The Walrus Hunters: A Romance of the Realms of Ice

Then the event which Nazinred had referred to occurred. The flames reached the powder magazine. It exploded, and the terrified natives yelled their feelings, while the entire structure went up into the heavens with a roar to which the loudest thunder could not compare, and a sheet of intense light that almost blinded them.

The explosion blew out every fork of flame, great and small, and left an appalling blackness by contrast, while myriads of red-hot fragments fell in a shower on the ice, and rebounded from it, like evil spirits dancing around the tremendous wreck that they had caused.

Fortunately the Eskimos were beyond the range of the fiery shower. When they ventured, with awe-stricken looks, to approach the scene of the catastrophe, only a yawning cavern in the floe remained to tell of the stately vessel that had thus ended her final voyage.

Chapter Thirty.

A Declaration, an Interruption, and a Great Fight

The loss which the Eskimos sustained in the destruction of the ship was in one sense considerable, for the woodwork about her would have been of immense value to them; nevertheless their gains in what had already been stored were very great, so that they were able to regard their losses with philosophic composure.

The weeks that followed—weeks of ever increasing light and warmth—were spent in examining and sorting their material into packages suitable for transport on sledges to their summer quarters at Waruskeek.

And here again the knowledge possessed by Nazinred of the habits and implements of the white men was of great service. Adolay also helped to instruct, for when among the sail-maker’s tools they found a number of the finer sort of needles and threads, as well as a few feminine thimbles, so to speak, she was able to show the women at once how to use them, and thus saved them from the trouble of puzzling out the matter for themselves.

“What is this?” asked Anteek of Nazinred one day, presenting a file which he had just picked up.

“That is a thing,” replied the Indian, who, being ignorant of the names of most tools, got over the difficulty by calling all objects “things”—“that is a thing made for cutting iron with; rubbing it down and cutting it short. It cuts things that are too hard for a knife.”

“I think,” returned the boy, regarding it attentively, “we might try it on Aglootook’s nose. That wants cutting short, and rubbing down too, for it seems very hard to look at it.”

Nazinred did not smile. He was slow to understand a joke. Perhaps he thought it a poor one, but Cheenbuk appreciated it, and met it with the suggestion that an axe might be more effective.

They were gravely debating this point in front of the snow stores, when Ondikik came up and asked when it was likely that a start would be made for home, as he styled their old winter village.

“Go and ask Mangivik. When he gives the order I’m ready,” said Cheenbuk.

“Don’t say a word to Aglootook,” said Anteek, as the young man turned to go; “he will be sure to say that something will happen if you do.”

“Yes, and as something always does happen,” remarked Cheenbuk, “he’s sure to be right, the moosquat.”

“Moo-squat” seemed to be used as a term of extreme contempt; it may not therefore be incorrect to translate it—“humbug!”

On being consulted, old Mangivik, who was generally credited with being weather-wise and intelligent, gave it as his opinion that, as the things from the white man’s kayak were all ready packed on the sledges, and the weather was very warm, and the days were growing long, and the ice and snow were melting fast, the sooner they set out the better.

Aglootook coincided with that opinion, because he had been led to the same conclusion some days before, chiefly in consequence of profound thought during the dark hours of night. “And if we don’t start off now,” he added at the end of a portentous oration, “no one can tell what will happen—something fearful, I know, though of course it is not possible to say what.”

As no one felt disposed to object, the preparations were hurried forward, and, soon after, the whole tribe went off on the return journey, leaving behind them a black and yawning gulf in the Arctic solitude where so lately a noble ship had been.

Arrived at the old village, these lively and energetic nomads occupied themselves during the brief remainder of winter and the early spring in securely hiding the goods of which they had become possessed, excepting such light portions as they meant to carry along with them to their summer retreat. Among these were a number of bows, spears, and arrows made from the wood of the burnt vessel, with cleverly adapted iron heads, filed to fine sharp points, and burnished until they glittered in the light. Of knives and axes there were also sufficient to equip most of the young men, and those for whom there were none made to themselves pretty good knives out of pieces of hoop-iron.

When at last the ocean currents and summer heat broke up the solid floes and set the icebergs free to resume their majestic southward course, our Eskimos put their sledges en cache, got out kayaks and oomiaks, and, wielding both the short and the long paddle, started off towards the southwest, in the direction of Waruskeek—some of the tribe, however, with a few of the old people, remaining behind.

“Now, Adolay, we are going to take you home,” said Cheenbuk, the day they started, while walking with her towards the oomiak in which she was to take her seat and a paddle. “Will the Indian girl be glad to leave us?”

The faintest possible tinge of red suffused her cheek, as she dropped her eyes and replied—

“She will be glad to get home.”

“When you have got home, and stayed for a time with your people,” returned Cheenbuk, who was usually blunt and to-the-point in his conversation, “will you come away with me and be my woman—my squaw?” he added, accommodating his words to the Indian vocabulary.

“I cannot leave my mother,” answered the maiden in a low voice.

“That is good,” returned the gallant Eskimo, “but Cheenbuk can leave his mother and his father too. If I go and live with the men-of-the-woods, will you be my squaw?”

Adolay with downcast eyes gave no answer.

It is said that silence gives consent. We are ignorant as to Arctic opinion on this point, but before light could be thrown on the subject, Anteek came rushing round the corner of a stranded berg with the exclamation—

“Hoi! Cheenbuk—here you are! We thought you must have got into the teeth of a walrus or the arms of a bear!”

Cheenbuk frowned savagely, caught Anteek by his nether garments and the nape of his neck, and, lifting him high above his head, seemed about to dash him on the ground. But, instead, he replaced him gently on his feet, and, with a benignant smile, told him to run down to the shore and put his kayak in the water so as to be ready for him.

Anteek, who was obedience personified, hastened away at once, rubbing his nether garments, and sorely perplexed as to the strange spirit which seemed so suddenly to have taken possession of the friend he so ardently idolised.

It was arranged that Nazinred, being unaccustomed to the Eskimo kayak, should voyage with the women in one of the oomiaks. To a younger brave this might have been regarded as an undignified position, but to a man of his years and tried experience it was only a subject for a passing smile. But the Indian did not accept the position of an idle passenger. Although inexpert in the use of the two-bladed paddle and the light kayak, he was thoroughly capable of using the women’s paddle with the single blade, as it bore much resemblance in shape and size to that used in his native canoe. He therefore quietly assumed the post of steersman in the oomiak, which contained Madam Mangivik, Nootka, the easy-going Cowlik, the gentle Rinka, Adolay, and a variety of children and babies. The young man Oolalik, in defiance of immemorial custom, also took a seat and a paddle in that oomiak—out of pure hospitality of course, and for the sole purpose of keeping their guest company. Nootka said nothing, but she seemed amused as well as pleased at the innovation. So were the children, for Oolalik was a prime favourite with young as well as old.

Old Uleeta was the captain of another of the oomiaks, and it was observed that Aglootook cast longing and frequent glances in her direction, believing, no doubt, that a place by her side would be an easier berth than in his own kayak, with nothing but the strength of his own lazy arm to urge it on; but as there was no guest in this case to justify the breach of ancient custom on the ground of hospitality, he felt that manhood required him to stay where he was.

It was a pretty sight the starting of the little flotilla on a brilliant spring morning, with the sea as calm as a millpond, fantastic masses of white ice floating about in all directions, and mountainous bergs here and there giving dignity as well as variety, by their size and light-green sides and deep blue caverns, to a scene which might otherwise have been too suggestive of wedding-cake.

Seals, walruses, sea-birds, and numerous denizens of the deep and air, were sporting about in fearless indifference to the presence of their great enemy, man, but these were unheeded until hunger began to affect the Eskimo. Then the war began, with its usual result—“the survival of the fittest.”

One day, however, there was a battle in which it came about that the tables were almost turned, and the survival, as regards the animals, very nearly reversed.

It happened thus.

We have already referred to the ferocity of the walrus when attacked. As a rule, man is the assailant. Sometimes, however, the monster of the Arctic deep assumes the offensive. On the occasion we are about to describe the attack was made in force.

The day had been brilliantly fine. The bergs had absolutely duplicated and inverted themselves by reflection, so that the sunlit pinnacles became submarine fires, and refraction stepped in to reverse, and as it were shatter, the floes on the horizon, while three mock suns glowed in the heavens at the same time—thus making the beautiful confusion still more exquisitely confounded.

“Walrus!” said Cheenbuk, pointing with the end of his long paddle in the direction of a large berg just ahead of them.

Nazinred, who was close alongside of him, ceased to paddle, and shaded his eyes with his hand. So did his crew. The whole flotilla ceased to paddle, and skimmed slowly along for some moments in dead silence.

Then Aglootook, in virtue of his office and presumption, spoke in a low voice—

“Let us pull softly, and speak not at all. There are plenty of beasts. Wonders shall be done to-day if you attend to what I say.”

They all acted on his advice, whether they heard it or not, for Eskimos need no caution to be wary and silent when approaching a herd of walruses.

There appeared to be at least a hundred animals lying sunning themselves on the various ice-lumps into which the floes were broken up. On one mass about half a mile off there were some twenty rolling about and grunting comfortably to each other. Towards these the flotilla slowly drifted, for the dipping of the paddles could scarcely be seen, and was quite noiseless. By slow degrees they drew near, and then the oomiaks hung back, with the exception of that steered by Nazinred, who had got his fire-spouter ready, while Oolalik stood in the bow, harpoon in hand, and lance ready by his side. The women were not expected to take part in the action—only to look on,—but all the men in kayaks advanced. While these last went on towards the main herd, our Indian steered straight for the ice-cake on which the largest number lay, and as they drew near, the extreme ugliness of the creatures’ faces and black heads became very apparent.

There was an old bull with tusks not far short of three feet long among the herd. Beside him was a young bull, which seemed from his wicked expression to be screwing up his courage to assault the old one. The rest were females and young ones of various ages, down to what seemed the very last walrus baby. Those that were grown up had bristling moustaches like porcupine-quills on their flat lips, and the young ones had tusks in different degrees of development—except the baby, whose head resembled an ill-shaped football.

They did not seem in the least afraid of the approaching oomiak. Perhaps they thought it a very dirty piece of ice covered with rather grotesque seals. At all events, although they looked at it, they went on with their mooing and rolling about, quite regardless of it, until Oolalik sent his harpoon deep into the side of one of the cows. Then indeed there was tremendous roaring and confusion, as the whole herd tumbled off the ice raft into the sea. The splash sent a cataract of spray over the Eskimos; and no wonder, for the old bull was full sixteen feet long, with barrel-bulk equal to a hogshead. Some of the others were not much smaller.

The harpoon thrown was attached to a short line, to the end of which an inflated seal-skin was fastened for the purpose of forming a drag on the animal harpooned, and, by coming to the surface, showing its whereabouts. But on this occasion the creatures required no such contrivance to bring them up, for no sooner were the two bulls in their native element than they uttered a horrible succession of roars, and made straight for the oomiak. A rip in the side of the skin boat would have been fatal, or, if one of the animals were to hook on to it with his tusks, an upset would be certain. Oolalik therefore grasped his long lance, while Nazinred steered so as to keep the bow end-on to the assailants. Another moment and Oolalik dealt the oldest bull a thrust in the neck that sent it back roaring. The cry seemed to be a summons, for answering cries were heard all round, and the walruses were seen to be converging towards their savage old chief. Meanwhile the young bull had reached the right side of the oomiak, where Cowlik sat with an easy-going look on her placid face, admiring the scene.