I have elsewhere mentioned that the labor of driving dogs is not an easy one. Indeed, of all the members of my party, Mr. Knorr was the only one who succeeded well. Even in Southern Greenland, among the Danes long resident there, it is rare to find a skillful driver. Neither of the sailors, Carl nor Christian, whom I had taken from Upernavik, could throw the lash anywhere else than about their legs, or into the face of whomsoever might happen to sit upon the sledge. As for hitting a dog, they could scarcely do it by any chance.
PREPARING TO START.
My recent journey had decided my course of action. The last view which I had from the top of the lofty cliff behind Cairn Point convinced me that my only chance for the season was to cross the Sound from that place, for my observations up the Greenland coast had shown me, as has been already observed, the impracticability of reaching the Polar Sea by that route. McCormick had immediate charge of the work of preparation, and pushing every thing forward with his customary energy, we were ready to start before the close of March. But the temperature still continued to range too low for safety, and I only awaited a rise of the thermometer. Our little community was now full of life and business.
The Esquimaux were not an unimportant element in the hive. The most useful service came, however, from the ancient dames who presided over the domestic affairs of the snow house and the hut at Etah. They were sewing for us constantly, and were probably the first women in the world who ever grew rich
"Plying the needle and thread."
AN ESQUIMAU FUNERAL.
But misfortune fell at length within the snow-hut. Poor old Kablunet, the voluble and kind-hearted and industrious wife of Tcheitchenguak, took sick. Her disease was pneumonia, and it ran its course with great rapidity. All my medicines and all my efforts to save her were of no avail, and she died on the fourth day. This unhappy event had nearly destroyed my prestige as a Narkosak, and indeed it would have done so completely had it not been for the fortunate occurrence of an auroral display, during which time Jensen, whom my journal mentions as "a convenient and useful man," informed the Esquimaux that the white man's medicine will not operate. And thus was saved my reputation. She died at five o'clock in the evening; at six she was sewed up in a seal-skin winding-sheet, and before it was yet cold the body was carried on Hans's sledge to a neighboring gorge and there buried among the rocks and covered with heavy stones. The only evidences of sorrow or regret were manifested by her daughter, Merkut, the wife of Hans, and these appeared to be dictated rather from custom than affection. Merkut remained by the grave after the others had departed, and for about an hour she walked around and around it, muttering in a low voice some praises of the deceased. At the head of the grave she then placed the knife, needles, and sinew which her mother had recently been using, and the last sad rites to the departed savage were performed. Tcheitchenguak came over and told me that there was no longer anybody to keep his lamp burning, and that his hut was cold, and with a very sorrowful face he begged to be allowed to live with Hans. My consent given, that of Hans was not deemed necessary; and so the snow-hut became deserted, and the cheerful family that had there dispensed a rude hospitality was broken up; and the "house of feasting" had become a "house of mourning," and Tcheitchenguak had come away from it to finish alone his little remaining span of life. Old and worn down by a hard struggle for existence, he was now dependent upon a generation which cared little for him, while she who alone could have soothed the sorrows of his declining years had gone away before him to the far-off island where the Great Spirit, Torngasoak the Mighty, regales the happy souls with an endless feast on the ever green banks of the boundless lake, where the ice is never seen and the darkness is never known,—where the sunshine is eternal, in the summer of bliss that is everlasting,—the Upernak that has no end.
The temperature having somewhat moderated, I determined to set out in the evening of the third of April. Although the sun had not yet reached the horizon at midnight, there was quite light enough for my purposes, and by traveling in the night instead of the day we would have greater warmth while in camp, which is really the time of greatest danger from the cold; for when on the march men have usually little difficulty in keeping warm, even at the lowest temperatures, provided there is no wind. Besides this, there is still another difficulty obviated. The constant glare of the mid-day sun is a very severe tax upon the eye, and great caution is needed to guard against that painful and inconvenient disease known as "snow-blindness." In order to protect my men against it, as much as possible, I had supplied each of them with a pair of blue-glass goggles.
THE FIELD PARTY.
THE START.