolled them tightly, and threw them across the
chasm. It was now a positive dash for life, as without his furs he would
soon perish with the cold.
He made the run and leaped. At that instant one of the natives, from
intense interest, or from a desire to assist, gave a loud Eskimo whoop,
which startled the captain, and he missed his footing, falling forward
upon the ice, but with his lower limbs in the water.
The natives now bestirred themselves and threw to the captain a large
hunting knife and rifle, attached to their long sled lashings. With a
good deal of exertion, the captain crawled upon the ice, and with the
knife he chopped a hole, and inserted the rifle barrel, fastening the
lashings to it and holding it firmly in place. The natives then pulled
with united strength on the line, bringing the ice cake slowly up toward
the captain until within a few feet of the shore ice, when, using a sled
for a bridge, they and the dogs crossed safely over, without so much as
wetting their feet. To all, this was a matter for great rejoicing, and
no regretful farewells were given to the ice floe which had been their
prison house so long. They were not yet out of danger, however, for the
shore ice upon which they stood might, in the gale, at any moment be
loosened and carry them, like the other, out into the ocean. So with all
haste possible, they proceeded to get away. Punni Churah brought the
captain's fur sleeping bag and robes, in which he was stowed away in one
of the sleds, though his wet clothing was now frozen. There was no time
nor place to make a change, with the thermometer nearly forty degrees
below zero.
Hours afterward they reached the mainland. How good once more to step
foot on terra firma! The dogs barked, and the natives hallooed
cheerfully to each other, for they were now going home. A deserted
native village was soon entered, an igloo in passable condition taken
possession of, and the dogs tied up for the night.
The natives now worked rapidly and cheerfully, two putting up their camp
stove, another bringing snow for water with which to make the coffee,
and Punni Churah looking after the captain, who tried to remove his
clothing, but to no purpose. Muckluks and trousers were frozen together,
and as fast as the ice melted sufficiently they were cut away. Contrary
to his expectations, he was not severely frozen, a white patch, the size
of his hand, appearing upon each limb above the knee. With these they
did the best they could, and dry clothing from the sleds was put on.
Their supper that night was a feast of rejoicing. They were now on the
home trail, and would soon be among friends. One more day of travel and
their long, hazardous, and eventful trip of two hundred miles over an
Arctic waste would be successfully accomplished. As they rolled
themselves in their furs at midnight for a few hours of needed rest and
sleep, they could almost fancy themselves at home again and happy. The
dogs huddled in the snow outside, now and then barking in their usual
way, but the tired men in the igloo did not hear them, for their sleep
was oblivion, after the strain of the last two weeks.
Next morning, after traveling for several hours, a halt was made, and a
lunch was taken in an Eskimo camp; but the captain, by this time, was
suffering from exposure and frosted limbs, the trail was bad, and he
concluded to hurry on ahead of the teams. The way was familiar, and only
one low mountain, called the Portage, was to be crossed. It was early in
the day, and his teams would follow immediately; so on his snowshoes the
captain hastened toward home.
God help the man who travels alone in the Arctic in winter! Little
matters it if the sun shines brightly at starting, and the sky appears
clear as a summer pool. In one short hour the aspect of all may be
changed, heavens overcast, snow flying, and wind rapidly driving. Under
the gathering darkness and whirling snowflakes the narrow trail is soon
obscured, or entirely obliterated, the icy wind congeals the traveler's
breath and courage simultaneously, he becomes confused and goes round
and round in a circle, until, benumbed by the frost, he sinks down to
die. This was what now happened to the captain.
Another storm was upon him when he reached the hill portage, and as he
expected his natives momentarily, and beyond this point the trail was
good, so that he could ride behind the dogs, he waited until they should
come up to him. Hour after hour he waited. Night came on, and the
blizzard increased in severity. Hungry, cold and already frost-bitten,
he must spend the night on the mountain alone. Still he listened for the
bells on the malemutes, and the calls of his Eskimo drivers.
They did not come. Nothing but snow, and the shriek of that storm king
whose rage he had so recently encountered while drifting to sea on the
ice floe, and from whom only cruelty was ever expected, now whistled in
his ears.
He knew he must keep on walking, so removing his snowshoes he stuck one
in the snow drift and fastened a seal rope at the top. Taking the end of
this in his hand, he circled round and round for hours to keep himself
moving. At last he grew weary, and closed his eyes, still walking as
before. It was more pleasant to keep his eyes closed, for then he saw
visions of bright, warm rooms, blazing fires and cozy couches, and
smelled the odors of appetizing foods. There were flowers, sweet music
and children, and he was again in far-off sunny lands.
He grew drowsy. He would only rest a little in a soft white drift, and
then go on again. Making a place in the bank with the snowshoe, while
the wind whistled horribly and the whirling snow bewildered him, he lay
down to----
Some men, one night, drove their dog-teams into Chinik. They had come
from St. Michael, two hundred miles over the trail. They said the
captain and his party left there many days before them, and by this they
were surely dead, unless drifted out to sea, which really meant the same
thing, as no man could live upon the ice during the recent great
blizzard. An Eskimo woman heard what they said. She was a cousin to
Punni Churah, but she said nothing.
An hour later, the woman and two men with dogs and sleds left Chinik for
the Portage, going east. It was storming, but it was not dark, and they
knew each foot of the way. At first, on the level, the woman rode in one
of the sleds, but when it grew hilly, she trudged behind. Her sharp eyes
now keenly searched every dark or obscure spot along the hillside trail.
The wind lessened somewhat, and the moon came out behind the clouds.
The dogs finally stopped, throwing back their heads and howling; then,
in more excitement, gave the short, quick bark of the chase.
The natives began poking about with sticks in the drifts, and Mollie
(for it was she) soon found the unconscious man in the snow.
Quick work then they made of the return trip. They were only a few miles
from home now, and the malemutes seemed to comprehend. Every nerve in
their bodies tingled. Every tiny bell on their harnesses jingled, and
the fleet-footed natives sped rapidly behind. The dogs needed no
guidance, for they were going home, and well knew it. The voice of big
Ituk, as he gave out his Eskimo calls, the sleigh-bells, and the creak
of the sled runners over the frosty snow, were the only sounds heard on
the clear morning air.
The life of the captain was saved.
The sequel of his story is not long. With the best care known to a
native woman, brought up near and inside a Mission station, the captain
was tended and brought back to life, though weeks passed before he was
well. In fact, he was never strong again, and, needing a life-long
nurse, decided, with Mollie's consent, to take her for his wife, and so
the missionary married them. Then they settled permanently at Golovin
Bay, where a trading post was already established, and where they are
living happily to this day.