CHAPTER XV

_ON THE ESQUIMAUX OR ESKIMO_

It was a still moonlight night, and the _Albert_ lay at anchor in one of those numberless creeks in which the venturous fishermen hide away their schooners, while in their small boats they are snatching from the very edges of the reefs their precious fares of fish.

We were below decks, dressing the wounds of a fisherman in the _Albert’s_ little cabin, the only sounds being the moan of my patient or the lapping of the water against the ship’s side, when the silence was suddenly broken by the sound as of many voices singing. The air was very familiar:—

“There’s a land that is fairer than day, And by faith we can see it afar, For our Father dwells over the way To prepare us a dwelling-place there.”

Mounting the gangway, I found the deck crowded by a number of the quaintest little figures. They were dressed in skins, with snow-white jumpers topped by long pointed cowls standing high up over their heads. Some sat cross-legged on the bulwarks or hatches, while others, in their seal-skin boots, were gliding noiselessly about in the moonlight, till imagination conjured up “the merry elves” of childhood. The early Norsemen called them skrellings or weaklings. They call themselves Innuits, “the people,” because they say God went on creating till they appeared, then He was satisfied, and created no more. Eskimo = raw meat eater, and is a term of opprobrium conferred on them by the Indians.

Soon all were down in our main hold, chattering, laughing, and pleased as children, at the _Albert’s_ fittings and at our attempts to understand their remarks. The one that acted as leader spoke a little broken English, and from him we learned that they had come from a group of islands lying outside us with some boat-loads of dry fish for a planter; that they had been puzzled by our strange rig, and so had come aboard to see us.

When their leader had explained to them that we were a “Gospel ship,” and had things to heal the sick, their merry, round, flat faces grew sunnier than ever. All heads were uncovered at once, displaying mops of long straight black hair, cut fringe-like level with the eyebrows. Then they all broke out singing again, squatting all round the hold on their haunches or on the floor, while, to our surprise, one seated himself at the harmonium and played it excellently, others performing on two concertinas and two cornets. They sang in parts in their own language, but hymn tunes well known to us, so our crew all joined in, and kept it up till the watch called “All hands off board.” Since then we have seen and learnt much of this simple people; “Uskies” the fishermen call them, and we all like them greatly.

Not many heathen Eskimo remain in Labrador, yet between Ungava and Cape Chidley some are still to be found. They recognise a god (Tongarsuk), a good spirit, and also lesser spirits (Tongaks), whom he sends to tell the priests (angekoks) how to heal diseases, and how to tell the weather. The Devil is a vague kind of female spirit, apparently unnamed. These angekoks are really delphic oracles, who make supposititious journeys to the bowels of the earth to consult Tongarsuk. The journey must be in winter, in the dark at night time, and the angekok remains alone in his hut with his head tied between his legs, and his arms behind his back, while his soul is off to heaven or hell. To become an angekok poglit, _i.e._ fat priest or chief priest, his wandering spirit must be dragged by one toe to the sea by a white bear, and there swallowed by a sea lion and the same white bear. Then it must be spued up and return to his body, which is shut up in a dark house. A drum and other noises are kept up during the ceremony.[17]

They have a vague tradition of a flood, saying that the world upset once, and all but one man were drowned. They prove this by the fact of shells being found high above the sea, and even the remains of a whale on a high mountain. They believe in a future life and a happier one than this, where there is perpetual summer, and they locate it at the bottom of the sea, whence they get their richest possessions, or in the bowels of the earth. Reindeer are there quite common, and their beloved seals are ever ready, swimming in a large boiling kettle.[17]

[Footnote 17: _The Eskimo_, by Dr. F. Nansen.]

Nansen tells us they thought that all inanimate objects had spirits, and that this is the reason that they buried with the warrior his boat and weapons, and often figures like dolls, possibly to represent his wives. I found several of these old graves, and two I examined. One, evidently very ancient, was perched on a high central promontory, overlooking the entrances to two bays; perhaps in order that as the harp seals or wild birds passed, the warrior might, even in death, look down upon those who of yore so oft paid tribute to his skill. The body in every grave is simply laid on the surface on its back, in its clothes—in one grave a female skeleton lay alongside a male one. Over it is built a rude structure roofed with large flat stones, so that the view should be unobstructed. In a small cache alongside the above grave were two wooden figures of females, an ivory harpoon head and the remains of the shaft, the skin-cleaning instruments, and the remains of a stone lamp.

In another, further south, I found an iron sword about three feet long, used for cutting snow blocks for snow houses, a dagger with a curved blade, a clasp knife, an old pot of iron, a nail or needle case, a lead buckle silvered over, a whetstone, and a few other simple household implements, while in each case the remains of the kayak or canoe, the paddle and the harpoon were lying near.

The skipper of a Newfoundland vessel told me how one of his men took some frankincense from one of these graves. That night the crew were startled by one of the hands shouting out, “There is a man in the cabin!” though it was all dark at the time. A lamp was lit, and the same man shouted, “There he goes, up the hatchway!” The others chaffed him and blew out the light. Very soon shouts were again heard, “There he is, an Eskimo, searching in Tom’s bunk.” After that the lamp was kept lighted, and next day the grave was restored.

The early Moravian missionaries found it very difficult to convey to the Eskimo the Bible teachings of our Saviour’s love and of God as our Father. They had no word for love; neither sheep nor lambs, seed-time nor harvest, silver nor gold were familiar to them, and all the oriental similes of the sacred book were unintelligible. Yet the missionaries’ Christ-like lives during 130 years have accomplished what their words could not express.

In A.D. 1000 the Eskimo extended as far south as Newfoundland. In 1790 a tribe five hundred strong dwelt in the Straits of Belle Isle. Now only a few dwell south of Hopedale, three hundred miles north of the same straits, and only some two to three thousand north of that place. Contact with white men has killed them off, at times by small-pox or diphtheria, but usually by tubercular consumption. The two racial tides now meet at Hopedale, and here the Eskimo appear least healthy.

The nomad life in skin tents has been abandoned for wooden and mud huts. The seal-skin clothes have largely given way to inferior cotton and European goods. The “blubber” food is largely replaced by “flour and molasses.” The art of kayaking is nearly lost, and the Eskimo have become less and less reliant on their own powers of procuring a livelihood, while guns and powder have largely diminished the supply of game. This has well been exemplified around the mission station of Zoar. The Eskimo here had contracted a habit of taking out their supplies from the Moravians, but secretly traded their fish and fur with the nearest Hudson Bay station at Davis Inlet. Thus they ran up large debts, which eventually the Brethren refused to increase. Soon after, while two missionaries were in the store, some bullets were fired right through the wooden walls. Fortunately no one was hurt. But bad feelings had been roused, and at last it was found necessary to close these stores altogether, with the result that the Eskimo have been _obliged to leave_, and stay where they could buy provisions at hand; and now the Eskimo are all gone, and the whole station is closed for good. But this is only what civilization has done for aboriginal races all the world over.

Thank God that in this case the Gospel both preceded and accompanied commerce. To this alone I attribute the fact that after over 130 years any of the Eskimo do now remain. The Gospel has been received. Many have passed from darkness to light, and so are in a position to correspond to or resist the new environment of white men’s customs and white men’s whisky. True the Eskimo in Labrador are being slowly driven to a last stand. Thank God that stand is at Ramah, Hebron, Okkak, Hopedale and Nain, around the devoted Christian missionaries of the Moravian brethren, who for Christ’s sake spend their lives among the hardships of this bleak and barren coast; and while Beothicks and Red Indians have fallen victims to the God of mammon, remnants of this gentle and harmless race still persist. Take away these Moravians from Labrador, and the days of the Eskimo would soon be numbered.

[Illustration: Taken from an Eskimo Grave at Long Island.]

In the eleventh century Thorfinn Karlsefne describes the Skraellings as “black and ill-favoured, with coarse hair on their heads, and large eyes, with broad cheeks.” Cartwright, writing in 1790, says they were quarrelsome among one another, and occasionally thievish. Cranz, in 1760, says they were degraded, immoral, and brutish in their heathen state. Nansen thinks they led an ideal socialistic life, but founded, I think, rather on a basis of inevitable union against starvation in bad times than on a basis of Divine and brotherly love. They appear ever to have been simple and confiding. Karlsefne says they came to visit his men in Vinland and began to barter.

“These people would rather have red cloth than anything else; for this they gave skins and real furs. For an entire fur-skin the Skraellings took a piece of red cloth a span long, and bound it round their heads. Thus went on traffic for a time, then the cloth began to fall short among Karlsefne and his people, and they cut it asunder into small pieces, which were not wider than the breadth of a finger, and still the Skraellings gave just as much as before, and more.”

According to our code they are very immoral, yet seeing the conduct of white men to one another and to themselves they always say of a good man, “He is like an Innuit” (Eskimo). They themselves have no words for cursing, and Nansen says also no words of opprobrium, such as liar, scoundrel, or rowdy. Recently one in the far north of Labrador, who already had seven wives, stole his son-in-law’s wife also—that is his own daughter. The younger man bided his time, and then shot the older one off his guard. Some twenty years ago a number came south to the most northern Moravian station. One had cut on his gun-stock many notches. On being asked what these meant, he explained they indicated so many men craftily shot. On being told it was wrong, he promised not to do it again. Polygamy is now done away with, and it is only in their fishing-tents that different families sleep together. In some tents I visited the only separations were marks made on the ground.

Yet they have learnt to repent of wrong-doing, and all their outbreaks have ended in asking for forgiveness. They confess even murder to the missionaries. I have met four who have done so. In all spiritual matters they implicitly accept the Brethren’s teaching; nor do they ever question the authority of the Bible; _e.g._, one man had a very refractory boy, who was always annoying his teacher, and wilfully disturbing the whole school. His father refused to punish him, for he said he thought that must be wrong for a Christian. Nor would he alter his decision till Solomon’s maxim on that point was shown him in black and white. He then at once adopted Solomon’s view of the matter, and “appealed to his son’s feelings” with a piece of walrus hide.

Other enemies, besides civilization, have helped to deplete the Eskimo race. The early Vikings harried them on their visits to the coast. Thorfinn Karlsefne mentions finding five Skraellings sleeping under a boat. He adds, his men killed them; and similar incidents occurred to others of these rovers. The Indians of the interior have always been hostile to them, and in their battles with these the Eskimo have generally come off second best.

We were shown the spot where tradition has it the Eskimo and Montaignais Indians fought their last fight for mastery. A story to which the finding of many stone arrow heads and knives lends some colour. Off the mouth of a long river lies a large island, with a smooth central plain, rising at each end to high broken rocks. On the outer end clustered the humble huts of the Eskimos, with their fishing gear lying around. One night, under cover of darkness, the Mountaineers crept stealthily down the river in their large, double-ended, birch war-canoes, and effected a landing, dragging the canoes up after them, and then hiding themselves among the rocks. Next day, however, the wary little Eskimo discovered their arrival, and pluckily determined to attack them at once. It is easy to picture the wild scene that followed. No doubt the little warriors fought desperately; but, against their taller and more powerful adversaries, were at a great disadvantage in a hand to hand conflict. Many having fallen in the open, the remnant sought cover among the rocks at the outer end of the island, only to be dislodged and driven back towards the sea. Here, no doubt, the squaws—who still dress like men and partake in all the expeditions—helped them to make one last stand for home and children. Then came the skurry to the beach. Behind are the ruthless, bloodthirsty “braves,” in front the mighty ocean. Picture the tiny skin-boats, manned by the few survivors, darting out through Atlantic surf, with probably wife and child hurriedly lashed on the back, as they do sometimes at the present day. Think of the tragedies enacted, as perhaps some obstacle prevented the kayaks getting away—some refractory child, some accident to the frail craft at the last moment. With fiendish yells the Indians are hurrying over the beach towards them, more horrible from their weird war-paint. History only says the settlement was exterminated.

Starvation also has lessened their numbers. Near Sir Leopold McClintock’s winter quarters—where the darkness lasted for three months—were camped some Eskimo. These people had neither fires nor lights. Living in snow huts, into which they crawled on their bellies through long snow tunnels, they lay huddled on one another for the sake of the warmth. Their clothes were of duck-skins and other feathers inside, and seal-skin outside. No wood existed anywhere near. Their food consisted of raw seal meat, buried deep outside. Whenever hungry, they would crawl out, eat about four pounds of raw meat, and crawl back and sleep again as long as possible—almost hibernating like the black bear. What would happen when the polar bear got at their meat supplies, as he was only too likely to do?

Only this year (1894) the crew of the whaler _Balaena_ brought to Dundee the horrible details of what might well be expected. The _Balaena’s_ crew discovered on the shore, in a place far removed from all animal life, the dead bodies of three Eskimos, and a number of bleached human bones. These three—two men and one woman—were evidently the last survivors of a larger party. Near to the bodies three human heads were noticed—in each case the throat had been cut and savagely hacked with a knife, while the brains had been extracted through a hole in the skull. A smashed rifle and a bow and arrows were lying near, and all the evidences of a severe struggle between the last two male survivors. A blood-stained knife was taken from the woman’s hand. It is probable the party had been waiting here (Elwin Bay) for the arrival of the whalers in 1893. Alas! ice had prevented their coming, and at last, among the patiently-expectant little people, an awful tragedy had been enacted.

Less dramatic incidents also occur in Eskimo life. Thus, in one case recently, an old tyrant had appropriated the fine new kayak of a poorer man; and soon after this poor fellow was drowned while shooting deer out of his old canoe, of which the skin covering was rotten. His son, a young fellow under twenty, remained quiet a long time. One day, however, he was taken out hunting by the old man. Whilst crossing a wide river on the ice, the son dropped behind a step and blew the other’s brains out.

On one or two occasions they have combined to attack the Moravian Brethren. Thus in Hebron, on one occasion, they shut the missionaries up in their house, not allowing them even to go and get water, demanding that all the goods in the store should be handed over to them. No resistance was made, except that the store was kept locked. At the end of three days, which the Brethren had spent in prayer, conviction seized the Eskimo, and they came and said they were very sorry.

No stretch of imagination could call them an emotional people; some are almost fatalists, and all are easily satisfied and careless of the morrow. One day an Eskimo guide accompanied me out fishing. It so happened that rain fell in great quantities, and as he had left his skin “kossack,” or jumper, at home, he might reasonably have been expected to seek shelter under one of the many rocks while I fished. Not so. He remained seated all the time out in the rain as if he were a mushroom. Late at night, after he had gone home, he came off again in his “kayak” to the ship to see me. “My boy dead,” he said. “Why did you not tell me he was ill? You knew we had medicine.” “No good; must die,” he replied.

I went next morning to see the funeral. The Moravians have taught them to bury beneath the surface. A hole had been dug in the sandy ground; the body was put in, and the grave filled up with sand. An hour later not a sign remained to mark the spot. It would never suggest itself to them to visit it.

In 1790, Cartwright, falling in love with an Eskimo girl, asked her hand from her husband Eketcheak, who had another wife himself. The reply was, “She is no good to work. Have this one and her two children.” Cartwright declined, saying he preferred the younger. “Take them all then,” said the generous husband. Cartwright explained he did not wish to trespass too much on his kindness. “Oh, you can give them back at the end of the year if you don’t want to keep them.”

While we were in Okkak, an elderly squaw came to be treated for shaking of the knees. It appeared that she had never before seen a steamboat, and had received a severe fright at the arrival of the _Princess May_; for she thought it was a man-of-war come to punish her son Rudolph, who some time previously had shot his wife, being tired of her. Since that incident Rudolph had become a Christian, but, as his crime was still unpunished, by Moravian rule he could not be admitted to their communion.

Remorse seemed to have seized him, and his one desire now was that his crime might be expiated by receiving its punishment at the hand of man. Naturally his mother was anxious.

This lack of emotion seems to prevent a due appreciation of the principle of self-sacrifice. Thus, one day, while a heavy storm was raging, some of those ashore noticed a party in great distress, endeavouring to reach the mainland in one of their smaller boats. A heavy surf was rolling in, and it would no doubt have been risky to go out. So the idea of a rescue seems never to have suggested itself. The people were drowned, and in telling the story themselves afterwards, they said, shrugging their shoulders, “Kujana,” meaning, “It must be,” or “I don’t care for it”—a solution which to them is perfectly satisfactory.

Yet they do at times brave deeds. Once last winter Michael and Simeon (they never have two names) in crossing from an island in their kayaks, were overtaken by a kind of blizzard. Simeon became unconscious and capsized. Michael, though himself almost _in extremis_, and having only his tiny kayak to fight the storm in, managed to get his friend out of the boat—into which they are usually laced—to put him on the back of his own canoe, and to carry him safely to land. Needless to say no Albert medal rewarded his brave deed. Unfortunately, the art of using the kayak is rapidly becoming lost, largely because the foolish Eskimo part with the seal-skins, necessary to cover their boats, in exchange for cheap and useless European goods. At one time, with their skin kossack or coat, laced over the opening, and fast round their wrists and face, they could upset with impunity, for with a couple of deft strokes with their paddles they were soon right way up again. Indeed, in heavy seas they would purposely upset, and so get the force of the broken water on the bottom or side of their boat, righting themselves immediately the danger had passed. In sport one kayak would “leap-frog” over another; or turning over on one side the “kayak man” would right himself on the other in their merry dexterity. Alas! that so marvellous an adaptation to the necessities of their lives should ever be relegated to a forgotten past. Broken water does them no more harm than it would to a swimming seagull, so exquisite is their buoyancy.

Generosity and vanity form a queer combination in many of them. On one occasion, a family, which had long been struggling for the mere necessaries of daily life, were fortunate enough to catch in their large stone trap a black fox. With tears of joy the father took the skin to the store. God had heard his prayers. He was credited with £9 worth of goods. When he got home, however, the well-filled cupboard so filled his heart with vanity that he issued an invitation to all his acquaintances “to come and eat and stay with him.” In two days the supplies ran out, and already again the wolf of hunger besieged his doors.

In another case a Newfoundland planter had left an Eskimo in charge of his stores during the winter, giving him for himself a more than generous winter’s diet. Soon his friends, with their chronic state of hunger, came to pay him a visit. Without a thought as to consequences, the visit was prolonged indefinitely, and soon the whole of them were without provisions. The usual course to adopt next is to drive on and visit the nearest settlement, till all alike are “commercial travellers” in the same line of business. No wonder there is an Eskimo saying, “Do not live near the komatik (or sleigh) track.”

Loyalty is said to be a marked feature in the Eskimo. They fully believed at Hopedale that Her Majesty the Queen sits on a rock on the look-out—as they do—in her anxiety for the arrival of the mission ship _Harmony_. We were charged with many personal messages by them to the Queen, expressing their deep sense of gratitude for sending the _Albert_ out to them.

When they heard the English were at war in Egypt, they organized an impromptu regiment, with a captain in a discarded policeman’s coat and one odd epaulet, with which they proposed to the missionaries they should proceed to the seat of war. Indeed, they took no denial, and continued to drill till the opening of the sea turned their attention once more to cod-fishing.

I must now close my few remarks about this interesting people. Some of their habits, which to us are more repellant, I have purposely passed over—such as their predilection for their meat to be “mikkiak,” or partly rotten, and their uncleanliness. What we saw of the Eskimo we liked: their gratitude for kindnesses done; their fortitude under the knife, or in pain; their merriment and good-nature often under circumstances most depressing. When talking to a dying Eskimo of forty-five, who for a fortnight had lain in terrible agony with his hands blown off, I asked the poor fellow if the pain was unbearable. He answered simply, “It is nothing to what my Saviour bore in the Garden for me.” His last words were singing Zinzendorf’s beautiful hymn:—

“Jesus, day by day, Guide us on our way.”

It continues:—

“Should the path us grieve, Thee we’ll never leave; Lord, in days of greatest sadness, Let us bear our cross with gladness; Trials mark the road Leading home to God.

All our steps attend, Guide us to the end; Should the way be rough and dreary, With Thy strength support the weary; When our race is o’er, Open, Lord, Thy door.”