The wind was from the east Saturday, and a little better for hunting,
so the men were off bright and early. About noon there was a joyful
sound in camp. The women and children ran into our igloo shouting
"Iviek seleko" (walrus killed), and fairly jumped up and down in
their joy. I think the veriest stoic would have at least smiled. I know
I laughed and said "good," though I tried to look dignified and
unconcerned. Thank God, the danger was over, for the present at least,
and I should be able to start for Marble Island in a day or two. It was
not until the 17th, however, that I got away at last, as no sledges
could move or the dogs be fed during the four days succeeding the death
of "Papa's" wife. According to the Inuit belief, an infringement of
this custom would cause a fearful mortality that I did not care to
become responsible for, and had to wait patiently until the gods of the
walrus and seal were satisfied that due respect had been paid to the
memory of the departed.
The first day of my march to Marble Island I met Ikomar coming with
relief for our camp, and took from his sled one of two boxes containing
hard bread and some pork, molasses, and tobacco, sending another box
and the remainder of the food to Henry and Frank, who would come down
to Marble Island when Ikomar returned. I found a note from Lieutenant
Schwatka, in which I read that a bottle of whiskey was among the stores
sent; but in the excitement of the occasion and my interest in some
papers of 1879, I forgot to look for it.
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