The Giant of the North: Pokings Round the Pole, R. M. Ballantyne [7 ebook reader .TXT] 📗

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