Ungava. Robert Michael Ballantyne
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Stanley remarked of the first night’s encampment, that they were extremely comfortable and eminently snug.
They were successful, too, in procuring an ample supply of fresh provisions. There were ducks and geese of various kinds, and innumerable quantities of plover, cormorants, gulls, and eider-ducks, the eggs of which they found in thousands. Many of these birds were good for food, and the eggs of most of them, especially those of the eider-duck, were excellent. Reindeer were also met with; and, among other trophies of his skill as a hunter, Frank one day brought in a black bear, parts of which were eaten with great gusto by the Esquimaux and Indians, to the immense disgust of Bryan, who expressed his belief that the “haythens was barely fit to live,” and were most justly locked out from society in “thim dissolate polar raygeons.” There were many seals, also, in the sea, which put up their ugly, grotesque heads ever and anon, gazed at the canoes with their huge, fishy eyes, as in surprise at the sight of such novel marine monsters, and then sank slowly beneath the wave. These animals were never molested, out of respect to the feelings of the two Indians, who believed them to be gods, and assured Stanley that the destruction of one would infallibly bring down ill-luck and disaster on the heads of the party. Stanley smiled inwardly at this, but gave orders that no seals should be shot—an order which all were very willing to obey, as they did not require the animals either for food or any other purpose. Several white polar bears were seen, but they also were spared, as they require a great deal of shot to kill them, if not hit exactly behind the ear; and besides, neither their bodies nor skins were of any use to the travellers.
Thus all went favourably for a time. But life is a chequered story, and the sun of prosperity does not always shine, as we shall see.
One fine morning, as they were paddling cheerfully along in the neighbourhood of Cape Jones, it struck Mr Stanley that he might prove the correctness of his sextant and other instruments before entering upon the country which to most of the party was terra incognita. This was the more necessary that he could not depend on the guidance of Oostesimow and Ma-Istequan, they having travelled only once, long ago, through part of the country, while the latter part of it was totally unknown to them. It was one of those beautiful mornings that are peculiar to arctic regions, when the air is inexpressibly still, and all inanimate nature seems hushed in profound repose—a repose which is rather rendered more effective than otherwise by the plaintive cries of wild-fowl or the occasional puffing of a whale. There was a peculiar brilliancy, too, in the atmosphere, caused by the presence of so many fields and hummocks of white ice, looming fantastically through a thin, dry, gauze-like haze, which, while it did not dim the brightness of the solar rays, lent an additional charm to every object by shrouding it in a veil of mystery.
On passing the point the men ceased rowing, and proceeded to solace themselves with a five-minutes’ pipe—an indulgence which voyageurs always claim as their due after a long spell at the oars or paddles.
“Put ashore here, Massan,” said Stanley, turning to the guide; “I shall take an observation, if possible, and you can set the men to hunt for eggs. We shall want them, as the larder is rather low just now.”
Massan muttered assent, and, shouting to the other canoe to put ashore, ran alongside the rocks.
“You’d better hail the little canoe,” said Stanley, as he landed. “I shall want Mr Morton to assist me.”
Massan stepped upon an elevated rock, and, shading his eyes with his hands, looked earnestly ahead where he observed the little canoe almost beyond vision, and just going to double a point of land. Transferring his hands to his mouth, he used them as a trumpet, and gave forth a shout the like of which had never startled the echoes of the place before.
“It’s no use, sir,” said Massan; “he’s past hearin’. I’m afeerd that they’re off in the direction o’ the White Bear Hills, in hopes o’ gittin’ a shot.”
“Try again, Massan,” urged Stanley; “raise your pipe a little higher. Perhaps it will reach them.”
Massan shook his head. “Try it, Bryan,” he said, turning to the Irishman, who was sitting on a rock leisurely filling his short, black pipe.
“Is it to halloo ye want me?” replied Bryan, rising. “Shure the great gun of Athlone itself could niver hold a candle to ye, Massan, at yellin’; but I’ll try, anyhow;” and putting his hands to his mouth he gave forth a roar compared to which Massan’s was nothing. There was a sort of crack in the tone of it, however, that was so irresistibly ridiculous that the whole party burst incontinently into a fit of laughter. Loud though it was, it failed to reach the ears of those in the little canoe, which in a few seconds doubled the point and disappeared.
“Ah, bad luck to it!” said Bryan, in disgust; “the pipe’s damaged intirely. Small pace to ye, Bob Mahone; for shure it was howlin’ and screechin’ at your wake like a born scrandighowl that broke it.”
“Never mind, lad; what remains of it is not bad,” said Stanley, laughing, as he proceeded to open the box containing his scientific instruments.
Meanwhile his wife and Edith wandered along the rocks picking up shells and pebbles; and the men dispersed, some to smoke and chat, others to search for eggs. Bryan and La Roche, who were both aspiring geniuses, and had formed a sort of rough attachment to each other, asked permission to take a walk to the point ahead, where they would wait for the canoes. Having obtained it, they set off at a good round pace, that would have been “throublesome to kape up,” as Bryan remarked, “with payse in yer shoes!”
“Why you come for to jine de company?” inquired La Roche, as they jogged along.
“Why? bekase I’d nothin’ else to do, as the ould song says. Ye see, Losh,” (Bryan had invented a contraction for his friend’s name, which he said was “convanient”)—“ye see, Losh, there may be more nor wan raison for a gintleman lavin’ his native land in order to thravel in furrin parts. It’s thrue I had nothin’ in the univarse to do, for I could niver git work nohow, an’ whin I got it I could niver kape it. I niver could onderstan’ why, but so it was. Nivertheless I managed to live well enough in the ould cabin wid the murphies—”
“Vat is murphies?” inquired La Roche.
“Bliss yer innocent face, don’t ye know it’s praties?”
“’Tis vat?”
“Praties, boy, or pit-taties, if I must be partic’lar.”
“Ah! goot, goot, I understan’—pettitoes. Oui, oui, ye call him pomme de terre.”
“Hum! well, as I was sayin’, I got on pretty well wid the pumdeterres an’ the pig, but the pig died wan day—choked hisself on a murphy—that is, a pumbleterre; an’ more betoken, it was the last murphy in the house, a powerful big wan that my grandmother had put by for supper. After this ivery thin’ wint to smithereens. The rot came, and I thought I should have to list for a sodger. Well, Bob Mahone died o’ dhrink and starvation, an’ we had a beautiful wake; but there was a rig’lar shindy got up, an’ two or three o’ the county p’lice misbehaved themselves, so I jist floored them all, wan after the other, an’ bolted. Well, I wint straight to Dublin, an’ there I met wid an ould friend who was the skipper o’ a ship bound for New York. Says he, ‘Bryan, will ye go?’ Says I, ‘Av coorse; ’an ’shure enough I wint, an’ got over the say to ’Meriky.’ But I could niver settle down, so, wan way or another, I came at last to Montreal and jined the Company; an’ afther knockin’ about in the Columbia and Mackenzie’s River for some years, I was sint to Moose, an’ here I am, Losh, yer sarvant to command.”
“Goot, ver’ goot, mais peculiaire,” said La Roche, whose intimacy with this son of Erin had enabled him to comprehend enough of his jargon to grasp the general scope of his discourse.
“Av ye mane that lavin’ the ould country was goot,” said Bryan, stooping to pick up a stone and skim it along the smooth surface of the sea, “p’raps ye’re right; but there’s wan thing I niver could make my mind aisy about,” and the blacksmith’s voice became deep and his face grave as he recalled these bygone days.
“Vat were dat?” inquired La Roche.
“Why,