Kitabı oku: «The Walrus Hunters: A Romance of the Realms of Ice», sayfa 4
Chapter Seven.
Flight and Misfortune
While the scene we have described was being enacted, the other Indians, who had crossed the neck of land for the purpose of cutting off the men in the kayaks, failed in the attempt, partly owing to the distance being greater than their memories had assigned to it, and partly to the great speed of the kayaks when propelled by strong men fleeing for their lives.
All the kayaks were well out of gunshot range when the shore was reached, except one which lagged behind. At this one the Indians discharged several volleys, but without effect, and soon after, it also was beyond range.
The little vessel which thus lagged behind belonged to the unfortunate Gartok, whose leg, it will be remembered, was wounded by one of the balls discharged by Alizay. Despite his energy, and desperate though the situation was, Gartok could not overcome the depressing influence of pain and haemorrhage. He fell gradually behind the others, each of whom was too anxious about his own safety to think much of his comrades.
When the firing ceased and the flotilla was well out of range, Gartok laid down his paddle and bound up his wounded limb with some scraps of seal-skin; at the same time, hailing the kayak nearest to him. As soon as it was discovered that their chief was wounded, all the Eskimos came clustering round him. Among them was his lieutenant Ondikik.
“You also are wounded,” said Gartok, observing the pallor of his face.
“Yes; I can find no arrow, but there is blood.”
“Is it bad?” asked the chief, with an angry exclamation at their misfortune.
“I cannot tell,” replied Ondikik, “but—”
He finished the sentence in the most expressive manner by fainting dead away, and falling over to one side so heavily that he would have infallibly upset the little craft if his comrades had not been close at hand to prevent that catastrophe.
“Hail the oomiak!” cried Gartok, in a voice that, for him, felt singularly feeble. “Put him into it, and let two of the women change with two of the men.”
In a few minutes the women’s large open boat was alongside, and poor Ondikik was, with some difficulty, transferred to it. Two men then gave up their kayaks to two of the women, and took their places in the oomiak. While this was being done some of the people gave a shout of alarm, for it was observed that Gartok himself had quietly fallen back in a state of insensibility.
The men, therefore, lifted him also out of his kayak and laid him beside his lieutenant.
This accomplished, the little fleet paddled out to sea, and they soon lost sight of the Arctic shore. They did not again pause until they reached a group of small islets, on one of which they encamped for the night.
Fortunately the weather at this time was calm and warm, so that those hardy inhabitants of the icy north required no better lodging or bed than the cold ground, with the star-spangled sky for curtains. With lamps flaring, seal-steaks and wild-fowl simmering, and hot oil flowing, they quickly made themselves comfortable—with the exception, of course, of the warlike Gartok and the hot-headed Ondikik. These two, being fellow-sufferers, were laid beside each other, in order, perhaps, to facilitate mutual condolence. To do them justice, they did not grumble much at their fate, but entertained each other with a running commentary on the events of the day.
“And that is strange news that my old mother tells me,” resumed Gartok, after a short pause in the conversation. “Cheenbuk must have given the Fire-spouters sore heads from the way he gripped them.”
“I wish I had been there,” growled Ondikik.
“I’m glad I was not there,” returned Gartok. “I could not have saved him from so many, and it would not have been pleasant to go into slavery—if not to torture and death. Poor Cheenbuk! he was ever against war—yet war has been forced on him. I fear we shall never see him again. Hoi! my leg is bad. I can’t understand how the Fire-spouters could hit it without the little thing going through my back first.”
“I wish all the Fire-spouters were deep in the inside of a whale’s belly,” growled Ondikik, whose wound was beginning to render him feverish and rusty. “Arrows and spears can be pulled out, but when the little spouter things go in we don’t know where they go to. They disappear and leave an ugly hole behind them.”
At this point Raventik, on whom the command had devolved, came forward with a choice piece of juicy walrus blubber on a flat stone for a plate.
“Our chiefs will eat,” he said, “it will do them good—make their hearts strong and ease the wounds.”
“No,” said Gartok decisively, “none for me.”
“Take it away!” cried the other sharply.
“No?” exclaimed Raventik in surprise. You see, he had never in his life been wounded or ill, and could not understand the possibility of refusing food, except when too full of it. Being a sympathetic soul, however, he pressed it on the invalids, but received replies so very discouraging that he was induced to forbear.
Old Uleeta turned out to be a more intelligent, it not more kindly, nurse. After she had eaten her supper and succeeded in bolting the last bite that had refused to go down when she could eat no more, she came forward with a bladder full of water, and some rabbit-skins, for the purpose of dressing the wounds.
“Gently, mother,” said Gartok with a suppressed groan, “you lay hold of me as if I were a seal.”
“You are quite as self-willed, my son,” replied the old woman. “If you had not gone out to fight you would not have come back with a hole in your leg.”
“If I had not come into the world I should not have been here to trouble you, mother.”
“There’s truth in that, my son,” returned the woman, as if the idea were new to her.
At this Ondikik groaned—whether at the contemptibly obvious character of the idea, or at ideas in general, or in consequence of pain, we cannot tell.
“You said, mother, that Cheenbuk gave them a good deal of trouble?”
“Ay, he gave them sore hearts and sore bodies.”
“They deserved it! what right had they to come with their fire-spouters to attack us?”
“What right had you to go without your fire-spouters to attack them?” demanded old Uleeta, somewhat maliciously.
Gartok, who was destitute neither of intelligence nor of humour, laughed, but the laugh slid into a most emphatic “hoi!” as his mother gave the leg a wrench.
“Softly, mother, softly! Treat me as you did when I was so big,” he exclaimed, indicating about one foot six between his hands.
The old woman chuckled, or rather “hee! hee’d!” a little and continued:
“Yes, Cheenbuk fought like a bear. We could not see him, for they were all on top of him at once, but hi! how he made them heave! I wonder they did not use their knives.”
“They felt sure they had him,” said her son, “they wanted to drive him to their huts and kill him slowly to amuse their women.”
This was such a horrible idea that the old woman became unusually grave.
“These Fire-spouters are worse than white bears,” she said, “for these never torture other beasts, though they often kill them.”
“True, mother. Now I wish you would go away and leave my leg alone. Ondikik there needs your help. Go to him and hurt him as much as you please. I won’t grumble.”
“You were always a thankless boy—ever since you could speak,” replied the dame, reproachfully.
“Did you ever hear of any one being thankless before he could speak?—hoi! mother, you’ve tied it too tight. Slack it a little.”
After complying with her son’s request, old Uleeta went to Ondikik, to whom, however, she could render but little service, owing to the nature of his wound. Then she paid a visit to Rinka, whose injuries, however, proved to be more alarming than severe; after which she joined the rest of the tribe at supper.
While the Eskimos were thus proceeding to their home among the islands of the Arctic sea, the captors of Cheenbuk were paddling up-stream to the lands of the Dogrib Indians.
At first the stout Eskimo meditated an attempt to escape. Indeed he made one vigorous effort when they were leading him through the bush with his hands tied behind him. Just as they came to the place where the canoes were lying, the thought of home, and of his probable fate as a prisoner, pressed so heavily on him that he suddenly became furious, tripped up the man beside him with his foot, kicked over the one behind him with his heel, ran his head like a battering-ram into the back of the man in front of him, and then strove to burst his bonds with a succession of mighty wriggles, but, not being quite equal to Samson, he failed, and on seeing that two savages stood over him with drawn scalping-knives, while Magadar put the muzzle of a gun to his head, he deemed it wise to give in and uttered the exclamation “hoi!” with the air of one who feels that his game is played out. He marched forward after that in submissive silence.
On reaching the canoes, however, a fresh burst of indignation assailed him, and for a moment he meditated sending his foot through the bottom of the frail craft which was to carry him into exile, but on second thoughts he decided to delay the performance of that violent measure till they were well out in the middle of the current, when there would be the chance of drowning some of his foes as well as himself. By the time the desired position was reached, however, his spirit had calmed down a little and his philosophic mind—to say nothing of his heart—had begun to suggest the uselessness of gratifying his feelings by a revenge which he probably could not enjoy much while in the process of drowning, and, doubtless, could not enjoy at all after he was drowned.
Thus it came to pass that our hero restrained his passions, and, in process of time, found himself a prisoner in one of the lodges of the Dogrib Indians.
Chapter Eight.
In the Hour of Need
On reaching the Indian village Cheenbuk was firmly bound to a tree a little way outside the camp, and left there to his meditations, while his captors went to the old chief’s tent to hold a council.
Meanwhile the women and children went to look at the captive. Among them were Adolay and her mother. The moment the former set eyes on Cheenbuk she recognised him as the youth who had rescued her mother from drowning the previous year.
“Mother,” she whispered, drawing her parent aside, “that is him! Don’t you remember him?”
“I think it is,” returned Isquay, gazing steadily at the Eskimo, who looked at the crowd which surrounded him with a gaze of supreme contempt, though he did not by any means feel contemptuous.
“Come, mother,” said Adolay, with sudden earnestness, “he has not recognised us in the crowd. I must go and find out what the braves are palavering.”
As she spoke she drew her mother towards their own lodge, and there left her while she hurried on to the council-tent. In the shelter of some bushes she crept as near to it as possible.
There was no difficulty in making out what was said, for the warriors made no secret of their intentions, and spoke in loud tones.
“He shall die,” was the remark of Alizay just as the girl came within hearing, “he has killed one of our braves.”
“Ay, and he shall die by torture,” said Magadar, who was a relation of the man that had been slain.
“Ho! ho!” exclaimed most of the warriors in tones of approval, but there were a few among them who were silent. They leaned to mercy’s side.
“Better to spare his life and make a slave of him,” said one of these, “we can keep him always tied like a bad dog till we need him; then we can loose his legs and make him drag our sledges.”
“The brave who has spoken is young,” said the old chief. “He does not know much about men. Will not the Eskimo watch for his chance, get free from his bonds, kill some of us when we are off our guard, and, perhaps, escape?”
“That is so. He must be killed,” remarked Magadar, with a glance of scorn at the merciful youth, “and the sooner the better.”
“Let us do it at once,” said one of the blood-thirsty.
On hearing this the heart of Adolay beat anxiously, and for a few moments she was undecided whether to run to the tree to which the Eskimo was bound and set him free by cutting his bonds, or enter the council-tent, tell the story of his having saved her mother’s life, and plead that the youth’s might be spared. Both courses, she knew, were about equally desperate. If she were to follow the first, all the children would see her do it, and give the alarm, in which case the Eskimo would be pursued and certainly recaptured, for a fugitive in a strange country would have no chance with men well acquainted with every nook and corner of their native land. Besides which, she knew not what terrible punishment might be inflicted on herself for making such an attempt. On the other hand, for a woman to violate the sanctity of a council-tent was so unprecedented that she felt sure it would be sternly resented, and, therefore, useless.
Fortunately she was saved the necessity of acting on either alternative by the arguments of the next speaker, who was one of the blood-thirsty braves.
“Let us not be in haste like women and children,” he said; “if we leave him bound to the tree all night he will have time to think of the fate that is coming, and we shall have good sunlight in the morning, which will enable even the oldest squaw to see well.”
After some palaver it was agreed that the execution of Cheenbuk should be postponed to the following day, and that a sentinel should be posted beside him during the night to make sure that he did not manage to undo his fastenings and escape.
On hearing this decision arrived at, Adolay crept back into the bush and hastened to her mother’s tent.
“They have fixed to kill him, mother,” she exclaimed, anxiously, on entering.
“I expected that, and I’m sorry,” returned Isquay, “but we cannot help it. What can women do? The men will not mind what I say. If only Nazinred was here they would listen to him, but—”
“Yes, they always listen to father,” interrupted the girl, with an anxious frown on her pretty brows, “but as father is not here you must do what you can for the man.”
“You are very fond of him!” said the squaw with a keen look at her daughter.
“Yes, I am very fond of him,” replied Adolay with an air of unblushing candour, “and I think, mother, that you should be fond of him too.”
“So I am, girl, so I am, but what can I do?”
“You can go and tell the story to the old chief. He is not hard, like some of the young men. Perhaps he may help us.”
Isquay shook her head, but nevertheless agreed to try her influence with the old man, and went out for that purpose.
Meanwhile Adolay, who had not herself much faith in her mother’s advocacy of the poor Eskimo’s cause, resolved upon a separate course of action. Throwing a blanket over her head and shoulders, she started for the place where Cheenbuk stood, scornfully regarding the little boys who surrounded and insulted him by flourishing knives and hatchets close to his defenceless nose. They did not, however, dare to touch him, as the time had not yet arrived for actual torture.
Running forward, Adolay, who was a favourite with the young people, drove them back.
“Keep clear of him,” she cried with a fierce glare in her eyes—which was wonderfully realistic, considering that it was a mere piece of acting—“I want to speak to him—to terrify him—to fill him with horror!”
This was quite to the taste of the wretched little creatures, who fell back in a semi-circle and waited for more.
“Can you understand my speech?” she demanded as she turned on Cheenbuk with flashing eyes.
The Eskimo thought he had never seen such magnificent eyes before, and wished much that they would look on him more kindly.
“Yes,” he replied, “I understand a little.”
“Listen, then,” cried Adolay in a loud tone, and with looks more furious than before. “You are to die to-morrow.”
“I expected it would be to-night,” replied Cheenbuk calmly.
“And you are to be tortured to death!” At this the boys set up a howl of delight. At the same time the girl advanced a step nearer the captive, and said in a low voice hurriedly:
“I will save you. Be ready to act—to-night.” The softened look and altered tone opened the eyes of the captive. Although the blanket partially concealed Adolay’s face, Cheenbuk at once recognised the girl whose mother he had saved the previous spring.
“I am awake!” he said quietly, but with a glance of bright intelligence.
“Yes, you are doomed to die,” continued Adolay, when the boys’ howling had subsided, “and if you are to be tortured, we will all come to see how brave you are.”
As she said this she went close up to the captive, as if to make her words more emphatic, and shook her little fist in his face. Then—in a low voice—“You see the cliff behind me, with the dead tree below it?”
“Yes.”
“Run for that tree when you are free—and wait.”
Turning round, as though her rage was satisfied for the time being, Adolay left the spot with a dark frown on her face.
“Leave him now, boys,” she said in passing. “Give him time to think about to-morrow.”
Whether it was the effect of this advice, or the fact that the shades of evening were falling, and a feeding-time was at hand, we cannot say, but in a short time Cheenbuk was left to his meditations. He was, however, quite within sight of several of the lodges. As the daylight gradually faded a young brave left his tent, and, shouldering his gun, went to the place where the captive was bound. Examining the bonds to make sure that they were secure, the youth carefully renewed the priming of his weapon, shouldered it, and began to pace to and fro. His mode of proceeding was to walk up to the captive, take a look at him, turn round, and walk about thirty or forty yards away from him, and so on to and fro without halt or variation for upwards of two hours. During all that time he uttered no word to the Eskimo.
Cheenbuk, on his part, took no notice whatever of his guard, but stood perfectly still and looked with calm, lofty indifference over his head—which he was well able to do, being a considerably taller man.
As the night advanced the darkness deepened, and the poor captive began to entertain serious misgivings as to his prospects. Would the girl try to carry out the plan, whatever it was? Yes, he had not the slightest doubt on that head, because, somehow, she had inspired him with a confidence that he had never felt in woman before. But would she be able to carry out her plan? That was quite another question. Then, the darkness had become so intense that he could barely see the outline of the cliff towards which he was to run, and could not see the dead tree at all. Moreover, it occurred to him that it would be impossible even to walk, much less to run, over unknown and perhaps rough ground in darkness so great that he could hardly see the trees around him; and could only make out the whites of the sentinel’s eyes when he came close up.
It was therefore with a feeling of relief that he at length observed a faint glow of light in the sky, which indicated the rising of the moon.
Soon afterwards a dark figure was seen approaching. It was Alizay, the blood-thirsty brave, who had come to relieve guard.
Chapter Nine.
Trying Moments and Perplexing Doubts
The first thing that the new sentinel did was carefully to examine the cords that bound the captive to the tree, and tie one or two additional knots to make him more secure. Then he turned to the other Indian, and asked sharply:—
“Has he been quiet?”
“Quiet as the tree to which he is bound.”
“Has he uttered speech?”
“No.”
“Good. You may go. I will watch him till morning: after that he will need no more watching.”
Alizay looked sharply at the Eskimo while he uttered these words, perhaps to ascertain whether he understood their drift, but Cheenbuk’s visage was immovable, and his eyes were fixed, as if in meditation, on the moon, which just then was beginning to rise over the cliffs and shed a softened light over the Indian village.
The new sentinel shouldered his gun and began his vigil, while the other left them.
But other ears had listened to the concluding words of Alizay.
The tree to which the Eskimo was bound stood close to the edge of the bush, or underwood. In front of it was an open space, up and down which the sentinel marched. Had the Indian dreamed of a traitor in the camp he would not have deemed the captive’s position as secure as it should be, but the idea of any one in the village favouring a contemptible eater-of-raw-flesh never once entered his imagination.
Nevertheless, Adolay was in the bush behind the tree, and not only heard his words, but saw his movements. Watching her opportunity when the sentinel had just turned and was marching away from the tree, she cut, with a scalping-knife, the cord that bound Cheenbuk’s right arm and placed the knife in his hand. Almost at the same moment she slipped back into the bush.
Cheenbuk made no attempt, however, to free himself. The sentinel’s beat was too short to permit of his doing so without being observed. He therefore remained perfectly motionless in his former attitude.
It was a trying moment when the Indian approached to within a couple of feet and looked him straight in the face, as was his wont at each turn. But Cheenbuk was gifted with nerves of steel. His contemplation of the moon was so absorbing, that a civilised observer might have mistaken him for an astronomer or a lunatic. Alizay suspected nothing. He turned round, and the Eskimo allowed him to take about five paces before he moved. Then, with the speed of lightning, he ran the sharp blade down his side, severing all his bonds at one sweep.
Next moment he was free, but he instantly resumed his former position and attitude until his guard was within a yard of him. Then he sprang upon him, dropped the knife and seized him by the throat with both hands, so tightly that he was quite incapable of uttering a cry.
Alizay made a vigorous struggle for life, but he had no chance with the burly Eskimo, who quickly decided the fight by giving his adversary a blow with his fist that laid him insensible on the ground.
Springing over his prostrate form he ran straight for the cliff that Adolay had pointed out to him, leaping over fallen trees, and across what looked like young chasms, in a state of reckless uncertainty as to whether he would plunge into ponds or land at the bottom of precipices. With a feeling of absolute confidence that the girl with the lustrous eyes would not have told him to run where the feat was impossible, he held on until he reached the bottom of the cliff and stood beside the dead tree unhurt, though considerably winded.
There he resolved to wait according to orders. To most ordinary men, waiting, when they are filled with anxiety, is much more trying than energetic action. But Cheenbuk was not an ordinary man, therefore he waited like a hero.
Meanwhile Adolay, having seen the Eskimo fairly in grips with the sentinel, ran swiftly back towards the village, intending, before going to Cheenbuk at the cliff, to let her mother know what she had done, and what she still purposed to do—namely to embark with the Eskimo in a birch-bark canoe, guide him across the small lake that lay near the village, and show him the rivulet that would lead him into the Greygoose River. But she had not gone far, when, on turning a bush, she almost ran into the arms of a young Indian girl named Idazoo, an event which upset all her plans and perplexed her not a little—all the more that this girl was jealous of her, believing that she was trying to steal from her the affections of Alizay, whom she regarded as her own young man!
“Why run you so fast?” asked the girl, as Adolay stood panting before her. “Have you seen a bad spirit?”
“Yes, I have seen a bad spirit,” answered Adolay, (thinking of Alizay), “I have seen two bad spirits,” she added, (thinking of Idazoo). “But I cannot stop to tell you. I have to—to—go to see—something very strange to-night.”
Now it must be told that Idazoo was gifted with a very large bump of curiosity, and a still larger one, perhaps, of suspicion. The brave Alizay, she knew, was to mount guard over the Eskimo captive that night, and she had a suspicion that Adolay had taken advantage of that fact to pay the captive—not the Indian, oh dear no!—a visit. Unable to rest quietly in her tent under the powerful influence of this idea, she resolved to take a walk herself—a sort of moonlight ramble as it were—in that direction. As we have seen, she met her friend, not unexpectedly, on the way.
“I will go with you,” she said, “to see this strange thing, whatever it be. There may be danger; two are better than one, and, you know, I am not easily frightened.”
Poor Adolay was dismayed by this proposition, and hurried forward, but Idazoo kept pace with her. Suddenly she made up her mind, and, changing her direction, made for the cliff at a rapid run, closely followed by her jealous friend, who was resolved to see the mystery out.
She purposely led her companion round in such a way that they came suddenly upon the waiting Eskimo, whose speaking visage betrayed his surprise at seeing two girls instead of one.
On beholding Cheenbuk standing there unbound, Idazoo stopped short, drew back, and gazed at him in alarm as well as surprise.
“You have now seen the strange sight I spoke of, but you must not tell it in the lodges,” said Adolay.
Without answering her, Idazoo turned to fly, but Adolay grasped her by the wrist and held her tight—at the same time motioning with her hand to Cheenbuk.
The Eskimo was prompt as well as intelligent. He did not wait for explanations or allow surprise to delay him. With a bound he was beside the girls, had grasped Idazoo, and looked to Adolay for further instructions.
“Hold her till I tie up her hands,” she said, drawing a stout line of deerskin from a pocket in the breast of her dress.
With this she proceeded to bind her inquisitive friend’s wrists. Perceiving that she was to be made a captive, the girl opened her mouth and began a shriek, which, had it been allowed full play, would no doubt have reached her friends in the village, but Cheenbuk had observed the intention, and before the first note had struggled into being, he clapped his hand on her mouth and quenched it. Idazoo wore round her neck a brightly coloured cotton kerchief, such as the fur-traders of those days furnished for barter with the Indians. Cheenbuk quietly plucked this off her neck and tied it firmly round her face and mouth so as to effectually gag her. This done they fastened her to the stem of the dead tree.
The whole operation was performed without unnecessary rudeness, and with great celerity.
“Now, Idazoo,” said Adolay, when they had finished, “you have done me great injury this night. I am sorry to treat you in this way, but I cannot help it. You would come with me, you know. If I could trust you even now, I would take the cloth off your mouth, but I dare not, you might yell, and everybody knows you were never good at keeping your promises. But it does not matter much. The handkerchief is not too tight to prevent the air getting up your nose—and it will give your tongue a rest, which it needs. Besides, the night is not cold, and as our braves pass here every morning when starting off to hunt, you will soon be set free.”
The Eskimo showed all his brilliant teeth from ear to ear while this little speech was being made. Then he accompanied Adolay through the bush until they reached the shores of a small lake, beside which a birch-bark canoe was lying, partly in the water. At an earlier part of that evening the girl had placed the canoe there, and put into it weapons and provisions suitable for a considerable voyage.
“You have got this ready for me?” said Cheenbuk.
“Yes. You saved my mother’s life once, and I will save yours,” replied the girl, pointing to the bow of the canoe as if ordering him to embark.
“Are you going with me?” asked the youth, with a look of hopeful surprise and a very slight flutter of the heart.
“You do not know the lake. I will guide you to the place where the little river runs out of it, and then, by following that, you will get into Greygoose River, which I think you know.”
The Eskimo’s heart ceased to flutter, and the hope died out of his expressive eyes as he said, still hesitating, “But—but—I am very heavy and you are very light. A canoe does not go well with its head deep in the water. Don’t you think that I should sit behind and steer?”
“And where would you steer to?” asked Adolay, with a somewhat pert smile. “Besides, look there,” she added, pointing to the stern of the little craft, “do Eskimos not use their eyes?”
Cheenbuk used his eyes as directed, and saw that a heavy stone had been placed in the stern so as to counteract the difference of weight. With an air of humility, therefore, he stepped into his allotted place, took up a paddle and sat down. Adolay pushed the craft into deeper water, stepped lightly in, and, giving a vigorous shove, sent it skimming out on the lake. Then the two dipped their paddles with a will, and shot over the water like an arrow.
Profound silence was maintained until the other end of the lake was reached, when the moon came out from a bank of clouds and enabled the girl to find the reedy source of the little river without difficulty.
“We will land here and lift the canoe past the reeds,” she said, steering the little craft to the side of a grassy bank.
Walking along this bank, and guiding the canoe with their hands, they soon came to an open space in the forest, whence they could see the rivulet winding like a thread of silver through the land in front of them.
“This is the place where we must part,” said Adolay with a sudden determination of manner which surprised and puzzled the Eskimo. “You have now no further need for me. You have only to go straight on with the running of the water. There are only two falls on the way, but you will hear the noise before you come to them, and you have only to lift the canoe a short way through the bush to the still water below the falls. Our braves often do that; you will find it quite easy.”
