Jack London. Lost Face (in English, in the original)

Page 4

Came the building of the fort.  It was enforced labour.  The tiered walls of logs arose to the sighs and groans of the Nulato Indians.  The lash was laid upon their backs, and it was the iron hand of the freebooters of the sea that laid on the lash.  There were Indians that ran away, and when they were caught they were brought back and spread-eagled before the fort, where they and their tribe learned the efficacy of the knout.  Two died under it; others were injured for life; and the rest took the lesson to heart and ran away no more.  The snow was flying ere the fort was finished, and then it was the time for furs.  A heavy tribute was laid upon the tribe.  Blows and lashings continued, and that the tribute should be paid, the women and children were held as hostages and treated with the barbarity that only the fur-thieves knew.

Well, it had been a sowing of blood, and now was come the harvest.  The fort was gone.  In the light of its burning, half the fur-thieves had been cut down.  The other half had passed under the torture.  Only Subienkow remained, or Subienkow and Big Ivan, if that whimpering, moaning thing in the snow could be called Big Ivan.  Subienkow caught Yakaga grinning at him.  There was no gainsaying Yakaga.  The mark of the lash was still on his face.  After all, Subienkow could not blame him, but he disliked the thought of what Yakaga would do to him.  He thought of appealing to Makamuk, the head-chief; but his judgment told him that such appeal was useless.  Then, too, he thought of bursting his bonds and dying fighting.  Such an end would be quick.  But he could not break his bonds.  Caribou thongs were stronger than he.  Still devising, another thought came to him.  He signed for Makamuk, and that an interpreter who knew the coast dialect should be brought.

“Oh, Makamuk,” he said, “I am not minded to die.  I am a great man, and it were foolishness for me to die.  In truth, I shall not die.  I am not like these other carrion.”

He looked at the moaning thing that had once been Big Ivan, and stirred it contemptuously with his toe.

“I am too wise to die.  Behold, I have a great medicine.  I alone know this medicine.  Since I am not going to die, I shall exchange this medicine with you.”

“What is this medicine?” Makamuk demanded.

“It is a strange medicine.”

Subienkow debated with himself for a moment, as if loth to part with the secret.

“I will tell you.  A little bit of this medicine rubbed on the skin makes the skin hard like a rock, hard like iron, so that no cutting weapon can cut it.  The strongest blow of a cutting weapon is a vain thing against it.  A bone knife becomes like a piece of mud; and it will turn the edge of the iron knives we have brought among you.  What will you give me for the secret of the medicine?”

“I will give you your life,” Makamuk made answer through the interpreter.

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