The Captain electrifies as well as surprises his New Friends.
It will be remembered that the party of Englishmen arrived at Poloeland under oars, and although the india-rubber boats had been gazed at, and gently touched, with intense wonder by the natives, they had not yet seen the process of disinflation, or the expansion of the kites.
Of course, Chingatok and their other Eskimo fellow-travellers had given their friends graphic descriptions of everything, but this only served to whet the desire to see the wonderful oomiaks in action. Several times, during the first few days, the old chief had expressed a wish to see the Kablunets go through the water in their boats, but as the calm still prevailed, and the Captain knew his influence over the natives would depend very much on the effect with which his various proceedings were carried out, he put him off with the assurance that when the proper time for action came, he would let him know.
One night a gentle breeze sprang up and blew directly off shore. As it seemed likely to last, the Captain waited till the whole community was asleep, and then quietly roused his son.
“Lend a hand here, Ben,” he whispered, “and make no noise.”
Benjy arose and followed his father in a very sleepy frame of mind.
They went to the place where the india-rubber boats lay, close behind the Englishmen’s hut, and, unscrewing the brass heads that closed the air-holes, began to press out the air.
“That’s it, Ben, but don’t squeeze too hard, lest the hissing should rouse some of ’em.”
“What’r ’ee doin’ this for—ee—yaou?” asked Benjy, yawning.
“You’ll see that to-morrow, lad.”
“Hum! goin’ t’squeeze’m all?”
“Yes, all three, and put ’em in their boxes.”
The conversation flagged at this point, and the rest of the operation was performed in silence.
Next morning, after breakfast, seeing that the breeze still held, the Captain sent a formal message to Amalatok, that he was prepared to exhibit his oomiaks.
The news spread like wild-fire, and the entire community soon assembled—to the number of several hundreds—in front of the Englishmen’s hut, where the Captain was seen calmly seated on a packing-case, with a solemn expression on his face. The rest of his party had been warned to behave with dignity. Even Benjy’s round face was drawn into something of an oval, and Butterface made such superhuman attempts to appear grave, that the rest of the party almost broke down at the sight of him.
Great was the surprise among the natives when they perceived that the three oomiaks had disappeared.
“My friends,” said the Captain, rising, “I will now show you the manner in which we Englishmen use our oomiaks.”
A soft sigh of expectation ran through the group of eager natives, as they pressed round their chief and Chingatok who stood looking on in dignified silence, while the Captain and his companions went to work. Many of the women occupied a little eminence close at hand, whence they could see over the heads of the men, and some of the younger women and children clambered to the top of the hut, the better to witness the great sight.
Numerous and characteristic were the sighs, “huks,” grunts, growls, and other exclamations; all of which were in keeping with the more or less intense glaring of eyes, and opening of mouths, and slight bending of knees and elbows, and spreading of fingers, and raising of hands, as the operators slowly unrolled the india-rubber mass, attached the bellows, gradually inflated the first boat, fixed the thwarts and stretchers, and, as it were, constructed a perfect oomiak in little more than ten minutes.
Then there was a shout of delight when the Captain and Leo, one at the bow, the other at the stern, lifted the boat as if it had been a feather, and, carrying it down the beach, placed it gently in the sea.
But the excitement culminated when Chingatok, stepping lightly into it, sat down on the seat, seized the little oars, and rowed away.
We should have said, attempted to row away, for, though he rowed lustily, the boat did not move, owing to Anders, who, like Eskimos in general, dearly loved a practical joke. Holding fast by the tail-line a few seconds, he suddenly let go, and the boat shot away, while Anders, throwing a handful of water after it, said, “Go off, bad boy, and don’t come back; we can do without you.” A roar of laughter burst forth. Some of the small boys and girls leaped into the air with delight, causing the tails of the latter to wriggle behind them.
The Captain gave them plenty of time to blow off the steam of surprise. When they had calmed down considerably, he proceeded to open out and arrange one of the kites.
Of course this threw them back into the open-eyed and mouthed, and finger-spreading condition, and, if possible, called forth more surprise than before. When the kite soared into the sky, they shouted; when it was being attached to the bow of the boat, they held their breath with expectation, many of them standing on one leg; and when at last the boat, with four persons in it, shot away to sea at the rate of eight or ten miles an hour, they roared with ecstasy; accompanying the yells with contortions of frame and visage which were so indescribable that we gladly leave it all to the reader’s imagination.
There can be no doubt of the fact that the Captain placed himself and his countrymen that day on a pedestal from which there was no fear of their being afterwards dislodged.
“Did not I tell you,” said Chingatok to his sire that night, in the privacy of his hut, “that the Kablunets are great men?”
“You did, my son. Chingatok is wise, and his father is a fool!”
No doubt the northern savage meant this self-condemning speech to be understood much in the same way in which it is understood by civilised people.
“When the oomiak swelled I thought it was going to burst,” added the chief.
“So did I, when I first saw it,” said Chingatok. Father and son paused a few minutes. They usually did so between each sentence. Evidently they pondered what they said.
“Have these men got wives?” asked the chief.
“The old one has, and Bunjay is his son. The other ones—no. The black man may have a wife: I know not, but I should think that no woman would have him.”
“What made him black?”
“I know not.”
“Was he always black?”
“The Kablunets say he was—from so big.”
Chingatok measured off the half of his left hand by way of explaining how big.
“Is he black under the clothes?”
“Yes; black all over.”
Again the couple paused.
“It is strange,” said the old man, shaking his head. “Perhaps he was made black because his father was wicked.”
“Not so,” returned the young giant. “I have heard him say his father was a very good man.”
“Strange,” repeated the chief, with a solemn look, “he is very ugly—worse than a walrus. Tell me, my son, where do the Kablunets live? Do they hunt the walrus or the seal?”
“Blackbeard has told me much, father, that I do not understand. His people do not hunt much—only a very few of them do.”
“Wah! they are lazy! The few hunt to keep the rest in meat, I suppose.”
“No, father, that is not the way. The few hunt for fun. The great many spend their time in changing one thing for another. They seem to be never satisfied—always changing, changing—every day, and all day. Getting and giving, and never satisfied.”
“Poor things!” said the chief.
“And they have no walruses, no white bears, no whales, nothing!” added the son.
“Miserables! Perhaps that is why they come here to search for nothing!”
“But, father, if they have got nothing at home, why come here to search for it?”
“What do they eat?” asked Amalatok, quickly, as if he were afraid of recurring to the puzzling question that had once already taken him out of his mental depth.
“They eat all sorts of things. Many of them eat things that are nasty—things that grow out of the ground; things that are very hot and burn the tongue; things that are poison and make them ill. They eat fish too, like us, and other people bring them their meat in great oomiaks from far-off lands. They seem to be so poor that they cannot find enough in their own country to feed themselves.&............