CHAPTER VII
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.
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.
The Bowdoin passing an iceberg off west coast of Greenland.
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.