The Walrus Hunters: A Romance of the Realms of Ice by R. M. Ballantyne (books to read now .TXT) 📕

“To get food, and wood, and berries is good,” observed the old man; “but why fight with the Fire-spouters? We cannot conquer them.”

“You can ask that at the meeting. It is useless to ask it of me.”

“Good, I will do so. For my part, I am too old to go on long expeditions, either to hunt or fight—but I can give advice. Is Cheenbuk to be at the meeting?”

“Did you not know? Cheenbuk has already gone to the Whale River. We only propose to follow him. He may not like our business, but he’ll have to join us when we are there.”

Having picked his rib clean, and receiving no encouragement from Nootka to remain, Gartok rose and departed.

That afternoon there was a large meeting of the heads of families in front of what was known as the big hut. There was no formality about the meeting. Unlike the war councils of the Indians, it was a sort of free-and-easy, in which blubber and other choice kinds of food did duty for the red man’s pipe. The women, too, were allowed to sit around and listen—but not to speak—while the hunters discussed their plans.

Gartok, being the biggest, most forward, and presumptuous among them all, was allowed to speak first—though this was contrary to the wishes, and even the custom, of the tribe. He did not make a set speech. Indeed, no one thought of delivering an oration. It was merely a palaver on a large scale.

“We want spear-handles,” said Gartok, “and wood for our kayak-frames, and deer for food, as well as birds and rabbit-skins for our underclothing.”

“That is true,” remarked one of the elderly men; “we want all these things, and a great many more things, but we don’t want fighting. There is no use in that.”

“Ho! ho!” exclaimed several voices in approval.

“But we do want fighting,” retorted Gartok firmly; “we want the pretty coloured things that the Fire-spouters sew on their clothes and shoes; also the iron things they have for cutting wood; and we want the spouters, which will make us more than a match for them in war; and we can’t get all these things without fighting.”

“Do without them, then,” observed Mangivik sharply; “why should we want things that we never had, and don’t need? Listen to me, young men—for I see by your looks that some of you would like a little fighting,—even if we had the spouting things, we could not make them spout.”

“That is a lie!” exclaimed Gartok, with the simple straightforwardness peculiar to the uncivilised. “Once I met one of the Fire-spouters when I was out hunting at the Whale River. He was alone, and friendly. I asked him to show me his spouter. He did so, but told me to be very careful, for sometimes it spouted of its own accord. He showed me the way to make it spout—by touching a little thing under it. There was a little bird on a bush close by. ‘Point at that,’ he said. I pointed. ‘Now,’ said he, ‘look along the spouter with one eye.’ I put one end of it against my cheek and tried to look, but by accident I touched the little thing, and it spouted too soon! I never saw the little bird again; but I saw many stars, though it was broad daylight at the time.”

“Ho! hoo!” exclaimed several of the younger men, who listened to this narration with intense eagerness.

“Yes,” continued Gartok, who had the gift of what is called “the gab,” and was fond of exercising it,—“yes; it knocked me flat on my back—”

“Was it alive, then?” asked Anteek, who mingled that day with the men as an equal, in consequence of his having slain a walrus single-handed.

“No, it was not quite, but it was very nearly alive.—Well, when I fell the man laughed. You know his people are not used to laugh. They are very grave, but this one laughed till I became angry, and I would have fought with him, but—”

“Ay,” interrupted Anteek, “but you were afraid, for he had the spouter.”

Before Gartok could reply Mangivik broke in.

“Boo!” he exclaimed contemptuously, “it is of no use your talking so much. I too have been to the Whale River, and have seen the fire-spouters, and I know they are not nearly alive. They are dead—quite dead. Moreover, they will not spout at all, and are quite useless, unless they are filled with a kind of black sand which is supplied by the white men who sell the spouters. Go to the Whale River if you will, but don’t fight with any one—that is my advice, and my hair is grey.”

“It is white, old man, if you only saw it,” murmured Anteek, with native disrespect. He was too good-natured, however, to let his thoughts be heard.

“Come, Oolalik,” said Mangivik, “you are a stout and a wise young man, let us hear what you have got to say.”

“I say,” cried Oolalik, looking round with the air of a man who had much in his head, and meant to let it out, “I say that the man who fights if he can avoid it is a fool! Look back and think of the time gone away. Not many cold times have passed since our young men became puffed up—indeed, some of our old men were little better—and made a raid on the Fire-spouters of the Whale River. They met; there was a bloody fight; six of our best youths were killed, and numbers were wounded by the little things that come out of the spouters. Then they came home, and what did they bring? what had they gained? I was a boy at the time and did not understand it all; but I understood some of it. I saw the fighters returning. Some were looking very big and bold, as if they had just come from fighting and conquering a whole tribe of bears and walruses. Others came back limping. They went out young and strong men; they came back too soon old, helped along by their companions. Two were carried—they could not walk at all. Look at them now!”

Oolalik paused and directed attention to what may be called an object-lesson—two men seated on his right hand. Both, although in the prime of life, looked feeble and prematurely old from wounds received in the fight referred to. One had been shot in the leg; the bone was broken, and that rendered him a cripple for life. The other had received a bullet in the lungs; and a constitution which was naturally magnificent had become permanently shattered.

“What do you think?” continued Oolalik. “Would not these men give much to get back their old strength and health?”

He paused again, and the men referred to nodded emphatically, as if they thought the question a very appropriate one, while some of the peacefully disposed in the assembly exclaimed “ho!” and “hoo!” in tones of approval.

“Then,” continued the speaker, “I passed by some of our huts and heard sounds of bitter weeping. I went in and found it was the wives and sisters of the men whose bodies lie on the banks of the Whale River. There would be reason in fighting, if we had to defend our huts against the Fire-spouters. Self-defence is right; and every one has a good word for the brave men who defend their homes, their women, and their children. But the Fire-spouters did not want to fight, and the men who lost their lives at the fight I am speaking of, threw them away for nothing. They will never more come home to provide their families with food and clothes, or to comfort them, or to play with the children and tell them of fights with the walrus and the bear when the nights are black and long. Most of those poor women had sons or man-relations to care for them, but there was one who had no relation to hunt for her after her husband was killed—only a little daughter to take care of her. I speak of old Uleeta, who is—”

“That is a lie!” cried Gartok, springing up and looking fierce. “Old Uleeta is, as you all know, my mother. She had me to hunt for her when father was killed, and she has me still.”

“You!” exclaimed Oolalik, with a look of scorn, “what are you? A hunter? No, only a fool who wants to be thought very brave, and would leave his mother and sister to the care of old men and boys while he goes away to fight with the Fire-spouters! No,” he continued, turning away from the angry young man with cool contempt, “old Uleeta has no son.”

Gartok was so taken aback with this behaviour of Oolalik, who was recognised as one of the gentlest and most peacefully disposed of the tribe, that he stood gaping for a moment in surprise. Then, observing the half-amused, half-contemptuous looks of the men around him, he suddenly caught up the unfinished handle of a spear that leaned against the wall of the hut beside him, and made a desperate blow with it at the head of Oolalik.

But that youth had expected some such demonstration, and was prepared for it. Being very agile, he made a step swiftly to one side, and the handle came down on the skull of a walrus which hung on the wall, with a violence that would have surprised its original owner had it been within.

Before the blow could be repeated Oolalik sprang towards his assailant.

Eskimos know nothing of a blow “straight from the shoulder,” but they know how to cuff. Oolalik brought his open hand down on Gartok’s cheek with a pistol-shot crack that tumbled that fire-eater head over heels on the ground.

The man was too strong, however, to be knocked insensible in that way. He recovered himself, sitting-wise, with his mouth agape and his eyes astonied, while the whole assembly burst into a hearty fit of laughter. High above the rest was heard the juvenile voice of the delighted Anteek.

What the fire-eater thought we cannot tell, but he had the wisdom to accept his punishment in silence, and listened with apparent interest while Oolalik concluded his remarks.

The effect of this belligerent episode was to advance the cause of the peace-party considerably—at least for a time—and when the meeting broke up, most of the people returned to their various homes with a firm determination to leave the poor Fire-spouters alone.

But Gartok, who was still smarting under the disgrace to which he had been subjected at the hands of Oolalik, managed to rekindle and blow up the war-spirit, so that, two days later, a strong party of the more pugnacious among the young men of the tribe set off in their kayaks for the Whale River, taking with them a few of the women in one of their open boats or oomiaks—chiefly for the purpose of keeping their garments in repair.