Among the Esquimaux; or Adventures under the Arctic Circle

CHAPTER XXXI
ANOTHER SOUND

The little party were overwhelmed with dismay. The very man on whom they had relied from the beginning, the one who had conducted them thus far, and the one who, under heaven, could alone guide them to safety, had thrown up his hands and yielded the struggle. He lay on the snow limp, helpless, and despairing.

The new fall of snow had almost obliterated their trail, but enough remained to identify it beyond mistake. The cavity which Docak had scooped out, and in which they slept, was recognized on the first glance. The whole day, from the moment of starting, had been wasted, in laboring to their utmost strength, in getting back to the very point from which they set out, and which itself was twenty miles from the sea-coast.

The tendency that every one shows to travel in a circle, when lost, has been explained in various ways. It is probably due to the fact that one side of every person is more developed than the other. A right-handed individual gradually veers to the left, a left-handed one to the right, while a really ambidextrous one ought to keep straight ahead.

Jack and the boys remained silent for a moment. They looked down on the prostrate figure, and finally Fred asked:

"What's the matter, Docak?"

"Gib up – no use – we die – neber see home 'gin."

The words were uttered with all the dejection that it is possible to conceive, and the native did not move. He acted as if the power to do so had gone from him.

Suddenly, to the astonishment of the others, Jack Cosgrove gave him a thumping kick.

"Get up!" he commanded; "if you're such a lubber as all this, I'll take you by the neck and boot you all the way across Greenland."

And as a guarantee of his good faith he yanked Docak to his feet, and made ready for a still harder kick, when the fellow moved nimbly out of the way.

"If you are too big a calf to go on, I'll take the lead, and when I flop it'll be after all the rest of you've gone down."

The breezy style in which the sailor took hold of matters produced an inspiriting effect on the others. Despite the grim solemnity of the moments, both Rob and Fred laughed, as much at the quickness with which Docak responded as anything else.

"Since we are here at the same old spot," said Rob, "and it is growing dark, we might as well go into camp."

"That's the fact, as we won't have to scoop out a new place to sleep in. I suppose, Docak, you're able to sleep, aint you?"

The native made no answer, and the party silently placed themselves in position for another night's rest, Docak not refusing to huddle in among them. But there was little talking done. No one could say anything to comfort the others, and each was busy with his own thoughts.

It need not be said that, despite the fearful gloom and these forebodings, they were ravenously hungry. Their bodies were in need of sustenance, and the probability that they could not get it for an indefinite time to come was enough to deepen the despair that was stealing into every heart.

It was unto Fred Warburton that something in the nature of a revelation came in the darkness of that awful night. His senses remained with him for some time after the others were asleep, as he knew from their deep, regular breathing.

The snowfall had almost ceased, and he sat wondering whether, after all, the end was at hand, and he was asking himself whether, such seeming of a surety to be the fact, it was worth while to rise from their present position and try to press on further. If die they must, why not stay where they were and perish together?

These thoughts were stirring his mind, with many other solemn meditations, which crowd upon every person who, in his right senses, sees himself approaching the Dark River, when it seemed to him that there was sounding, at intervals, an almost inaudible roar, so faint and dull that for awhile he paid no heed to it, deeming it some insignificant aural disturbance, such as causes a buzzing or ringing at times in the head.

But it obtruded so continually that he began to suspect it was a reality and from some point outside of himself.

It was a low, almost inaudible murmur, sometimes so faint that he could not hear it, and again swelling out just enough to make it certain it had an actuality.

Suddenly the heart of the lad almost stood still.

"It's the ocean!" he whispered; "the air has become so still that I can hear it. The plain is open, there has been a big storm, and the distance is not too great for it to reach us. But, no, it is from the wrong direction; it can't be the sea."

The next moment he laughed at himself. Having fixed in his mind the course to the home of Docak, and, hearing the roar from another point of the compass, it did not at once occur to him that he himself might be mistaken.

"If Docak, with all his experience could not keep himself from going astray, what wonder that I should drift from my moorings? Yes, that is the sound of the distant ocean or that part known as Davis' Strait and Baffin's Bay. We can now tell which course to take to get out of this accursed country."

He wished to awake his friends, and in view of their hungry condition, urge that they should set out at once; but they were so wearied that the rest would be grateful, and it was needed. And so, while not exactly clear as to what should be done, he fell asleep and did not open his eyes until morning.

Docak was the first to rouse himself. He found that the snow was falling again, with the prospect worse than ever.

Fred sprang to his feet and quickly told what he had discovered the evening before.

"It was the ocean," he added, with a shake of his head: "I have heard it too often to make a mistake – listen!"

All were silent, but the strained ear could catch no sound like the hollow roar which reached the youth a few hours before.

"I don't care; I was not mistaken," he insisted.

"Why don't we hear it now?" asked Rob, anxious to believe what he said, but unable fully to do so.

"There was no snow falling at the time; the air was clearer then, and what little wind there was must have been in the right direction."

"Where did sound come from?" asked the Esquimau, looking earnestly at Fred and showing deep interest in his words.

"From off yonder," replied the lad, pointing in the proper direction.

"He right – dat so – he hear sea," said Docak, who, to prove the truth of his words, pointed down at the dimly marked trail. It led in the precise course indicated by Fred. In other words, when the Esquimau resumed the journey on the preceding morning, at which time his bearings were correct, he went of a verity directly toward his own home, which was the route now pointed by Fred Warburton.

The others saw the point, and admitted that the declaration of the lad had been proven to be correct beyond question.

And yet, while all this was interesting in its way, and for the time encouraged the others, of what possible import was it? The conditions were precisely the same as twenty-four hours before, except they were less favorable, for the comrades in distress were hungrier and weaker.

But they could not hear the ocean, the snow was falling, and there was no way of guiding themselves.

They could only struggle on as before, hoping that possibly before wandering too far astray they might be able to catch the roar that would be an infallible guide to them in their despairing groping for home.

The three looked at Docak, expecting him to take the lead, as he had done from the start. It may be said that Jack Cosgrove had kicked the Esquimau into his proper place and he was prepared to stay there as long as he could.

But the native, instead of moving off, stood with his head bent and his ears bared in the attitude of intense attention.

They judged that he was striving to catch a sound of the ocean. But he was not.

Truth to tell, Docak had detected another sound of a totally different character, but far more important than the hollow roar of the far-away Arctic Sea.

CHAPTER XXXII
THE WILD MEN OF GREENLAND

A sharp bark broke the stillness, a peculiar cry followed, and then, out from the swirl and flurry of the eddying snow, came a string of Esquimau dogs. There were six couples fastened to a rude sleigh, and at the side of the frisky animals skurried one of the wild men of Greenland on snow-shoes, and with a whip in hand having a short stock and a very long lash.

Directly behind him followed two similar teams, and then a fourth emerged with seven spans of dogs. There was a driver to each, and the sleighs were loaded with pelts intended for the nearest settlement. Not one of the Esquimaux was riding, though it was their custom to do so for a goodly portion of the way.

This singular collection of men and animals were approaching in a line that would have carried them right over the amazed party that were about to start on their hopeless attempt to reach the sea coast, had they not veered to one side.

When the foremost driver discerned the four figures through the snow he emitted a sharp cry, not dissimilar to that of his own dogs, and the obedient animals halted. The others did the same, and in a few minutes the four teams, with their drivers, were ranged about the others.

These individuals were genuine Esquimaux, the real wild men of Greenland. Their homes were far in the interior, and only at rare intervals did they venture forth with their dogs and sleighs to the coast settlements, where they were welcome, for they never failed to bring a good supply of peltries with them, for which they found ready barter among the agents of the Danish government.

There was no mixed blood among these Esquimaux. They were copper-colored, short, of stocky build, and with more muscular development in the lower limbs than is seen among the coast natives. The latter, giving most of their time to fishing and the use of the paddle, have powerful arms and shoulders, but as a rule are weak in the legs.

They were warmly clad in furs, their heads being covered with hoods similar to that worn by Docak, but there was nothing in the nature of the dress ornamentation which he displayed.

None of the party could speak English, but that made no difference, since Docak understood their curious gibberish. An animated conversation began at once between him and the four, who gathered about him while Jack and the boys stood silently listening and looking upon the singular scene.

What the guide said was in the nature of "business." They had talked but a short while when one of the wild men went to his sleigh and brought forth a big piece of cooked reindeer meat, evidently a part of their own liberal supply of provisions, and offered it to Jack. The latter accepted with thanks, shown more plainly by manner than his words.

And didn't those three fellows have a feast, with Docak himself as a participant? You need to be told no more on that point.

The guide, after the brisk interview, explained the meaning of the conversation to his friends.

The Esquimaux were on their way to Ivigtut, some forty miles in a southwest direction. They had come a long way from the interior, having been three days on the road, and it was their intention to push matters so vigorously that they would reach the famous mining town that night.

But, best of all, they agreed to carry the three whites as passengers. They could be stowed in the sleighs among the peltries, as the drivers were accustomed to do at times, though they were capable of keeping pace with the dogs hour after hour without fatigue. They would do so now on their snow-shoes, and the three could ride all the way to Ivigtut.

It meant the rescue and salvation of the party, who were in the uttermost depths of despair but a few minutes before, and tears of thankfulness came to the eyes of all three.

"We haven't much money with us," said Rob, addressing Docak, "but we will pay them as well as we can when we reach Ivigtut."

"Don't want much," replied the grinning guide, "jes' little money – two, t'ree bits."

"We'll give 'em all we've got," added Jack; "but what about you, Docak?"

"Me go home," was the answer, accompanied by one of his pleasing grins.

"Can you find the way?"

"Me all right now – hark! hear de water?"

He spoke the truth, it being a singular fact that the atmospheric conditions had changed to that degree that the dull, hollow moaning for which they had listened so long in vain was now audible to all. It was like a beacon light, which suddenly flames out on the top of a high hill, for the guidance of the belated traveler. There could be no going astray, with that sound always in his ears, and strengthened by his meal of venison, the hardy native would press on until he ducked his head and passed through the entry of his home.

It might well be questioned how the wild men could maintain their bearings, but they had come unerringly across the snowy wastes from their distant homes, and the boom of the ocean was as sure an aid to them as it was to Docak. No fear but that they would go as straight as an arrow to Ivigtut.

There was no call for delay or ceremony. A long journey was before them, and it being the season when the days were not unusually long, they must be improved to the utmost. The wild men beckoned to the three to approach the sleighs, where, with a little dexterous manipulation of the bundles, they made room for each.

Jack found himself seated at the rear of one of the odd vehicles, which consisted mainly of runners, but had a framework at the back that gave grateful rest to the body. The peltries were fastened in front and around him, some being used to cover his limbs, and a part of his body, so that he could hardly have been more comfortable. The runners were made very broad to prevent them sinking in the snow. But for that, it would have been hard work for the nimble dogs to drag them and their loads with any kind of speed. The situation of the boys was similar to the sailor's.

The arrangement left one of the sleighs without an occupant. This was well, since the wild men could take turns in riding, when they felt the need, and the whites need not walk a step of the way to Ivigtut.

While the confab was going on, the dogs were having their own fun. Quick to obey the order to halt they squatted on their haunches facing in all directions, and for a time were quite motionless and well behaved, but it was not long before their natural mischievousness asserted itself, and they began frolicking with each other. They were snapping, barking, snarling, and then half of them were rolling over in the snow, fighting with good nature, the evil of which was that it tangled the simple harness into the worst sort of knots, which undoubtedly was just what the canines wanted to do.

The head driver spoke angrily to them, cracked his long whip, and, bringing the knot down on their bodies, or about their ears, added their yelps of pain to the general turmoil, while the confusion was greater than before.

He was used to the dogs, knowing every one of the half-hundred, and was quick to detect which was the ringleader. This canine belonged to the rear team, and not only started the rumpus, but kept it going with the utmost enthusiasm. He knew the driver would be after him, and he dodged and whisked among the others so dexterously that the well-aimed lash cracked against the side of some innocent spectator more than it touched him.

But the driver was not to be baffled in that fashion. Dropping the whip, he plunged after the criminal, and, seizing him with both hands, gave him several vigorous bites on the nose, which made him howl with pain. When released he was the meekest member of the party, all of whom sat quiet, while the angry Esquimau devoted himself to unraveling matters.

Rob Carrol had not forgotten the admiration which Docak showed more than once for his rifle. When the native came over to the sleigh to shake his hand, as he was bidding all good-bye, the boy said:

"Docak, I meant that you should have this on our return from the hunt. I sha'n't need it any more; accept it as a reminder of this little experience we had together."

The Esquimau was so taken aback that for a moment he could not speak. Before he recovered himself, Jack and Fred added their requests that he would not refuse the present. His gratitude was deep, and found expression only in a few broken words as he turned away.

It had been on the point of the sailor's tongue several times to apologize for the kick of the evening before, but he felt that the result of it all was a sufficient apology of itself. Besides, there are some matters in life which it is best to pass over in silence.

The wild men showed little sentiment in their nature. Seeing that all was ready, they cracked their whips, called out to their dogs, and off they went.

Jack and the boys turned their heads to take a last look at Docak, who had served them so faithfully and well. As they did so, they observed him plowing through the snow again to the westward, his form quickly disappearing among the myriad snowflakes. They never saw him again.

The first thought that came to each of the passengers, after the start was fairly made, was that the forty miles' journey could not be accomplished before nightfall. The sleighs were so heavily loaded with pelts and themselves that they formed quite a task for the dogs, which of necessity sank deep in the snow. But they tugged and kept at it with a spirit worthy of all admiration.

But one of the remarkable features of the blizzard and snow storm that had come so near destroying our friends quickly made itself apparent, and raised their hopes to the highest point.

The fall of snow decreased until at the end of half an hour not an eddying flake was in the air. The sun, after struggling awhile, managed to show itself, and the glare of the excessively white surface fairly blinded the passengers for a time. They noticed, however, that the depth of the last fall continued to grow less, until to their unbounded amazement and relief it disappeared altogether. They struck the hard surface, which was like a smooth floor, and capable of bearing ten times the weight of the sleighs without yielding.

This proved that the blizzard was of less extent than supposed. The wild men more than likely were beyond its reach, while Docak and his companions were caught in its very centre. Its fury extended southward but a short way, and the party had now crossed the line. The country before them was like that over which Jack and the boys set out to prosecute their hunt for game.

The travelers were like athletes, who, emerging from a struggle with the angry waters, find themselves on solid land, free to run and leap to their heart's content. They had shaken off the incubus, and now sped forward with renewed speed and ease. The small feet of the dogs slipped occasionally, but they readily secured enough grip, and the sleighs, hardly scratching the frozen surface, required but a fractional part of their strength. Several uttered their odd barks of pleasure, at finding their labor so suddenly turned into what might be called a frolic.

But the wild men were a source of never-ending wonder to the whites. They sped forward through the soft snow, with no more apparent effort than the skilled skater puts forth, and when they struck the smooth surface, they became more like skaters than snow-shoe travelers. They cracked their whips about the ears of the dogs, called sharply, and made them yelp from the stinging bites of the whips handled with a dexterity that would have flicked off a fly from the front dog's ears, had there been one there.

(If we were not opposed to all forms of slang, we would be tempted to say just here that there are no flies on the Esquimaux canines.)

The brutes were quick to respond, and galloped swiftly with their drivers skimming by their side, holding them to the task by their continued orders and cracking of whips. They gave no more attention to the passengers than if they were not present.

The latter were delighted, for there was every reason why they should be. Their limbs still ached from the severe exertion through which they had gone, and the sensation of being wrapped about with furs and fixed in a comfortable seat was pleasant of itself. Then to know that they were speeding toward safety – what more could be asked?

The sleigh containing Jack Cosgrove was in the advance; Rob came next, then Fred, while the one loaded only with peltries held its place at the rear.

When the smooth surface was reached, they drew quite near each other, the friends finding themselves almost side by side.

"This is what I call ginooine pleasure," said the sailor, turning his head and addressing the boys.

"Yes, I'm enjoying it," replied Rob.

"So am I," added Fred; "it makes up for what we suffered."

"We'll skim along in this style all day as if we was on the sea in a dead calm; nothing like a capsize – "

At that very moment, the sailor's sleigh went over.