Chapter Sixteen.

 Arrival in Poloeland.

 

Fortune, which had hitherto proved favourable to our brave explorers, did not desert them at the eleventh hour.

 

Soon after their arrival at Refuge Island a fair wind sprang up from the south, and when the Charity had been carefully patched and repaired, the kites were sent up and the voyage was continued. That day and night they spent again upon the boundless sea, for the island was soon left out of sight behind them, though the wind was not very fresh.

 

Towards morning it fell calm altogether, obliging them to haul down the kites and take to the oars.

 

“It can’t be far off now, Chingatok,” said the Captain, who became rather impatient as the end drew near.

 

“Not far,” was the brief reply.

 

“Land ho!” shouted Benjy, about half-an-hour after that.

 

But Benjy was forced to admit that anxiety had caused him to take an iceberg on the horizon for land.

 

“Well, anyhow you must admit,” said Benjy, on approaching the berg, “that it’s big enough for a fellow to mistake it for a mountain. I wonder what it’s doing here without any brothers or sisters to keep it company.”

 

“Under-currents brought it here, lad,” said the Captain. “You see, such a monster as that must go very deep down, and the warm under-current has not yet melted away enough of his base to permit the surface-current to carry him south like the smaller members of his family. He is still travelling north, but that won’t last long. He’ll soon become small enough to put about and go the other way. I never saw a bigger fellow than that, Benjy. Hayes, the American, mentions one which he measured, about 315 feet high, and nearly a mile long. It had been grounded for two years. He calculated that there must have been seven times as much of it below water as there was above, so that it was stranded in nearly half-a-mile depth of water. This berg cannot be far short of that one in size.”

 

“Hm! probably then his little brothers and sisters are being now crushed to bits in Baffin’s Bay,” said Benjy.

 

“Not unlikely, Ben, if they’ve not already been melted in the Atlantic, which will be this one’s fate at last—sooner or later.”

 

From a pool on this berg they obtained a supply of pure fresh water.

 

When our explorers did at last sight the land it came upon them unexpectedly, in the form of an island so low that they were quite close before observing it. The number of gulls hovering above it might have suggested its presence, but as these birds frequently hover in large flocks over shoals of small fish, little attention was paid to them.

 

“Is this your native land, Chingatok?” asked the Captain, quickly.

 

“No, it is over there,” said the Eskimo, pointing to the distant horizon; “this is the first of the islands.”

 

As they gazed they perceived a mountain-shaped cloud so faint and far away that it had almost escaped observation. Advancing slowly, this cloud was seen to take definite form and colour.

 

“I knew it was!” said Benjy, “but was afraid of making another mistake.”

 

Had the boy or his father looked attentively at the giant just then, they would have seen that his colour deepened, his eyes glittered, and his great chest heaved a little more than was its wont, as he looked over his shoulder while labouring at the oars. Perhaps we should have said played with the oars, for they were mere toys in his grasp. Chingatok’s little mother also was evidently affected by the sight of home. But the Captain and his son saw it not—they were too much occupied with their own thoughts and feelings. To the Englishmen the sight of land roused only one great all-engrossing thought—the North Pole! which, despite the absurdity of the idea, would present itself in the form of an upright post of terrific magnitude—a worthy axle-tree, as it were, for the world to revolve upon. To the big Eskimo land presented itself in the form of a palatial stone edifice measuring fifteen feet by twelve, with a dear pretty little wife choking herself in the smoke of a cooking-lamp, and a darling little boy choking himself with a mass of walrus blubber. Thus the same object, when presented to different minds, suggested ideas that were:

 

    “Diverse as calm from thunder,

 

    Wide as the poles asunder.”

 

It was midnight when the boats drew near to land. The island in which stood the giant’s humble home seemed to Captain Vane not more than eight or ten miles in extent, and rose to a moderate height—apparently about five or six hundred feet. It was picturesque in form and composed of rugged rocks, the marks on which, and the innumerable boulders everywhere, showed that at some remote period of the world’s history, it had been subjected to the influence of glacial action. No glacier was visible now, however—only, on the rocky summit lay a patch or two of the last winter’s snow-drift, which was too deep for the summer sun to melt away. From this storehouse of water gushed numerous tiny rivulets which brawled cheerily rather than noisily among the rocks, watering the rich green mosses and grasses which abounded in patches everywhere, and giving life to countless wild-flowers and berries which decked and enriched the land.

 

Just off the island—which by a strange coincidence the inhabitants had named Poloe—there were hundreds of other islets of every shape and size, but nearly all of them low, and many flat and swampy—the breeding-grounds of myriads of waterfowl. There were lakelets in many of these isles, in the midst of which were still more diminutive islets, whose moss-covered rocks and fringing sedges were reflected in the crystal water. Under a cliff on the main island stood the Eskimo village, a collection of stone huts, bathed in the slanting light of the midnight sun.

 

But no sound issued from these huts or from the neighbouring islands. It was the period of rest for man and bird. Air, earth, and water were locked in profound silence and repose.

 

“We’ve got to Paradise at last, father,” was the first sound that broke the silence, if we except the gentle dip of the oars and the rippling water on the bow.

 

“Looks like it, Benjy,” replied the Captain.

 

A wakeful dog on shore was the first to scent the coming strangers. He gave vent to a low growl. It was the keynote to the canine choir, which immediately sent up a howl of discord. Forthwith from every hut there leaped armed men, anxious women, and terrified children, which latter rushed towards the cliffs or took refuge among the rocks.

 

“Hallo! Chingatok, your relations are not to be taken by surprise,” said the Captain—or something to that effect—in Eskimo.

 

The giant shook his head somewhat gravely.

 

“They must be at war,” he said.

 

“At war! whom with?”

 

“With the Neerdoowulls,” replied Chingatok with a frown. “They are always giving us trouble.”

 

“Not badly named, father,” said Benjy; “one would almost think they must be of Scotch extraction.”

 

At that moment the natives—who had been gesticulating wildly and brandishing spears and bone knives with expressions of fury that denoted a strong desire on their part to carve out the hearts and transfix the livers of the newcomers—suddenly gave vent to a shout of surprise, which was succeeded by a scream of joy. Chingatok had stood up in the boat and been recognised. The giant’s dog—an appropriately large one—had been the first to observe him, and expressed its feelings by wagging its tail to such an extent that its hind legs had difficulty in keeping the ground.

 

Immediately on landing, the party was surrounded by a clamorous crew, who, to do them justice, took very little notice of the strangers, so overjoyed were they at the return of their big countryman.

 

Soon a little pleasant though flattish-faced woman pushed through the crowd and seized the giant. This was his wife Pingasuk, or Pretty One. She was petite—not much larger than Oblooria the timid. The better to get at her, Chingatok went down on his knees, seized her by the shoulders, and rubbed her nose against his so vigorously that the smaller nose bid fair to come off altogether. He had to stoop still lower when a stout urchin of about five years of age came up behind him and tried to reach his face.

 

“Meltik!” exclaimed the giant, rubbing noses gently for fear of damaging him, “you are stout and fat, my son, you have been eating much blubber—good.”

 

At that moment Chingatok’s eyes fell on an object which had hitherto escaped his observation. It was a little round yellow head in his wife’s hood, with a pair of small black eyes which stared at him in blank surprise. He made a snatch at it and drew forth—a naked baby!

 

“Our girlie,” said the wife, with a pleased but anxious look; “don’t squeeze. She is very young and tender—like a baby seal.”

 

The glad father tried to fold the creature to his bosom; nearly dropped it in his excess of tender caution; thrust it hastily back into his wife’s hood, and rose to give a respectful greeting to an aged man with a scrubby white beard, who came forward at the moment.

 

“Who are these, my son?” asked the old man, pointing to the Englishmen, who, standing in a group with amused expressions, watched the meeting above described.

 

“These are the Kablunets, father. I met them, as I expected, in the far-off land. The poor creatures were wandering about in a great kayak, which they have lost, searching for nothing!”

 

“Searching for nothing! my son, that cannot be. It is not possible to search for nothing—at least it is not possible to find it.”

 

“But that is what they come here for,” persisted Chingatok; “they call it the Nort Pole.”

 

“And what is the Nort Pole, my son?”

 

“It is nothing, father.”

 

The old man looked at his stately son with something of anxiety mingled with his surprise.

 

“Has Chingatok become a fool, like the Kablunets, since he left home?” he asked in a low voice.

 

“Chingatok is not sure,” replied the giant, gravely. “He has seen so much to puzzle him since he went away, that he sometimes feels foolish.”

 

The old Eskimo looked steadily at his son for a few moments, and shook his head.

 

“I will speak to these men—these foolish men,” he said. “Do they understand our language?”

 

“Some of them understand and speak a little, father, but they have with them one named Unders, who interprets. Come here, Unders.”

 

Anders promptly stepped to the front and interpreted, while the old Eskimo put Captain Vane through an examination of uncommon length and severity. At the close of it he shook his head with profound gravity, and turned again to his son.

 

“You have indeed brought to us a set of fools, Chingatok. Your voyage to the far-off lands has not been very successful. These men want something that they do not understand; that they could not see if it was before them; that they cannot describe when they talk about it, and that they could not lay hold of if they had it.”

 

“Yes, father,” sighed Chingatok, “it is as I told you—nothing; only the Nort Pole—a mere name.”

 

A new light seemed to break in on Chingatok as he said this, for he added quickly, “But, father, a name is something—my name, Chingatok, is something, yet it is nothing. You cannot see it, you do not lay hold of it, yet it is there.”

 

“Toohoo! my son, that is so, no doubt, but your name describes you, and you are something. No one ever goes to a far-off land to search for a name. If this Nort Pole is only a name and not a thing, how can it be?” exclaimed the old man, turning on his heel and marching off in a paroxysm of metaphysical disgust.

 

He appeared to change his mind, however, for, turning abruptly back, he said to Anders, “Tell these strangers that I am glad to see them; that a house and food shall be given to them, and that they are welcome to Poloe. Perhaps their land—the far-off land—is a poor one; they may not have enough to eat. If so, they may stay in this rich land of mine to hunt and fish as long as they please. But tell them that the Eskimos love wise men, and do not care for foolishness. They must not talk any more about this search after nothing—this Nort Pole—this nonsense—huk!”

 

Having delivered himself of these sentiments with much dignity, the old man again turned on his heel with a regal wave of the hand, and marched up to his hut.

 

“That must be the King of Poloe,” whispered Captain Vane to Leo, endeavouring to suppress a smile at the concluding caution, as they followed Anders and one of the natives to the hut set apart for them.

 

The Captain was only half right. Amalatok was indeed the chief of the island, but the respect and deference shown to him by the tribe were owing more to the man’s age and personal worth, than to his rank. He had succeeded his father as chief of the tribe, and, during a long life, had led his people in council, at the hunt, and in war, with consummate ability and success. Although old, he still held the reins of power, chiefly because his eldest son and rightful successor—Chingatok’s elder brother—was a weak-minded man of little capacity and somewhat malignant disposition. If our giant had been his eldest, he would have resigned cheerfully long ago. As it was, he did not see his way to change the customs of the land, though he could not tell when, or by whom, or under what circumstances, the order of succession had been established. Probably, like many other antiquated customs, it had been originally the result of despotism on the part of men in power, and of stupid acquiescence on the part of an unthinking people.

 

On reaching his hut the old chief sat down, and, leaning carelessly against the wall, he toyed with a bit of walrus rib, as an Englishman might with a pair of nut-crackers at dessert.

 

“Why did you bring these barbarians here?”

 

“I did not bring them, father, they brought me,” said the son with a deprecating glance.

 

“Huk!” exclaimed the chief, after which he added, “hum!”

 

It was evident that he had received new light, and was meditating thereon.

 

“My son,” continued Amalatok, “these Kablunets seem to be stout-bodied fellows; can they fight—are they brave?”

 

“They are brave, father, very brave. Even the little one, whom they call Bunjay, is brave—also, he is funny. I have never seen the Kablunets fight with men, but they fight well with the bear and the walrus and the ice. They are not such fools as you seem to think. True, about this nothing—this Nort Pole—they are quite mad, but in other matters they are very wise and knowing, as you shall see before long.”

 

“Good, good,” remarked the old chief, flinging the walrus rib at an intrusive dog with signal success, “I am glad to hear you say that, because I may want their help.”

 

Amalatok showed one symptom of true greatness—a readiness to divest himself of prejudice.

 

“For what do you require their help, father?” asked Chingatok.

 

Instead of answering, the old chief wrenched off another walrus rib from its native backbone, and began to gnaw it growlingly, as if it were his enemy and he a dog.

 

“My father is disturbed in his mind,” said the giant in a sympathising tone.

 

Even a less observant man than Chingatok might have seen that the old chief was not only disturbed in mind, but also in body, for his features twitched convulsively, and his face grew red as he thought of his wrongs.

 

“Listen,” said Amalatok, flinging the rib at another intrusive dog, again with success, and laying his hand impressively on his son’s arm. “My enemy, Grabantak—that bellowing walrus, that sly seal, that empty-skulled puffin, that porpoise, cormorant, narwhal—s–s–sus!”

 

The old man set his teeth and hissed.

 

“Well, my father?”

 

“It is not well, my son. It is all ill. That marrowless bear is stirring up his people, and there is no doubt that we shall soon be again engaged in a bloody—a useless war.”

 

“What is it all about, father?”

 

“About!—about nothing.”

 

“Huk! about Nort Pole—nothing,” murmured Chingatok—his thoughts diverted by the word.

 

“No, it is worse than Nort Pole, worse than nothing,” returned the chief sternly; “it is a small island—very small—so small that a seal would not have it for a breathing-place. Nothing on it; no moss, no grass. Birds won’t stay there—only fly over it and wink with contempt. Yet Grabantak says he must have it—it is within the bounds of his land!”

 

“Well, let him have it, if it be so worthless,” said Chingatok, mildly.

 

“Let him have it!” shouted the chief, starting up with such violence as to overturn the cooking-lamp—to which he paid no regard whatever—and striding about the small hut savagely, “no, never! I will fight him to the last gasp; kill all his men; slay his women; drown his children; level his huts; burn up his meat—”

 

Amalatok paused and glared, apparently uncertain about the propriety of wasting good meat. The pause gave his wrath time to cool.

 

“At all events,” he continued, sitting down again and wrenching off another rib, “we must call a council and have a talk, for we may expect him soon. When you arrived we took you for our enemies.”

 

“And you were ready for us,” said Chingatok, with an approving smile.

 

“Huk!” returned the chief with a responsive nod. “Go, Chingatok, call a council of my braves for to—night, and see that these miserable starving Kablunets have enough of blubber wherewith to stuff themselves.”

 

Our giant did not deem it worth while to explain to his rather petulant father that the Englishmen were the reverse of starving, but he felt the importance of raising them in the old chief’s opinion without delay, and took measures accordingly.

 

“Blackbeard,” he said, entering the Captain’s hut and sitting down with a troubled air, “my father does not think much of you. Tell him that, Unders.”

 

“I understand you well enough, Chingatok; go on, and let me know why the old man does not think well of me.”

 

“He thinks you are a fool,” returned the plain spoken Eskimo.

 

“H’m! I’m not altogether surprised at that, lad. I’ve sometimes thought so myself. Well, I suppose you’ve come to give me some good advice to make me wiser—eh! Chingatok?”

 

“Yes, that is what I come for. Do what I tell you, and my father will begin to think you wise.”

 

“Ah, yes, the old story,” remarked Benjy, who was an amused listener—for his father translated in a low tone for the benefit of his companions as the conversation proceeded—“the same here as everywhere—Do as I tell you and all will be well!”

 

“Hold your tongue, Ben,” whispered Alf.

 

“Well, what am I to do?” asked the Captain.

 

“Invite my father to a feast,” said Chingatok eagerly, “and me too, and my mother too; also my wife, and some of the braves with their wives. And you must give us biskit an’—what do you call that brown stuff?”

 

“Coffee,” suggested the Captain.

 

“Yes, cuffy, also tee, and shoogre, and seal st– ate—what?”

 

“Steak—eh?”

 

“Yes, stik, and cook them all in the strange lamp. You must ask us to see the feast cooked, and then we will eat it.”

 

It will be observed that when Chingatok interpolated English words in his discourse his pronunciation was not perfect.

 

“Well, you are the coolest fellow I’ve met with for many a day! To order a feast, invite yourself to it, name the rest of the company, as well as the victuals, and insist on seeing the cooking of the same,” said the Captain in English; then, in Eskimo,—“Well, Chingatok, I will do as you wish. When would you like supper?”

 

“Now,” replied the giant, with decision.

 

“You hear, Butterface,” said the Captain when he had translated, “go to work and get your pots and pans ready. See that you put your best foot foremost. It will be a turning-point, this feast, I see.”

 

Need we say that the feast was a great success? The wives, highly pleased at the attention paid them by the strangers, were won over at once. The whole party, when assembled in the hut, watched with the most indescribable astonishment the proceedings of the negro—himself a living miracle—as he manipulated a machine which, in separate compartments, cooked steaks and boiled tea, coffee, or anything else, by means of a spirit lamp in a few minutes. On first tasting the hot liquids they looked at each other suspiciously; then as the sugar tickled their palates, they smiled, tilted their pannikins, drained them to the dregs, and asked for more!

 

The feast lasted long, and was highly appreciated. When the company retired—which did not happen until the Captain declared he had nothing more to give them, and turned the cooking apparatus upside down to prove what he said—there was not a man or woman among them who did not hold and even loudly assert that the Kablunets were wise men.

 

After the feast the council of war was held and the strangers were allowed to be present. There was a great deal of talk—probably some of it was not much to the point, but there was no interruption or undignified confusion. There was a peace-party, of course, and a war-party, but the latter prevailed. It too often does so in human affairs. Chingatok was understood to favour the peace-party, but as his sire was on the other side, respect kept him tongue-tied.

 

“These Eskimos reverence age and are respectful to women,” whispered Leo to Alf, “so we may not call them savages.”

 

The old chief spoke last, summing up the arguments, as it were, on both sides, and giving his reasons for favouring war.

 

“The island is of no use,” he said; “it is not worth a seal’s nose, yet Grabantak wishes to tear it from us—us who have possessed it since the forgotten times. Why is this? because he wishes to insult us,” (“huk!” from the audience). “Shall we submit to insult? shall we sit down like frightened birds and see the black-livered cormorant steal what is ours? shall the courage of the Poloes be questioned by all the surrounding tribes? Never! while we have knives in our boots and spears in our hands. We will fight till we conquer or till we are all dead—till our wives are husbandless and our children fatherless, and all our stores of meat and oil are gone!” (“huk! huk!”) “Then shall it be said by surrounding tribes, ‘Behold! how brave were the Poloes! they died and left their wives and little children to perish, or mourn in slavery, rather than submit to insult!’”

 

The “huks” that greeted the conclusion of the speech were so loud and numerous that the unfortunate peace-makers were forced to hide their diminished heads.

 

Thus did Amalatok resolve to go to war for “worse than Nort Pole—for nothing”—rather than submit to insult! (See Note 1.)

 

Note 1. It may not be inappropriate here to point out that Eskimo savages are sometimes equalled, if not surpassed, in this respect, by civilised and even Christian nations.