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.”
“Wretched creatures!” said the old man, pitifully. “Yes, and they drink too. Drink waters so hot and so terrible that they burn their mouths and their insides, and so they go mad.”
“Did I not say that they were fools?” said Amalatok, indignantly.
“But the strangest thing of all,” continued Chingatok, lowering his voice, and looking at his sire in a species of wonder, “is that they fill their mouths with smoke!”
“What? Eat smoke?” said Amalatok in amazement.
“No, they spit it out.”
“Did Blackbeard tell you that?”
“Yes.”
“Then Blackbeard is a liar!”
Chingatok did not appear to be shocked by the old man’s plain speaking, but he did not agree with him.
“No, father,” said he, after a pause. “Blackbeard is not a liar. He is good and wise, and speaks the truth. I have seen the Kablunets do it myself. In the big oomiak that they lost, some of the men did it, so—puff, pull, puff, puff—is it not funny?”
Both father and son burst into laughter at this, and then, becoming suddenly grave, remained staring at the smoke of their cooking-lamp, silently meditating on these things.
While thus engaged, a man entered the low doorway in the only possible manner, on hands and knees, and, rising, displayed the face of Anders.
“Blackbeard sends a message to the great old chief,” said the interpreter. “He wishes him to pay the Kablunets a visit. He has something to show to the great old chief.”
“Tell him I come,” said the chief, with a toss of the head which meant, “be off!”
“I wonder,” said Amalatok slowly, as Anders crept out, “whether Blackbeard means to show us some of his wisdom or some of his foolishness. The white men appear to have much of both.”
“Let us go see,” said Chingatok.
They went, and found the Captain seated in front of the door of his hut with his friends round him—all except Benjy, who was absent. They were very grave, as usual, desiring to be impressive.
“Chief,” began the Captain, in that solemn tone in which ghosts are supposed to address mankind, “I wish to show you that I can make the stoutest and most obstinate warrior of Poloeland tremble and jump without touching him.”
“That is not very difficult,” said the old man, who had still a lurking dislike to acknowledge the Englishmen his superiors. “I can make any one of them tremble and jump by throwing a spear at him.”
A slight titter from the assembly testified to the success of this reply.
“But,” rejoined the Captain, with deepening solemnity, “I will do it without throwing a spear.”
“So will I, by suddenly howling at him in the dark,” said Amalatok.
At this his men laughed outright.
“But I will not howl or move,” said the Captain.
“That will be clever,” returned the chief, solemnised in spite of himself. “Let Blackbeard proceed.”
“Order one of your braves to stand before me on that piece of flat skin,” said the Captain.
Amalatok looked round, and, observing a huge ungainly man with a cod-fishy expression of face, who seemed to shrink from notoriety, ordered him to step forward. The man did so with obvious trepidation, but he dared not refuse. The Captain fixed his eyes on him sternly, and, in a low growling voice, muttered in English: “Now, Benjy, give it a good turn.”
Cod-fishiness vanished as if by magic, and, with a look of wild horror, the man sprang into the air, tumbled on his back, rose up, and ran away!
It is difficult to say whether surprise or amusement predominated among the spectators. Many of them laughed heartily, while the Captain, still as grave as a judge, said in a low growling tone as if speaking to himself:—
“Not quite so stiff, Benjy, not quite so stiff. Be more gentle next time. Don’t do it all at once, boy; jerk it, Benjy, a turn or so at a time.”
It is perhaps needless to inform the reader that the Captain was practising on the Eskimos with his electrical machine, and that Benjy was secretly turning the handle inside the hut. The machine was connected, by means of wires, with the piece of skin on which the patients stood. These wires had been laid underground, not, indeed, in the darkness, but, during the secrecy and silence of the previous night.
After witnessing the effect on the first warrior, no other brave seemed inclined to venture on the skin, and the women, who enjoyed the fun greatly, were beginning to taunt them with cowardice, when Oolichuk strode forward. He believed intensely, and justifiably, in his own courage. No man, he felt quite sure, had the power to stare him into a nervous condition—not even the fiercest of the Kablunets. Let Blackbeard try, and do his worst!
Animated by these stern and self-reliant sentiments, he stepped upon the mat.
Benjy, being quick in apprehension, perceived his previous error, and proceeded this time with caution. He gave the handle of the machine a gentle half-turn and stopped, peeping through a crevice in the wall to observe the effect.
“Ha! ha! ho! ho!—hi! huk!” laughed Oolichuk, as a tickling sensation thrilled through all his nervous system. The laugh was irresistibly echoed by the assembled community.
Benjy waited a few seconds, and then gave the handle another and slightly stronger turn.
The laugh this time was longer and more ferocious, while the gallant Eskimo drew himself together, determined to resist the strange and subtle influence; at the same time frowning defiance at the Captain, who never for a moment took his coal-black eye off him!
Again Benjy turned the handle gently. He evidently possessed something of the ancient Inquisitor spirit, and gloated over the pains of his victim! The result was that Oolichuk not only quivered from head to foot, but gave a little jump and anything but a little yell. Benjy’s powers of self-restraint were by that time exhausted. He sent the handle round with a whirr and Oolichuk, tumbling backwards off the mat, rent the air with a shriek of demoniac laughter.
Of course the delight of the Eskimos—especially of the children—was beyond all bounds, and eager were the efforts made to induce another warrior to go upon the mysterious mat, but not one would venture. They would rather have faced their natural enemy, the great Grabantak, unarmed, any day!
In this difficulty an idea occurred to Amalatok. Seizing a huge dog by the neck he dragged it to the mat, and bade it lie down. The dog crouched and looked sheepishly round. Next moment he was in the air wriggling. Then he came to the ground, over which he rushed with a prolonged howl, and disappeared among the rocks on the hill side.
It is said that that poor dog was never again seen, but Benjy asserts most positively that, a week afterwards, he saw it sneaking into the village with its tail very much between its legs, and an expression of the deepest humility on its countenance.
“You’d better give them a taste of dynamite, father,” said Benjy that evening, as they all sat round their supper-kettle.
“No, no, boy. It is bad policy to fire off all your ammunition in a hurry. We’ll give it ’em bit by bit.”
“Just so, impress them by degrees,” said Alf.
“De fust warrior was nigh bu’sted by degrees,” said Butterface, with a broad grin, as he stirred the kettle. “You gib it ’im a’most too strong, Massa Benjee.”
“Blackbeard must be the bad spirit,” remarked Amalatok to his son that same night as they held converse together—according to custom—before going to bed.
“The bad spirit is never kind or good,” replied Chingatok, after a pause.
“No,” said the old man, “never.”
“But Blackbeard is always good and kind,” returned the giant.
This argument seemed unanswerable. At all events the old man did not answer it, but sat frowning at the cooking-lamp under the influence of intense thought.
After a prolonged meditation—during the course of which father and son each consumed the tit-bits of a walrus rib and a seal’s flipper—Chingatok remarked that the white men were totally beyond his comprehension. To which, after another pause, his father replied that he could not understand them at all.
Then, retiring to their respective couches, they calmly went to sleep—“perchance to dream!”
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