| Note: |
Two spellings, “Tunguse” and “Tunguze,” are used throughout the
book for the same tribe. The caption of Illustrations #55, 58, 103, 144 differ from the captions given in the table and were not changed. |
OVERLAND
THROUGH ASIA.
PICTURES OF
SIBERIAN, CHINESE, AND TARTAR
LIFE.
TRAVELS AND ADVENTURES IN KAMCHATKA, SIBERIA, CHINA, MONGOLIA, CHINESE TARTARY, AND EUROPEAN RUSSIA, WITH FULL ACCOUNTS OF THE SIBERIAN EXILES, THEIR TREATMENT, CONDITION, AND MODE OF LIFE, A DESCRIPTION OF THE AMOOR RIVER, AND THE SIBERIAN SHORES OF THE FROZEN OCEAN.
WITH AN APPROPRIATE MAP,
AND
NEARLY 200 ILLUSTRATIONS.
BY
THOMAS W. KNOX.
AUTHOR OF “CAMP FIRE AND COTTON FIELD.”
ISSUED BY SUBSCRIPTION ONLY, AND NOT FOR SALE IN THE BOOK STORES. RESIDENTS OF ANY STATE DESIRING A COPY SHOULD ADDRESS THE PUBLISHERS, AND AN AGENT WILL CALL UPON THEM.
HARTFORD, CONN:
AMERICAN PUBLISHING COMPANY.
F. 6. GILMAN & CO., CHICAGO, ILLS.; NETTLETON & CO., CINCINNATI, OHIO.
H. H. BANCROFT & CO., SAN FRANCISCO, CAL.
1871.
[PREFACE.]
Fourteen years ago Major Perry McD. Collins traversed Northern Asia, and wrote an account, of his journey, entitled “A Voyage Down the Amoor.” With the exception of that volume no other work on this little known region has appeared from the pen of an American writer. In view of this fact, the author of “Overland Through Asia” indulges the hope that his book will not be considered a superfluous addition to the literature of his country.
The journey herein recorded was undertaken partly as a pleasure trip, partly as a journalistic enterprise, and partly in the interest of the company that attempted to carry out the plans of Major Collins to make an electric connection between Europe and the United States by way of Asia and Bering’s Straits. In the service of the Russo-American Telegraph Company, it may not be improper to state that the author’s official duties were so few, and his pleasures so numerous, as to leave the kindest recollections of the many persons connected with the enterprise.
Portions of this book have appeared in Harper’s, Putnam’s, The Atlantic, The Galaxy, and the Overland Monthlies, and in Frank Leslie’s Illustrated Newspaper. They have been received with such favor as to encourage their reproduction wherever they could be introduced in the narrative of the journey. The largest part of the book has been written from a carefully recorded journal, and is now in print for the first time. The illustrations have been made from photographs and pencil sketches, and in all cases great care has been exercised to represent correctly the costumes of the country. To Frederick Whymper, Esq., artist of the Telegraph Expedition, and to August Hoffman, (Photographer,) of Irkutsk, Eastern Siberia, the author is specially indebted.
The orthography of geographical names is after the Russian model. The author hopes it will not be difficult to convince his countrymen that the shortest form of spelling is the best, especially when it represents the pronunciation more accurately than does the old method. A frontier justice once remarked, when a lawyer ridiculed his way of writing ordinary words, that a man was not properly educated who could spell a word in only one way. On the same broad principle I will not quarrel with those who insist upon retaining an extra letter in Bering and Ohotsk and two superfluous letters in Kamchatka.
Among those not mentioned in the volume, thanks are due to Frederick Macrellish, Esq., of San Francisco, Hon. F.F. Low of Sacramento, Alfred Whymper, Esq., of London, and the many gentlemen connected with the Telegraph Expedition. There are dozens and hundreds of individuals in Siberia and elsewhere, of all grades and conditions in life, who have placed me under numberless obligations. Wherever I traveled the most uniform courtesy was shown me, and though conscious that few of those dozens and hundreds will ever read these lines, I should consider myself ungrateful did I fail to acknowledge their kindness to a wandering American.
T.W.K.
ASTOR HOUSE, N.Y., Sept. 15, 1870.
1. [FRONTISPIECE, THE AUTHOR IN SIBERIAN COSTUME]
5. [MONTGOMERY STREET IN HOLIDAY DRESS]
9. [STEAMSHIP WRIGHT IN A STORM]
11. [WRECK OF THE SHIP CANTON]
12. [ALEUTIANS CATCHING WHALES]
17. [A SCALY BRIDGE]
20. [COW AND BEAR]
22. [REPULSE OF THE ASSAILANTS]
23. [VIEW OF SITKA]
24. [PLENTY OF TIME]
25. [RUSSIAN OFFICERS AT MESS]
29. [TOWED BY DOGS]
30. [KORIAK YOURT]
32. [REINDEER RIDE]
35. [YEARLY MAIL]
36. [DOGS FISHING]
42. [SEEING OFF]
45. [ABOUT FULL]
47. [ON THE AMOOR]
48. [CASH ACCOUNT]
49. [WOODING UP]
53. [GILYAK MAN]
54. [GILYAK WOMAN]
60. [“NOT FOR JOE”]
61. [TAIL PIECE—SCENE ON THE RIVER]
66. [MANJOUR BOAT]
70. [MANJOUR TRAVELING CARRIAGE]
71. [TAIL PIECE—TOWARDS THE SUN]
76. [RIFLE SHOOTING]
79. [TAIL PIECE]
80. [STRATENSK, EASTERN SIBERIA]
82. [TAIL PIECE]
83. [FAVORITE BED]
86. [ON THE HILLS NEAR CHETAH]
87. [BOURIAT YOURTS]
88. [A MONGOL BELL]
89. [A MONGOL BELLE]
90. [CATCHING SHEEP]
91. [A COLD BATH]
92. [TAIL PIECE]
93. [OUR FERRY BOAT]
94. [EQUAL RIGHTS]
95. [AMATEUR CONCERT IN SIBERIA]
97. [INTERIOR OF CHINESE TEMPLE]
100. [LEGAL TENDER]
101. [RUSSIAN PETS]
102. [PONY EXPRESS]
103. [A DISAGREEABLE APPENDAGE]
104. [SUSPENDED FREEDOM]
105. [PUNISHMENT FOR BURGLARY]
106. [CHOPSTICK, FORK, AND SAUCER]
107. [CHINESE THEATRE]
108. [CHINESE TIGER]
109. [CHINESE PUNISHMENT]
110. [PROVISION DEALER]
111. [CHINESE MENDICANTS]
112. [THE FAVORITE]
114. [A LOTTERY PRIZE]
116. [A PEKIN CAB]
117. [PRIEST IN TEMPLE OF CONFUCIUS]
118. [COMFORTS AND CONVENIENCES]
119. [FILIAL ATTENTION]
121. [A MUSICAL STOP]
122. [NANKOW PASS]
123. [RACING AT THE KALGAN FAIR]
124. [STREET IN KALGAN]
125. [IN GOOD CONDITION]
126. [LOST IN THE DESERT OF GOBI]
128. [CROSSING THE TOLLA]
129. [THE SCHOOLMASTER]
130. [TAIL PIECE]
131. [WILD BOAR HUNT]
132. [A WIFE AT IRKUTSK]
133. [NO WIFE AT IRKUTSK]
134. [A SOUDNA]
137. [A SPECIMEN]
139. [GOV. GENERAL KORSACKOFF]
140. [VIEW—IRKUTSK]
141. [A COLD ATTACHMENT]
142. [QUEEN OF GREECE]
143. [EMPEROR OF RUSSIA]
144. [TAIL PIECE—TWIN BOTTLES]
145. [HOME OF TWO EXILES—REAL, IMAGINARY]
147. [TARTAR CAVALRY]
148. [SIBERIAN EXILES]
149. [TAIL PIECE]
150. [A VASHOK]
151. [A KIBITKA]
153. [OUR CONDUCTOR]
156. [WOLF HUNT]
157. [HYDRAULIC MINING]
158. [TAIL PIECE]
159. [DOWN HILL]
160. [DOGS AMONG ICE]
162. [THE TEAM]
163. [TAIL PIECE]
164. [IN THE MINE]
166. [TAIL PIECE]
167. [THE ELOPEMENT]
168. [THE FIGHT]
169. [THE CATASTROPHE]
170. [TAIL PIECE]
171. [THE POLKEDOVATE]
172. [MAKING EXPLANATION]
173. [AFTER THE BATH]
174. [TAIL PIECE]
176. [WOMEN SPINNING]
178. [TAIL PIECE]
180. [FATAL RESULT]
181. [TAIL PIECE]
183. [FROSTED HORSES]
185. [EUROPE AND ASIA]
186. [A RUSSIAN BEGGAR]
187. [BEGGARS IN KAZAN]
188. [THE IMMERSION]
189. [RUSSIAN PRIEST]
199. [TAIL PIECE]
192. [VIEW OF THE NEVSKI PROSPECT, ST. PETERSBURG]
193. [TAIL PIECE—MEETING AN OLD FRIEND]
194. [MAP TO ACCOMPANY THOS. W. KNOX’S “OVERLAND THROUGH ASIA”]
[CHAPTER I.]
Off from New York—Around the world by steam—Value of a letter of credit—A cure for sea sickness—Doing the Isthmus—An exciting porpoise race—Glimpse of San Francisco—Trip to the Yo Semite Valley—From the Golden Gate into the Pacific
[CHAPTER II.]
A strange company—Difficulties of sea life—A tall man and a short room—How the dog went to sleep—A soapy cabin—Catching a booby—Two Sundays together—A long lost wreck—Incidents at sea—Manner of catching whales in Alaska—A four footed pilot—Dog stories—How to take an observation—Coast of Asia—Entering Avatcha bay—An economical light keeper
[CHAPTER III.]
In a Russian port—Hail Columbia—Petropavlovsk—Volcanoes and earth-quakes—Directions for making a Russian town—A Kamchadale wedding—Standing up with the bride—A hot ceremony—A much married pope—Russian religious practices—Drinking with the priest and what came of it
[CHAPTER IV.]
Vegetation in Kamchatka—Catching salmon—A scaly bridge—An evening on shore—Samovars and tea drinking—The fur trade—Bear hunting—What a cow brought home one day—Siberian dogs—A musical town—The adventures of Norcum—Training a team—Sledges and how to manage them—A voyage under the Polish flag—Monument to Captain Clerke—The allied attack—The battle of Petropavlovsk
[CHAPTER V.]
Bering’s voyages—Discovery of Alaska—Shipwreck and death of Bering—The Russian-American Company—The first governor of Alaska—Promushleniks—Russian settlement in California—Account of Russian explorations—Character of the country—Its extent and resources—Advantages and disadvantages of the Alaska purchase
[CHAPTER VI.]
Leaving Kamchatka—Farewell to the ladies—A new kind of telegraph—Entering the Ohotsk sea—From Steam to sail—Sleeping among chronometers—Talking by-signs—A burial at sea—A Russian funeral—Land in sight—Ghijiga bay
[CHAPTER VII.]
Baggage for shore travel—Much wine and little bread—A perplexing dilemma—How to take the census—Siberian beds—Towed by dogs—Encounter with a beast—Coaxing a team with clubs—The Koriaks—Their manners and customs—Comical cap for a native—A four footed currency—Yourts and Balagans—Curious marriage ceremony—Lightening a boat in a storm—Very strong whisky—Riding on a reindeer—An intoxicating mushroom—An electric devil—a Siberian snow storm—How a party was lost
[CHAPTER VIII.]
How a pointer became a bull dog—Coral in high latitudes—Sending Champagne to Neptune—Arrival at Ohotsk—Three kinds of natives—A lunch with the ladies—A native entertainment—A mail once a year—A lover’s misfortune—An astonished American—Hunting a bear and being hunted—An unfortunate ride
[CHAPTER IX.]
At sea again—Beauties of a Northern sky—Warlike news and preparing for war—The coast of Japan—An exciting moment—A fog bell of sea lions—Ready for fight—De Castries’ bay—A bewildered fleet—Goodbye to the Variag—In the straits of Tartary—A difficult sleeping place—A Siberian mirage—Entering the Amoor river
[CHAPTER X.]
On shore at Nicolayevsk—An American Consul—Visiting the Governor—Machine shops on the Amoor with American managers—The servant girl question—A Gilyak boat full of salmon—An unfortunate water carrier—The Amoor Company—Foreign and native merchants—Raising sheep among tigers—Rats eating window glass—Riding in a cart
[CHAPTER XI.]
Up the Amoor—Seeing off a friend—A Siberian steamboat—How the steamboats are managed—Packages by post—Curiosities of the Russian mail service—An unhappy bride—Hay barges—Gilyak villages—Visiting a village—Bad for the nose—Native dogs—Interviewing a Gilyak lady—A rapid descent
[CHAPTER XII.]
The monastery of Eternal Repose—Curious religious customs—Features of the scenery—Passengers on our boat—An adventurous merchant—Captured by the Chinese—A pretty girl and her fellow passenger—Wooding up—An Amoor town—The telegraph—How it is built and operated—A native school—Fighting the tiger—Religious practices of the Gilyaks—Mistaken kindness
[CHAPTER XIII.]
Stepanoff and his career—A Manjour boat—Catching salmon—A sturgeon pen—The islands of the Amoor—A night scene at a wooding station—A natural cathedral—The birds of the Amoor—The natives of the country—Interviewing a native Mandarin
[CHAPTER XIV.]
Entering a Goldee house—Native politeness—What to do with a tame eagle—An intelligent dog team—An exciting race—A Mongol belle—Visiting a Goldee house at night—A reception in a shirt—Fish skin over-coats—Curious medical custom—Draw poker on the Amoor river—Curiosity—Habarofka—“No turkey for me”—A visit on shore—Experience with fleas
[CHAPTER XV.]
First view of China—A beautiful region—Petrovsky—Women in the water—An impolite reception—A scanty population—Visiting a military post—Division of labor for a hunting excursion—The Songaree—A Chinese military station—Resources of the Songaree—Experience of a traveler—Hunting a tiger—A perilous adventure
[CHAPTER XVI.]
Ekaterin—Nikolskoi—The Province of the Amoor—Character of the Cossack—The Buryea Mountains—A man overboard—Passing a mountain chain—Manjour boats—Bringing pigs to market—Women in the open air—A new tribe of natives—Rest for a bath—Russian caviar—How it is made—Feeding with a native—A heavy drink—A fleet of fishing boats
[CHAPTER XVII.]
Scenery on the middle Amoor—A military colony—Among the Manjours—A Manjour temple—A Chinese naval station—A crew of women—Strange ways of catching fish—The city of Igoon—Houses plastered with mud—Visiting a harem—Talking pigeon-Chinese—Visiting the prison
[CHAPTER XVIII.]
The mouth of the Zeya—Blagoveshchensk—Kind reception by the governor—Attending a funeral—A polyglot doctor and his family—Intercourse with the Chinese—A visit to Sakhalin-Oula—A government office—A Chinese traveling carriage—Visiting a Manjour governor—A polite official—A Russian Mongol reception—Curiosities of the Chinese police system—Advice to the Emperor of China
[CHAPTER XIX.]
A deer-hunting picnic—Russian ploughing—Nursing a deer gazelle—A shot and what came of it—The return and overturn—The Siberian gazelle—A Russian steam bath—How to take it—On a new steamer—The cabin of the Korsackoff—A horse opera—An intoxicated priest—Private stock of provisions—The dove a sacred bird—Emigrant rafts—A Celestial guard house
[CHAPTER XX.]
The upper Amoor—Sagayan cliff—- Hunting for gold—Rich gold mines in the Amoor valley—The Tungusians—A goose for a cigar—An awkward rifle—Albazin—The people in Sunday dress—The siege of Albazin—Visiting the old fort
[CHAPTER XXI.]
A sudden change—Beef preserved with laurel leaves—A Russian settler—New York pictures in a Russian house—The Flowery Kingdom—Early explorations—The conquest of the Amoor—A rapid expedition—The Shilka and the Argoon—An old settled country—A lady in the case—Hotels for the exiles—Stratensk—A large crowd—- End of a long steamboat ride
[CHAPTER XXII.]
A hotel at Stratensk—A romantic courtship—Starting overland—A difficult ferry—A Russian posting carriage—Good substitute for a trunk—“Road Agent” in Siberia—Rights of travelers—Kissing goes by favor—Captain John Franklin’s equipage—Value of a ball—Stuck in the mud—The valley of the Nertcha—Reaching Nerchinsk
[CHAPTER XXIII.]
An extensive house—A Russian gold miner—Stories of the exiles—Polish exiles—“The unfortunates”—The treatment of prisoners—Attempts to escape—Buying a tarantass—Light marching order—A bad road—Sleeping on a stove—The valley of the Ingodah—Two hours in a mud hole—Recklessness of drivers—Arrival at Chetah
[CHAPTER XXIV.]
Location of Chetah—Prisoners in chains—Ingenuity of the exiles—Learning Hail Columbia in two hours—A governor’s mansion—A hunting party—Siberian rabbits—Difficulties of matrimony—Religion in Siberia—An artillery review—Champagne and farewells—Crossing a frozen stream—Inconvenience of traveling with a dog—Crossing the Yablonoi Mountains—Approaching the Arctic Ocean
[CHAPTER XXV.]
A cold night—Traveling among the Mongols—The Bouriats and their dwellings—An unpleasant fire—The Bhuddist religion—Conversions among the natives—An easy way of catching sheep—A Mongol bell—A Mongol belle—A late hour and a big dog—Bullocks under saddle—An enterprising girl—Sleeping in a carriage—Arrival at Verkne Udinsk—Walking in the market place—Stories of Siberian robbers—An enterprising murderer—Gold and iron mines on the Selenga
[CHAPTER XXVI.]
Crossing a river on the ice—A dangerous situation—Dining on soup and caviar—Caravans of tea—The rights of the road—How the drivers treat each other—Selenginsk—An old exile—Troubled by the nose—Lodged by the police—A housekeeper in undress—An amateur concert—Troitskosavsk and Kiachta—Crossing the frontier—Visiting the Chinese governor
[CHAPTER XXVII.]
In the Chinese empire—A city without a woman—A Chinese court of justice—Five interpretations—Chinese and Russian methods of tea making—A Chinese temple—Sculpture in sand stone—The gods and the Celestials—The Chinese idea of beauty—The houses in Maimaichin—Chinese dogs—Bartering with the merchants—The Chinese ideas of honesty—How they entertained us—The Abacus
[CHAPTER XXVIII.]
Russian feast days—A curious dinner custom—Novel separation of the sexes—The wealth of Kiachta—The extent of the tea trade—Dodging the custom house—Foreign residents of Kiachta—Fifteen dogs in one family—The devil and the telegraph—Russian gambling—Dinner with the Chinese governor—Chinese punishments—Ingredients of a Chinese dinner—Going to the theatre in midday—Two dinners in one day—Farewell to Kiachta
[CHAPTER XXIX.]
Trade between America and China—The first ship for a Chinese port—Chinese river system—The first steamboat on a Chinese river—The Celestials astonished—A nation of shop-keepers—Chinese insurance and banking systems—The first letters of credit—Railways in the empire—The telegraph in China—Pigeon-English—The Chinese treaty
[CHAPTER XXX.]
The great cities of China—Pekin and its interesting features—The Chinese city and the Tartar one—Rat peddlers, jugglers, beggars, and other liberal professionals—The rat question in China—Tricks of the jugglers—Mendicants and dwarfs—“The house of the hen’s feathers”—How small feet became fashionable—Fashion in America and China—Gambling in Pekin—An interesting lottery prize—Executions by lot—Punishing robbers—Opposition to dancing—The temple of Confucius—Temples of Heaven and Earth—The famous Summer Palace—Chinese cemeteries—Coffins as household ornaments—Calmness at death
[CHAPTER XXXI.]
A journey through Mongolia—Chinese dislike to foreign travel—Leaving Pekin—How to stop a mule’s music—The Nankow Pass—A fort captured because of a woman—The great wall of China—Loading the pack mules—Kalgan—Mosques and Pagodas—A Mongol horse fair—How a transaction is managed—A camel journey on the desert—How to arrange his load—A Mongolian cart—A brisk trade in wood for coffins
[CHAPTER XXXII.]
Entering the desert of Gobi—Instincts of the natives—An antelope hunt—Lost on the desert—Discovered and rescued—Character of the Mongols—Boiled mutton, and how to eat it—Fording the Tolla river—An exciting passage—Arrival at Urga—A Mongol Lamissary—The victory of Genghis Khan—Chinese couriers—Sheep raising in Mongolia—Holy men in abundance—Inconvenience of being a lama—A praying machine—Arrival at Kiachta
[CHAPTER XXXIII.]
Departure from Kiachta—An agreeable companion—Making ourselves comfortable—A sacred village—Hunting a wild boar—A Russian monastery—Approaching Lake Baikal—Hunting for letters—“Doing” Posolsky—A pile of merchandise—A crowded house—Rifle and pistol practice—A Russian soudna—A historic building—A lake steamer in Siberia—Exiles on shore—A curious lake—Wonderful journey over the ice—The Holy Sea—A curious group—The first custom house—Along the banks of the Angara—A strange fish—Arrival at Irkutsk
[CHAPTER XXXIV.]
Turned over to the police—Visiting the Governor General—An agreeable officer in a fine house—Paying official visits—German in pantomime—The passport system—Cold weather—Streets, stores, and houses at Irkutsk—Description of the city—The Angara river—A novel regulation—A swinging ferry boat—Cossack policeman—An alarm of fire—“Running with the machine” in Russia—Markets at Irkutsk—Effects of kissing with a low thermometer
[CHAPTER XXXV.]
Society in Irkutsk—Social customs—Lingual powers of the Russians—Effect of speaking two languages to an infant—Intercourse of the Siberians with Polish exiles—A hospitable people—A ceremonious dinner—Russian precision—A long speech and a short translation—The Amoorski Gastinitza—Playing billiards at a disadvantage—Muscovite superstition—Open house and pleasant tea-parties—A wealthy gold miner
[CHAPTER XXXVI.]
The exiles of 1825—The Emperor Paul and his eccentricities—Alexander I.—The revolution of 1825—Its result—Severity of Nicholas—Hard labor for life—Conditions of banishment—A pardon after thirty years—Where the Decembrists live—The Polish question—Both sides of it—Banishments since 1863—The government policy—Difference between political and criminal exiles—Colonists—Drafted into the army—Pension from friends—Attempts to escape—Restrictions find social comforts—How the prisoners travel—The object of deportation—Rules for exiling serfs
[CHAPTER XXXVII.]
Serfdom and exile—Peter I. and Alexander II.—Example of Siberia to old Russia—Prisoners in the mines—A revolt—The trial of the insurgents—Sentence and execution—A remarkable escape—Piotrowski’s narrative—Free after four years
[CHAPTER XXXVIII.]
Preparing to leave Irkutsk—Change from wheels to runners—Buying a suit of fur—Negotiations for a sleigh—A great many drinks—Peculiarities of Russian merchants—Similarities of Russians and Chinese—Several kinds of sleighs—A Siberian saint—A farewell dinner—Packing a sleigh—A companion with heavy baggage—Farewell courtesies—Several parting drinks—Traveling through a frost cloud—Effect of fog in a cold night—A monotonous snow scape—Meals at the stations—A jolly party—An honest population—Diplomacy with the drivers
[CHAPTER XXXIX.]
A Siberian beverage—The wine of the country—An unhappy pig—Tea caravans for Moscow—Intelligence of a horse—Champagne frappé—Meeting the post—How the mail is carried—A lively shaking up—Board of survey on a dead horse—Sleeping rooms in peasant houses—Kansk—A road with no snow—Putting our sleighs on wheels—A deceived Englishman—Crossing the Yenesei—Krasnoyarsk—Washing clothes in winter—A Siberian banking house—The telegraph system—No dead-heads—Fish from the Yenesei—A Siberian Neptune—Going on a wolf hunt—How a hunt is managed—An exciting chase and a narrow escape
[CHAPTER XL.]
Beggars at Krasnoyarsk—A wealthy city—Gold mining on the Yenesei—Its extent and the value of the mines—How the mining is conducted—Explorations, surveys, and the preparation of the ground—Wages and treatment of laborers—Machines for gold washing—Regulations to prevent thefts—Mining in frozen earth—Antiquity of the mines—The native population—An Eastern legend—The adventures of “Swan’s Wing”—Visit to lower regions—Moral of the story
[CHAPTER XLI.]
A philosophic companion—Traveling with the remains of a mammoth—Talking against time—Sleighs on wheels—The advantages of “cheek”—A moonlight transfer—Keeping the feast days—Getting drunk as a religious duty—A slight smash up—A cold night—An abominable road—Hunting a mammoth—Journey to the Arctic Circle—Natives on the coast—A mammoth’s hide and hair—Ivory hunting in the frozen North—A perilous adventure—Cast away in the Arctic ocean—Fight with a polar bear—A dangerous situation—Frozen to the ice—Reaching the shore
[CHAPTER XLII.]
A runaway horse—Discussion with a driver—A modest breakfast—A convoy of exiles—Hotels for the exiles—Charity to the unfortunate—Their rate of travel—An encounter at night—No whips in the land of horses—Russian drivers and their horses—Niagara in Siberia—Eggs by the dizaine—Caught in a storm—A beautiful night—Arrival at Tomsk—An obliging landlord—A crammed sleigh—Visiting the governor—Description of Tomsk—A steamboat line to Tumen—Schools in Siberia
[CHAPTER XLIII.]
A frozen river—On the road to Barnaool—An unpleasant night—Posts at the road side—Very high wind—A Russian bouran—A poor hotel—Greeted with American music—The gold mines of the Altai mountains—Survey of the mining-district—General management of the business—The museum at Barnaool—The imperial zavod—Reducing the ores—Government tax on mines—A strange coincidence
[CHAPTER XLIV.]
Society at Barnaool—A native coachman—An Asiatic eagle—The Kirghese—The original Tartars—Russian diplomacy among the natives—Advance of civilization—Railway building in Central Asia—Product of the Kirghese country—Fairs in Siberia—Caravans from Bokhara—An adventure among the natives—Capture of a native prince—A love story and an elopement—A pursuit, fight, and tragic end of the journey
[CHAPTER XLV.]
Interview with a Persian officer—A slow conversation—Seven years of captivity—A scientific explorer—Relics of past ages—An Asiatic dinner—Cossack dances—Tossed up as a mark of honor—Trotting horses in Siberia—Washing a paper collar—On the Baraba steppe—A long-ride—A walking ice statue—Traveling by private teams—Excitement of a race—How to secure honesty in a public solicitor—Prescription for rheumatism
[CHAPTER XLVI.]
A monotonous country—Advantages of winter travel—Fertility of the steppe—Rules for the haying season—Breakfasting on nothing—A Siberian apple—Delays in changing horses—Universal tea drinking—Tartars on the steppe—Siberian villages—Mode of spinning in Russia—An unsuccessful conspiracy—How a revolt was organized—A conspirator flogged to death—The city of Tobolsk—The story of Elizabeth—The conquest of Siberia—Yermak and his career
[CHAPTER XLVII.]
Another snow storm—Wolves in sight—Unwelcome visitors—Going on a wolf chase—An unlucky pig—Hunting at night—A hungry pack—Wolves in every direction—The pursuers and the pursued—A dangerous turn in the road—A driver lost and devoured—A narrow escape—Forest guards against bears and wolves—A courageous horse—The story of David Crockett
[CHAPTER XLVIII.]
Thermometer very low—Inconvenience of a long beard—Fur clothing in abundance—Natural thermometers—Rubbing a freezing nose—A beautiful night on the steppe—Siberian twilights—Thick coat for horses—The city of Tumen—Magnificent distances—Manufacture of carpets—A lucrative monopoly—Arrival at Ekaterineburg—Christmas festivities —Manufactures at Ekaterineburg—- The Granilnoi Fabric—Russian iron and where it comes from—The Demidoff family—A large piece of malachite—An emperor as an honest miner
[CHAPTER XLIX.]
Among the stone workers—A bewildering collection—Visit to a private “Fabric”—The mode of stone cutting—Crossing the mountains—Boundary between Europe and Asia—Standing in two continents at once—Entering Europe by the back door—In the valley of the Kama—Touching appeal by a beggar—The great fair at Irbit—An improved road—A city of thieves—Tanning in Russia—Evidence of European civilization—Perm—Pleasures of sleigh riding—The road fever—The Emperor Nicholas and a courier—A Russian sleighing song
[CHAPTER L.]
Among the Votiaks—Malmouish—Advice to a traveler—Dress and habits of the Tartars—Tartar villages and mosques—A long night—Overturned and stopped—Arrival at Kazan—New Year’s festivities—Russian soldiers on parade—Military spirit of the Romanoff family—Anecdote of the Grand Duke Michel—The conquest of Kazan—An evening in a ball-room—Enterprise of Tartar peddlers—Manufactures and schools—A police secret—The police in Russia
[CHAPTER LI.]
Leaving Kazan—A Russian companion—Conversation with a phrase book—A sloshy street—Steamboats frozen in the ice—Navigation of the Volga—The Cheramess—Pity the unfortunate—A road on the ice—Merchandise going Westward—Villages along the Volga—A baptism through the ice—Religion in Russia—Toleration and tyranny—The Catholics in Poland—The Old Believers—The Skoptsi, or mutilators—Devotional character of the Russian peasantry—Diminishing the priestly power—Church and state—End of a long sleigh ride—Nijne Novgorod—At the wrong hotel—Historical monuments—Entertained by the police
[CHAPTER LII.]
Starting for Moscow—Jackdaws and pigeons—At a Russian railway station—The group in waiting—The luxurious ride—A French governess and a box of bon-bons—Cigarettes and tea—Halting at Vladimir—Moscow through the frost—Trakteers—The Kremlin of Moscow—Objects of interest—The great bell—The memorial cannon—Treasures of the Kremlin—Wonderful churches of Moscow—The Kitai Gorod—The public market—Imperial Theatre and Foundling Hospital—By rail to St. Petersburg—Encountering an old friend
CHAPTER I.
It is said that an old sailor looking at the first ocean steamer, exclaimed, “There’s an end to seamanship.” More correctly he might have predicted the end of the romance of ocean travel. Steam abridges time and space to such a degree that the world grows rapidly prosaic. Countries once distant and little known are at this day near and familiar. Railways on land and steamships on the ocean, will transport us, at frequent and regular intervals, around the entire globe. From New York to San Francisco and thence to our antipodes in Japan and China, one may travel in defiance of propitious breezes formerly so essential to an ocean voyage. The same untiring power that bears us thither will bring us home again by way of Suez and Gibraltar to any desired port on the Atlantic coast. Scarcely more than a hundred days will be required for such a voyage, a dozen changes of conveyance and a land travel of less than a single week.
The tour of the world thus performed might be found monotonous. Its most salient features beyond the overland journey from the Atlantic to the Pacific, would be the study of the ocean in breeze or gale or storm, a knowledge of steamship life, and a revelation of the peculiarities of men and women when cribbed, cabined, and confined in a floating prison. Next to matrimony there is nothing better than a few months at sea for developing the realities of human character in either sex. I have sometimes fancied that the Greek temple over whose door “Know thyself” was written, was really the passage office of some Black Ball clipper line of ancient days. Man is generally desirous of the company of his fellow man or woman, but on a long sea voyage he is in danger of having too much of it. He has the alternative of shutting himself in his room and appearing only at meal times, but as solitude has few charms, and cabins are badly ventilated, seclusion is accompanied by ennui and headache in about equal proportions.
CHARACTER DEVELOPED.
Wishing to make a journey round the world, I did not look favorably upon the ocean route. The proportions of water and land were much like the relative quantities of sack and bread in Falstaff’s hotel bill. Whether on the Atlantic or the Pacific, the Indian, or the Arctic, the appearance of Ocean’s blue expanse is very much the same. It is water and sky in one place, and sky and water in another. You may vary the monotony by seeing ships or shipping seas, but such occurrences are not peculiar to any one ocean. Desiring a reasonable amount of land travel, I selected the route that included Asiatic and European Russia. My passport properly endorsed at the Russian embassy, authorized me to enter the empire by the way of the Amoor river.
A few days before the time fixed for my departure, I visited a Wall street banking house, and asked if I could obtain a letter of credit to be used in foreign travel.
“Certainly sir,” was the response.
“Will it be available in Asia?”
“Yes, sir. You can use it in China, India, or Australia, at your pleasure.” “Can I use it in Irkutsk?”
“Where, sir?”
“In Irkutsk.”
“Really, I can’t say; what is Irkutsk?”
“It is the capital of Eastern Siberia.”
The person with whom I conversed, changed from gay to grave, and from lively to severe. With calm dignity he remarked, “I am unable to say, if our letters can be used at the place you mention. They are good all over the civilized world, but I don’t know anything about Irkutsk. Never heard of the place before.”
I bowed myself out of the establishment, with a fresh conviction of the unknown character of the country whither I was bound. I obtained a letter of credit at the opposition shop, but without a guarantee of its availability in Northern Asia.
In a foggy atmosphere on the morning of March 21, 1866, I rode through muddy streets to the dock of the Pacific Mail Steamship Company. There was a large party to see us off, the passengers having about three times their number of friends. There were tears, kisses, embraces, choking sighs, which ne’er might be repeated; blessings and benedictions among the serious many, and gleeful words of farewell among the hilarious few. One party of half a dozen became merry over too much champagne, and when the steward’s bell sounded its warning, there was confusion on the subject of identity. One stout gentleman who protested that he would go to sea, was led ashore much against his will.
After leaving the dock, I found my cabin room-mate a gaunt, sallow-visaged person, who seemed perfectly at home on a steamer. On my mentioning the subject of sea-sickness, he eyed me curiously and then ventured an opinion.
“I see,” said he, “you are of bilious temperament and will be very ill. As for myself, I have been a dozen times over the route and am rarely affected by the ship’s motion.”
Then he gave me some kind advice touching my conduct when I should feel the symptoms of approaching mal du mer. I thanked him and sought the deck. An hour after we passed Sandy Hook, my new acquaintance succumbed to the evils that afflict landsmen who go down to the sea in ships. Without any qualm of stomach or conscience, I returned the advice he had proffered me. I did not suffer a moment from the marine malady during that voyage, or any subsequent one. [[A]]
A few years ago a friend gave me a prescription which he said would prevent sea-sickness. I present it here as he wrote it.
“The night before going to sea, I take a blue pill (5 to 10 grains) in order to carry the bile from the liver into the stomach. When I rise on the following morning, a dose of citrate of magnesia or some kindred substance finishes my preparation. I take my breakfast and all other meals afterward as if nothing had happened.”
I have used this prescription in my own case with success, and have known it to benefit others.
The voyage from New York to San Francisco has been so often ‘done’ and is so well watered, that I shall not describe it in detail. Most of the passengers on the steamer were old Californians and assisted in endeavoring to make the time pass pleasantly. There was plenty of whist-playing, story telling, reading, singing, flirtation, and a very large amount of sleeping. So far as I knew, nobody quarreled or manifested any disposition to be riotous. There was one passenger, a heavy, burly Englishman, whose sole occupation was in drinking “arf and arf.” He took it on rising, then another drink before breakfast, then another between Iris steak and his buttered roll, and so on every half hour until midnight, when he swallowed a double dose and went to bed. He had a large quantity in care of the baggage master, and every day or two he would get up a few dozen pint bottles of pale ale and an equal quantity of porter. He emptied a bottle of each into a pitcher and swallowed the whole as easily as an ordinary man would take down a dose of peppermint. The empty bottles were thrown overboard, and the captain said that if this man were a frequent passenger there would be danger of a reef of bottles in the ocean all the way from New York to Aspinwall. I never saw his equal for swallowing malt liquors. To quote from Shakspeare, with a slight alteration:
“He was a man, take him for half and half,
I ne’er shall look upon his like again.”
ASPINWALL TO PANAMA.
We had six hours at Aspinwall, a city that could be done in fifteen minutes, but were allowed no time on shore at Panama. It was late at night when we left the latter port. The waters were beautifully phosphorescent, and when disturbed by our motion they flashed and glittered like a river of stars. Looking over the stern one could half imagine our track a path of fire, and the bay, ruffled by a gentle breeze, a waving sheet of light. The Pacific did not belie its name. More than half the way to San Francisco we steamed as calmly and with as little motion as upon a narrow lake. Sometimes there was no sensation to indicate we were moving at all.
SLIGHTLY MONOTONOUS.
Even varied by glimpses of the Mexican coast, the occasional appearance of a whale with its column of water thrown high into the air, and the sportive action of schools of porpoises which is constantly met with, the passage was slightly monotonous. On the twenty-third day from New York we ended the voyage at San Francisco.
On arriving in California I was surprised at the number of old acquaintances I encountered. When leaving New York I could think of only two or three persons I knew in San Francisco, but I met at least a dozen before being on shore twelve hours. Through these individuals, I became known to many others, by a rapidity of introduction almost bewildering. Californians are among the most genial and hospitable people in America, and there is no part of our republic where a stranger receives a kinder and more cordial greeting. There is no Eastern iciness of manner, or dignified indifference at San Francisco. Residents of the Pacific coast have told me that when visiting their old homes they feel as if dropped into a refrigerator. After learning the customs of the Occident, one can fully appreciate the sensations of a returned Californian.
MONTGOMERY STREET IN HOLIDAY DRESS.
Montgomery street, the great avenue of San Francisco, is not surpassed any where on the continent in the variety of physiognomy it presents. There are men from all parts of America, and there is no lack of European representatives. China has many delegates, and Japan also claims a place. There are merchants of all grades and conditions, and professional and unprofessional men of every variety, with a long array of miscellaneous characters. Commerce, mining, agriculture, and manufactures, are all represented. At the wharves there are ships of all nations. A traveler would find little difficulty, if he so willed it, in sailing away to Greenland’s icy mountains or India’s coral strand. The cosmopolitan character of San Francisco is the first thing that impresses a visitor. Almost from one stand-point he may see the church, the synagogue, and the pagoda. The mosque is by no means impossible in the future.
SAN FRANCISCO, 1848.
In 1848, San Francisco was a village of little importance. The city commenced in ’49, and fifteen years later it claimed a population of a hundred and twenty thousand. [[B]] No one who looks at this city, would suppose it still in its minority. The architecture is substantial and elegant; the hotels vie with those of New York in expense and luxury; the streets present both good and bad pavements and are well gridironed with railways; houses, stores, shops, wharves, all indicate a permanent and prosperous community. There are gas-works and foundries and factories, as in older communities. There are the Mission Mills, making the warmest blankets in the world, from the wool of the California sheep. There are the fruit and market gardens whose products have a Brobdignagian character. There are the immense stores of wine from California vineyards that are already competing with those of France and Germany. There are—I may as well stop now, since I cannot tell half the story in the limits of this chapter.
I made many notes with a view to publishing two or three chapters upon California. I have relinquished this design, partly on account of the un-Siberian character of the Golden State, and partly because much that I had written is covered by the excellent book “Beyond the Mississippi,” by Albert D. Richardson, my friend and associate for several years. The particulars of his death by assassination are familiar to many readers.
CHINESE DINNER.
During my stay in California, I visited the principal gold, copper, and quicksilver mines in the state, not omitting the famous or infamous Mariposa tract. In company with Mr. Burlingame and General Van Valkenburg, our ministers to China and Japan, I made an excursion to the Yosemite Valley, and the Big Tree Grove. With the same gentlemen I went over the then completed portion of the railway which now unites the Atlantic with the Pacific coast, and attended the banquet given by the Chinese merchants of San Francisco to the ambassadors on the eve of their departure. A Chinese dinner, served with Chinese customs;—it was a prelude to the Asiatic life toward which my journey led me.
I arrived in San Francisco on the thirteenth of April and expected to sail for Asia within a month. One thing after another delayed us, until we began to fear that we should never get away. For more than six weeks the time of departure was kept a few days ahead and regularly postponed. First, happened the failure of a contractor; next, the non-arrival of a ship; next, the purchase of supplies; and so on through a long list of hindrances. In the beginning I was vexed, but soon learned complacency and gave myself no uneasiness. Patience is an admirable quality in mankind, and can be very well practiced when, one is waiting for a ship to go to sea.
On the twenty-third of June we were notified to be on board at five o’clock in the evening, and to send heavy baggage before that hour. The vessel which was to receive us, lay two or three hundred yards from the wharf, in order to prevent the possible desertion of the crew. Punctual to the hour, I left the hotel and drove to the place of embarkation. My trunk, valise, and sundry boxes had gone in the forenoon, so that my only remaining effects were a satchel, a bundle of newspapers, a dog, and a bouquet. The weight of these combined articles was of little consequence, but I positively declare that I never handled a more inconvenient lot of baggage. While I was descending a perpendicular ladder to a small boat, some one abruptly asked if that lot of baggage had been cleared at the custom house. Think of walking through a custom house with my portable property! Happily the question did not come from an official.
It required at least an hour to get everything in readiness after we were on board. Then followed the leave taking of friends who had come to see us off and utter their wishes for a prosperous voyage and safe return. The anchor rose slowly from the muddy bottom; steam was put upon the engines, and the propeller whirling in the water, set us in motion. The gang-way steps were raised and the rail severed our connection with America.
It was night as we glided past the hills of San Francisco, spangled with a thousand lights, and left them growing fainter in the distance. Steaming through the Golden Gate we were soon on the open Pacific commencing a voyage of nearly four thousand miles. We felt the motion of the waves and became fully aware that we were at sea. The shore grew indistinct and then disappeared; the last visible objects being the lights at the entrance of the bay. Gradually their rays grew dim, and when daylight came, there were only sky and water around us.
“Far upon the unknown deep,
With the billows circling round
Where the tireless sea-birds sweep;
Outward bound.
“Nothing but a speck we seem,
In the waste of waters round,
Floating, floating like a dream;
Outward bound.”
CHAPTER II.
The G.S. Wright, on which we were embarked, was a screw steamer of two hundred tons burthen, a sort of pocket edition of the new boats of the Cunard line. She carried the flag and the person of Colonel Charles S. Bulkley, Engineer in Chief of the Russo-American Telegraph Expedition. She could sail or steam at the pleasure of her captain, provided circumstances were favorable. Compared with ocean steamers in general, she was a very small affair and displayed a great deal of activity. She could roll or pitch to a disagreeable extent, and continued her motion night and day, I often wished the eight-hour labor system applied to her, but my wishing was of no use.
Besides Colonel Bulkley, the party in the cabin consisted of Captain Patterson, Mr. Covert, Mr. Anossoff, and myself. Mr. Covert was the engineer of the steamer, and amused us at times with accounts of his captivity on the Alabama after the destruction of the Hatteras. Captain Patterson was an ancient mariner who had sailed the stormy seas from his boyhood, beginning on a whale ship and working his way from the fore-castle to the quarter deck. Mr. Anossoff was a Russian gentleman who joined us at San Francisco, in the capacity of commissioner from his government to the Telegraph Company. For our quintette there was a cabin six feet by twelve, and each person had a sleeping room to himself.
Colonel Bulkley planned the cabin of the Wright, and I shall always consider it a misfortune that the Engineer-in-Chief was only five feet seven in his boots rather than six feet and over like myself. The cabin roof was high enough for the colonel, but too low for me. Under the skylight was the only place below deck where I could stand erect. The sleeping rooms were too short for me, and before I could lie, at full length in my berth, it was necessary to pull away a partition near my head. The space thus gained was taken from a closet containing a few trifles, such as jugs of whiskey, and cans of powder. Fortunately no fire reached the combustibles at any time, or this book might not have appeared.
OVER SIX FEET.
There was a forward cabin occupied by the chief clerk, the draughtsman, the interpreter, and the artist of the expedition, with the first and second officers of the vessel. Sailors, firemen, cook and cabin boys all included, there were forty-five persons on board. Everybody in the complement being masculine, we did not have a single flirtation during the voyage.
I never sailed on a more active ship than the Wright. In ordinary seas, walking was a matter of difficulty, and when the wind freshened to a gale locomotion ceased to be a pastime. Frequently I wedged myself into my berth with books and cigar boxes. On the first day out, my dog (for I traveled with a dog) was utterly bewildered, and evidently thought himself where he did not belong. After falling a dozen times upon his side, he succeeded in learning to keep his feet. The carpenter gave him a box for a sleeping room, but the space was so large that, his body did not fill it. On the second day from port he took the bit of carpet that formed his bed and used it as a wedge to keep him in position. From, that time he had no trouble, though he was not fairly on his sea legs for nearly a week.
Sometimes at dinner our soup poured into our laps and seemed engaged in reconstructing the laws of gravitation. The table furniture was very uneasy, and it was no uncommon occurrence for a tea cup or a tumbler to jump from its proper place and turn a somersault before stopping. We had no severe storm on the voyage, though constantly in expectation of one.
In 1865 the Wright experienced heavy gales with little interruption for twelve days. She lost her chimney with part of her sails, and lay for sixteen hours in the trough of the sea. The waves broke over her without hindrance and drenched every part of the ship. Covert gave an amusing account of the breaking of a box of soap one night during the storm. In the morning the cabin, with all it contained, was thoroughly lathered, as if preparing for a colossal shave.
Half way across the ocean we were followed by sea-birds that, curiously enough, were always thickest at meal times. Gulls kept with us the first two days and then disappeared, their places being taken by boobies. The gull is a pretty and graceful bird, somewhat resembling the pigeon in shape and agility. The booby has a little resemblance to the duck, but his bill is sharp pointed and curved like a hawk’s. Beechey and one or two others speak of encountering the Albatross in the North Pacific, but their statements are disputed by mariners of the present day. The Albatross is peculiar to the south as the gull to the north. Gulls and boobies dart into the water when any thing is thrown overboard, and show great dexterity in catching whatever is edible. At night they are said to sleep on the waves, and occasionally we disturbed them at their rest.
STEAMSHIP WRIGHT IN A STORM.
A SEA-SICK BOOBY.
One day we caught a booby by means of a hook and line, and found him unable to fly from the deck. It is said that nearly all sea-birds can rise only from the water. We detained our prize long enough to attach a medal to his neck and send him away with our date, location, and name. If kept an hour or more on the deck of a ship these birds become seasick, and manifest their illness just as an able-bodied landsman, exhibits an attack of marine malady. Strange they should be so affected when they are all their lives riding over the tossing waves.
About thirty miles from San Francisco are the Farralone Islands, a favorite resort of sea-birds. There they assemble in immense numbers, particularly at the commencement of their breeding season.
Parties go from San Francisco to gather sea-birds eggs at these islands, and for some weeks they supply the market. These eggs are largely used in pastry, omelettes, and other things, where their character can be disguised, but they are far inferior to hens’ eggs for ordinary uses.
There were no islands in any part of our course, and we found but a single shoal marked on the chart. We passed far to the north of the newly discovered Brooks Island, and kept southward of the Aleutian chain. Since my return to America I have read the account of a curious discovery on an island of the North Pacific. In 1816, the ship Canton, belonging to the East India Company, sailed from Sitka and was supposed to have foundered at sea. Nothing was heard of her until 1867, when a portion of her wreck was found upon a coral island of the Sybille group. The remaining timbers were in excellent preservation, and the place where the crew had encamped was readily discernible. The frame of the main hatchway had been cast up whole, and a large tree was growing through it. The quarter board bearing the word “Canton,” lay near it, and revealed the name of the lost ship. No writing or inscription to reveal the fate of her crew, could be found anywhere.
WRECK OF THE SHIP CANTON.
On Friday, July thirteenth, we crossed the meridian of 180° from London, or half around the world. We dropped a day from our reckoning according to the marine custom, and appeared in our Sunday dress on the morrow. Had we been sailing eastward, a day would have been added to our calendar. A naval officer once told me that he sailed eastward over this meridian on Sunday. On the following morning the chaplain was surprised to receive orders to hold divine service. He obeyed promptly, but could not understand the situation. With a puzzled look he said to an officer—
“This part of the ocean must be better than any other or we would not have Sunday so often.”
Sir Francis Drake, who sailed around the world in the time of Queen Elizabeth, did not observe this rule of the navigator, and found on reaching England that he had a day too much. In the Marquesas Islands the early missionaries who came from the Indies made the mistake of keeping Sunday on Saturday. Their followers preserve this chronology, while later converts have the correct one. The result is, there are two Sabbaths among the Christian inhabitants of the cannibal islands. The boy who desired two Sundays a week in order to have more resting time, might be accommodated by becoming a Marquesas colonist.
On the day we crossed this meridian we were three hundred miles from the nearest Aleutian Islands, and about eight hundred from Kamchatka.
The boobies continued around us, but were less numerous than a week or ten days earlier. If they had any trouble with their reckoning, I did not ascertain it. A day later we saw three “fur seal” playing happily in the water. We hailed the first and asked his longitude, but he made no reply. I never knew before that the seal ventured so far from land. Yet his movements are as carefully governed as those of the sea-birds, and though many days in the open water he never forgets the direct course to his favorite haunts. How marvelous the instinct that guides with unerring certainty over the trackless waters!
A few ducks made their appearance and manifested a feeling of nostalgia. Mother Carey’s chickens, little birds resembling swallows, began to flit around us, skimming closely along the waves. There is a fiction among the sailors that nobody ever saw one of these birds alight or found its nest. Whoever harms one is certain to bring misfortune upon himself and possibly his companions. A prudent traveler would be careful not to offend this or any other nautical superstition. In case of subsequent danger the sailors might remember his misdeed and leave him to make his own rescue.
Nearing the Asiatic coast we saw many whales. One afternoon, about cigar time, a huge fellow appeared half a mile distant. His blowing sounded like the exhaust of a western steamboat, and sent up a respectable fountain of spray. Covert pronounced him a high pressure affair, with horizontal engines and carrying ninety pounds to the inch.
After sporting awhile in the misty distance, the whale came near us. It was almost calm and we could see him without glasses. He rose and disappeared at intervals of a minute, and as he moved along he rippled the surface like a subsoil plough on a gigantic scale. After ten or twelve small dives, he threw his tail in air and went down for ten minutes or more. When he reappeared he was two or three hundred yards from his diving place.
Once he disappeared in this way and came up within ten feet of our bows. Had he risen beneath us the shock would have been severe for both ship and whale. After this manoeuvre he went leisurely around us, keeping about a hundred yards away.
“He is working his engines on the slow bell,” said our engineer, “and keeps his helm hard-a-port.”
We brought out our rifles to try this new game, though the practice was as much a trial of skill as the traditional ‘barn at ten paces.’ Several shots were fired, but I did not see any thing drop. The sport was amusing to all concerned; at any rate the whale didn’t seem to mind it, and we were delighted at the fun. When his survey was finished he braced his helm to starboard, opened his throttle valves and went away to windward.
We estimated his length at a hundred and twenty feet, and thought he might register ‘A 1,’ at the proper office. Captain Patterson called him a ‘bow head,’ good for a hundred barrels of oil and a large quantity of bone. The Colonel proposed engaging him to tow us into port. Covert wished his blubber piled in our coal bunkers; the artist sketched him, and the draughtsman thought of putting him on a Mercator’s projection. For my part I have written the little I know of his life and experiences, but it is very little. I cannot even say where he lodges, whose hats he wears, when his notes fall due, or whether he ever took a cobbler or the whooping cough. Of course this incident led to stories concerning whales. Captain Patterson told about the destruction of the ship Essex by a sperm whale thirty or more years ago. The Colonel described the whale fishery as practiced by the Kamchadales and Aleutians. These natives have harpoons with short lines to which they attach bladders or skin bags filled with air. A great many boats surround a whale and stick him with as many harpoons as possible. If successful, they will so encumber him that his strength is not equal to the buoyancy of the bladders, and in this condition he is finished with a lance. A great feast is sure to follow his capture, and every interested native indulges in whale-steak to his stomach’s content.
ALEUTIANS CATCHING WHALES.
The day before we came in sight of land, my dog repeatedly placed his fore feet upon the rail and sniffed the wind blowing from the coast. His inhalations were long and earnest, like those of a tobacco smoking Comanche. In her previous voyage the Wright carried a mastiff answering to the name of Rover. The colonel said that whenever they approached land, though long before it was in sight, Rover would put his paws on the bulwarks and direct his nose toward the shore. His demonstrations were invariably accurate, and showed him to possess the instinct of a pilot, whatever his lack of training. He did not enjoy the ocean and was always delighted to see land.
In 1865 an Esquimaux dog was domiciled on the barque Golden Gate, on her voyage from Norton Sound to Kamchatka. He ran in all parts of the vessel, and made himself agreeable to every one on board. At Petropavlovsk a Kamchadale dog became a passenger for San Francisco. Immediately on being loosed he took possession aft and drove the Esquimaux forward. During the whole passage he retained his place on the quarter deck and in the cabin. Occasionally he went forward for a promenade, but he never allowed the other dog to go abaft the mainmast. The Esquimaux endeavored to establish amicable relations, but the Kamchadale rejected all friendly overtures.
I heard of a dog on one of the Honolulu packets that took his turn at duty with the regularity of a sailor, coming on deck when his watch was called and retiring with it to the forecastle. When the sails flapped from any cause and the clouds indicated a sudden shower, the dog gave warning with a bark—on the sea. I ventured to ask my informant if the animal stood the dog watch, but the question did not receive a definite answer.
What a wonderful thing is the science of navigation. One measures the sun’s height at meridian; looks at a chronometer; consults a book of mystical figures; makes a little slate work like a school-boy’s problem; and he knows his position at sea. Twelve o’clock, if there be neither fog nor cloud, is the most important hour of a nautical day. A few minutes before noon the captain is on deck with his quadrant. The first officer is similarly provided, as he is supposed to keep a log and practice-book of his own. Ambitious students of navigation are sure to appear at that time. On the Wright we turned out four instruments, with twice as many hands to hold them. A minute before twelve, conticuere omnes.
“Eight bells.”
“Eight bells, sir.”
The four instruments are briefly fixed on the sun and the horizon, the readings of the scale are noted, and the quartette descend to the practice of mathematics. A few minutes later we have the result.
“Latitude 52° 8′ North, Longitude 161° 14′ East. Distance in last twenty-four hours two hundred forty-six miles.”
The chart is unrolled, and a few measurements with dividers, rule and pencil, end in the registry of our exact position. Unlike the countryman on Broadway or a doubting politician the day before election, we do know where we are. The compass, the chronometer, the quadrant; what would be the watery world without them!
On the twenty-fourth of July we were just a month at sea. In all that time we had spoken no ship nor had any glimpse of land, unless I except a trifle in a flower pot. The captain made his reckoning at noon, and added to the reading—
“Seventy-five miles from the entrance of Avatcha Bay. We ought to see land before sunset.”
About four in the afternoon we discovered the coast just where the captain said we should find it. The mountains that serve to guide one toward Avatcha Bay were exactly in the direction marked on our chart. To all appearances we were not a furlong from our estimated position. How easily may the navigator’s art appear like magic to the ignorant and superstitious.
The breeze was light, and we stood in very slowly toward the shore. By sunset we could see the full outline of the coast of Kamchatka for a distance of fifty or sixty miles. The general coast line formed the concavity of a small arc of a circle. As it was too late to enter before dark, and we did not expect the light would be burning, we furled all our sails and lay to until morning.
By daybreak we were under steam, and at five o’clock I came on deck to make my first acquaintance with Asia. We were about twenty miles from the shore, and the general appearance of the land reminded me of the Rocky Mountains from Denver or the Sierra Nevadas from the vicinity of Stockton. On the north of the horizon was a group of four or five mountains, while directly in front there were three separate peaks, of which one was volcanic. Most of these mountains were conical and sharp, and although it was July, nearly every summit was covered with snow. Between and among these high peaks there were many smaller mountains, but no less steep and pointed. As one sees it from, the ocean, Kamchatka appears more like a desolate than a habitable country.
It requires very good eyesight to discover the entrance of Avatcha Bay at a distance of eight or ten miles, but the landmarks are of such excellent character that one can approach without hesitation. The passage is more than a mile wide. Guarding it on the right is a hill nearly three hundred feet high, and standing almost perpendicular above the water. At the left is a rock of lesser height, terminating a tongue or ridge of land. On the hill is a light-house and signal station with a flag staff. Formerly the light was only exhibited when a ship was expected or seen, but in 1866, orders were given for its maintainance every night during the summer months.
Years ago, on the coast of New Hampshire, a man from the interior was appointed light keeper. The day he assumed his position was his first on the sea-shore. Very soon there were complaints that his lights did not burn after midnight. On being called to account by his superior, he explained—
“Well, I thought all the ships ought to be in by midnight, and I wanted to save the ile.”
CHAPTER III.
As one leaves the Pacific and enters Avatcha Bay he passes high rocks and cliffs, washed at their base by the waves. The loud-sounding ocean working steadily against the solid walls, has worn caverns and dark passages, haunted by thousands of screaming and fluttering sea-birds. The bay is circular and about twenty miles in diameter; except at the place of entrance it is enclosed with hills and mountains that give it the appearance of a highland lake. All over it there is excellent anchorage for ships of every class, while around its sides are several little harbors, like miniature copies of the bay.
At Petropavlovsk we hoped to find the Russian ship of war, Variag, and the barque Clara Bell, which sailed from San Francisco six weeks before us. As we entered the bay, all eyes were turned toward the little harbor. “There is the Russian,” said three or four voices at once, as the tall masts aird wide spars of a corvette came in sight. “The Clara Bell, the Clara Bell—no, it’s a brig,” was our exclamation at the appearance of a vessel behind the Variag.
“There’s another, a barque certainly,—no, it’s a brig, too,” uttered the colonel with an emphasis of disgust. Evidently his barque was on the sea.
Rounding the shoal we moved toward the fort, the Russian corvette greeting us with “Hail Columbia” out of compliment to our nationality. We carried the American flag at the quarter and the Russian naval ensign at the fore as a courtesy to the ship that awaited us. As we cast anchor just outside the little inner harbor, the Russian band continued playing Hail Columbia, but our engineer played the mischief with the music by letting off steam. As soon as we were at rest a boat from the corvette touched our side, and a subordinate officer announced that his captain would speedily visit us. Very soon came the Captain of The Port or Collector of Customs, and after him the American merchants residing in the town. Our gangway which we closed at San Francisco was now opened, and we once more communicated with the world.
Petropavlovsk (Port of Saints Peter and Paul) is situated in lat. 53° 1′ North, long. 158° 43′ East, and is the principal place in Kamchatka. It stands on the side of a hill sloping into the northern shore of Avatcha Bay, or rather into a little harbor opening into the bay. Fronting this harbor is a long peninsula that hides the town from all parts of the bay except those near the sea. The harbor is well sheltered from winds and furnishes excellent anchorage. It is divided into an inner and an outer harbor by means of a sand spit that extends from the main land toward the peninsula, leaving an opening about three hundred yards in width. The inner harbor is a neat little basin about a thousand yards in diameter and nearly circular in shape.
Some of the mountains that serve as landmarks to the approaching mariner, are visible from the town, and others can be seen by climbing the hills in the vicinity. Wuluchinski is to the southward and not volcanic, while Avatcha and Korianski, to the north and east, were smoking with a dignified air, like a pair of Turks after a champagne supper. Eruptions of these volcanoes occur every few years, and during the most violent ones ashes and stones are thrown to a considerable distance. Captain King witnessed an eruption of Avatcha in 1779, and says that stones fell at Petropavlovsk, twenty-five miles away, and the ashes covered the deck of his ship. Mr. Pierce, an old resident of Kamchatka, gave me a graphic description of an eruption in 1861. It was preceded by an earthquake, which overturned crockery on the tables, and demolished several ovens. For a week or more earthquakes of a less violent character occurred hourly.
Besides the Variag we found in port the Russian brig Poorga and the Prussian brig Danzig, the latter having an American captain, crew, hull, masts, and rigging. Two old hulks were rotting in the mud, and an unseaworthy schooner lay on the beach with one side turned upward as if in agony. “There be land rats and water rats,” according to Shakspeare. Some of the latter dwelt in this bluff-bowed schooner and peered curiously from the crevices in her sides.
BREACH OF ETIQUETTE.
The majority of our visitors made their calls very brief. After their departure, I went on shore with Mr. Hunter, an American resident of Petropavlovsk. In every house I visited I was pressed to take petnatzet copla (fifteen drops,) the universal name there for something stimulating. The drops might be American whisky, French brandy, Dutch gin, or Russian vodka. David Crockett said a true gentleman is one who turns his back while you pour whisky into your tumbler. The etiquette of Kamchatka does not permit the host to count the drops taken by his guest.
Take a log village in the backwoods of Michigan or Minnesota, and transport it to a quiet spot by a well sheltered harbor of Lilliputian size. Cover the roofs of some buildings with iron, shingles or boards from other regions. Cover the balance with thatch of long grass, and erect chimneys that just peer above the ridge poles. Scatter these buildings on a hillside next the water; arrange three-fourths of them in a single street, and leave the rest to drop wherever they like. Of course those in the higgledy-piggledy position must be of the poorest class, but you can make a few exceptions. Whitewash the inner walls of half the buildings, and use paper or cloth to hide the nakedness of the other half.
This will make a fair counterfeit of Petropavlovsk. Inside each house place a brick stove or oven, four or five feet square and six feet high. Locate this stove to present a side to each of two or three rooms. In each side make an aperture two inches square that can be opened or closed at will. The amount of heat to warm the rooms is regulated by means of the apertures.
Furnish the houses with plain chairs, tables, and an occasional but rare piano. Make the doors very low and the entries narrow. Put a picture of a saint in the principal room of every house, and adorn the walls with a few engravings. Make a garden near each house, and let a few miscellaneous gardens cling to the hillside and strive to climb it. Don’t forget to build a church, or you will fail to represent a Russian town.
Petropavlovsk has no vehicle of any kind except a single hand cart. Consequently the street is not gashed with wheel ruts.
We were invited to ‘assist’ at a wedding that happened in the evening after our arrival. The ceremony was to begin at five o’clock, and was a double affair, two sisters being the brides. A Russian wedding requires a master of ceremonies to look after the affair from beginning to end. I was told it was the custom in Siberia (but not in European Russia) for this person to pay all expenses of the wedding, including the indispensable dinner and its fixtures. Such a position is not to be desired by a man of limited cash, especially if the leading characters are inclined to extravagance. Think of being the conductor of a diamond wedding in New York or Boston, and then paying the bills!
UNEXPECTED HONORS.
The steward of the Variag told me he was invited to conduct a wedding shortly after his arrival at Petropavlovsk. Thinking it an honor of which he would hereafter be proud, he accepted the invitation. Much to his surprise on the next day he was required to pay the cost of the entertainment.
The master of ceremonies of the wedding under consideration was Mr. Phillipeus, a Russian gentleman engaged in the fur trade. The father of the brides was his customer, and doubtless the cost of the wedding was made up in subsequent dealings. As the party emerged from the house and moved toward the church, I could see that Phillipeus was the central figure. He had a bride on each arm, and each bride was clinging to her prospective husband. The women were in white and the men in holiday dress.
Behind the front rank were a dozen or more groomsmen and bridesmaids. Behind these were the members of the families and the invited relatives, so that the cortége stretched to a considerable length. Each of the groomsmen wore a bow of colored ribbon on his left arm and a smaller one in the button hole. The children of the families—quite a troop of juveniles—brought up the rear.
The church is of logs, like the other buildings. It is old, unpainted, and shaped like a cross, lacking one of the arms. The doors are large and clumsy, and the entrance is through a vestibule or hall. The roof had been recently painted a brilliant red at the expense of the Variag’s officers. On the inside, the church has an antiquated appearance, but presents such an air of solidity as if inviting the earthquakes to come and see it.
There were no seats in the building, nor are there seats of any kind in the edifices of the same character in any part of Russia. It is the theory of the Eastern Church that all are equal before God. In His service, no distinction is made; autocrat and subject, noble and peasant, stand or kneel in the same manner while worshipping at His altars.
As we entered, we found the wedding party standing in the center of the church; the spectators were grouped nearer the door, the ladies occupying the front. With the thermometer at seventy-two, I found the upright position a fatiguing one, and would have been glad to send for a camp stool. Colonel Bulkley had undertaken to escort a lady, and as he stood in a conspicuous place, his uniform buttoned to the very chin and the perspiration pouring from his face, the ceremony appeared to have little charm for him.
The service began under the direction of two priests, each dressed in a long robe extending to his feet, and wearing a chapeau like a bell-crowned hat without a brim. “The short one,” said a friend near me, pointing to a little, round, fat, oily man of God, “will get very drunk when he has the opportunity. Watch him to-night and see how he leaves the dinner party.”
Priests of the Greek Church wear their hair very long, frequently below the shoulders, and parted in the middle, and do not shave the beard. Unlike those of the Catholic Church, they marry and have homes and families, engaging in secular occupations which do not interfere with their religious duties. During the evening after the wedding, I was introduced to “the pope’s wife;” and learned that Russian priests are called popes. As the only pope then familiar to my thoughts is considered very much a bachelor, I was rather taken aback at this bit of information. The drink-loving priest was head of a goodly sized family, and resided in a comfortable and well furnished dwelling.
RUSSIAN MARRIAGE.
At the wedding there was much recitation by the priests, reading from the ritual of the Church, swinging of censers, singing by the chorus of male voices, chanting and intonation, and responses by the victims. There were frequent signs of the cross with bowing or kneeling. A ring was used, and afterwards two crowns were held over the heads of the bride and bridegroom. The fatigue of holding these crowns was considerable, and required that those who performed the service should be relieved once by other bridesmen. After a time the crowns were placed on the heads they had been held over. Wearing these crowns and preceded by the priests, the pair walked three times round the altar in memory of the Holy Trinity, while a portion of the service was chanted. Then the crowns were removed and kissed by each of the marrying pair, the bridegroom first performing the osculation. A cup of water was held by the priest, first to the bridegroom and then to the bride, each of whom drank a small portion. After this the first couple retired to a little chapel and the second passed through the ordeal. The preliminary ceremony occupied about twenty minutes, and the same time was consumed by each couple.
There is no divorce in Russia, so that the union was one for life till death. Before the parties left the church they received congratulations. There was much hand-shaking, and among the women there were decorous kisses. Our party regretted that the custom of bride kissing as practiced in America does not prevail in Kamchatka.
When the affair was ended, the whole cortége returned to the house whence it came, the children carrying pictures of the Virgin and saints, and holding lighted candles before them. The employment of lamps and tapers is universal in the Russian churches, the little flame being a representation of spiritual existence and a symbol of the continued life of the soul. The Russians have adapted this idea so completely that there is no marriage, betrothal, consecration, or burial, in fact no religious ceremony whatever without the use of lamp or taper.
In the house of every adherent to the orthodox Russian faith there is a picture of the Virgin or a saint; sometimes holy pictures are in every room of the house. I have seen them in the cabins of steamboats, and in tents and other temporary structures. No Russian enters a dwelling, however humble, without removing his hat, out of respect to the holy pictures, and this custom extends to shops, hotels, in fact to every place where people dwell or transact business. During the earlier part of my travels in Russia, I was unaware of this custom, and fear that I sometimes offended it. I have been told that superstitious thieves hang veils or kerchiefs before the picture in rooms where they depredate. Enthusiastic lovers occasionally observe the same precaution. Only the eyes of the image need be covered, and secrecy may be obtained by turning the picture to the wall.
The evening began with a reception and congratulations to the married couples. Then we had tea and cakes, and then came the dinner. The party was like the African giant imported in two ships, for it was found impossible to crowd all the guests into one house. Tables were set in two houses and in the open yard between them.
The Russians have a custom of taking a little lunch just before they begin dinner. This lunch is upon a side table in the dining room, and consists of cordial, spirits or bitters, with morsels of herring, caviar, and dried meat or fish. It performs the same office as the American cocktail, but is oftener taken, is more popular and more respectable. After the lunch we sat down to dinner. Fish formed the first course and soup the second. Then we had roast beef and vegetables, followed by veal cutlets. The feast closed with cake and jelly, and was thoroughly washed down with a dozen kinds of beverages that cheer and inebriate.
The fat priest was at table and took his lunch early. His first course was a glass of something liquid, and he drank a dozen times before the soup was brought. Early in the dinner I saw him gesturing toward me.
“He wants to take a glass with you,” said some one at my side.
I poured out some wine, and after a little trouble in touching glasses we drank each other’s health.
Not five minutes later he repeated his gestures. To satisfy him I filled a glass with sherry, as there was no champagne handy at the moment, and again went through the clinking process. As my glass was large I put it down after sipping a few drops, but the old fellow objected. Draining and inverting his glass, he held it as one might suspend a rat by the tail, and motioned me to do the same. Luckily he soon after conceived a fondness for one of the Wright’s officers, and the twain fell to drinking. The officer, assisted by three men, went on board late at night, and was reported attempting to wash his face in a tar-bucket and dry it with a chain cable. About midnight the priest was taken home on a shutter.
RUSSIAN POPE AT HOME.
There were toasts in a large number, with a great deal of cheering, drinking, and smoking. About ten o’clock the dinner ended, and arrangements were made for a dance. Dancing was not among my accomplishments, and I retired to the ship, satisfied that on my first day in Asia I had been treated very kindly—and very often.
For two days more the wedding festivities continued, etiquette requiring the parties to visit all who attended the dinner. On the third day the hilarity ceased, and the happy couples were left to enjoy the honeymoon with its promise of matrimonial bliss. May they have many years of it.
CHAPTER IV.
The name of Kamchatka is generally associated with snow-fields, glaciers, frozen mountains, and ice-bound shores. Its winters are long and severe; snow falls to a great depth, and ice attains a thickness proportioned to the climate. But the summers, though short, are sufficiently hot to make up for the cold of winter. Vegetation is wonderfully rapid, the grasses, trees and plants growing as much in a hundred days as in six months of a New England summer. Hardly has the snow disappeared before the trees put forth their buds and blossoms, and the hillsides are in all the verdure of an American spring. Men tell me they have seen in a single week the snows disappear, ice break in the streams, the grass spring up, and the trees beginning to bud. Nature adapts herself to all her conditions. In the Arctic as in the Torrid zone she fixes her compensations and makes her laws for the best good of her children.
It was midsummer when we reached Kamchatka, and the heat was like that of August in Richmond or Baltimore. The thermometer ranged from sixty-five to eighty. Long walks on land were out of question, unless one possessed the power of a salamander. The shore of the bay was the best place for a promenade, and we amused ourselves watching the salmon fishers at work.
Salmon form the principal food of the Kamchadales and their dogs. The fishing season in Avatcha Bay lasts about six weeks, and at its close the salmon leave the bay and ascend the streams, where they are caught by the interior natives. In the bay they are taken in seines dragged along the shore, and the number of fish caught annually is almost beyond computation.
Some years ago the fishery failed, and more than half the dogs in Kamchatka starved. The following year there was a bountiful supply, which the priests of Petropavlovsk commemorated by erecting a cross near the entrance of the harbor. The supply is always larger after a scarcity than in ordinary seasons.
The fish designed for preservation are split and dried in the sun. The odor of a fish drying establishment reminded me of the smells in certain quarters of New York in summer, or of Cairo, Illinois, after an unusual flood has subsided. One of our officers said he counted three hundred and twenty distinct and different smells in walking half a mile.
In 1865 one of the merchants started the enterprise of curing salmon for the Sandwich Island market. He told me he paid three roubles, (about three greenback dollars,) a hundred (in number) for the fresh fish, delivered at his establishment. Evidently he found the speculation profitable, as he repeated it the following year.
A SCALY BRIDGE.
When the salmon ascend the rivers they furnish food to men and animals. The natives catch them in nets and with spears, while dogs, bears, and wolves use their teeth in fishing. Bears are expert in this amusement, and where their game is plenty they eat only the heads and backs. The fish are very abundant in the rivers, and no great skill is required in their capture. Men with an air of veracity told me they had seen streams in the interior of Kamchatka so filled with salmon that one could cross on them as on a corduroy bridge! The story has a piscatorial sound, but it may be true.
House gardening on a limited scale is the principal agriculture of Kamchatka. Fifty years ago, Admiral Ricord introduced the cultivation of rye, wheat, and barley with considerable success, but the inhabitants do not take kindly to it. The government brings rye flour from the Amoor river and sells it to the people at cost, and in case of distress it issues rations from its magazines.
When I asked why there was no culture of grain in Kamchatka, they replied: “What is the necessity of it? We can buy it at cost of the government, and need not trouble ourselves about making our own flour.”
There is not a sawmill on the peninsula. Boards and plank are cut by hand or brought from California. I slept two nights in a room ceiled with red-wood and pine from San Francisco.
On my second evening in Asia I passed several hours at the governor’s house. The party talked, smoked, and drank tea until midnight, and then closed the entertainment with a substantial supper. An interesting and novel feature of the affair was the Russian manner of making tea. The infusion had a better flavor than any I had previously drank. This is due partly to the superior quality of the leaf, and partly to the manner of its preparation.
The “samovar” or tea-urn is an indispensable article in a Russian household, and is found in nearly every dwelling from the Baltic to Bering’s Sea. “Samovar” comes from two Greek words, meaning ‘to boil itself.’ The article is nothing but a portable furnace; a brazen urn with a cylinder two or three inches in diameter passing through it from top to bottom. The cylinder being filled with coals, the water in the urn is quickly heated, and remains boiling hot as long as the fire continues. An imperial order abolishing samovars throughout all the Russias, would produce more sorrow and indignation than the expulsion of roast beef from the English bill of fare. The number of cups it will contain is the measure of a samovar.
Tea pots are of porcelain or earthenware. The tea pot is rinsed and warmed with hot water before receiving the dry leaf. Boiling water is poured upon the tea, and when the pot is full it is placed on the top of the samovar. There it is kept hot but not boiled, and in five or six minutes the tea is ready. Cups and saucers are not employed by the Russians, but tumblers are generally used for tea drinking, and in the best houses, where it can be afforded, they are held in silver sockets like those in soda shops. Only loaf sugar is used in sweetening tea. When lemons can be had they are employed to give flavor, a thin slice, neither rolled nor pressed, being floated on the surface of the tea.
RUSSIAN TEA SERVICE.
The Russians take tea in the morning, after dinner, after lunch, before bed-time, in the evening, at odd intervals in the day or night, and they drink a great deal of it between drinks.
In rambling about Petropavlovsk I found the hills covered with luxuriant grass, sometimes reaching to my knees. Two or three miles inland the grass was waist high on ground covered with snow six weeks before. Among the flowers I recognized the violet and larkspur, the former in great abundance. Earlier in the summer the hills were literally carpeted with flowers. I could not learn that any skilled botanist had ever visited Kamchatka and classified its flora. Among the arboreal productions the alder and birch were the most numerous. Pine, larch, and spruce grow on the Kamchatka river, and the timber from them is brought to Avatcha from the mouth of that stream.
The commercial value of Kamchatka is entirely in its fur trade. The peninsula has no agricultural, manufacturing, or mining interest, and were it not for the animals that lend their skins to keep us warm, the merchant would find no charms in that region. The fur coming from Kamchatka was the cause of the Russian discovery and conquest. For many years the trade was conducted by individual merchants from Siberia. The Russian American Company attempted to control it early in the present century, and drove many competitors from the fields. It received the most determined opposition from American merchants, and in 1860 it abandoned Petropavlovsk, its business there being profitless.
In 1866 I found the fur trade of Kamchatka in the control of three merchants: W.H. Boardman, of Boston, J.W. Fluger, of Hamburg, and Alexander Phillipeus, of St. Petersburg. All of them had houses in Petropavlovsk, and each had from one to half a dozen agencies or branches elsewhere. To judge by appearances, Mr. Boardman had the lion’s share of the trade. This gentleman’s father began the Northwest traffic sometime in the last century, and left it as an inheritance about 1828. His son continued the business until bought off by the Hudson Bay Company, when he turned his attention to Kamchatka. Personally he has never visited the Pacific Ocean.
Mr. Fluger had been only two years in Kamchatka, and was doing a miscellaneous business. Boardman’s agent confined himself to the fur trade, but Fluger was up to anything. He salted salmon for market, sent a schooner every year into the Arctic Ocean for walrus teeth and mammoth tusks, bought furs, sold goods, kept a dog team, was attentive to the ladies, and would have run for Congress had it been possible. He had in his store about half a cord of walrus teeth piled against a back entrance like stove wood. Phillipeus was a roving blade. He kept an agent at Petropavlovsk and came there in person once a year. In February he left St. Petersburg for London, whence he took the Red Sea route to Japan. There he chartered a brig to visit Kamchatka and land him at Ayan, on the Ohotsk Sea. From Ayan he went to Yakutsk, and from that place through Irkutsk to St. Petersburg, where he arrived about three hundred and fifty days after his departure. I met him in the Russian capital just as he had completed the sixth journey of this kind and was about to commence the seventh. If he were a Jew he should be called the wandering Jew.
Trade is conducted on the barter principle, furs being low and goods high. The risks are great, transport is costly, and money is a long time invested before it returns. The palmy days of the fur trade are over; the product has greatly diminished, and competition has reduced the percentage of profit on the little that remains.
There was a time in the memory of man when furs formed the currency of Kamchatka. Their employment as cash is not unknown at present, although Russian money is in general circulation.
CHANGE FOR A DOLLAR
There is a story of a traveler who paid his hotel bill in a country town in Minnesota and received a beaver skin in change. The landlord explained that it was legal tender for a dollar. Concealing this novel cash under his coat, the traveler sauntered into a neighboring store.
“Is it true,” he asked carelessly, “that a beaver skin is legal tender for a dollar?” “Yes, sir,” said the merchant; “anybody will take it.”
“Will you be so kind, then,” was the traveler’s request, “as to give me change for a dollar bill?”
“Certainly,” answered the merchant, taking the beaver skin and returning four muskrat skins, current at twenty-five cents each.
The sable is the principal fur sought by the merchants in Kamchatka, or trapped by the natives. The animal is caught in a variety of ways, man’s ingenuity being taxed to capture him. The ‘yessak,’ or ‘poll-tax’ of the natives is payable in sable fur, at the rate of a skin for every four persons. The governor makes a yearly journey through the peninsula to collect the tax, and is supposed to visit all the villages. The merchants go and do likewise for trading purposes.
Mr. George S. Cushing, who was long the agent of Mr. Boardman in Kamchatka, estimated the product of sable fur at about six thousand skins annually. Sometimes it exceeds and sometimes falls below that figure. About a thousand foxes, a few sea otters and silver foxes, and a good many bears, may be added, more for number than value. Silver foxes and otters are scarce, while common foxes and bears are of little account. A black fox is worth a great deal of money, but one may find a white crow almost as readily.
Bears are abundant, but their skins are not articles of export. The beasts are brown or black, and grow to a disagreeable size. Bear hunting is an amusement of the country, very pleasant and exciting until the bear turns and becomes the hunter. Then there is no fun in it, if he succeeds in his pursuit. A gentleman in Kamchatka gave me a bearskin more than six feet long, and declared that it was not unusually large. I am very glad there was no live bear in it when it came into my possession.
There is a story of a man in California who followed the track of a grizzly bear a day and a half. He abandoned it because, as he explained, “it was getting a little too fresh.”
One day, about two years before my visit, a cow suddenly entered Petropavlovsk with a live bear on her back. The bear escaped unhurt, leaving the cow pretty well scratched. After that event she preferred to graze in or near the town, and never brought home another bear.
COW AND BEAR.
Kamchatka without dogs would be like Hamlet without Hamlet. While crossing the Pacific my compagnons du voyage made many suggestions touching my first experience in Kamchatka. “You won’t sleep any the first night in port. The dogs will howl you out of your seven senses.” This was the frequent remark of the engineer, corroborated by others. On arriving, we were disappointed to find less than a hundred dogs at Petropavlovsk, as the rest of the canines belonging there were spending vacation in the country. About fifteen hundred were owned in the town.
Very few Kamchadale dogs can bark, but they will howl oftener, longer, and louder than any ‘yaller dog’ that ever went to a cur pound or became sausage meat. The few in Petropavlovsk made much of their ability, and were especially vocal at sunset, near their feeding time. Occasionally during the night they try their throats and keep up a hailing and answering chorus, calculated to draw a great many oaths from profane strangers.
In 1865 Colonel Bulkley carried one of these animals to California. The dog lifted up his voice on the waters very often, and received a great deal of rope’s ending in consequence. At San Francisco Mr. Covert took him home, and attempted his domestication. ‘Norcum,’ (for that was the brute’s name,) created an enmity between Covert and all who lived within hearing distance, and many were the threats of canicide. Covert used to rise two or three times every night and argue, with a club, to induce Norcum to be silent. While I was at San Francisco, Mr. Mumford, one of the Telegraph Company’s directors, conceived a fondness for the dog, and took him to the Occidental Hotel.
On the first day of his hotel life we tied Norcum on the balcony in front of Mumford’s room, about forty feet from the ground. Scarcely had we gone to dinner when he jumped from the balcony and hung by his chain, with his hind feet resting upon a cornice.
A howling wilderness is nothing to the noise he made before his rescue, and he gathered and amused a large crowd with his performance. He passed the night in the western basement of the hotel, and spoiled the sleep of a dozen or more persons who lodged near him. When we left San Francisco, Norcum was residing in the baggage-room at the Occidental, under special care of the porters, who employed a great deal of muscle in teaching him that silence was a golden virtue.
The Kamchadale dogs are of the same breed as those used by the Esquimaux, but are said to possess more strength and endurance. The best Asiatic dogs are among the Koriaks, near Penjinsk Gulf, the difference being due to climate and the care taken in breeding them. Dogs are the sole reliance for winter travel in Kamchatka, and every resident considers it his duty to own a team. They are driven in odd numbers, all the way from three to twenty-one. The most intelligent and best trained dog acts as a leader, the others being harnessed in pairs. No reins are used, the voice of the driver being sufficient to guide them.
A KAMCHATKA TEAM.
Dogs are fed almost entirely upon fish. They receive their rations daily at sunset, and it is always desirable that each driver should feed his own team. The day before starting on a journey, the dog receives a half ration only, and he is kept on this slender diet as long as the journey lasts. Sometimes when hungry they gnaw their reindeer skin harnesses, and sometimes they do it as a pastime. Once formed, the habit is not easy to break. Two kinds of sledges are used, one for travel and the other for transporting freight. The former is light and just large enough for one person with a little baggage. The driver sits with his feet hanging over the side, and clings to a bow that rises in front. In one hand he holds an iron-pointed staff, with which he retards the vehicle in descending hills, or brings it to a halt. A traveling sledge weighs about twenty-five pounds, but a freight sledge is much heavier.
A good team will travel from forty to sixty miles a day with favorable roads. Sometimes a hundred a day may be accomplished, but very rarely. Once an express traveled from Petropavlovsk to Bolcheretsk, a hundred and twenty-five miles, in twenty-three hours, without change of dogs.
Wolves have an inconvenient fondness for dog meat, and occasionally attack travelers. A gentleman told me that a wolf once sprang from the bushes, seized and dragged away one of his dogs, and did not detain the team three minutes. The dogs are cowardly in their dispositions, and will not fight unless they have large odds in their favor. A pack of them will attack and kill a single strange dog, but would not disturb a number equaling their own.
Most of the Russian settlers buy their dogs from the natives who breed them. Dogs trained to harness are worth from ten to forty roubles (dollars) each, according to their quality. Leaders bring high prices on account of their superior docility and the labor of training them. Epidemics are frequent among dogs and carry off great numbers of them. Hydrophobia is a common occurrence.
The Russian inhabitants of Kamchatka are mostly descended from Cossacks and exiles. There is a fair but not undue proportion of half breeds, the natural result of marriage between natives and immigrants. There are about four hundred Russians at Petropavlovsk, and the same number at each of two other points. The aboriginal population is about six thousand, including a few hundred dwellers on the Kurile Islands.
No exiles have been sent to Kamchatka since 1830. One old man who had been forty years a colonist was living at Avatcha in 1866. He was at liberty to return to Europe, but preferred remaining.
In 1771 occurred the first voyage from Kamchatka to a foreign port, and curiously enough, it was performed under the Polish flag. A number of exiles, headed by a Pole named Benyowski, seized a small vessel and put to sea. Touching at Japan and Loo Choo to obtain water and provisions, the party reached the Portuguese colony of Macao in safety. There were no nautical instruments or charts on the ship, and the successful result of the voyage was more accidental than otherwise.
Close by the harbor of Petropavlovsk there is a monument to the memory of the ill-fated and intrepid navigator, La Perouse. It bears no inscription, and was evidently built in haste. There is a story that a French ship once arrived in Avatcha Bay on a voyage of discovery. Her captain asked the governor if there was anything to commemorate the visit of La Perouse.
“Certainly,” was the reply; “I will show it to you in the morning.”
During the night the monument was hastily constructed of wood and sheet iron, and fixed in the position to which the governor led his delighted guest.
Captain Clerke, successor to Captain Cook, of Sandwich Island memory, died while his ships were in Avatcha Bay, and was buried at Petropavlovsk. A monument that formerly marked his grave has disappeared. Captain Lund and Colonel Bulkley arranged to erect a durable memorial in its place. We prepared an inscription in English and Russian, and for temporary purposes fixed a small tablet on the designated spot. Americans and Russians formed the party that listened to the brief tribute which one of our number paid to the memory of the great navigator.
In the autumn of 1854, a combined English and French fleet of six ships suffered a severe repulse from several land batteries and the guns of a Russian frigate in the harbor. Twice beaten off, their commanders determined an assault. They landed a strong force of sailors and marines, that attempted to take the town in the rear, but the Kamchadale sharpshooters created a panic, and drove the assailants over a steeply sloping cliff two hundred feet high.
REPULSE OF THE ASSAILANTS.
Naturally the natives are proud of their success in this battle, and mention it to every visitor. The English Admiral committed suicide early in the attack. The fleet retired to San Francisco, and returned in the following year prepared to capture the town at all hazards, but Petropavlovsk had been abandoned by the Russians, who retired beyond the hills. An American remained in charge of a trading establishment, and hoisted his national colors over it. The allies burned the government property and destroyed the batteries.
There were five or six hundred dogs in town when the fleet entered the bay. Their violent howling held the allies aloof a whole day, under the impression that a garrison should be very large to have so many watch-dogs.
CHAPTER V.
The first project for making discoveries in the ocean east of Kamchatka was formed by Peter the Great. Danish, German, and English navigators and savans were sent to the eastern coast of Asia to conduct explorations in the desired quarter, but very little was accomplished in the lifetime of the great czar. His successors carried out his plans.
In June, 1741, Vitus Bering, the first navigator of the straits which bear his name, sailed from Avatcha Bay. Passing south of the islands of the Aleutian chain, Bering steered to the eastward, and at length discovered the American continent. “On the 16th of July,” says Steller, the naturalist and historian of the expedition, “we saw a mountain whose height was so great as to be visible at the distance of sixteen Dutch miles. The coast of the continent was much broken and indented with bays and harbors.”
The nearest point of land was named Cape St. Elias, as it was discovered on St. Ellas’ day. The high mountain received the name of the saint, and has clung to it ever since.
When Bering discovered Russian America he had no thought it would one day be sold to the United States, and there is nothing to show that he ever corresponded with Mr. Seward about it. He sailed a short distance along its coast, visited various islands, and then steered for Kamchatka.
The commander was confined to his cabin by illness, and the crew suffered severely from scurvy. “At one period,” says Steller, “only ten persons were capable of duty, and they were too weak to furl the sails, so that the ship was left to the mercy of the elements. Not only the sick died, but those who pretended to be healthy fainted and fell down dead when relieved from their posts.”
In this condition the navigators were drifted upon a rocky island, where their ship went to pieces, but not until all had landed. Many of the crew died soon after going on shore, but the transfer from the ship appeared to diminish the ravages of the scurvy. Commander Bering died on the 8th of December, and was buried in the trench where he lay. The island where he perished bears his name, but his grave is unmarked. An iron monument to his memory was recently erected at Petropavlovsk.
No human dwellers were found on the island. Foxes were numerous and had no fear of the shipwrecked mariners. “We killed many of them,” Steller adds, “with our hatchets and knives. They annoyed us greatly, and we were unable to keep them from entering our shelters and stealing our clothing and food.” The survivors built a small vessel from the wreck, and succeeded in reaching Avatcha in the following summer. “We were given up for dead,” says the historian, “and the property we left in Kamchatka had been appropriated by strangers.”
The reports concerning the abundance of fur-bearing animals on Bering’s Island and elsewhere, induced private parties to go in search of profit. Various expeditions were fitted out in ships of clumsy construction and bad sailing qualities. The timbers were fastened with wooden pins and leathern thongs, and the crevices were caulked with moss. Occasionally the cordage was made from reindeer skins, and the sails from the same material. Many ships were wrecked, but this did not frighten adventurous merchants.
Few of these voyages were pushed farther than the Aleutian islands. The natives were hostile and killed a fair proportion of the Russian explorers. In 1781 a few merchants of Kamchatka arranged a company with a view to developing commerce in Russian America. They equipped several ships, formed a settlement at Kodiak and conducted an extensive and profitable business. Their agents treated the natives with great cruelty, and so bad was their conduct that the emperor Paul revoked their privileges.
A new company was formed and chartered in July, 1779, under the title of the Russian-American Company. It succeeded the old concern, and absorbed it into its organization.
The Russian-American Company had its chief office in St. Petersburg, where the Directors formed a kind of high court of appeal. It was authorized to explore and place under control of the crown all the territories of North-Western America not belonging to any other government. It was required to deal kindly with the natives, and endeavor to convert them to the religion of the empire. It had the administration of the country and a commercial monopoly through its whole extent. All other merchants were to be excluded, no matter what their nationality. At one time so great was the jealousy of the Company’s officers that no foreign ship was allowed within twenty miles of the coast.
The Imperial Government required that the chief officer of the company should be commissioned in the service of the crown, and detailed to the control of the American Territory. His residence was at Sitka, to which the principal post was removed from Kodiak. In the early history of the Company there were many encounters with the natives, the severest battle taking place on the present site of Sitka. The natives had a fort there, and were only driven from it after a long and obstinate fight. The first colony that settled at Sitka was driven away, and all traces of the Russian occupation were destroyed. After a few years of conflict, peace was declared, and trade became prosperous. The Company occupied Russian America and the Aleutian Islands, and pushed its traffic to the Arctic Ocean. It established posts on the Kurile Islands, in Kamchatka, and along the coast of the Ohotsk Sea. It built churches, employed priests, and was quite successful in converting the natives to Christianity.
Having a monopoly of trade and being the law giver to the natives, the Company had things in pretty much its own way. The governor at Sitka was the autocrat of all the American Russians. There was no appeal from his decision except to the Directory at St. Petersburg, which was about as accessible as the moon. The natives were reduced to a condition of slavery; they were compelled to devote the best part of their time to the company’s labor, and the accounts were so managed as to keep them always in debt.
Alexander Baranoff was the first governor, and continued more than twenty years in power. He managed affairs to his own taste, paying little regard to the wishes of the Directory, or even of the Emperor, when they conflicted with his own. The Russians in the company’s employ were Promushleniks, or adventurers, enlisted in Siberia for a term of years. They were soldiers, sailors, hunters, fishermen, or mechanics, according to the needs of the service. Their condition was little better than that of the natives they held in subjection. The territory was divided into districts, each under an officer who reported to the Chief at Sitka.
The Directory was not troubled so long as profits were large, but the government had suspicions that the Company’s reign was oppressive. An exploring expedition under Admiral Krusenstern visited the North Pacific in 1805; the reports of the Admiral exposed many abuses and led to changes. A more rigid supervision followed, and produced much good. The government insisted upon appointing officers of integrity and humanity to the chief place at Sitka.
For many years the Company prospered. In 1812 it founded the colony of Ross, on the coast of California, and a few years later prepared to dispute the right of the Spanish Governor to occupy that region. The natives were everywhere peaceable, and the dividends satisfied the stockholders. The slaughter of the fur-bearing animals was injudiciously conducted, and led to a great decrease of revenue. The last dividend of importance (12 per cent.) was in 1853. After that year misfortune seemed to follow the Company. Its trade was greatly reduced, partly by the diminished fur production and partly by the illicit traffic of independent vessels along the coast. Several ships were lost, one in 1865, with a valuable cargo of furs. In 1866 the Company’s stock, from a nominal value of 150, had fallen to about 80, and the Company was even obliged to accept an annual subsidy of 200,000 roubles from the Government. So late as February, 1867, it received a loan of 1,000,000 roubles from the Imperial Bank. Probably a few years more would have seen the total extinction of the Company, and the reversion of all its rights and expenses to the Crown.
In 1866 the fleet of the Russian-American Company comprised two sea steamers, six ships, two brigs, one schooner, and several smaller craft for coasting and inland service. During the Crimean war the Company’s property was made neutral on condition of its taking no part in hostilities. Two of its ships were captured and burned for an alleged violation of neutrality.
The Company leased a portion of its territory to the Hudson Bay Company, and allowed it to establish hunting and trading posts. A strip of land bordering the ocean was thus in English hands, and gave access to a wide region beyond the Coast Mountains. Not content with what was leased, the Hudson Bay Company deliberately seized a locality on the Yukon river when it had no right. It built Fort Yukon and secured much of the interior trade of Russian America.
When our Secretary of State purchased the Emperor’s title to the western coast of America, there were various opinions respecting the sagacity of the transaction. No one could say what was the intrinsic value of the country, either actual or prospective. The Company never gave much attention to scientific matters.
The Russian government had made some explorations to ascertain the character and extent of the rivers, mountains, plains, and swamps that form the country. In 1841 Lieutenant Zagoyskin commenced an examination of the country bordering the rivers, and continued it for two years. He traced the course of the Kuskokvim and the lower portions of the Yukon, or Kvikpak. His observations were chiefly confined to the rivers and the country immediately bordering them. He made no discoveries of agricultural or mineral wealth. Fish and deer-meat, with berries, formed the food of the natives, while furs were their only articles of trade.
VIEW OF SITKA
Russian America is of great extent, superficially. It is agreeably diversified with mountains, hills, rolling country, and table land, with a liberal amount of pereval or undulating swamp. In the northern portion there is timber scattered along the rivers and on the mountain slopes; but the trees and their quantity are alike small. In the southern parts there are forests of large trees, that will be valuable when Oregon and Washington are exhausted. Along the coast there are many bays and harbors, easy of access and well sheltered. Sitka has a magnificent harbor, never frozen or obstructed with ice.
Gold is known to exist in several localities. A few placer mines have been opened on the Stikeen river, but no one knows the extent of the auriferous beds, in the absence of all ‘prospecting’ data. I do not believe gold mining will ever be found profitable in Russian America. The winters are long and cold, and the snows are deep. The working season is very short, and in many localities on the mainland ‘ground ice’ is permanent at slight depths. Veins of copper have been found near the Yukon, but so far none that would pay for developing.
Building stone is abundant, and so is ice. Neither is of much value in commerce.
The fur trade was the chief source of the Company’s revenue. The principal fur-bearing animals are the otter, seal, beaver, marten, mink, fox, and a few others. There is a little trade in walrus teeth, mammoth tusks, whalebone, and oil. The rivers abound in fish, of which large quantities are annually salted and sent to the Pacific markets. The fisheries along the coast are valuable and of the same character as those on the banks of Newfoundland.
Agriculture is limited to a few garden vegetables. There are no fruit trees, and no attempts have thus far been made to introduce them. The number of native inhabitants is unknown, as no census has ever been taken. I have heard it estimated all the way from twenty to sixty thousand. The island and sea coast inhabitants are of the Esquimaux type, while those of the interior are allied to the North American Indians. The explorers for the Western Union Telegraph Company found them friendly, but not inclined to labor. Some of the natives left their hunting at its busiest season to assist an exploring party in distress.
The change of rulers will prove a misfortune to the aboriginal. Very wisely the Russian American Company prohibited intoxicating liquors in all dealings with the natives. The contraband stuff could only be obtained from, independent trading ships, chiefly American. With the opening of the country to our commerce, whisky has been abundant and accessible to everybody. The native population will rapidly diminish, and its decrease will be accompanied by a falling off in the fur product. Our government should rigidly continue the prohibitory law as enforced by the Russian officials.
The sale of his American property was an excellent transaction on the part of the Emperor. The country brought no revenue worth the name, and threatened to be an expensive ornament in coming years. It required a sea voyage to reach it, and was upon a continent which Russia does not aspire to control. It had no strategic importance in the Muscovite policy, and was better out of the empire than in it.
The purchase by ourselves may or may not prove a financial success. Thus far its developments have not been promising. When the country has been thoroughly examined, it is possible we may find stores of now unknown wealth. Politically the acquisition is more important. The possession of a large part of the Pacific coast, indented with many bays and harbors, is a matter of moment in view of our national ambition. The American eagle can scream louder since its cage has been enlarged, and if any man attempts to haul down that noble bird, scoop him from the spot.
CHAPTER VI.
Colonel Bulkley determined to sail on the 6th of August for Anadyr Bay, and ordered the Variag to proceed to the Amoor by way of Ghijiga. Early in the morning the corvette changed her moorings and shook a reef from her telescopic smoke stack, and at nine o’clock I bade adieu to the Wright and went on board the Variag, to which I was welcomed by Capt. Lund, according to the Russian custom, and quartered in the room specially designed for the use of the Admiral. The ladies were on the nearest point of the beach, and just before our departure the Captain and most of his officers paid them a farewell visit. Seizing the tow line of the Danzig, which we were to take to sea, we steamed from the harbor into the Pacific, followed by the cheers of all on board the Wright and the waving of ladies’ handkerchiefs till lost in the distance. We desired to pass the fourth, or Amphitrite, channel of the Kurile Islands; the weather was so thick that we could not see a ship’s length in any direction, and all night men stood with axes ready to cut the Danzig’s tow line in case any sudden danger should appear. The fog lifted just as we neared the channel, and we had a clear view on all sides.
We cast off the Danzig when fairly out of the Pacific. During the two days the Variag had her in tow we maintained communication by means of a log line and a junk bottle carefully sealed. Casting our bottle on the waters, we allowed it to drift along side the Danzig, where it could be fished up and opened. Answers were returned in the same mail pouch. One response was in liquid form, and savored of gin cocktail, fabricated by the American captain.
An hour after dropping the Danzig we stopped our engines and prepared to run under sail. The whole crew was called on deck to hoist out the screw, a mass of copper weighing twenty-five thousand pounds, and set in a frame raised or lowered like a window sash. With strong ropes and the power of three hundred men, the frame and its contents were lifted out of water, and the Variag became a sailing ship. The Russian government is more economical than our own in running ships of war. Whenever possible, sails are used instead of steam. A few years ago a Russian Admiral was transferred from active to retired service because he burned too much coal.
The Variag was 2100 tons burthen, and carried seventeen guns, with a crew of 306 men. She was of the fleet that visited New York in 1863, and her officers recounted many pleasant reminiscences of their stay in the United States. While wintering in Japanese waters she was assigned to assist the telegraph enterprise, and reported as soon as possible at Petropavlovsk; but the only service demanded was to proceed to the mouth of the Amoor by way of Ghijiga and Ohotsk.
The officers of the Variag were, a captain, a commander, four lieutenants, six sub-lieutenants, an officer of marines with a cadet, a lieutenant of naval artillery, two sailing masters, two engineers, a surgeon, a paymaster, and a priest. As near as I could ascertain, their pay, including allowances, was about three-fourths that of American officers of similar grades. They received three times as much at sea as when awaiting orders, and this fact led them to seek constant service. In the ward room they read, wrote, talked, smoked, and could play any games of amusement except cards. Card playing is strictly forbidden by the Russian naval regulations.
The sailors on the corvette were robust and powerful fellows, with appetites to frighten a hotel keeper. Russian sailors from the interior of the empire are very liable to scurvy. Those from Finland are the best for long voyages. Captain Lund once told me the experience of a Russian expedition of five ships upon a long cruise. One ship was manned by Finlanders, and the others carried sailors from the interior. The Finlanders were not attacked with scurvy, but the rest suffered severely.
“All the Russians,” said the captain, “make good sailors, but those from the maritime provinces are the best seamen.”
Early in the voyage it was interesting to see the men at dinner. Their table utensils were wooden spoons and tubs, at the rate of ten spoons and one tub to every ten men. A piece of canvas upon the deck received the tub, which generally contained soup. With their hats off, the men dined leisurely and amicably. Soup and bread were the staple articles of food. Cabbage soup (schee) is the national diet of Russia, from the peasant up to the autocrat. Several times on the voyage we had soup on the captain’s table from the supply prepared for the crew, and I can testify to its excellence. The food of the sailors was carefully inspected before being served. When the soup was ready, the cook took a bowl of it, with a slice of bread and a clean spoon, and delivered the whole to the boatswain. From the boatswain it went to the officer of the deck, and from him to the chief officer, who delivered it to the captain. The captain carefully examined and tasted the soup. If unobjectionable, the bowl was returned to the galley and the dinner served at once.
A sailor’s ration in the Russian navy is more than sufficient for an ordinary appetite and digestion. The grog ration is allowed, and the boatswain’s call to liquid refreshment is longer and shriller than for any other duty. At the grog tub the sailor stands with uncovered head while performing the ceremonial abhorred of Good Templars. As of old in our navy, grog is stopped as a punishment. The drink ration can be entirely commuted and the food ration one half, but not more. Many sailors on the Variag practiced total abstinence at sea, and as the grog had been purchased in Japan at very high cost, the commutation money was considerable. Commutation is regulated according to the price of the articles where the ship was last supplied.
I was told that the sailor’s pay, including ordinary allowances, is about a hundred roubles a year. The sum is not munificent, but probably the Muscovite mariner is no more economical than the American one. In his liberty on shore he will get as drunk as the oft quoted ‘boiled owl.’ En passant I protest against the comparison, as it is a slander upon the owl.
At Petropavlovsk there was an amusing fraternization between the crews of the Variag and the Wright. The American sailors were scattered among the Russians in the proportion of one to six. Neither understood a word of the other’s language, and the mouth and eye were obliged to perform the duties of the ear. The flowing bowl was the manual of conversation between the Russians and their new friends. The Americans attempted to drink against fearful odds, and the result was unfortunate. They returned sadly intoxicated and were unfit for social or nautical duties until the next day.
When the Variag was at New York in 1863, many of her sailors were entrapped by bounty-brokers. When sailors were missing after liberty on shore, a search through the proper channels revealed them converted into American soldiers, much against their will. Usually they were found at New York, but occasionally a man reached the front before he was rescued. Some returned to the ship dressed as zouaves, others as artillerists; some in the yellow of cavalry, and so on through our various uniforms. Of course they were greatly jeered by their comrades.
Everyone conversant with Russian history knows that Peter the Great went to England, and afterward to Holland, to study ship building. He introduced naval construction from those countries, and brought from Holland the men to manage his first ships and teach his subjects the art of navigation. As a result of his enterprise, the principal parts of a Russian ship have English or Dutch names, some words being changed a little to adapt them to Russian pronunciation. The Dutch navigators exerted great influence upon the nautical language of Russia. To illustrate this Captain Lund said: “A Dutch pilot or captain could come on my ship and his orders in his own language would be understood by my crew. I mean simply the words of command, without explanations. On the other hand, a Dutch crew could understand my orders without suspecting they were Russian.”
Sitting among the officers in the ward-room, I endeavored to accustom my ear to the sound of the Russian language and learn to repeat the most needed phrases. I soon acquired the alphabet, and could count up to any extent; I could spell Russian words much as a schoolboy goes through his ‘first reader’ exercise, but was unable to attain rapid enunciation. I could never get over the impression that the Muscovite type had been set up by a drunken printer who couldn’t read. The R’s looked the wrong way, the L’s stood bottom upward, H’s became N’s, and C’s were S’s, and lower case and small caps were generally mixed up. The perplexities of Russian youth must be greater than ours, as they have thirty-six letters in their alphabet and every one of them must be learned. A brief study of Slavonic verbs and nouns convinced me they could never be acquired grammatically in the short time I proposed remaining in Russia, and so I gave them up.
What a hindrance to a traveler and literal man of the world is this confusion of tongues! There is no human being who can make himself verbally understood everywhere on this little globe. In the Russian empire alone there are more than a hundred spoken languages and dialects. The emperor, with all his erudition, has many subjects with whom he is unable to converse. What a misfortune to mankind that the Tower of Babel was ever commenced! The architect who planned it should receive the execration of all posterity.
The apartment I occupied was of goodly size, and contained a large writing desk. My bed was parallel to the keel, and hung so that it could swing when the ship rolled. Previous to my embarkation the room was the receptacle of a quantity of chronometers, sextants, charts, and other nautical apparatus. There were seventeen chronometers in one box, and a few others lay around loose. I never had as much time at my command before or since. Twice a day an officer came to wind these chronometers and note their variation. There were marine instruments enough in that room to supply a dozen sea-captains, but if the entire lot had been loan’d me, I never could have ascertained the ship’s position without asking somebody who knew it.
PLENTY OF TIME.
The partition separating me from the ward-room was built after the completion of the ship, and had a way of creaking like a thousand or more squeaky boots in simultaneous action. Every time we rolled, each board rubbed against its neighbor and waked the echoes of the cabin. The first time I slept in the room the partition seemed talking in Russian, and I distinctly remember that it named a majority of the cities and many noble families throughout the empire. After the first night it was powerless to disturb me. I thought it possible that on leaving the ship I might be in the condition of the woman, whose husband, a fearful snorer, was suddenly called from home. The lady passed several sleepless nights, until she hit upon the expedient of calling a servant with the coffee mill. The vigorous grinding of that household utensil had the effect of a powerful opiate.
At eight o’clock every morning, Yakuff, (the Russian for Jacob,) brought me a pitcher of water. When my toilet was over, he appeared with a cup of tea and a few cakes. We conversed in the beginning with a sign language, until I picked up enough Russian to ask for tea, water, bread, and other necessary things. At eleven we had breakfast in the captain’s cabin, where we discussed steaks, cutlets, tea, and cigars, until nearly noon. Dinner at six o’clock was opened with the never failing zakushka, or lunch, the universal preparative of the empire, and closed with tea and cigars. At eight o’clock tea was served again. After it, any one who chose could partake of the cup which cheers and inebriates.
RUSSIAN OFFICERS AT MESS.
One morning during my voyage a sailor died. The ocean burial occurred on the following day, and was conducted according to the ceremonial of the Eastern Church. At the appointed time, I went with Captain Lund to the place of worship, between decks. The corpse was in a canvas coffin, its head and breast being visible. The coffin, partially covered with the naval ensign, lay on a wide plank about two feet above the deck. At its head the priest was reading the burial service, while near him there was a group of sailors forming the choir. Captain Lund and several officers stood at the foot of the coffin, each holding a burning taper.
The service lasted about twenty minutes, and consisted of reading by the priest and responses by the choir. The censer was repeatedly swung, as in Catholic ceremonials, the priest bowing at the same time toward the sacred picture. Simultaneously all the candles were extinguished, and their several men advanced and kissed a small cross lying upon the coffin. The priest read a few lines from a written paper and placed it with the cross on the breast of the corpse. The coffin was then closed and carried upon the plank to the stern of the ship.
After a final chant by the choir, one end of the plank was lifted, and a single splash in the water showed where the body went down. During the service the flag floated at half mast. It was soon lowered amid appropriate music, which ended the burial at sea.
On the third day after leaving the Pacific we were shrouded in fog, but with it we had a fine southerly breeze that carried us rapidly on our course. The fog was so dense that we obtained no observation for four days, but so accurate was the sailing master’s computation that the difference between our observed and estimated positions was less than two miles.
When the fog rose we were fairly in Ghijiga Bay, a body of water shaped like a narrow V. Sharp eyes looking ahead discovered a vessel at anchor, and all hoped it was the Clara Bell. As we approached she developed into a barque, and gave us comfort, till her flag completed our delight. We threw the lead and began looking for anchorage.
Nine, eight, seven fathoms were successively reported, and for some minutes the depth remained at six and a half. A mile from the Clara Bell we dropped anchor, the ship trembling from, stem to stern as the huge chain ran through the hawse-hole. We were at the end of a nine days voyage.
CHAPTER VII.
We were fifteen miles from the mouth of Ghijiga river, the shoals forbidding nearer approach. The tide rises twenty-two feet in Ghijiga Bay, and to reach the lighthouse and settlement near the river, even with small boats, it is necessary to go with the tide. We learned that Major Abasa, of the Telegraph service, was at the light-house awaiting our arrival, and that we must start before midnight to reach the landing at the proper time.
Captain Lund ordered a huge box filled with provisions and other table ware, and threw in a few bottles of wine as ballast. I was too old a traveler to neglect my blankets and rubber coat, and found that Anossoff was as cautious as myself.
We prolonged our tea-drinking to ten o’clock and then started. Descending the ship’s side was no easy matter. It was at least three feet from the bottom of the gang-way ladder to the water, and the boat was dancing on the chopping sea like a pea on a hot shovel. Captain Lund descended first, followed by Anossoff. Then I made my effort, and behind me was a grim Cossack. Just as I reached the lowest step a wave swung the boat from the ship and left me hanging over the water. The Cossack, unmindful of things below, was backing steadily toward my head. I could not think of the Russian phrase for the occasion and was in some dilemma how to act. I shouted ‘Look out’ with such emphasis that the man understood me and halted with his heavy boots about two inches above my face. Clinging to the side ropes and watching my opportunity, I jumped at the right moment and happily hit the boat. The Cossack jumped into the lap of a sailor and received a variety of epithets for his carelessness. There are fourteen ways in the Russian language of calling a man a —— fool, and I think all of them were used.
ASCENDING THE BAY.
Wind and tide opposed each other and tossed us rather uncomfortably. The waves breaking over the bow saturated the Cossack and sprinkled some of the sailors. At the stern we managed to protect ourselves, though we caught occasionally a few drops of spray. Wrapped in my overcoat and holding a bear-skin on my knees, I studied the summer night in that high northern latitude. At midnight it seemed like day break, and I half imagined we had wrongly calculated the hours and were later than we supposed. Between sunset and sunrise the twilight crept along the horizon from Occident to Orient. Further north the inhabitants of the Arctic circle were enjoying the light of their long summer day. What a contrast to the bleak night of cold and darkness that stretches with faint glimmerings of dawn through nearly half the year. The shores of the bay were high perpendicular banks, sharply cut like the bluffs at Vicksburg. There are several head-lands, but none project far enough to form harbors behind them. The bottom furnishes good anchoring ground, but the bay is quite open to southerly winds.
Captain Lund dropped his chin to his breast and slept soundly. Anossoff raised his coat collar and drew in his head like a tortoise returning into his shell, but with all his efforts he did not sleep. I was wakeful and found that time dragged slowly. The light-house had no light and needed none, as the darkness was far from profound. In approaching the mouth of the river we discovered a cluster of buildings, and close at hand two beacons, like crosses, marking the direction of the channel.
There was a little surf breaking along the beach as our keel touched the ground. Our blankets came dripping from the bottom of the boat, and my satchel had taken water enough to spoil my paper collars and a dozen cigars. My greatest calamity on that night was the sudden and persistent stoppage of my watch. An occurrence of little moment in New York or London was decidedly unpleasant when no trusty watchmaker lived within four thousand miles.
Major Abasa and the Ispravnik of Ghijiga escorted us from the landing to their quarters, where we soon warmed ourselves with hot tea, and I took opportunity and a couple of bearskins and went to sleep. Late in the day we had a dinner of soup, pork and peas, reindeer meat, and berry pudding. The deer’s flesh was sweet and tender, with a flavor like that of the American elk.
In this part of Siberia there are many wide plains (tundras) covered with moss and destitute of trees. The blueberry grows there, but is less abundant than the “maroska,” a berry that I never saw in America. It is yellow when ripe, has an acid flavor, and resembles the raspberry in shape and size. We ate the maroska in as many forms as it could be prepared, and they told us that it grew in Scotland, Scandinavia, and Northern Russia.
TAKING THE CENSUS.
The ordinary residents at the mouth of Ghijiga river were the pilot and his family, with three or four Cossacks to row boats on the bay. The natives of the vicinity came there occasionally, but none were permanent citizens. The arrival of the Variag and Clara Bell gave unusual activity to the settlement, and the Ispravnik might have returned a large population had he imitated the practice of those western towns that take their census during the stay of a railway train or a steamboat. There was once, according to a rural historian, an aspiring politician in Tennessee who wanted to go to Congress. There were not inhabitants enough in his district to send him, and so he placed a couple of his friends at the railway station to take the names of passengers as they visited the refreshment saloon and entered or left the depot. In a short time the requisite constituency was secured and sworn to, so that the aspirant for official honor accomplished the wish of his heart.
LIGHT-HOUSE AT GHIJIGA.
The light-house on the promontory is a hexagonal edifice ten feet in diameter and height; it is of logs and has a flat top covered with dirt, whereon to kindle a fire. The interior is entered by a low door, and I found it floored with two sticks of wood and a mud puddle. One could reach the top by climbing a sloping pole notched like an American fence-post. The pilot resides at the foot of the bluff, and is expected to visit this beacon daily. A cannon, old enough to have served at Pultawa, stands near the light-house, in a condition of utter helplessness.
The houses were furnished quite primitively. Beds were of bearskins and blankets, and the floor was the only bedstead. There were rustic tables of hewn boards, and benches without backs. In a storehouse there was a Fairbanks’ scale, somewhat worn and rusty, and I found a tuneless melodeon from Boston and a coffee mill from New York.
The town of Ghijiga is on the bank of the river, twelve miles from the light-house, and the route thither was overland or by water, at one’s choice. Overland there was a footpath crossing a hill and a wet tundra. The journey by water was upon the Ghijiga river; five versts of rowing and thirteen of towing by men or dogs. As it was impossible to hire a horse, I repudiated the overland route altogether, and tried a brief journey on the river, but could not reach the town and return in time for certain engagements. Ghijiga has a population of less than three hundred, and closely resembles Petropavlovsk. Two or three foreign merchants go there annually with goods to exchange for furs which the Russian traders gather. The inhabitants are Russians or half breeds, the former predominating. The half breeds are said to possess all the vices of both races with the virtues of neither.
Mr. Bilzukavitch, the Ispravnik of Ghijiga, was a native of Poland, and governed seventy-two thousand square miles of territory, with a population of sixteen hundred taxed males. His military force comprised thirty Cossacks with five muskets, of which three were unserviceable. The native tribes included in the district of Ghijiga are the Koriaks and Chukchees; the Koriaks readily pay tribute and acknowledge the Russian authority, but the Chukchees are not yet fairly subdued. They were long in open war with the Russians, and though peace is now established, many of them are not tributary. Those who visit the Russian towns are compelled to pay tribute and become Imperial subjects before selling or purchasing goods. The Ispravnik is an artist of unusual merit, as evinced by an album of his sketches illustrating life in Northern Siberia. Some of them appeared like steel engravings, and testified to the skill and patience of the man who made them.
On my second day at Ghijiga I tried a river journey with a dog team. The bottom of the boat was on the ‘dug-out’ principle, and the sides were two planks meeting in sharp and high points at the ends. I had a seat on some bearskins on the plank flooring, and found it reasonably comfortable. One man steered the boat, another in the bow managed the towline, and a third, who walked on land, drove the dogs. We had seven canines—three pairs and a leader—pulling upon a deerskin towline fastened to a thole-pin. It was the duty of the man in the bow to regulate the towline according to circumstances. The dogs were unaccustomed to their driver, and balky in consequence. Two of them refused to pull when we started, and remained obstinate until persuaded with sticks. The driver used neither reins nor whip, but liberally employed the drift wood along the banks. Clubs were trumps in that day’s driving. The team was turned to the left by a guttural sound that no paper and ink can describe, and to the right by a rapid repetition of the word ‘ca.’
TOWED BY DOGS
Occasionally the path changed from one bank to the opposite. At such times we seated the dogs in the bow of the boat and ferried them over the river. In the boat they were generally quiet, though inclined to bite each other’s legs at convenient opportunities. One muddy dog shook himself over me; I forgave him, but his driver did not, the innocent brute receiving several blows for making his toilet in presence of passengers.
The Koriaks have a habit of sacrificing dogs to obtain a fortunate fishery. The animals are hung on limbs of trees, and the sacrifice always includes the best. Major Abasa urged them to give only their worthless dogs to the evil spirit, assuring them the fishery would result just as well, and they promised to try the experiment. Dogs were scarce and expensive in consequence of a recent canine epidemic. Only a day before our arrival three dogs developed hydrophobia and were killed.
The salmon fishery was very poor in 1866, and the inhabitants of the Ghijiga district were relying upon catching seals in the autumn. At Kolymsk, on the Kolyma river, the authorities require every man to catch one-tenth more than enough for his own use. This surplus is placed in a public storehouse and issued in case of famine. It is the rule to keep a three years supply always at hand. Several seasons of scarcity led to the adoption of the plan.
We were frequently visited by the natives from a Koriak village near the light-house. Their dress was of deer skin, and comprised a kotlanka, or frock, pantaloons, and boots, or leggings. Winter garments are of deer skin with its hair remaining, but summer clothing is of dressed skins alone. These natives appear below the ordinary stature, and their legs seemed to me very small. Ethnologists are divided concerning the origin of the Koriaks, some assigning them to the Mongol race and others to the Esquimaux. The Koriaks express no opinion on the disputed point, and have none.
Both sexes dress alike, and wear ornaments of beads in their ears. They have a curious custom of shaving the back part of the head, a la moine. Fashion is as arbitrary among the Koriaks as in Paris or New York, and dictates the cut of garments and the style of hair dressing with unyielding severity.
Like savages everywhere, these natives manifest a fondness for civilized attire. A party visited the Clara Bell and obtained some American clothing. One man sported a cast-off suit, in which he appeared as uneasy as an organ grinder’s monkey in a new coat. Another wore a sailor’s jacket from the Variag, and sported the number ‘19’ with manifest pride. A third had a fatigue cap, bearing the letters ‘U.S.’ in heavy brass, the rest of his costume being thoroughly aboriginal. One old fellow had converted an empty meat can into a hat without removing the printed label “stewed beef.” I gave him a pair of dilapidated gloves, which he donned at once.
The Koriaks are of two kinds, wandering and settled. The wanderers have great numbers of reindeer, and lead a migratory life in finding pasturage for their herds. The settled Koriaks are those who have lost their deer and been forced to locate where they can subsist by fishing. The former are kind and hospitable; the latter generally the reverse. Poverty has made them selfish, as it has made many a white man. All are honest to a degree unusual among savages. When Major Abasa traveled among them in the winter of 1865, they sometimes refused compensation for their services, and were scrupulously careful to guard the property of their guests. Once the Major purposely left some trivial articles. The next day a native brought them forward, and was greatly astonished when pay was offered for his trouble.
“This is your property,” was the response; “we could not keep it in our tents, and it was our duty to bring it to you.”
The wandering Koriaks estimate property in deer as our Indians count in horses. It is only among the thousands that wealth is eminently respectable. Some Koriaks own ten or twelve thousand deer, and one fortunate native is the possessor of forty thousand in his own name, (O-gik-a-mu-tik.) Though the wealthiest of his tribe, he does not drive fast horses, and never aspired to a seat in Congress. How much he has missed of real life!
Reindeer form the circulating medium, and all values are expressed in this four-footed currency. The animal supplies nearly every want. They eat his meat and pick his bones, and not only devour the meat, but the stomach, entrails, and their contents. When they stew the mass of meat and half digested moss, the stench is disgusting. Captain Kennan told me that when he arrived among the Koriaks the peculiar odor made him ill, and he slept out of doors with the thermometer at -35° rather than enter a tent where cooking was in progress.
KORIAK YOURT.
The Koriaks build their summer dwellings of light poles covered with skin, or bark. Their winter habitations are of logs covered with earth and partly sunk into the ground, the crevices being filled with moss. The summer dwellings are called balagans, and the winter ones yourts, but the latter name is generally applied to both. A winter yourt has a hole in the top, which serves for both chimney and door. The ladder for the descent is a hewn stick, with holes for one’s feet, and leans directly over the fire. Whatever the outside temperature, the yourt is suffocatingly hot within, and no fresh air can enter except through the top. When a large fire is burning and a thick volume of smoke pours out, the descent is very disagreeable. Russians and other white men, even after long practice, never attempt it without a shudder.
The yourt is generally circular or oblong, and its size is proportioned to the family of the owner. The fire is in the center, and the sleeping apartments are ranged around the walls. These apartments, called ‘polags,’ are about six feet square and four or five high, partitioned with light poles and skin curtains. Owing to the high temperature the natives sleep entirely naked. Sometimes in the coldest nights their clothing is hung out of doors to rid it of certain parasites not unknown in civilization. Benumbed with, frost, the insects lose their hold and fall into the snow, to the great comfort of those who nursed and fed them. The body of a Koriak, considered as a microcosm, is remarkably well inhabited.
Captain Kennan gave me a graphic description of the Koriak marriage ceremonial. The lover must labor for the loved one’s father, not less than one nor more than five years. No courtship is allowed during this period, and the young man must run the risk of his love being returned. The term of service is fixed by agreement between the stern parent and the youth.
At an appointed day the family and friends are assembled in a yourt, the old women being bridesmaids. The bride is placed in one polag and the bridegroom in the next. At a given signal a race commences, the bride leading. Each must enter every polag, and the man must catch his prize in a specified way before she makes the circuit of the yourt.
The bridesmaids, armed with long switches, offer every assistance to the woman and equal hindrance to the man. For her they lift the curtains of the polags, but hold them down against her pursuer and pound him with their switches. Unless she stops voluntarily it is utterly impossible to overtake her within the circuit. If she is not overtaken the engagement is ‘off,’ and the man must retire or serve again for the privilege of another love chase. Generally the pursuit is successful; the lover doubtless knows the temper of the lovee before becoming her father’s apprentice. But coquettes are not unknown in Koriakdom, and the pursuing youths are sometimes left in the lurch—or the polags.
Should the lover overtake the maiden, before making the circuit, both remain seven days and nights in a polag. Their food is given them under the curtain during that period, and they cannot emerge for any purpose whatever. The bridesmaids then perform a brief but touching ceremonial, and the twain are pronounced one flesh.
Northeast of Ghijiga is the country of the Chukchees, a people formerly hostile to the Koriaks. The feuds are not entirely settled, but the ill feeling has diminished and both parties maintain a dignified reserve. The Chukchees are hunters and traders, and have large herds of reindeer but very few dogs. They are the most warlike of these northern races, and long held the Russians at bay. They go far from shore with their baydaras, or seal skin boats, visiting islands along the coast, and frequently crossing to North America. Their voyages are of a mercantile character, the Chukchee buying at the Russian towns and selling his goods among the Esquimaux.
At Ghijiga I made a short voyage in a baydara. The frame appeared very fragile, and the seal skin covering displayed several leaks. I was unwilling to risk myself twenty feet from land, but after putting me ashore the Koriak boatman pulled fearlessly into the bay.
The Chukchee trader has a crew of his own race to paddle his light canoe. Occasionally the baydaras are caught in storms and must be lightened. I have the authority of Major Abasa that in such case the merchant keeps his cargo and throws overboard his crew. Goods and furs are costly, but men are cheap and easily replaced. The crew is entirely reconciled to the state of affairs, and drowns itself with that resignation known only to pagans.
“But,” I asked, “do not the men object to this kind of jettison?”
“I believe not,” was the major’s reply; “they are only discharging their duty to their employer. They go over the side just as they would step from an over-laden sledge.”
DISCHARGING A DECK LOAD.
I next inquired if the trader did not first throw out the men to whom he was most indebted, but could not obtain information on that point. It is probable that with an eye to business he disposes promptly of his creditors and keeps debtors to the last. What a magnificent system of squaring accounts!
The Chukchees have mingled much with whalemen along Anadyr Bay and the Arctic Ocean, and readily adopt the white man’s vices. They drink whisky without fear, and will get very drunk if permitted. When Captain Macrae’s telegraph party landed at the mouth of the Anadyr the natives supposed the provision barrels were full of whisky, and became very importunate for something to drink. The captain made a mixture of red pepper and vinegar, which he palmed off as the desired article. All were pleased with it, and the hotter it was the better.
One native complained that its great heat burned the skin from his throat before he could swallow enough to secure intoxication. The fame of this whisky was wide-spread. Captain Kennan said he heard at Anadyrsk and elsewhere of its wonderful strength, and was greatly amused when he arrived at Macrae’s and heard the whole story.
Many of these natives have learned English from whalemen and speak enough to be understood. Gov. Bilzukavitch visited Anadyrsk in the spring of 1866, and met there a Chukchee chief. Neither spoke the other’s language, and so the governor called his Koriak servant. The same dilemma occurred, as each was ignorant of the other’s vernacular. There was an awkward pause until it was discovered that both Koriak and Chukchee could speak English. Business then proceeded without difficulty.
REINDEER RIDE.
Among the Chukchees a deer can be purchased for a pound of tobacco, but the price increases as one travels southward. With the Koriaks it is four or five roubles, at Ohotsk ten or fifteen, and on the banks of the Amoor not often less than fifty. South of the Amoor the reindeer is not a native. I am inclined to discredit marry stories of the wonderful swiftness of this animal. He sometimes performs remarkable journeys, but ordinarily he is outstripped by a good dog team. Reindeer have the advantage of finding their food under the snow, while provision for dogs must be carried on the sledge. When turned out in winter, the deer digs beneath the snow and seeks his food without troubling his master. The American sailors when they have liberty on shore in these northern regions, invariably indulge in reindeer rides, to the disgust of the animals and their owners. The deer generally comes to a halt in the first twenty yards, and nothing less than building a fire beneath him can move him from his tracks.
There is a peculiar mushroom in Northeastern Siberia spotted like a leopard and surmounted with a small hood. It grows in other parts of Russia, where it is poisonous, but among the Koriaks it is simply intoxicating. When one finds a mushroom of this kind he can sell it for three or four reindeer. So powerful is this fungus that the fortunate native who eats it remains drunk for several days. By a process of transmission which I will not describe, as it might offend fastidious persons, half a dozen individuals may successively enjoy the effects of a single mushroom, each of them in a less degree than his predecessor.
Like savages every where, these northern natives are greatly pleased with pictures and study them attentively. I heard that several copies of American illustrated papers were circulating among the Chukchees, who handled them with great care. There is a superstitious reverence for pictures mingled with childlike curiosity. People possessing no written language find the pictorial representations of the civilized world the nearest approach to savage hieroglyphics.
The telegraph was an object of great wonder to all the natives. In Ghijiga a few hundred yards of wire were put up in the spring of 1866. Crowds gathered to see the curiosity, and many messages were exchanged to prove that the machine really spoke. At Anadyrsk Captain Kennan arranged a small battery and held in his pocket the key that controlled the circuit. Then the marvel began. The instrument told when persons entered or left the room, when any thing was taken from the table without permission, or any impropriety committed. Even covered with a piece of deer skin, it could see distinctly. With the human tendency to ascribe to the devil anything not understood, these natives looked upon the telegraph as supernatural. As it showed no desire to harm them, they exhibited no fear but abundance of respect.
The Chukchees and Koriaks are creditable workers in metals and ivory. I saw animal representations rudely but well cut in ivory, and spear-heads that would do credit to any blacksmith. Their hunting knives, made from hoop-iron, are well fashioned, and some of the handles are tastefully inlaid with copper, brass, and silver. In trimming their garments they are very skillful, and cut bits of deerskin into various fantastic shapes.
At Ghijiga I bought a kotlanka, intending to wear it in my winter travel. Its sleeves were purposely very long, and the hood had a wide fringe of dogskin to shield the face. I could never put the thing on with ease, and ultimately sold it to a curiosity hunter. Gloves and mittens, lined with squirrel skin, are made at Ghijiga, and worn in all the region within a thousand miles.
A great hindrance to winter travel in Northeastern Siberia is the prevalence of poorgas, or snow storms with wind. On the bleak tundras where there is no shelter, the poorgas sweep with pitiless severity. Some last but a few hours, with the thermometer ten or twenty degrees below zero. Sometimes the wind takes up whole masses of snow and forms drifts several feet deep in a few moments. Travelers, dogs, and sledges are frequently buried out of sight, and remain in the snow till the storm is over.
Dogs begin to howl at the approach of a poorga, long before men can see any indication of it. They display a tendency to burrow in the snow if the wind is cold and violent. Poorgas do not occur at regular intervals, but are most prevalent in February and March.
A few years ago a party of Koriaks crossing the great tundra north of Kamchatka encountered a severe storm. It was of unusual violence, and soon compelled a halt. Dogs and men burrowed into the snow to wait the end of the gale. Unfortunately they halted in a wide hollow that, unperceived by the party, filled with a deep drift. The snow contains so much air that it is not difficult to breathe in it at a considerable depth, and the accumulation of a few feet is not alarming. Hour after hour passed, and the place grew darker, till two men of the party thought it well to look outside. Digging to the surface, the depth proved much greater than expected.
Quite exhausted with their labor, they gained the open air, and found the storm had not ceased. Alarmed for their companions they tried to reach them, but the hole where they ascended was completely filled. The snow drifted rapidly, and they were obliged to change their position often to keep near the surface. When the poorga ended they estimated it had left fifty feet of snow in that spot.
Again endeavoring to rescue their companions, and in their weak condition finding it impossible, they sought the nearest camp. In the following summer the remains of men and dogs were found where the melting snow left them. They had huddled close together, and probably perished from suffocation.
CHAPTER VIII.
We remained four days at Ghijiga and then sailed for Ohotsk. For two days we steamed to get well out of the bay, and then stopped the engines aird depended upon canvas. A boy who once offered a dog for sale was asked the breed of the pup.
“He was a pointer,” replied the youth; “but father cut off his ears and tail last week and made a bull-dog of him.”
Lowering the chimney and hoisting the screw, the Yariag became a sailing ship, though her steaming propensities remained, just as the artificial bull-dog undoubtedly retained the pointer instinct. The ship had an advantage over the animal in her ability to resume her old character at pleasure.
On the fourth day, during a calm, we were surrounded by sea-gulls like those near San Francisco. We made deep sea soundings and obtained specimens of the bottom from depths of two or three hundred fathoms. Near the entrance of Ghijiga Bay we brought up coral from eighty fathoms of water, and refuted the theory that coral grows only in the tropics and at a depth of less than two hundred feet. The specimens were both white and red, resembling the moss-like sprigs often seen in museums. The temperature of the water was 47° Fahrenheit. Captain Lund told me coral had been found in the Ohotsk sea in latitude 55° in a bed of considerable extent.
Every day when calm we made soundings, which were carefully recorded for the use of Russian chart makers. Once we found that the temperature of the bottom at a depth of two hundred fathoms, was at the freezing point of water. The doctor proposed that a bottle of champagne should be cooled in the marine refrigerator. The bottle was attached to the lead and thrown overboard.
“I send champagne to Neptune,” said the doctor. “He drink him and he be happy.”
When the lead returned to the surface it came alone. Neptune drank the champagne and retained the bottle as a souvenir.
One day the sailors caught a gull and painted it red. When the bird was released he greatly alarmed his companions, and as long as we could see them, they shunned his society. At least eighty miles from land we had a dozen sparrows around us at once. A small hawk seized one of these birds and seated himself on a spar for the purpose of breakfasting. A fowling piece brought him to the deck, where we examined and pronounced him of the genus Falco, species NISUS, or in plain English, a sparrow hawk. During the day we saw three varieties of small birds, one of them resembling the American robin. The sailors caught two in their hands, and released them without injury.
Approaching Ohotsk a fog bank shut out the land for an hour or two, and when it lifted we discovered the harbor. A small sand-bar intervened between the ocean and the town, but did not intercept the view. As at Petropavlovsk, the church was the most prominent object and formed an excellent landmark. With my glass I surveyed the line of coast where the surf was breaking, but was long unable to discover an entering place. The Ohota river is the only harbor, and entirely inaccessible to a ship like the Variag.
Descending the ship’s side after we anchored, I jumped when the boat was falling and went down five or six feet before alighting. Both hands were blistered as the gang-way ropes passed through them. Keeping the beacons carefully in line, we rolled over the bar on the top of a high wave, and then followed the river channel to the landing.
Many years ago Ohotsk was the most important Russian port on the waters leading to the Pacific. Supplies for Kamchatka and Russian America were brought overland from Yakutsk and shipped to Petropavlovsk, Sitka, and other points under Russian control. Many ships for the Pacific Ocean and Ohotsk sea were built there. I was shown the spot where Bering’s vessel was constructed, with its cordage and extra sails of deerskin, and its caulking of moss. Billings’ expedition in a ship called Russia’s Glory, was organized here for an exploration of the Arctic ocean. At one time the Government had foundries and workshops at Ohotsk. The shallowness of water on the bar was a great disadvantage, as ships drawing more than twelve feet were unable to enter. Twenty years ago the government abandoned Ohotsk for Ayan, and when the Amoor was opened it gave up the latter place. The population, formerly exceeding two thousand, is now less than two hundred.
We landed on a gravelly beach, where we were met by a crowd of Cossacks and “Lamuti.” The almond-shaped eyes and high cheek bones of the latter betray their Mongolian origin. As I walked among them each hailed me with sdrastveteh, the Russian for ‘good-morning.’ I endeavored to reply with the same word, but my pronunciation was far from accurate. Near these natives there were several Yakuts and Tunguze, with physiognomies unlike the others. The Russian empire contains more races of men than any rival government, and we frequently find the population of a single locality made up from two or more branches of the human family. In this little town with not more than ten or twelve dozens of inhabitants, there were representatives of the Slavonic, the Tartar, and the Mongolian races.
We found Captain Mahood, of the Telegraph service, in a quiet residence, where he had passed the summer in comparative idleness. He had devoted himself to exploring the country around Ohotsk and studying the Russian language. “We don’t expect to starve at present,” said the captain; “Providence sends us fish, the emperor sends us flour, and the merchants furnish tea and sugar. We have lived so long on a simple bill of fare that we are almost unfitted for any other.”
We had a lunch of dried fish, tea, whisky, and cigars, and soon after went to take tea at a house where most of the Variag’s officers were assembled. The house was the property of three brothers, who conducted the entire commerce of Ohotsk. The floor of the room where we were feasted was of hewn plank, fastened with enormous nails, and appeared able to resist anything short of an earthquake. The windows were double to keep out the winter’s cold, but on that occasion they displayed a profusion of flower pots. The walls were papered, and many pictures were hung upon them. Every part of the room was scrupulously clean.
WAGON RIDE WITH DOGS.
Three ladies were seated on a sofa, and a fourth occupied a chair near them. The three were the wives of the merchant brothers, and the fourth a visiting friend. One with black eyes and hair was dressed tastefully and even elaborately. The eldest, who acted as hostess, was in black, and her case in receiving visitors would have done credit to a society dame in St. Petersburg. By way of commencement we had tea and nalifka, the latter a kind of currant wine of local manufacture and very well flavored. They gave us corned beef and bread, each person taking his plate upon his knee as at an American pic-nic, and after two or three courses of edibles we had coffee and cigarettes, the latter from a manufactory at Yakutsk. According to Russian etiquette each of us thanked the hostess for her courtesy.
Out in the broad street there were many dogs lying idle in the sunshine or biting each other. A small wagon with a team of nine dogs carried a quantity of tea and sugar from the Variag’s boats to a warehouse. When the work was finished I took a ride on the wagon, and was carried at good speed. I enjoyed the excursion until the vehicle upset and left me sprawling on the gravel with two or three bruises and a prejudice against that kind of traveling. By the time I gained my feet the dogs were disappearing in the distance, and fairly running away from the driver. Possibly they are running yet.
An old weather beaten church and equally old barracks are near each other, an appropriate arrangement in a country where church and state are united. The military garrison includes thirty Cossacks, who are under the orders of the Ispravnik. They row the pilot boat when needed, travel on courier or other service, guard the warehouses, and when not wanted by government labor and get drunk for themselves. The governor was a native of Poland, and it struck me as a curious fact that the ispravniks of Kamchatka, Ghijiga, and Ohotsk were Poles.
Cows and dogs are the only stock maintained at Ohotsk. The former live on grass in summer, and on hay and fish in whiter. Though repeatedly told that cows and horses in Northeastern Siberia would eat dried fish with avidity, I was inclined to skepticism. Captain Mahood told me he had seen them eating fish in winter and appearing to thrive on it. What was more singular, he had seen a cow eating fresh salmon in summer when the hills were covered with grass.
There is a story that Cuvier in a fit of illness, once imagined His Satanic Majesty standing before him.
“Ah!” said the great naturalist, “horns, hoofs; graniverous; needn’t fear him.”
I wonder if Cuvier knew the taste of the cows at Ohotsk? No ship had visited Ohotsk for nearly a year before our arrival, though half a dozen whalers had passed in sight. A steamer goes annually from the Amoor with a supply of flour and salt on government account. The mail comes once a year, so that the postmaster has very little to do for three hundred and sixty-four days. Sometimes the mail misses, and then people must wait another twelvemonth for their letters. What a nice residence it would be for a young man whose sweetheart at a distance writes him every day. He would get three hundred and sixty-five letters at once, and in the case of a missing mail, seven hundred and thirty of them.
YEARLY MAIL.
Bears are quite numerous around Ohotsk, and their dispositions do not savor of gentleness. Only a few days before our visit a native was partly devoured within two miles of town.
Many of the dogs are shrewd enough to catch their own fish, but have not learned how to cure them for winter use. When at Ohotsk I went to the bank of the river as the tide was coming in, and watched the dogs at their work. Wading on the sand bars and mud flats till the water was almost over their backs, they stood like statues for several minutes. Waiting till a salmon was fairly within reach, a dog would snap at him with such accuracy of aim that he rarely missed.
I kept my eye on a shaggy brute that stood with little more than his head out of water. His eyes were in a fixed position, and for twelve or fifteen minutes he did not move a muscle. Suddenly his head disappeared, and after a brief struggle he came to shore with a ten-pound salmon in his jaws. None of the cows are skilled in salmon catching.
DOGS FISHING.
Two or three years ago a mail carrier from Ayan to Yakutsk was visited by a bear during a night halt. The mail bag was lying by a tree a few steps from the Cossack, and near the bank of a brook. The bear seized and opened the pouch, regardless of the government seal on the outside. After turning the letter package several times in his paws, he tossed it into the brook. The Cossack discharged his pistol to frighten the bear, and then fished the letters from the water. It is proper to say the package was addressed to an officer somewhat famous for his bear-hunting proclivities.
When we left Ohotsk at the close of day, we took Captain Mahood and the governor to dine with us, and when our guests departed we hoisted anchor and steamed away. Captain Lund burned a blue light as a farewell signal, and we could see an answering fire on shore. Our course lay directly southward, and when our light was extinguished we were barely visible through the distance and gloom.
“But true to our course, though our shadow grow dark,
We’ll trim our broad sail as before;
And stand by the rudder that governs the bark,
Nor ask how we look from the shore.”
CHAPTER IX.
On the Ohotsk Sea we had calms with light winds, and made very slow progress. One day while the men were exercising at the guns, the look out reported a sail. We were just crossing the course from Ayan to Ghijiga, and were in the Danzig’s track. The strange vessel shortened sail and stood to meet us, and before long we were satisfied it was our old acquaintance. At sunset we were several miles apart and nearing very slowly. The night was one of the finest I ever witnessed at sea; the moon full and not a cloud visible, and the wind carrying us four or five miles an hour. The brig was lying to, and we passed close under her stern, shortening our sail as we approached her. Everybody was on deck and curious to learn the news.
“SDRASTVETEH,” shouted Captain Lund when we were in hearing distance.
“SDRASTVETEH,” responded the clear voice of Phillipeus; and then followed the history of the Danzig’s voyage.
“We had a good voyage to Ayan, and staid there four days. We are five days out, and passed through a heavy gale on the second day. Going to Ghijiga.”
Then we replied with the story of our cruise and asked for news from Europe.
“War in progress. France and Austria against Prussia, Italy, and Russia. No particulars.”
By this time the ships were separated and our conversation ended. It was conducted in Russian, but I knew enough of the language to comprehend what was said. There was a universal “eh!” of astonishment as the important sentence was completed.
Here were momentous tidings; France and Russia taking part in a war that was not begun when I left America. A French fleet was in Japanese waters and might be watching for us. It had two ships, either of them stronger than the Variag.
As the Danzig disappeared we went below. “I hoped to go home at the end of this voyage,” said the captain as we seated around his table; “but we must now remain in the Pacific. War has come and may give us glory or the grave; possibly both.”
For an hour we discussed the intelligence and the probabilities of its truth. As we separated, Captain Lund repeated with emphasis his opinion that the news was false.
“I do not believe it,” said he; “but I must prepare for any emergency.”
In the wardroom the officers were exultant over the prospect of promotion and prize money. The next day the men were exercised at the guns, and for the rest of the voyage they could not complain of ennui. The deck was cleared of all superfluous rubbish, and we were ready for a battle. The shotted case for the signal books was made ready, and other little preparations attended to. I seemed carried back to my days of war, and had vivid recollections of being stormed at with shot and shell.
From Ohotsk to the mouth of the Amoor is a direct course of about four hundred miles. A light draught steamer would have made short work of it, but we drew too much water to enter the northern passage. So we were forced to sail through La Perouse Straits and up the Gulf of Tartary to De Castries Bay. The voyage was more than twelve hundred miles in length, and had several turnings. It was like going from New York to Philadelphia through Harrisburg, or from Paris to London through Brussels and Edinboro’.
A good wind came to our relief and took us rapidly through La Perouse straits. There is a high rock in the middle of the passage covered with sea-lions, like those near San Francisco. In nearly all weather the roaring of these creatures can be heard, and is a very good substitute for a fog-bell. I am not aware that any government allows a subsidy to the sea-lions.
We saw the northern coast of Japan and the southern end of Sakhalin, both faint and shadowy in the fog and distance. The wind freshened to a gale, and we made twelve knots an hour under double reefed mainsails and topsails. In the narrow straits we escaped the heavy waves encountered at sea in a similar breeze. Turning at right angles in the Gulf of Tartary, we began to roll until walking was no easy matter. The wind abated so that by night we shook out our reefs and spread the royals and to’gallant sails to keep up our speed.
As we approached De Castries the question of war was again discussed.
“If I find only one French ship there,” said the captain, “I shall proceed. If there are two I cannot fight them, and must run to San Francisco or some other neutral port.”
Just then San Francisco was the last place I desired to visit, but I knew I must abide the fortunes of war. We talked of the possibility of convincing a French captain that we were engaged in an international enterprise, and therefore not subject to capture. Anossoff joined me in arranging a plan to cover contingencies.
As we approached De Castries we could see the spars of a large ship over the islands at the entrance of the harbor. A moment later she was announced.
“A corvette, with steam up.”
She displayed her flag—an English one. As we dropped anchor in the harbor a boat came to us, and an officer mounted the side and descended to the cabin. The ship proved to be the British Corvette Scylla, just ready to sail for Japan. Escaping her we did not encounter Charybdis. The mission of the Scylla was entirely pacific, and her officer informed us there had been war between Prussia and Austria, but at last accounts all Europe was at peace. The war of 1866 was finished long before I knew of its commencement.
De Castries Bay is on the Gulf of Tartary, a hundred and thirty-five miles from Nicolayevsk. La Perouse discovered and surveyed it in 1787, and named it in honor of the French Minister of Marine. It is in Lat. 51° 28′ N., Lon. 140° 49′ E., and affords good and safe anchorage. Near the entrance are several islands, which protect ships anchored behind them. The largest of these islands is occupied as a warehouse and coal depot, and has an observatory and signal station visible from the Gulf. The town is small, containing altogether less than fifty buildings. It is a kind of ocean port to Nicolayevsk and the Amoor river, but the settlement was never a flourishing one.
Twelve miles from the landing is the end of Lake Keezee, which opens into the Amoor a hundred and fifty miles from its mouth. It was formerly the custom to send couriers by way of Lake Keezee and the Amoor to Nicolayevsk to notify consigners and officials of the arrival of ships. Now the telegraph is in operation and supercedes the courier.
In 1855 an English fleet visited De Castries in pursuit of some Russian vessels known to have ascended the Gulf. When the fleet came in sight there were four Russian ships in port, and a few shots were exchanged, none of them taking effect. During a heavy fog in the following night and day the Russians escaped and ascended the Straits of Tartary toward the Amoor. The Aurora, the largest of these ships, threw away her guns, anchors, and every heavy article, and succeeded in entering the Amoor. The English lay near De Castries, and could not understand where the Russians had gone, as the southern entrance of the Amoor was then unknown to geographers.
We reached this port on the morning of September eleventh. The Variag could go no further owing to her draft of water, but fortunately the Morje, a gunboat of the Siberian fleet, was to sail for Nicolayevsk at noon, and we were happily disappointed in our expectations of waiting several days at De Castries. About eleven o’clock I left the Variag and accompanied Captain Lund, the doctor, and Mr. Anassoff into the boat dancing at the side ladder. Half an hour after we boarded the Morje she was under way, and we saw the officers and men of the corvette waving us farewell.
The Morje drew eight feet of water, and was admirably adapted to the sea coast service. There were several vessels of this class in the Siberian fleet, and their special duty was to visit the ports of Kamchatka, North Eastern Siberia, and Manjouria, and act as tow boats along the Straits of Tartary. The officers commanding them are sent from Russia, and generally remain ten years in this service. At the end of that time, if they wish to retire they can do so and receive half-pay for the rest of their lives. This privilege is not granted to officers in other squadrons, and is given on the Siberian station in consequence of the severer duties and the distance from the centers of civilization.
In its military service the government makes inducements of pay and promotion to young officers who go to Siberia. I frequently met officers who told me they had sought appointments in the Asiatic department in preference to any other. The pay and allowances are better than in European Russia, promotion is more rapid, and the necessities of life are generally less costly. Duties are more onerous and privations are greater, but these drawbacks are of little consequence to an enterprising and ambitious soldier.
The Morje had no accommodations for passengers, and the addition to her complement was something serious. Captain Lund, the doctor, Mr. Anassoff, and myself were guests of her captain. The cabin was given to us to arrange as best we could. My proposal to sleep under the table was laughed at as impracticable. I knew what I was about, having done the same thing years before on Mississippi steamers. When you must sleep on the floor where people may walk about, always get under the table if possible. You run less risk of receiving boot heels in your mouth and eyes, and whole acres of brogans in your ribs. The navigation of the Straits of Tartary is very intricate, the water being shallow and the channel tortuous. From De Castries to Cape Catherine there is no difficulty, but beyond the cape the channel winds like the course of the Ohio, and at many points bends quite abruptly. The government has surveyed and buoyed it with considerable care, so that a good pilot can take a light draught steamer from De Castries to Nicolayevsk in twelve or fifteen hours. Sailing ships are greatly retarded by head winds and calms, and often spend weeks on the voyage. In 1857 Major Collins was nineteen days on the barque Bering from one of these ports to the other.
TEACHINGS OF EXPERIENCE.
In the straits we passed four vessels, one of them thirty days from De Castries and only half through the worst of the passage. The water shoals so rapidly in some places that it is necessary to sound on both sides of the ship at once. Vessels drawing less than ten feet can pass to the Ohotsk sea around the northern end of Sakhalin island, but the channel is even more crooked than the southern one.
We anchored at sunset, and did not move till daybreak. At the hour of sunset, on this vessel as on the corvette, we had the evening chant of the service of the Eastern church. While it was in progress a sentinel on duty over the cabin held his musket in his left hand and made the sign of the cross with his right. Soldier and Christian at the same moment, he observed the outward ceremonial of both. The crew, with uncovered beads, stood upon the deck and chanted the prayer. As the prayer was uttered the national flag, lowered from the mast, seemed, like those beneath it, to bow in adoration of the Being who holds the waters in the hollow of His hand, and guides and controls the universe.
While passing the straits of Tartary we observed a mirage of great beauty, that pictured the shores of Sakhalin like a tropical scene. We seemed to distinguish cocoa and palm trees, dark forests and waving fields of cane, along the rocky shores, that were really below the horizon. Then there were castles, with lofty walls and frowning battlements, cloud-capped towers, gorgeous palaces, and solemn temples, rising among the fields and forests, and overarched with curious combinations of rainbow hues. The mirage frequently occurs in this region, but I was told it rarely attained such beauty as on that occasion.
Sakhalin island, which separates the Gulf of Tartary from the Ohotsk sea, extends through nine degrees of latitude and belongs partly to Russia and partly to Japan. The Japanese have settlements in the Southern portion, engaging in trade with the natives and catching and curing fish. The natives are of Tunguze origin, like those of the lower Amoor, and subsist mainly upon fish. The Russians have settlements at Cape Dui, where there is excellent coal in veins eighteen feet thick and quite near the coast. Russia desired the entire island, but the Japanese positively refuse to negotiate. Some years ago the Siberian authorities established a colony near the Southern extremity, but its existence was brief.
At three o’clock in the afternoon of September eleventh we entered the mouth of the Amoor, the great river of Asiatic Russia. The entrance is between two Capes or headlands, seven miles apart and two or three hundred feet high. The southern one, near which we passed, is called Cape Pronge, and has a Gilyak village at its base. Below this cape the hills border the Gulf and frequently show precipitous sides. The shallow water at their base renders the land undesirable for settlement. The timber is small and indicates the severity of the cold seasons. In their narrowest part the Straits are eight miles wide and frozen in winter. The natives have a secure bridge of ice for at least four months of the year. De Castries Bay is generally filled with ice and unsafe for vessels from October to March.
From the time we entered the Gulf of Tartary the water changed its color, growing steadily dirtier until we reached the Amoor. At the mouth of the river I found it a weak tea complexion, like the Ohio at its middle stage, and was told that it varied through all the shades common to rivers according to its height and the circumstances of season. I doubt if it ever assumes the hue of the Missouri or the Sacramento, though it is by no means impossible.
Passing Cape Pronge and looking up the river, a background of hills and mountains made a fine landscape with beautiful lights and shadows from the afternoon sun. The channel is marked with stakes and buoys and with beacons along the shore. The pilots when steering frequently turned their backs to the bow of the steamer and watched the beacons over the stern. As we approached Nicolayevsk there was a mirage that made the ships in port appear as if anchored in the town itself.
We passed Chinyrack, the fortress that guards the river, and is surrounded, as if for concealment, with a grove of trees. Along the bank above Chinyrack there are warehouses of various kinds, all belonging to government. Soon after dark we anchored before the town, and below several other vessels. My sea travel was ended till I should reach Atlantic waters.
CHAPTER X.
At Nicolayevsk it is half a mile from the anchorage to the shore. A sand spit projects from the lower end of the town and furnishes a site for government workshops and foundries. Above this tongue of land the water is shallow and allows only light draft and flat bottomed boats to come to the piers. All sea-going vessels remain, in midstream, where they are discharged by lighters. There is deeper water both above and below the town, and I was told that a change of site had been meditated. The selection of the spot where Nicolayevsk stands was owing to the advantages of the sand spit as a protection to river boats.
After dining on the Morje we went on shore, and landed at a flight of wooden steps in the side of a pier. The piers of Nicolayevsk are constructed with ‘cribs’ about twenty feet apart and strong timbers connecting them. The flooring was about six feet above water, and wide enough for two teams to pass.
Turning to the left at the end of the pier, we found a plank sidewalk ascending a sloping road in the hillside. The pier reminded me of Boston or New York, but it lacked the huge warehouses and cheerful hackmen to render the similarity complete. “This is Natchez, Mississippi,” I said as we moved up the hill, “and this is Cairo, Illinois,” as my feet struck the plank sidewalk. The sloping road came to an end sooner than at Natchez, and the sidewalk did not reveal any pitfalls like those in Cairo a few years ago. The bluff where the city stands is about fifty feet high, and the ascent of the road so gentle that one must be very weak to find it fatiguing. The officers who came on shore with me went to the club rooms to pass the evening. I sought the residence of Mr. H.G.O. Chase, the Commercial Agent of the United States, and representative of the house of Boardman. I found him living very comfortably in bachelor quarters that contained a library and other luxuries of civilization. In his sitting-room there was a map of the Russian empire and one of Boston, and there were lithographs and steel engravings, exhibiting the good taste of the owner.
Rising early the next morning, I began a study of the town. Nicolayevsk was founded in 1853 in the interest of the Russian government, but nominally as a trading post of the Russian American Company. Very soon it became a military post, and its importance increased with the commencement of hostilities between Russia and the Western powers in 1854. Foundries were established, fortifications built, warehouses erected, and docks laid out from time to time, until the place has attained a respectable size. Its population in 1866 was about five thousand, with plenty of houses for all residents.
Nicolayevsk is emphatically a government town, five-sixths of the inhabitants being directly or indirectly in the emperor’s employ. “What is this building?” I asked, pointing to a neat house on the principal street. “The residence of the Admiral,” was the reply.
“And this?”
“That is the Chancellerie.”
“And this?”
“The office of the Captain of the Port.”
So I questioned till three-fourths the larger and better establishments had been indicated. Nearly all were in some way connected with government. Many of the inhabitants are employed in the machine shops, others in the arsenals and warehouses, and a goodly number engage in soldiering. The multitude of whisky shops induces the belief that the verb ‘to soldier’ is conjugated in all its moods and tenses. The best part of the town is along its front, where there is a wide and well made street called ‘the Prospect.’
The best houses are on the Prospect, and include the residences of the chief officials and the merchants. On the back streets is the ‘Slobodka,’ or poorer part of the town. Here the laborers of every kind have their dwellings, and here the lafka is most to be found. Lafkas are chiefly devoted to liquor selling, and are as numerous in proportion to the population as beer-shops in Chicago. I explored the ‘slobodka,’ but did not find it attractive. Dogs were as plentiful and as dubious in breed and character as in the Sixth Ward or near Castle Garden.
The church occupies a prominent position in the foreground of the town, and, like nearly all edifices at Nicolayevsk, is built of logs. Back of it is the chancellerie, or military and civil office, with a flag-staff and semaphore for signalling vessels in the harbor. Of other public buildings I might name the naval office, police office, telegraph house, and a dozen others.
On the morning after my arrival I called on Admiral Fulyelm, the governor of the Maritime Provinces of Eastern Siberia. The region he controls includes Kamchatka and all the seacoast down to Corea, and has an area of nearly seven hundred and fifty thousand square miles. He had been only a few months in command, and was busily at work regulating his department. He spoke English fluently, and was well acquainted with America and American affairs. During my voyage on the Variag I heard much of the charming manners of Madame Fulyelm, and regretted to learn she was spending the summer in the country.
The machine shops, foundries, and dock-yard are described in Russian by the single word ‘port.’ I visited the port of Nicolayevsk and found it more extensive than one might expect in this new region. There were machines for rolling, planing, cutting, casting, drilling, hammering, punching, and otherwise treating and maltreating iron. There were shops for sawing, planing, polishing, turning, and twisting all sorts of wood, and there were other shops where copper and brass could take any coppery or brassy shape desired. To sum up the port in a few words, its managers can make or repair marine and other engines, and produce any desired woodwork for house building or ship repairing. They build ships and equip them with machinery ready for sea.
The establishment is under the direct supervision of Mr. Woods, an American citizen of Scotch birth. Mr. Elliott, a Massachusetts Yankee, and Mr. Laney, an Englishman, are connected with the affair. Mr. Elliott had become a permanent fixture by marrying a Russian woman and purchasing a commodious house. The three men appeared to take great pride in what they had accomplished in perfecting the port.
It was a little curious to see at the mouth of the Amoor a steam fire engine from the Amoskeag Works at Manchester, N.H. The engine was labelled ‘Amoor’ in Russian characters, and appeared to be well treated. A house was assigned it, and watchmen were constantly on duty. The whole town being of wood it is highly important that the engine should act promptly in case of fire. The supply of hose was ample for all emergencies.
Several heavy guns were shown me, which were hauled overland from the Ural Mountains during the Crimean war and brought in boats down the Amoor. The expense of transporting them must have been enormous, their journey by roads to the head of the river being fully three thousand miles.
I spent a morning with Mr. Chase in calling upon several foreign merchants and their families. The most prominent of the merchants is Mr. Ludorf, a German, who went there in 1856, and has transacted a heavy business on the Amoor and in Japan and China. Mrs. Ludorf followed her husband in 1858, and was the first foreign lady to enter Nicolayevsk.
The most interesting topic to Mr. Chase and the ladies was that of cooks. Within two weeks there had been much trouble with the chefs de cuisine, and every housekeeper was in deep grief. Servants are the universal discomfort from the banks of the Hudson to those of the Amoor. Man to be happy must return to the primitive stages of society before cooks and housemaids were invented.
The hills around Nicolayevsk are covered with forests of small pines. Timber for house building purposes is rafted from points on the Amoor where trees are larger. Formerly the town was in the midst of a forest, but the vicinity is now pretty well cleared. Going back from the river, the streets begin grandly, and promise a great deal they do not perform. For one or two squares they are good, the third square is passable, the fourth is full of stumps, and when you reach the fifth and sixth, there is little street to be found. I never saw a better illustration of the road that commenced with a double row of shade trees, and steadily diminished in character until it became a squirrel-track and ran up a tree. There is very little agriculture in the vicinity, the soil and climate being unfavorable. The chief supply of vegetables comes from the settlements on the south bank of the river up to Lake Keezee, and along the shores of the lake. All the ordinary garden vegetables are raised, and in some localities they attain goodly size.
Every morning there was a lively scene at the river’s edge in front of the town. Peasants from the farming settlements were there with articles for sale, and a vigorous chaffering was in progress. There were soldiers in grey coats, sailors from the ships in the harbor, laborers in clothing more or less shabby, and a fair sprinkling of aboriginals. To an American freshly arrived the natives were quite a study. They were of the Mongol type, their complexions dark, hair black, eyes obliquely set, noses flat, and cheek bones high. Most of them had the hair plaited in a queue after the Chinese fashion. Some wore boots of untanned skin, and a few had adopted those of Russian make. They generally wear blouses or frocks after the Chinese pattern, and the most of them could be readily taken for shabby Celestials.
Their hats were of two kinds, some of felt and turned up at the sides, and others of decorated birch bark shaped like a parasol. These hats were an excellent protection against sun and rain, but could hardly be trusted in a high wind. All these men were inveterate smokers, and carried their pipes and tobacco pouches at their waists. Most had sheath knives attached to belts, and some carried flint, steel, and tinder. They formed picturesque groups, some talking with purchasers and others collected around fires or near their piles of fish.
BOAT LOAD OF SALMON.
As I stood on the bank, a Gilyak boat came near me with a full cargo of salmon. The boat was built very high at bow and stern, and its bottom was a single plank, greatly curved. It was propelled by a woman manipulating a pair of oars with blades shaped like spoon-bowls, beaten flat, which she pulled alternately with a kind of ‘hand-over-hand’ process. This mode of rowing is universal among the Gilyaks, but does not prevail with other natives along the Amoor.
Whenever I approached a group of Gilyaks I was promptly hailed with ‘reba! reba!’ (fish! fish!) I shook my head and uttered nierte (no,) and our conversation ceased. The salmon were in piles along the shore or lying in the native boats. Fishing was not a monopoly of the Gilyaks, as I saw several Russians engaged in the business. They appeared on the best terms with their aboriginal neighbors.
Salmon are abundant in the Amoor and as much a necessity of life as in Northern Siberia. They are not as good as in Kamchatka, and I believe it is the rule that the salmon deteriorates as one goes toward the south. Possibly the quality of the Amoor salmon is owing to the time the fish remain in the brackish waters of the Straits of Tartary. The fishing season is the only busy portion of the year with the natives.
AN EFFECTIVE PROTEST.
The town is supplied with water by carts like those used in many places along our Western rivers. For convenience in filling the driver goes into the stream until the water is pretty well up his horse’s sides. A bucket attached to a long handle is used for dipping, and moves very leisurely. I saw one driver go so far from shore that his horse protested in dumb but expressive show. The animal turned and walked to land, over-setting the cart and spilling the driver into the water. There was a volley of Russian epithets, but the horse did not observe them. At a photographic establishment I purchased several views of the city and surrounding region. I sought a watch dealer in the hope of replacing my broken time piece, but was unsuccessful. I finally succeeded in purchasing a cheap watch of so curious workmanship that it ran itself out and utterly stopped within a week.
One evening in the public garden a military band furnished creditable music, and I was told that it was formed by selecting men from the ranks, most of whom had never played a single note on any instrument. Writers on Russia twenty years ago said that men were frequently assigned to work they had never seen performed. If men were wanted for any government service a draft was made, just as for filling the army, and when the recruits arrived they were distributed. One was detailed for a blacksmith, and straightway went to his anvil and began. Another was told to be a machinist, and received his tools. He seated himself at his bench, watched his neighbor at work, and commenced with little delay. Another became a glass-blower, another a lapidary, another a musician, and so on through all the trades.
I have heard that an Ohio colonel in our late war had a fondness for never being outdone by rivals. One day his chaplain told him that a work of grace was going on in the army. “Fifteen men,” said he, “were baptized last Sunday in Colonel Blank’s regiment, and the reformation is still going on.” Without replying the colonel called his adjutant.
“Captain,” was the command, “detail twenty men for baptism at once. I won’t be outdone by any other —— regiment in the army.”
Near the river there are several large buildings, formerly belonging to the Amoor Company, an institution that closed its affairs in the summer of 1866. After the opening of the Amoor this company was formed in St. Petersburg with a paid up or guaranteed capital of nearly half a million pounds sterling. Its object was the control of trade on the Amoor and its tributaries, and the general development of commerce in Northern Asia. It began operations in 1858, but was unfortunate from the beginning. In 1859 it sent out three ships, two of which were lost between De Castries and Nicolayevsk. Each of them had valuable cargoes, and the iron and machinery for two river steamers. The third ship arrived safely, and a steamer which she brought was put together during the winter. It struck a rock and sunk on its first voyage up the river. The misfortunes of the company in following years did not come quite as thick, but their number was ample.
The company’s dividends were invariably Hibernian. It lost money from the beginning, and after spending two and a half million dollars, closed its affairs and went up in a balloon.
The Russian government has been disappointed in the result of opening the Amoor. Ten years ago it was thought a great commerce would spring up, but the result has been otherwise. There can be no traffic where there are no people to trade with, and when the Amoor was opened the country was little better than a wilderness. The natives were not a mercantile community. There was only one Manjour city on the bank of the Amoor, and for some time its people were not allowed to trade with Russians. Even when it was opened it had no important commerce, as it was far removed from the silk, tea, or porcelain districts of China. Plainly the dependence must be upon colonization.
The Amoor was peopled under government patronage, many settlers coming from the Trans-Baikal province, and others from European Russia. Nearly all were poor and brought very little money to their new homes. Many were Cossacks and soldiers, and not reconciled to hard labor. During the first two years of their residence the Amoor colonists were supplied with flour at government expense, but after that it was expected they could support themselves. Most of the colonies were half military in their character, being composed of Cossacks, with their families. On the lower part of the Amoor, outside the military posts, the settlers were peasants. Flour was carried from St. Petersburg to the Amoor to supply the garrison and the newly arrived settlers. The production is not yet sufficient for the population, and when I was at Nicolayevsk I saw flour just landed from Cronstadt. The settlers had generally reached the self-sustaining point, but they did not produce enough to feed the military and naval force. Until they do this the Amoor will be unprofitable.
On the upper Amoor flour was formerly brought from the Trans-Baikal province to supply the settlements down to Habarofka. In 1866 there was a short crop in that province and a good one on the upper Amoor. A large quantity of wheat and rye,—I was told fifty thousand bushels,—was taken to the Trans-Baikal and sold there. On the whole the Amoor country is very good for agriculture, and will sustain itself in time.
The import trade is chiefly in American and German hands, and comprises miscellaneous goods, of which they told me at least fifty per cent. were wines and intoxicating liquors! The Russian emperor should make intemperance a penal offence and issue an edict against it.
A Boston house was the first foreign one opened here, and then came a German one. Others followed, principally from America, the Sandwich Islands, Hamburg, and Bremen. Most of the Americans have retired from the field, two were closing when I was at the Amoor, and Mr. Boardman’s was the only house in full operation. There were three German establishments, and another of a German-American character.
All the cereals can be grown on the Amoor, and the yield is said to be very good. When its production is developed, wheat can be exported to China and the Sandwich Islands at a good profit. Until 1864 the government prohibited the export of timber, although it had inexhaustible quantities growing on the Amoor and its tributaries. I saw at Nicolayevsk and elsewhere oak and ash of excellent quality. The former was not as tough as New England oak, but the ash could hardly be excelled anywhere, and I was surprised to learn that no one had attempted its export to California, where good timber for wagons and similar work is altogether wanting. Pine trees are large, straight, tough, and good-fibred. They ought to compete in Chinese ports with pine lumber from elsewhere.
NOTHING BUT BONES.
There is a peculiar kind of oak, the Maackia, suitable for cabinet work. Some exports of wool, hides, and tallow have been made, but none of importance. One cargo of ice has been sent to China, but it melted on the way from improper packing. A Hong Kong merchant once ordered a cargo of hams from the Amoor, and when he received it and opened the barrels he found they contained nothing but bones. As the bone market was low at that time he did not repeat his order.
Flax and hemp will grow here, and might become profitable exports. There is excellent grazing land and no lack of pasturage, but at present bears make fearful havoc among the cattle and sheep. In some localities tigers are numerous, particularly among the Buryea Mountains, where the Cossacks make a profession of hunting them. The tiger is not likely to become an article of commerce, but on the contrary is calculated to retard civilization.
With increased agriculture, pork can be raised and cured, and the Russians might find it to their advantage to introduce Indian corn, now almost unknown on the Amoor. At present hogs on the lower Amoor subsist largely on fish, and the pork has a very unpleasant flavor. The steward of the Variag told me that in 1865, when at De Castries, he had two small pigs from Japan. A vessel just from the Amoor had a large hog which had been purchased at Nicolayevsk.
The captain of the ship offered his hog for the two pigs, on the plea that he wished to keep them during his voyage. As the hog was three times the weight of the pigs the steward gladly accepted the proposal, and wondered how a man who made so absurd a trade could be captain of a ship. On killing his prize he found the pork so fishy in flavor that nobody could eat it. The whole hog went literally to the dogs.
Nicolayevsk is a free port of entry, and there are no duties upon merchandise anywhere in Siberia east of Lake Baikal. Since the opening of commerce, in 1865, the number of ships arriving annually varies from six or eight to nearly forty. In 1866 there were twenty-three vessels on government, and fifteen on private account. The government vessels brought flour, salt, lead, iron, machinery, telegraph material, army and navy equipments, and a thousand and one articles included under the head of ‘government stores.’ The private ones, (three of them American,) brought miscellaneous cargoes for the mercantile community. There were no wrecks in that year, or at any rate, none up to the time of my departure.
At the Amoor I first began to hear those stories of peculation that greet every traveler in Russia. According to my informants there were many deficiencies in official departments, and very often losses were ascribed to ‘leakage,’ ‘breakage,’ and damage of different kinds. “Did you ever hear,” said a gentleman to me, “of rats devouring window-glass, or of anchors and boiler iron blowing away in the wind?” However startling such phenomena, he declared they had been known at Nicolayevsk and elsewhere in the empire. I think if all the truth were revealed we might learn of equally strange occurrences in America during the late war.
The Russians have explored very thoroughly the coast of Manjouria in search of good harbors. Below De Castries the first of importance is Barracouta Bay, in Latitude 49°. The government made a settlement there in 1853, but subsequently abandoned it for Olga Bay, six degrees further south. Vladivostok, or Dominion of the East, was occupied in 1857, and a naval station commenced. A few years later, Posyet was founded near the head of the Corean peninsula, and is now growing rapidly. It has one of the finest harbors on the Japan Sea, completely sheltered, easily defended, and affording superior facilities for repairing ships of war or commerce. It is free from ice the entire year, and has a little cove or bay that could be converted into a dry dock at small expense.
In 1865 Posyet was visited by ten merchant vessels; it exported fifteen thousand poods of beche de mer, the little fish formerly the monopoly of the Feejees, and of which John Chinaman is very fond. It exported ten thousand poods of bean cake, and eleven times that quantity of a peculiar sea-grass eaten by the Celestials. Ginseng root was also an article of commerce between Posyet and Shanghae. Russia appears in earnest about the development of the Manjourian coast, and is making many efforts for that object. The telegraph is completed from Nicolayevsk to the new seaport, and a post route has been established along the Ousuree.
From San Francisco to the mouth of the Amoor I did not see a wheeled vehicle, with the exception of a hand cart and a dog wagon. At Nicolayevsk there were horses, carts, and carriages, and I had my first experience of a horse harnessed with the Russian yoke. The theory of the yoke is, that it keeps the shafts away from the animal’s sides, and enables him to exert more strength than when closely hedged. I cannot give a positive opinion on this point, but believe the Russians are correct. The yoke standing high above the horse’s head and touching him nowhere, has a curious appearance when first seen. I never could get over the idea while looking at a dray in motion, that the horse was endeavoring to walk through an arched gateway and taking it along with him.
The shafts were wide apart and attached by straps to the horse’s collar. All the tension came through the shafts, and these were strengthened by ropes that extended to the ends of the forward axle. Harnesses had a shabby, ‘fixed up’ appearance, with a good deal of rope in their composition. Why they did not go to pieces or crumble to nothing, like the deacon’s One Horse Shay, was a mystery.
Before leaving Nicolayevsk I enjoyed a ride in one of its private carriages. The vehicle was open, its floor quite low, and the wheels small. We had two horses, one between the shafts and wearing the inevitable yoke. The other was outside, and attached to an iron single-tree over the forward wheel. Three horses can be driven abreast on this kind of carriage.
The shaft horse trotted, while the other galloped, holding his head very low and turned outward. This is due to a check rein, which keeps him in a position hardly natural. The orthodox mode in Russia is to have the shaft horse trotting while the other runs as described; the difference in the motion gives an attractive and dashy appearance to the turnout. Existence would be incomplete to a Russian without an equipage, and if he cannot own one he keeps it on hire. The gayety of Russian cities in winter and summer is largely due to the number of private vehicles in constant motion through the streets.
CHAPTER XI.
I arranged to ascend the Amoor on the steamer Ingodah, which was appointed to start on the eighteenth of September. My friend Anossoff remained at Nicolayevsk during the winter, instead of proceeding to Irkutsk as I had fondly hoped. I found a compagnon du voyage in Captain Borasdine, of General Korsackoff’s staff. In a drenching rain on the afternoon of the seventeenth, we carried our baggage to the Ingodah, which lay half a mile from shore. We reached the steamer after about twenty minutes pulling in a whale-boat and shipping a barrel of water through the carelessness of an oarsman.
At Nicolayevsk the Amoor is about a mile and a half wide, with a depth of twenty to thirty-five feet in the channel. I asked a resident what he thought the average rapidity of the current in front of the town.
“When you look at it or float with it,” said he, “I think it is about three and a half miles. If you go against it you find it not an inch less than five miles.”
The rowers had no light task to stem the rapid stream, and I think it was about like the Mississippi at Memphis.
The boat was to leave early in the morning. I took a farewell dinner with Mr. Chase, and at ten o’clock received a note from Borasdine announcing his readiness to go to the steamer. Anossoff, Chase, and half a dozen others assembled to see us off, and after waking the echoes and watchmen on the pier, we secured a skiff and reached the Ingodah. The rain was over, and stars were peeping through occasional loop-holes in the clouds.
SEEING OFF.
‘Seeing off’ consumed much time and more champagne. As we left the house I observed Chase and Anossoff each putting a bottle in his pocket, and remarking the excellent character of their ballast. From the quantity that revealed itself afterward the two bottles must have multiplied, or other persons in the party were equally provided. To send off a friend in Russia requires an amount of health-drinking rarely witnessed in New York or Boston. If the journey is by land the wayfarer is escorted a short distance on his route, sometimes to the edge of the town, and sometimes to the first station. Adieus are uttered over champagne, tea, lunch—and champagne. It was nearly daybreak when our friends gave us the last hand-shake and went over the side. Watching till their boat disappeared in the gloom, I sought the cabin, and found the table covered with a beggarly array of empty bottles and a confused mass of fragmentary edibles. I retired to sleep, while the cabin boy cleared away the wreck.
The sun rose before our captain. When I followed their example we were still at anchor and our boilers cold as a refusal to a beggar. Late in the morning the captain appeared; about nine o’clock fire was kindled in the furnace, and a little past ten we were under way. As our anchor rose and the wheel began to move, most of the deck passengers turned in the direction of the church and devoutly made the sign of the cross. As we slowly stemmed the current the houses of Nicolayevsk and the shipping in its front, the smoking foundries, and the pine-covered hills, faded from view, and with my face to the westward I was fairly afloat on the Amoor.
The Ingodah was a plain, unvarnished boat, a hundred and ten feet long, and about fifteen feet beam. Her hull was of boiler iron, her bottom flat, and her prow sharp and perpendicular. Her iron, wood work, and engines were brought in a sailing ship to the Amoor and there put together. She had two cabins forward and one aft, all below deck. There was a small hold for storing baggage and freight, but the most of the latter was piled on deck. The pilot house was over the forward cabin, and contained a large wheel, two men, and a chart of the river. The rudder was about the size of a barn door, and required the strength of two men to control it. Had she ever refused to obey her helm she would have shown an example of remarkable obstinacy.
Over the after cabin there was a cook-house, where dwelt a shabby and unwholesome cuisinier. Between the wheels was a bridge, occupied by the captain when starting or stopping the boat; the engines, of thirty horse power, were below deck, under this bridge. The cabins, without state rooms, occupied the whole width of the boat. Wide seats with cushions extended around the cabins, and served as beds at night. Each passenger carried his own bedding and was his own chambermaid. The furniture consisted of a fixed table, two feet by ten, a dozen stools, a picture of a saint, a mirror, and a boy, the latter article not always at hand.
The cabins were unclean, and reminded me of the general condition of transports during our late war. Can any philosopher explain why boats in the service of government are nearly always dirty?
The personnel of the boat consisted of a captain, mate, engineer, two pilots, and eight or ten men. The captain and mate were in uniform when we left port, but within two hours they appeared in ordinary suits of grey. The crew were deck hands, roustabouts, or firemen, by turns, and when we took wood most of the male deck passengers were required to assist. On American steamboats the after cabin is the aristocratic one; on the Amoor the case is reversed. The steerage passengers lived, moved, and had their being and baggage aft the engine, while their betters were forward. This arrangement gave the steerage the benefit of all cinders and smoke, unless the wind was abeam or astern.
Steam navigation on the Amoor dates from 1854. In that year two wooden boats, the Shilka and the Argoon, were constructed on the Shilka river, preparatory to the grand expedition of General Mouravieff. Their timber was cut in the forests of the Shilka, and their engines were constructed at Petrovsky-Zavod. The Argoon was the first to descend, leaving Shilikinsk on the 27th of May, 1854, and bringing the Governor General and his staff. It was accompanied by fifty barges and a great many rafts loaded with military forces to occupy the Amoor, and with provisions for the Pacific fleet. The Shilka descended a few months later. She was running in 1866, but the Argoon, the pioneer, existed less than a decade. In 1866 there were twenty-two steamers on the Amoor, all but four belonging to the government.
The government boats are engaged in transporting freight, supplies, soldiers, and military stores generally, and carrying the mail. They carry passengers and private freight at fixed rates, but do not give insurance against fire or accidents of navigation. Passengers contract with the captain or steward for subsistence while on board. Deck passengers generally support themselves, but can buy provisions on the boat if they wish. The steward may keep wines and other beverages for sale by the bottle, but he cannot maintain a bar. He has various little speculations of his own and does not feed his customers liberally. On the Ingodah the steward purchased eggs at every village, and expected to sell them at a large profit in Nicolayevsk. When we left him he had at least ten bushels on hand, but he never furnished eggs to us unless we paid extra for them.
One cabin was assigned to Borasdine and myself, save at meal times, when two other passengers were present. One end of it was filled with the mail, of which there were eight bags, each as large as a Saratoga trunk and as difficult to handle. The Russian government performs an ‘express’ service and transports freight by mail; it receives parcels in any part of the empire and agrees to deliver them in any other part desired. From Nicolayevsk to St. Petersburg the charges are twenty-five copecks (cents) a pound, the distance being seven thousand miles. It gives receipts for the articles, and will insure them at a charge of two per cent. on their value.
Goods of any kind can be sent by post through Russia just as by express in America. Captain Lund sent a package containing fifty sable skins to his brother in Cronstadt, and another with a silk dress pattern to a lady in St. Petersburg. In the mail on the Ingodah there were twelve hundred pounds of sable fur sent by Mr. Chase to his agent in St. Petersburg. Money to any amount can be remitted, and its delivery insured. I have known twenty thousand roubles sent on a single order.
Parcels for transportation by post must be carefully and securely packed. Furs, silks, clothing, and all things of that class are enveloped in repeated layers of oil cloth and canvas to exclude water and guard against abrasion. Light articles, like bonnets, must be packed with abundance of paper filling them to their proper shape, and very securely boxed. A Siberian lady once told me that a friend in St. Petersburg sent her a lot of bonnets, laces, and other finery purchased at great expense. She waited a long time with feminine anxiety, and was delighted when told her box was at the post office. What was her disappointment to find the articles had been packed in a light case which was completely smashed. She never made use of any part of its contents.
In crossing Siberian rivers the mail is sometimes wet, and it is a good precaution to make packages waterproof. A package of letters for New York from Nicolayevsk I enveloped in canvas, by advice of Russian friends, and it went through unharmed.
SCENES ON THE AMOOR.
The post wagons are changed at every station, and the mail while being transferred is not handled with care. Frail articles must be boxed so that no tossing will injure them. My lady friend told me of a bride who ordered her trousseau from St. Petersburg and prepared for a magnificent wedding. The precious property arrived forty-eight hours before the time fixed for the ceremony. Moving accidents by flood and field had occurred. The bridal paraphernalia was soaked, crushed, and reduced to a mass that no one could resolve into its original elements. The wedding was postponed and a new supply of goods ordered.
The mail is always in charge of a postillion, who is generally a Cossack, and his duty is much like that of a mail agent in other countries. He delivers and receives the sacks of matter at the post offices, and guards them on the road. During our voyage on the Ingodah there was no supervision over the mail bags after they were deposited in our cabin. I passed many hours in their companionship, and if Borasdine and I had chosen to rifle them we could have done so at our leisure. Possibly an escape from the penalties of the law would have been less easy.
Our cook was an elderly personage, with thin hair, a yellow beard, and a much neglected toilet. On the first morning I saw him at his ablutions, and was not altogether pleased with his manner. He took a half-tumbler of water in his mouth and then squirted the fluid over his hands, rubbing them meanwhile with invisible soap. He was quite skillful, but I could never relish his dinners if I had seen him any time within six hours. His general appearance was that of having slept in a gutter without being shaken afterwards.
The day of our departure from Nicolayevsk was like the best of our Indian summer. There was but little wind, the faintest breath coming now and then from the hills on the southern bank. The air was of a genial warmth, the sky free from clouds and only faintly dimmed with the haze around the horizon. The forest was in the mellow tints of autumn, and the wide expanse of foliferous trees, dotted at frequent intervals with the evergreen pine, rivalled the October hues of our New England landscape. Hills and low mountains rose on both banks of the river and made a beautiful picture. The hills, covered with forest from base to summit, sloped gently to the water’s edge or retreated here and there behind bits of green meadow. In the distance was a background of blue mountains glowing in sunshine or dark in shadow, and varying in outline as we moved slowly along. The river was ruffled only by the ripples of the current or the motion of our boat through the water. Just a year earlier I descended the Saint Lawrence from Lake Ontario to Quebec. I saw nothing on the great Canadian river that equaled the scenery of my first day’s voyage on the Amoor.
Soon after leaving Nicolayevsk we met several loads of hay floating with the current to a market at the town. On the meadows along the river the grass is luxuriant, and hay requires only the labor of cutting and curing. During the day we passed several points where haymaking was in progress. Cutting was performed with an instrument resembling the short scythe used in America for cutting bushes. After it was dried, the hay was brought to the river bank on dray-like carts. An American hay wagon would have accomplished twice as much, with equal labor.
The hay is like New England hay from natural meadows, and is delivered at Nicolayevsk for six or eight dollars a ton. Cattle and horses thrive upon it, if I may judge by the condition of the stock I saw. For its transportation two flat-bottomed boats are employed, and held about twelve feet apart by timbers. A floor on these timbers and over the boats serves to keep the hay dry. Men are stationed at both ends of the boats, and when once in the stream there is little to do beside floating with the current. A mile distant one of these barges appears like a haystack which an accident has set adrift.
We saw many Gilyak boats descending the river with the current or struggling to ascend it. The Gilyaks form the native population in this region and occupy thirty-nine villages with about two thousand inhabitants. The villages are on both banks from the mouth of the river to Mariensk, and out of the reach of all inundations. Distance lends enchantment to the view of their houses, which will not bear close inspection.
A GILYAK VILLAGE.
Some of the houses might contain a half dozen families of ordinary size, and were well adapted to the climate. While we took wood at a Gilyak village I embraced the opportunity to visit the aboriginals. The village contained a dozen dwellings and several fish-houses. The buildings were of logs or poles, split in halves or used whole, and were roofed with poles covered with a thatch of long grass to exclude rain and cold. Some of the dwelling houses had the solid earth for floors, while others had floorings of hewn planks.
The store houses were elevated on posts like those of an American ‘corn barn,’ and were wider and lower than the dwellings. Each storehouse had a platform in front where canoes, fishing nets, and other portable property were stowed. These buildings were the receptacles of dried fish for the winter use of dogs and their owners. The elevation of the floor serves to protect the contents from dogs and wild animals. I was told that no locks were used and that theft was a crime unknown.
The dwellings were generally divided into two apartments; one a sort of ante room and receptacle of house-keeping goods, and the other the place of residence. Pots, kettles, knives, and wooden pans were the principal articles of household use I discovered. At the storehouses there were several fish-baskets of birch or willow twigs. A Gilyak gentleman does not permit fire carried into or out of his house, not even in a pipe. This is not owing to his fear of conflagrations, but to a superstition that such an occurrence may bring him ill luck in hunting or fishing.
It was in the season of curing fish, and the stench that greeted my nostrils was by no means delightful. Visits to dwellings or magazines would have been much easier had I possessed a sponge saturated with cologne water. Fish were in various stages of preparation, some just hung upon poles, while others were nearly ready for the magazine. The manner of preparation is much the same as in Kamchatka, save that the largest fish are skinned before being cut into strips. The poorest qualities go to the dogs, and the best are reserved for bipeds.
Though the natives do the most of the fishing on the Amoor, they do not have a monopoly of it, as some of the Russians indulge in the sport. One old fellow that I saw had a boat so full of salmon, that there was no room for more. Now and then a fish went overboard, causing an expression on the boatman’s face as if he were suffering from a dose of astonishment and toothache drops in equal proportions.
There were dogs everywhere, some lying around loose, and others tied to posts under the storehouses. Some walked about and manifested an unpleasant desire to taste the calves of my legs. All barked, growled, and whined in a chorus like a Pawnee concert. There were big dogs and little dogs, white, black, grey, brown, and yellow dogs, and not one friendly. They did not appear courageous, but I was not altogether certain of their dispositions. Their owners sought to quiet them, but they refused comfort.
ABOUT FULL.
Those dogs had some peculiarities of those in Kamchatka, but their blood was evidently much debased; they appeared to be a mixture of Kamchadale, greyhound, bull dog, and cur, the latter predominating. They are used for hunting at all seasons, and for towing boats in summer and dragging sledges in winter. I was told that since the Russian settlement of the Amoor the Gilyak dogs have degenerated, in consequence of too much familiarity with Muscovite canines. Nicolayevsk appeared quite cosmopolitan, in the matter of dogs, and it was impossible to say what breed was most numerous. One day I saw nineteen in a single group and no two alike.
Near the entrance of the village an old man was repairing his nets, which were stretched along a fence. He did not regard us as we scrutinized his jacket of blue cotton, and he made no response to a question which Borasdine asked. Further along were two women putting fish upon poles for drying, and a third was engaged in skinning a large salmon. The women did not look up from their work, and were not inclined to amiability. They had Mongol features, complexion, eyes, and hair, the latter thick and black. Some of the men wear it plaited into queues, and others let it grow pretty much at will. Each woman I saw had it braided in two queues, which hung over her shoulders. In their ears they wore long pendants, and their dresses were generally arranged with taste.
When recalled by the steam whistle we left the village and took a short route down a steep bank to the boat. In descending, my feet passed from under me, and I had the pleasure of sliding about ten yards before stopping. Had it not been for a Cossack who happened in my way I should have entered the Amoor after the manner of an otter, and afforded much amusement to the spectators, though comparatively little to myself. The sliding attracted no special attention as it was supposed to be the American custom, and I did not deem it prudent to make an explanation lest the story might bring discredit to my nationality.
CHAPTER XII.
I had a curiosity to examine the ancient monuments at Tyr, opposite the mouth of the Amgoon river, but we passed them in the night without stopping. There are several traditions concerning their origin. The most authentic story gives them an age of six or seven hundred years. They are ascribed to an emperor of the Yuen dynasty who visited the mouth of the Amoor and commemorated his journey by building the ‘Monastery of Eternal Repose.’ The ruined walls of this monastery are visible, and the shape of the building can be easily traced. In some places the walls are eight or ten feet high.
Mr. Collins visited the spot in 1857 and made sketches of the monuments. He describes them situated on a cliff a hundred and fifty feet high, from which there is a magnificent view east and west of the Amoor and the mountains around it. Toward the south there are dark forests and mountain ridges, some of them rough and broken. To the north is the mouth of the Amgoon, with a delta of numerous islands covered with forest, while in the northwest the valley of the river is visible for a long distance. Back from the cliff is a table-land several miles in width.
This table-land is covered with oak, aspen, and fir trees, and has a rich undergrowth of grass and flowers. On a point of the cliff there are two monuments. A third is about four hundred yards away. One is a marble shaft on a granite pedestal; a second is entirely granite, and the third partly granite and partly porphyry. The first and third bear inscriptions in Chinese, Mongol, and Thibetan. One inscription announces that the emperor Yuen founded the Monastery of Eternal Repose, and the others record a prayer of the Thibetans. Archimandrate Avvakum, a learned Russian, who deciphered the inscriptions, says the Thibetan prayer Om-mani-badme-khum is given in three languages. [[C]]
Abbe Hue in his ‘Recollections of a journey through Thibet and Tartary,’ says:—
“The Thibetans are eminently religious. There exists at Lassa a touching custom which we are in some sort jealous of finding among infidels. In the evening as soon as the light declines, the Thibetans, men, women, and children, cease from all business and assemble in the principal parts of the city and in the public squares. When the groups are formed, every one sits down on the ground and begins slowly to chant his prayers in an undertone, and this religious concert produces an immense and solemn harmony throughout the city. The first time we heard it we could not help making a sorrowful comparison between this pagan town, where all prayed in common, with the cities of the civilized world, where people would blush to make the sign of the cross in public.
“The prayer chanted in these evening meetings varies according to the season of the year; that which they recite to the rosary is always the same, and is only composed of six syllables, om-mani-badme-khum. This formula, called briefly the mani, is not only heard from every mouth, but is everywhere written in the streets, in the interior of the houses, on every flag and streamer floating over the buildings, printed in the Landzee, Tartar, and Thibetan characters. The Lamas assert that the doctrine contained in these words is immense, and that the whole life of man is not sufficient to measure its depth and extent.”
The lowest of the monuments is five and the tallest eight feet in height. Near them are several flat stones with grooves in their surface, which lead to the supposition of their employment for sacrificial purposes. Mr. Chase told me at Nicolayevsk that he thought one of the monuments was used as an altar when the monastery flourished. There are no historical data regarding the ruins beyond those found on the stones.
Many of the Russians and Chinese believe the site was selected by Genghis Khan, and the monastery commemorated one of his triumphs. The natives look upon the spot with veneration, and frequently go there to practice their mysterious rites.
Before leaving Nicolayevsk I asked the captain of the Irigodah how fast his boat could steam. “Oh!” said he, “ten or twelve versts an hour.” Accustomed to our habit of exaggerating the powers of a steamer, I expected no more than eight or nine versts. I was surprised to find we really made twelve to fifteen versts an hour. Ten thousand miles from St. Louis and New Orleans I at last found what I sought for several years—a steamboat captain who understated the speed of his boat! Justice to the man requires the explanation that he did not own her.
ON THE AMOOR.
My second day on the Amoor was much like the first in the general features of the scenery. Hills and mountains on either hand; meadows bounding one bank or the other at frequent intervals; islands dotted here and there with pleasing irregularity, or stretching for many miles along the valley; forests of different trees, and each with its own particular hue; a canopy of hazy sky meeting ranges of misty peaks in the distance; these formed the scene. Some one asks if all the tongues in the world can tell how the birds sing and the lilacs smell. Equally difficult is it to describe with pen upon paper the beauties of that Amoor scenery. Each bend of the stream gave us a new picture. It was the unrolling of a magnificent panorama such as no man has yet painted. And what can I say? There was mountain, meadow, forest, island, field, cliff, and valley; there were the red leaves of the autumn maple, the yellow of the birch, the deep green of pine and hemlock, the verdure of the grass, the wide river winding to reach the sea, and we slowly stemming its current. How powerless are words to describe a scene like this!
The passengers of our boat were of less varied character than those on a Mississippi steamer. There were two Russian merchants, who joined us at meal times in the cabin but slept in the after part of the boat. One was owner of a gold mine two hundred miles north of Nicolayevsk, and a general dealer in everything along the Amoor. He had wandered over Mongolia and Northern China in the interest of commerce, and I greatly regretted my inability to talk with him and learn of the regions he had visited. He was among the first to penetrate the Celestial Empire under the late commercial treaty, and traveled so far that he was twice arrested by local authorities. He knew every fair from Leipsic to Peking, and had been an industrious commercial traveler through all Northern Asia.
Once, below Sansin, on the Songaree river, he was attacked by thieves where he had halted for the night. With a single exception his crew was composed of Chinese, and these ran away at the first alarm. With his only Russian companion he attempted to defend his property, but the odds were too great, especially as his gun could not be found. He was made prisoner and compelled to witness the plundering of his cargo. Every thing valuable being taken, the thieves left him.
In the morning he proceeded down the stream. Not caring to engage another crew, he floated with the current and shared with his Russian servant the labor of steering. The next night he was robbed again, and the robbers, angry at finding so little to steal, did not leave him his boat. After much difficulty he reached a native village and procured an old skiff. With this he finished his journey unmolested.
There were fifteen or twenty deck passengers, a fair proportion being women and children. Among the latter was a black eyed girl of fifteen, in a calico dress and wearing a shawl pinned around a pretty face. On Sunday morning she appeared in neat apparel and was evidently desirous of being seen. There were two old men dressed in coarse cloth of a ‘butternut’ hue, that reminded me of Arkansas and Tennessee. The morning we started one of them was seated on the deck counting a pile of copper coin with great care. Two, three, four times he told it off, piece by piece, and then folded it carefully in the corner of his kerchief. In all he had less than a rouble, but he preserved it as if it were a million.
CASH ACCOUNT.
The baggage of the deck passengers consisted of boxes and household furniture in general, not omitting the ever-present samovar. This baggage was piled on the deck and was the reclining place of its owners by day. In the night they had the privilege of the after cabin, where they slept on the seats and floor.
‘Wooding up’ was not performed with American alacrity. To bring the steamer to land she was anchored thirty feet from shore, and two men in a skiff carried a line to the bank and made it fast. With this line and the anchor the boat was warped within ten feet of the shore, another line keeping the stern in position. An ordinary plank a foot wide made the connection with the solid earth. These boats have no guards and cannot overhang the land like our Western craft. Wood was generally piled fifty, a hundred, or five hundred feet from the landing place, wherever most convenient to the owner. No one seems to think of placing it near the water’s edge as with us; they told me that this had been done formerly, and the freshets had carried the wood away. The peasants, warned by their loss, are determined to keep on the safe side.
When all was ready the deck hands went very leisurely to work. Each carried a piece of rope which he looped around a few sticks of wood as a boy secures his bundle of school books. The rope was then slung upon the shoulder, the wood hanging over the back of the carrier and occasionally coming loose from its fastenings. No man showed any sign of hurrying, but all acted as if there were nothing in the world as cheap as time. One day I watched the wooding operation from beginning to end. It took an hour and a half and twelve men to bring about four cords of wood on board. There was but one man displaying any activity, and he was falling from the plank into the river.
WOODING UP.
The Russian measure of wood is the sajene (fathom.) and a sajene of wood is a pile a fathom long, wide, and high. The Russian marine fathom measures six feet like our own, but the land fathom is seven feet. It is by the land fathom that everything on solid earth is measured. A stick seven feet long is somewhat inconvenient, and therefore they cut wood half a fathom in length.
We landed our first freight at Nova Mihalofski, a Russian village on the southern bank of the river. The village was small and the houses were far from palatial. The inhabitants live by agriculture in summer, sending their produce to Nicolayevsk, and by supplying horses for the postal service in winter. I observed here and at other villages an example of Russian economy. Not able to purchase whole panes of window glass the peasants use fragments of glass of any shape they can get. These are set in pieces of birch bark cut to the proper form and the edges held by wax or putty. The bark is then fastened to the window sash much as a piece of mosquito netting is fixed in a frame.
Near Springfield, Missouri, I once passed a night in a farmer’s house. The dwelling had no windows, and when we breakfasted we were obliged to keep the door open to give us light, though the thermometer was at zero, with a strong wind blowing. “I have lived in this house seventeen years,” said the owner; “have a good farm and own four niggers.” But he could not afford the expense of a window, even of the Siberian kind!
Ten or fifteen miles above this village we reached Mihalofski, containing a hundred houses and three or four hundred inhabitants. From the river this town appeared quite pretty and thriving; the houses were substantially built, and many had flower gardens in front and neat fences around them. Between the town and the river there were market gardens in flourishing condition, bearing most of the vegetables in common use through the north. The town is along a ridge of easy ascent, and most of the dwellings are thirty or forty feet above the river. Its fields and gardens extend back from the river wherever the land is fertile and easiest cleared of the forest. On the opposite side of the river there are meadows where the peasants engage in hay cutting. The general appearance of the place was like that of an ordinary village on the lower St. Lawrence, though there were many points of difference.
In several rye fields the grain had been cut and stacked. Near our landing was a mill, where a man, a boy, and a horse were manufacturing meal at the rate of seven poods or 280 pounds a day. The whole machinery was on the most primitive scale.
Entering the house of the mill-owner I found the principal apartment quite neat and well arranged, its walls being whitewashed and decorated with cheap lithographs and wood-cuts. Among the latter were several from the Illustrated London News and L’Illustration Universelle. The sleeping room was fitted with bunks like those on steamboats, though somewhat wider. There was very little clothing on the beds, but several sheepskin coats and coverlids were hanging on a fence in front of the house.
Borasdine had business at the telegraph station, whither I accompanied him. The operator furnished a blank for the despatch, and when it was written and paid for he gave a receipt. The receipt stated the hour and minute when the despatch was taken, the name of the sender, the place where sent, the number of words, and the amount paid. This form is invariably adhered to in the Siberian telegraph service.
The telegraph on the lower Amoor was built under the supervision of Colonel Romanoff and was not completed at the time of my visit. It commenced at Nicolayevsk and followed the south bank of the Amoor to Habarofka at the mouth of the Ousuree. At Mariensk there was a branch to De Castries, and from Habarofka the line extended along the Ousuree and over the mountains to Posyet and Vladivostok. From Habarofka it was to follow the north bank of the Amoor to the Shilka, to join the line from Irkutsk and St. Petersburg. Arrangements have been made recently to lay a cable from Posyet to Hakodadi in Japan, and thence to Shanghae and other parts of China. When the cable proposed by Major Collins is laid across the Pacific Ocean, and the break in the Amoor line is closed up, the telegraph circuit around the globe will be complete.
The telegraph is operated on the Morse system with instruments of Prussian manufacture. Compared to our American instruments the Prussian ones are quite clumsy, though they did not appear so in the hands of the operators. The signal key was at least four times as large as ours, and could endure any amount of rough handling. The other machinery was on a corresponding scale.
A merchant who knew Mr. Borasdine invited us to his house, where he brought a lunch of bread, cheese, butter, and milk for our entertainment. Salted cucumbers were added, and the repast ended with tea. In the principal room there was a Connecticut clock in one corner, and the windows were filled with flowers, among which were the morning glory, aster, and verbena. Several engravings adorned the walls, most of them printed at Berlin. We purchased a loaf of sugar, and were shown a bear-skin seven feet long without ears and tail. The original and first legitimate owner of the skin was killed within a mile of town.
In addition to his commerce and farming, this merchant was superintendent of a school where several Gilyak boys were educated. It was then vacation, and the boys were engaged in catching their winter supply of fish. At the merchant’s invitation we visited the school buildings.
The study room was much like a backwoods schoolroom in America, having rude benches and desks, but with everything clean and well made. The copy-books exhibited fair specimens of penmanship. On a desk lay a well worn reading book containing a dozen of Æsop’s fables translated into Russian and profusely illustrated. It corresponded to an American ‘Second Reader.’
There was a dormitory containing eight beds, and there was a wash-room, a dining-room, and a kitchen, the latter separate from the main building. Close at hand was a forge where the boys learned to work in iron, and a carpenter shop with a full set of tools and a turning lathe. The superintendent showed me several articles made by the pupils, including wooden spoons, forks, bowls, and cups, and he gave me for a souvenir a seal cut in pewter, bearing the word ‘Fulyhelm’ in Russian letters, and having a neatly turned handle.
The school is in operation ten months of each year. The superintendent said the children of the Russian peasants could attend if they wished, but very few did so. The teacher was a subordinate priest of the Eastern church. The expense of the establishment was paid by Government, with the design of making the boys useful in educating the Gilyaks.
The Gilyaks of the lower Amoor are pagans, and the attempts to Christianize them have not been very successful thus far. Their religion consists in the worship of idols and animals, and their priests or shamans correspond to the ‘medicine man’ of the American Indians. Among animals they revere the tiger, and I was told no instance was known of their killing one. The remains of a man killed by a tiger are buried without ceremony, but in the funerals of other persons the Gilyaks follow very nearly the Chinese custom. The bear is also sacred, but his sanctity does not preserve him from being killed.
BEAR IN PROCESSION.
In hunting this beast they endeavor to capture him alive; once taken and securely bound he is placed in a cage in the middle of a village, and there fattened upon fish. On fete-days he is led, or rather dragged, in procession, and of course is thoroughly muzzled and bound. Finally a great day arrives on which Bruin takes a prominent part in the festival by being killed. There are many superstitious ceremonies carefully observed on such occasions. The ears, jawbones, and skull of the bear are hung upon trees to ward off evil spirits, and the flesh is eaten, as it is supposed to make all who partake of it both fortunate and courageous.
I did not have the pleasure of witnessing any of these ursine festivals, but I saw several bear cages and looked upon a bear while he lunched on cold salmon. If the bear were more gentle in his manners he might become a household pet among the Gilyaks; but at present he is not in favor, especially where there are small children.
Ermines were formerly domesticated for catching rats, the high price of cats confining their possession to the wealthy. Cats have a half-religious character and are treated with great respect. Since the advent of the Russians the supply is very good. Before they came the Manjour merchants used to bring only male cats that could not trouble themselves about posterity. The price was sometimes a hundred roubles for a single mouser, and by curtailing the supply the Manjours kept the market good.
The Gilyaks, like nearly all the natives of Northern Asia, are addicted to Shamanism. The shaman combines the double function of priest and doctor, ministering to the physical and spiritual being at the same time. When a man is taken sick he is supposed to be attacked by an evil spirit and the shaman is called to practice exorcism. There is a distinct spirit for every disease and he must be propitiated in a particular manner. While practicing his profession the shaman contorts his body and dances like one insane, and howls worse than a dozen Kamchadale dogs. He is dressed in a fantastic manner and beats a tambourine during his performance. To accommodate himself to the different spirits he modulates his voice, changes the character of his dance, and alters his costume. Both doctor and patient are generally decked with wood-shavings while the work is going on.
Sometimes an effigy of the sick person is prepared, and the spirit is charmed from the man of flesh to the one of straw. The shaman induces him to take up lodgings in this effigy, and the success of his persuasion is apparent when the invalid recovers. If the patient dies the shaman declares that the spirit was one over which he had no control, but he does not hesitate to take pay for his services.
PRACTICE OF MEDICINE.
A Russian traveler who witnessed one of these exorcisms said that the shaman howled so fearfully that two Chinese merchants who were present out of curiosity fled in very terror. The gentleman managed to endure it to the end, but did not sleep well for a week afterward.
The Gilyaks believe in both good and evil spirits, but as the former do only good it is not thought necessary to pay them any attention. All the efforts are to induce the evil spirits not to act. They are supposed to have power over hunting, fishing, household affairs, and the health and well-being of animals and men. The shamans possess great power over their superstitious subjects, and their commands are rarely refused. I heard of an instance wherein a native caught a fine sable and preserved the skin as a trophy. Very soon a man in the village fell ill. The shaman after practicing his art announced that the spirit commanded the sable skin to be worn by the doctor himself. The valuable fur was given up without hesitation. A Russian traveler stopping one night in a Gilyak house discovered in the morning that his sledge was missing, and was gravely told that the spirit had taken it.
In 1814 the small pox raged in one of the tribes living on the Kolyma river, and the deaths from it were numerous. The shamans practiced all their mysteries, and invoked the spirits, but they could not stop the disease. Finally, after new invocations, they declared the evil spirits could not be appeased without the death of Kotschen, a chief of the tribe. This chief was so generally loved and respected that the people refused to obey the shamans. But as the malady made new progress, Kotschen magnanimously came forward and was stabbed by his own son.
In general the shamans are held in check by the belief that should they abuse their power they will be long and severely punished after death. This punishment is supposed to occur in a locality specially devoted to bad shamans. A good shaman who has performed wonderful cures receives after death a magnificent tomb to his memory.
The Russians think that with educated Gilyaks they can succeed in winning the natives to Christianity, especially when the missionaries are skilled in the useful arts of civilized life. Hence the school in Mihalofski, and it has so far succeeded well in the instruction of the boys. Russian and Gilyak children were working in the gardens in perfect harmony, and there was every indication of good feeling between natives and settlers.
CHAPTER XIII.
On leaving Mihalofski we took the merchant and two priests and dropped them fifteen miles above, at a village where a church was being dedicated. The people were in their holiday costume and evidently awaited the priests. The church was pointed out, nestling in the forest just back of the river bank. It seemed more than large enough for the wants of the people, and was the second structure of the kind in a settlement ten years old. I have been told, but I presume not with literal truth, that a church is the first building erected in a Russian colony.
At night we ran until the setting of the moon, and then anchored. It is the custom to anchor or tie up at night unless there is a good moon or very clear starlight. An hour after we anchored the stars became so bright that we proceeded and ran until daylight, reaching Mariensk at two in the morning. I had designed calling upon two gentlemen and a lady at Mariensk, but it is not the fashion in Russia to make visits between midnight and daybreak. Borasdine had the claim of old acquaintance and waked a friend for a little talk.
This town is at the entrance of Keezee lake, and next to Nicolayevsk is the oldest Russian settlement on the lower Amoor. It was founded by the Russian American Company in the same year with Nicolayevsk, and was a trading post until the military occupation of the river. Difficulties of navigation have diminished its military importance, the principal rendezvous of this region being transferred to Sofyesk.
On an island opposite Mariensk is the trace of a fortification built by Stepanoff, a Russian adventurer who descended the Amoor in 1654. Stepanoff passed the winter at this point, and fortified himself to be secure against the natives. He seems to have engaged in a general business of filibustering on joint account of himself and his government. In the winter of his residence at this fortress he collected nearly five thousand sable skins as a tribute to his emperor—and himself.
Morning found us at Sofyesk taking a fresh supply of wood. This town was founded a few years ago, and has a decided appearance of newness. There is a wagon road along the shore of Keezee lake and across the hills to De Castries Bay. Light draft steamboats can go within twelve miles of De Castries. Surveys have been made with the design of connecting Keezee Lake and the Gulf of Tartary by a canal. A railway has also been proposed, but neither enterprise will be undertaken for many years. I passed an hour with the post commander, who had just received a pile of papers only two months from St. Petersburg, the mail having arrived the day before.
The steamer Telegraph lay at the landing when we arrived; among her passengers was a Manjour merchant, who possessed an intelligent face, quite in contrast with the sleepy Gilyaks. He wore the Manjour dress, consisting of wide trowsers and a long robe reaching to his heels; his shoes and hat were Chinese, and his robe was held at the waist with a silk cord. His hair was braided in the Chinese fashion, and he sported a long mustache but no beard.
MANJOUR MERCHANT.
A few versts above Sofyesk we met a Manjour merchant evidently on a trading expedition. He had a boat about twenty-five feet long by eight wide, with a single mast carrying a square sail. His boat was full of boxes and bales and had a crew of four men. A small skiff was towed astern and another alongside. These Manjour merchants are quite enterprising, and engage in traffic for small profits and large risks when better terms are not attainable. Before the Russian occupation all the trade of the lower Amoor was in Manjour hands. Boats annually descended from San-Sin and Igoon bringing supplies for native use. Sometimes a merchant would spend five or six months making his round journey.
The merchants visited the villages on the route and bargained their goods for furs. There was an annual fair at the Gilyak village of Pul, below Mariensk, and this was made the center of commerce. The fair lasted ten days, and during that time Pul was a miniature Nijne Novgorod. Manjour and Chinese merchants met Japanese from the island of Sakhalin, Tunguse from the coast of the Ohotsk Sea, and others from, the head waters of the Zeya and Amgoon. There were Gilyaks from the lower Amoor and various tribes of natives from the coast of Manjouria.
A dozen languages were spoken, and traffic was conducted in a patois of all the dialects. Cloth, powder, lead, knives, and brandy were exchanged for skins and furs. A gentleman who attended one of these fairs told me that the scene was full of interest and abounded in amusing incidents. Of late years the navigation of the Amoor has discontinued the fair of Pul. The Manjour traders still descend the river, but they are not as numerous as of yore.
With a good glass from the deck of the steamer I watched the native process of catching salmon. The fishing stations are generally, though not always, near the villages. The natives use gill nets and seines in some localities, and scoop nets in others. Sometimes they build a fence at right angles to the shore, and extend it twenty or thirty yards into the stream. This fence is fish-proof, except in a few places where holes are purposely left.
The natives lie in wait with skiffs and hand-nets and catch the salmon, as they attempt to pass these holes. I watched a Gilyak taking fish in this way, and think he dipped them up at the rate of two a minute; when the fish are running well a skiff can be filled in a short time. Sometimes pens of wicker work are fixed to enclose the fish after they pass the holes in the fence. The salmon in this case has a practical illustration of life in general: easy to get into trouble but difficult to get out of it.
GILYAK MAN.
For catching sturgeon they use a circular net five feet across at the opening, and shaped like a shallow bag. One side of the mouth is fitted with corks and the other with weights of lead or iron. Two canoes in mid stream hold this net between them, at right angles to the current. The sturgeon descending the river enters the trap, and the net proceeds of the enterprise are divided between the fishermen.
It requires vision or a guide to find a fishing station, but the sense of smell is quite sufficient to discover where salmon are dressed and cured. The offal from the fish creates an unpleasant stench and no effort is made to clear it away. The natives and their dogs do not consider the scent disagreeable and have no occasion to consult the tastes or smell of others. The first time I visited one of their fish-curing places I thought of the western city that had, after a freshet, ‘forty-five distinct and different odors beside several wards to hear from.’
Above Mariensk the Amoor valley is often ten or twenty miles wide, enclosing whole labyrinths of islands, some of great extent. These islands are generally well out of water and not liable to overflow. Very few have the temporary appearance of the islands of the lower Mississippi. Here and there were small islands of slight elevation and covered with cottonwoods, precisely like those growing between Memphis and Cairo.
GILYAK WOMAN.
The banks of this part of the Amoor do not wash like the alluvial lands along the Mississippi and Missouri, but are more like the shores of the Ohio. They are generally covered with grass or bushes down to the edge of the water. There are no shifting sand-bars to perplex the pilot, but the channel remains with little change from year to year. I saw very little drift wood and heard no mention of snags. The general features of the scenery were much like those below Mihalofski. The numerous islands and the labyrinth of channels often permit boats to pass each other without their captains knowing it. One day we saw a faint line of smoke across an island three or four miles wide; watching it closely I found it was in motion and evidently came from a descending steamboat. On another occasion we missed in these channels a boat our captain was desirous of hailing. Once while General Mouravieff was ascending the river he was passed by a courier who was bringing him important despatches.
NIGHT SCENE—GROUP OF PEASANTS.
The pilot steers with a chart of the river before him, and relies partly upon his experience and partly upon the delineated route. Sometimes channels used at high water are not navigable when the river is low, and some are favorable for descent but not for ascent. In general the pilotage is far more facile than on the Mississippi, and accidents are not frequent.
The peasants always came to the bank where we stopped, no matter what the hour. At one place where we took wood at night there was a picturesque group of twenty-five or thirty gathered around a fire; men and women talking, laughing, smoking, and watching the crew at work. The light, of the fire poured full upon a few figures and brought them into strong relief, while others were half hidden in shadow. Of the men some wore coats of sheepskin, others Cossack coats of grey cloth; some had caps of faded cloth, and others Tartar caps of black sheepskin. Red beards, white beards, black beards, and smooth faces were played upon by the dancing flames. The women, were in hoopless dresses, and held shawls over their heads in place of bonnets.
A hundred versts above Sofyesk the scenery changed. The mountains on the south bank receded from the river and were more broken and destitute of trees. Wide strips of lowland covered with forest intervened between the mountains and the shore. On the north the general character of the country remained. I observed a mountain, wooded to the top and sloping regularly, that had a curious formation at its summit. It was a perpendicular shaft resembling Bunker Hill Monument, and rising from the highest point of the mountain; it appeared of perfect symmetry, and seemed more like a work of art than of nature. On the same mountain, half way down its side, was a mass of rock with towers and buttresses that likened it to a cathedral. These formations were specially curious, as there were no more of the kind in the vicinity. Borasdine observed the rocks soon after I discovered them, and at first thought they were ancient monuments.
There were many birds along the shore. Very often we dispersed flocks of ducks and sent them flying over islands and forests to places of safety. Snipe were numerous, and so were several kinds of wading and swimming birds. Very often we saw high in air the wild geese of Siberia flying to the southward in those triangular squadrons that they form everywhere over the world. These birds winter in the south of China, Siam, and India, while they pass the summer north of the range of the Yablonoi mountains.
The birds of the Amoor belong generally to the species found in the same latitudes of Europe and America, but there are some birds of passage that are natives of Southern Asia, Japan, the Philippine Islands, and even South Africa and Australia. Seven-tenths of the birds of the Amoor are found in Europe, two-tenths in Siberia, and one-tenth in regions further south. Some birds belong more properly to America, such as the Canada woodcock and the water ouzel; and there are several birds common to the east and west coasts of the Pacific. The naturalists who came here at the Russian occupation found two Australian birds on the Amoor, two from tropical and sub-tropical Africa, and one from Southern Asia.
The number of stationary birds is not great, in consequence of the excessive cold in winter. Mr. Maack enumerates thirty-nine species that dwell here the entire year. They include eagles, hawks, jays, magpies, crows, grouse, owls, woodpeckers, and some others. The birds of passage generally arrive at the end of April or during May, and leave in September or October.
It is a curious fact that they come later to Nicolayevsk than to the town of Yakutsk, nine degrees further north. This is due to differences of climate and the configuration of the country. The lower Amoor is remarkable for its large quantities of snow, and at Nicolayevsk it remains on the ground till the end of May. South of the lower Amoor are the Shanalin mountains, which arrest the progress of birds. On the upper Amoor and in Trans-Baikal very little snow falls, and there are no mountains of great height.
The day after leaving Sofyesk I observed a native propelling a boat by pulling both oars together. On my expressing surprise my companion said:
“We have passed the country of the Gilyaks who pull their oars alternately, and entered that of the Mangoons and Goldees. The manner of rowing distinguishes the Gilyaks from all others.”
The Mangoons, Goldees, and Gilyaks differ in much the same way that the tribes of American Indians are different. They are all of Tungusian or Mongolian stock, and have many traits and words in common. Their features have the same general characteristics and their languages are as much alike as those of a Cheyenne and Comanche. Each people has its peculiar customs, such as the style of dress, the mode of constructing a house, or rowing a boat. All are pagans and indulge in Shamanism, but each tribe has forms of its own. All are fishers and hunters, their principal support being derived from the river.
The Goldee boat was so much like a Gilyak one that I could see no difference. There was no opportunity to examine it closely, as we passed at a distance of two or three hundred feet.
Besides their boats of wood the Goldees make canoes of birch bark, quite broad in the middle and coming to a point at both ends. In general appearance these canoes resemble those of the Penobscot and Canadian Indians. The native sits in the middle of his canoe and propels himself with a double-bladed oar, which he dips into the water with regular alternations from one side to the other. The canoes are flat bottomed and very easy to overturn. A canoe is designed to carry but one man, though two can be taken in an emergency. When a native sitting in one of them spears a fish he moves only his arm and keeps his body motionless. At the Russian village of Gorin there was an Ispravnik who had charge of a district containing nineteen villages with about fifteen hundred inhabitants. At Gorin the river is two or three miles wide, and makes a graceful bend. We landed near a pile of ash logs awaiting shipment to Nicolayevsk. The Ispravnik was kind enough to give me the model of a Goldee canoe about eighteen inches long and complete in all particulars. It was made by one Anaka Katonovitch, chief of an ancient Goldee family, and authorized by the emperor of China to wear the uniform of a mandarin. The canoe was neatly formed, and reflected favorably upon the skill of its designer. I boxed it carefully and sent it to Nicolayevsk for shipment to America.
The Ispravnik controlled the district between Habarofka and Sofyesk on both banks of the river, his power extending over native and Russian alike. He said that this part of the Amoor valley was very fertile, the yield of wheat and rye being fifteen times the seed. The principal articles cultivated were wheat, rye, hemp, and garden vegetables, and he thought the grain product of 1866 in his district would be thirty thousand poods of wheat and the same of rye. With a population of fifteen hundred in a new country, this result was very good.
The Goldees do not engage in agriculture as a business. Now and then there was a small garden, but it was of very little importance. Since the Russian occupation the natives have changed their allegiance from China to the ‘White Czar,’ as they call the Muscovite emperor. Formerly they were much oppressed by the Manjour officials, who displayed great rapacity in collecting tribute. It was no unusual occurrence for a native to be tied up and whipped to compel him to bring out all his treasures. The Goldees call the Manjours ‘rats,’ in consequence of their greediness and destructive powers.
The Goldees are superior to the Gilyaks in numbers and intelligence, and the Manjours of Igoon and vicinity are in turn superior to the Goldees. The Chinese are more civilized than the Manjours, and call the latter ‘dogs.’ The Manjours take revenge by applying the epithet to the Goldees, and these transfer it to Mangoons and Gilyaks. The Mangoons are not in large numbers, and live along the river between the Gilyaks and Goldees. Many of the Russian officials include them with the latter, and the captain of the Ingodah was almost unaware of their existence.
A peculiar kind of fence employed by the Russian settlers on this part of the Amoor attracted my attention. Stakes were driven into the ground a foot apart and seven feet high. Willow sticks were then woven between these stakes in a sort of basket work. The fence was impervious to any thing larger than a rat, and no sensible man would attempt climbing it, unless pursued by a bull or a sheriff, as the upper ends of the sticks were very sharp and about as convenient to sit upon as a row of harrow-teeth.
It reminded me of a fence in an American village where I once lived, that an enterprising fruit-grower had put around his orchard,—a structure of upright pickets, and each picket armed with a nail in the top. One night four individuals bent on stealing apples, were confronted by the owner and a bull-dog and forced to surrender or leap the fence. Three of them were “treed” by the dog; the fourth sprang over the fence, but left the seat of his trousers and the rear section of his shirt, the latter bearing in indelible ink the name of the wearer. The circumstantial evidence was so strong against him that he did not attempt an alibi, and he was unable to sit down for nearly a fortnight.
CHAPTER XIV.
I took the first opportunity to enter a Goldee house and study the customs of the people. A Goldee dwelling for permanent habitation has four walls and a roof. The sides and ends are of hewn boards or small poles made into a close fence, which is generally double and has a space six or eight inches wide filled with grass and leaves. Inside and out the dwelling is plastered with mud, and the roofs are thatch or bark held in place by poles and stones. Sometimes they are entirely of poles. The doors are of hewn plank, and can be fastened on the inside.
The dwellings are from fifteen to forty feet square, according to the size of the family. In one I found a grandfather and his descendants; thirty persons at least. There are usually two windows, made of fish skin or thin paper over lattices. Some windows were closed with mats that could be rolled up or lowered at will.
The fire-place has a deep pan or kettle fixed over it, and there is room for a pot suspended from a rafter. Around the room is a divan, or low bench of boards or wicker work, serving as a sofa by day and a bed at night. When dogs are kept in the house a portion of the divan belongs to them, and among the Mangoons there is a table in the center specially reserved for feeding the dogs.
I found the floors of clay, smooth and hard. Near the fire-place a little fire of charcoal is kept constantly burning in a shallow hole. Pipes are lighted at this fire, and small things can be warmed over it. Household articles were hung upon the rafters and cross beams, and there was generally a closet for table ware and other valuables. The cross-beams were sufficiently close to afford stowage room for considerable property. Fish-nets, sledges, and canoes were the most bulky articles I saw there.
Part of one wall was reserved for religious purposes, and covered with bear-skulls and bones, horse-hair, wooden idols, and pieces of colored cloth. Occasionally there were badly-painted pictures, purchased from the Chinese at enormous prices. Sometimes poles shaped like small idols are fixed before the houses.
A Goldee house is warmed by means of wooden pipes under the divan and passing out under ground to a chimney ten or fifteen feet from the building. Great economy is shown in using fuel and great care against conflagrations. I was not able to stand erect in any Goldee houses I entered.
Like all people of the Mongolian race, the natives pretended to have little curiosity. When we landed at their villages many continued their occupations and paid no attention to strangers. Above Gorin a Goldee gentleman took me into his house, where a woman placed a mat on the divan and motioned me to a seat. The man tendered me a piece of dried fish, which I ate out of courtesy to my hosts. Several children gathered to look at me, but retired on a gesture from pater familias. I am not able to say if the fact that my eyes were attracted to a pretty girl of seventeen had anything to do with the dispersal of the group. Curiosity dwells in Mongol breasts, but the Asiatics, like our Indians, consider its exhibition in bad taste.
Outside this man’s house there were many scaffoldings for drying fish. A tame eagle was fastened with a long chain to one of the scaffolds; he was supposed to keep other birds away and was a pet of his owner. There were many dogs walking or lying around loose, while others were tied to the posts that supported the scaffolds.
The dogs of the Goldees are very intelligent. One morning Mr. Maack missed his pots which he had left the night before full of meat. After some search they were found in the woods near the village, overturned and empty. Several dogs were prowling about and had evidently committed the theft. Fearing to be interrupted at their meal they carried the pots where they could eat at leisure.
While steaming up the river I frequently saw temporary dwellings of poles and bark like our Indian wigwams. These were at the fishing stations upon sand bars or low islands. The afternoon following our departure from Gorin I counted about thirty huts, or yourts, on one island, and more than fifty boats on the river.
For half a mile the scene was animated and interesting. Some boats were near the shore, their inmates hauling seines or paddling up or down the stream. In one heavily laden boat there was one man steering with a paddle. Four men towed the craft against the current, and behind it was another drawn by six dogs. Out in the river were small skiffs and canoes in couples, engaged in holding nets across the direction of the current. The paddles wore struck regularly and slowly to prevent drifting down the stream.
TEN MILES AN HOUR.
One boat with two men rowing and another steering attempted a race with the steamer and fairly passed us, though we were making ten miles an hour. All these natives are very skillful in managing their boats.
When we passed near a boat we were greeted with ‘Mendow, mendow,’ the Mongol word of welcome. Sometimes we were hailed with the Russian salutation of ‘sdrastveteh.’ In one boat I saw a Goldee belle dressed with considerable taste and wearing a ring in the cartilage of her nose. How powerful are the mandates of Fashion! This damsel would scorn to wear her pendants after the manner of Paris and New York, while the ladies of Broadway and the Boulevards would equally reject the Goldee custom.
The natives of this part of the Amoor have a three-pronged spear like a Neptune’s trident, and handle it with much dexterity. The spear-head is attached to a long line, and when a fish is struck the handle is withdrawn. The fish runs out the line, which is either held in the hand or attached to a bladder floating on the water.
Ropes and nets are made from hemp and the common sting nettle, the latter being preferred. The nettle-stalks are soaked in water and then dried and pounded till the fibres separate. Ropes and cords are equal to those of civilized manufacture, though sometimes not quite as smooth. Thread for sewing and embroidery comes from China, and is purchased of Manjour traders.
The night after we left Gorin the boat took wood at the village of Doloe. It was midnight when we arrived, and as I walked through the village nearly all the inhabitants were sleeping. The only perambulating resident was very drunk and manifested a desire to embrace me, but as I did not know his language and could not claim relationship I declined the honor. Near the river there was a large building for government stores and a smaller one for the men guarding it. A few hundred yards distant there was a Goldee village, and for want of something better Borasdine proposed that we should call on one of its inhabitants. We took a Russian peasant to guide and introduce us, our credentials and passports having been left on the steamer.
As we approached the first house we were greeted by at least a dozen dogs. They barked on all keys and our guide thought it judicious to provide himself with a stick; but I must do the brutes the justice to say that they made no attempt at dentistry upon our legs. Some of them were large enough to consume ten pounds of beef at a sitting, and some too small for any but ornamental purposes.
The door was not locked and the peasant entered without warning, while we stood outside among the dogs. Our guide aroused the chief of the establishment and made a light; a strip of birch bark was used, and it took a good deal of blowing on the fire coals before a flame was produced. When we entered we found the proprietor standing in a short garment and rubbing his oblique eyes to get himself thoroughly awake.
Near the place he had vacated, the lady of the house was huddled under a coverlid about as large as a postage stamp, and did not appear encumbered with much clothing. Three or four others had waked and made some attempt to cover themselves. At least a dozen remained asleep and lay in a charming condition of nudity. The Goldee houses are heated to a high degree, and their inmates sleep without clothing. The delay in admitting us was to permit the head of the house to dress in reception costume, which he did by putting on his shirt.
After wishing this aboriginal a long and happy life, and thanking him for his courtesy, we departed. I bumped my head against the rafters both in entering and leaving, and found considerable difference between the temperature in the house and out of it. The peasant offered to guide us to visit more Goldees, but we returned to the boat and retired to sleep.
The Russian peasants and the natives live in perfect harmony and are of mutual advantage and assistance. The peasant furnishes the native with salt, flour, and other things, while the latter catches fish, enough for both. Each has a peaceable disposition, and I was told that quarrels were of rare occurrence.
The Chinese call the natives Yu-pi-ta-tze, which in English means ‘wearers of fish-skins.’ I saw many garments of fish-skins, most of them for summer use. The operation of preparing them is quite simple. The skins are dried and afterward pounded, the blows making them flexible and removing the scales. This done they are ready to be sewn into garments.
A GOLDEE HOUSE
A coat of this material embroidered and otherwise decorated is far from ugly, and sheds water like India rubber. Fish skins are used in making sails for boats and for the windows of houses. A Russian who had worn a Goldee coat said it was both warm and waterproof, and he suggested that it would be well to adopt fish-skin garments in America.
The Goldees and Mangoons practice Shamanism in its general features, and have a few customs peculiar to themselves. At a Goldee village I saw a man wearing a wooden representation of an arm, and learned that it is the practice to wear amulets to cure disease, the amulet being shaped like the part affected. A lame person carries a small leg of wood, an individual suffering from dyspepsia a little stomach, and so on through a variety of disorders. A hypochondriac who thought himself afflicted all over had covered himself with these wooden devices, and looked like a museum of anatomy on its travels. I thought the custom not unknown in America, as I had seen ladies in New York wearing hearts of coral and other substances on their watch-chains. Evidently the fashion comes from l’Amour.
THE HYPOCHONDRIAC.
The morning after leaving Doloe we had a rain-storm with high wind that blew us on a lee shore. The river was four or five miles wide where the gale caught us, and the banks on both sides were low. The islands in this part of the river were numerous and extensive. At one place there are three channels, each a mile and a half wide and all navigable. From one bank to the other straight across the islands is a distance of nineteen miles.
The wind and weather prevented our making much progress on that day; as the night was cloudy we tied up near a Russian village and economised the darkness by taking wood. At a peasant’s house near the landing four white-headed children were taking their suppers of bread and soup under the supervision of their mother. Light was furnished from an apparatus like a fishing jack attached to the wall; every few minutes the woman fed it with a splinter of pine wood. Very few of the peasants on the Amoor can afford the expense of candles, and as they rarely have fire-places they must burn pine splinters in this way.
Along the Amoor nearly every peasant house contains hundreds, and I think thousands, of cockroaches. They are quiet in the day but do not fail to make themselves known at night. The table where these children were eating swarmed with them, and I can safely say there wore five dozen on a space three feet square. They ran everywhere about the premises except into the fire. Walls, beds, tables, and floors were plentifully covered with these disagreeable insects. The Russians do not appear to mind them, and probably any one residing in that region would soon be accustomed to their presence. Occasionally they are found in bread and soup, and do not improve the flavor.
Life on the steamboat was a trifle monotonous, but I found something new daily. Our steward (who is called Boofetchee in Russian) brought me water for washing when I rose in the morning, and the samovar with tea when I was dressed. Borasdine rose about the time I did and joined me at tea. Then we had breakfast of beef and bread with potatoes about eleven or twelve o’clock, and dinner at six.
The intervals between meals were variously filled. I watched the land, talked with Borasdine, read, wrote, smoked, and contemplated the steward, but never imagined him a disguised angel. I looked at the steerage passengers and the crew, and think their faces are pretty well fixed in memory. Had I only been able to converse in Russian I should have found much more enjoyment. As for the cook it is needless to say that I never penetrated the mysteries of his realm. Little games of cards wore played daily by all save myself; I used to look on occasionally but never learned the games.
One of the Russian games at cards is called poker, and is not much unlike that seductive amusement so familiar to the United States. Whence it came I could not ascertain, but it was probably taken there by some enterprising American. Some years ago a western actor who was able to play Hamlet, Richelieu, Richard III., Claude Melnotte, and draw-poker, made his way to Australia, where he delighted the natives with his dramatic genius. But though he drew crowded houses his cash box was empty, as the treasurer stole the most of the receipts. He did not discharge him as there was little prospect of finding a better man in that country; but he taught him draw-poker, borrowed five dollars to start the game, and then every morning won from the treasurer the money taken at the door on the previous night.
As we approached the Ousuree there was a superior magnificence in the forest. The trees on the southern bank grew to an enormous size in comparison, with those lower down the river. Naturalists say that within a short distance in this region may be found all the trees peculiar to the Amoor. Some of them are three or four feet in diameter and very tall and straight. The elm and larch attain the greatest size, while the ash and oak are but little inferior. The cork-tree is two feet through, and the maackia—a species of oak with a brown, firm wood—grows to the diameter of a foot or more.
In summer the foliage is so dense that the sun’s rays hardly penetrate, and there is a thick ‘chapparel’ that makes locomotion difficult. Just below the Ousuree the settlers had removed the under growth over a small space and left the trees appearing taller than ever. In a great deal of travel I have never seen a finer forest than on this part of the Amoor. I do not remember anything on the lower Mississippi that could surpass it. Tigers and leopards abound in these forests, and bears are more numerous than agreeable. Occasionally one of these animals dines upon a Goldee, but the custom is not in favor with the natives. It is considered remarkable that the Bengal tiger, belonging properly to a region nearer the equator, should range so far north. On some of its excursions it reaches 53° North Latitude, and feeds upon reindeer and sables. The valley of the Amoor is the only place in the world outside of a menagerie where all these animals are found together. The tropical ones go farther north and the Arctic ones farther south than elsewhere.
It is the same with the vegetable kingdom. The mahogany and cork tree grow here, and the bark of the latter is largely used by the natives. On the slopes of the mountains a few miles away are the Siberian pine, the Ayan spruce, and here and there a larch tree. Cedars and fir trees are abundant and grow to a great size. The whole appearance of the region is one of luxuriance and fertility.
The mouth of the Ousuree is a mile wide, and the stream is said to be magnificent through its whole length. Its sources are in Latitude 44°, and its length is about five hundred miles. While I was at Nicolayevsk Admiral Fulyelm said to me:
“I have just returned from a voyage on the Ousuree. It is one of the loveliest rivers I ever saw. The valley bears such a resemblance to a settled country with alternate parks and open country that I almost looked to see some grand old mansion at every bend of the stream.”
A little past noon we sighted the town and military post of Habarofka at the mouth of the Ousuree. It stands on a promontory overlooking both rivers, and presents a pleasing appearance from the Amoor. The portion first visible included the telegraph office and storehouses, near which a small steamer was at anchor. A Manjour trading boat was at the bank, its crew resting on shore; a piece of canvas had been spread on the ground and the men were lounging upon it. One grave old personage, evidently the owner of the boat, waved his hand toward us in a dignified manner, but we could not understand his meaning.
Coming to shore we narrowly missed running over a Goldee boat that crossed our track. Our wheel almost touched the stern of the craft as we passed it, but the occupants appeared no wise alarmed. Two women were rowing and a man steering, while a man and a boy were idle in the bow. A baby, strapped into a shallow cradle, lay in the bottom of the boat near the steersman. The young Mongol was holding his thumb in his mouth and appeared content with his position.
The town was in a condition of rawness like a western city in its second year; there was one principal street and several smaller ones, regularly laid out. As in all the Russian settlements on the Amoor the houses were of logs and substantially built. Passing up the principal street we found a store, where we purchased a quantity of canned fruit, meats, and pickles.
“NONE FOR JOE.”
These articles were from Boston, New York, and Baltimore, and had American labels. The pictures of poaches, strawberries, and other fruits printed on the labels were a great convenience to the Russian clerk who served us. He could not read English, but understood pictorial representations. On the boat we gave the cans to the steward, to be opened when we ordered. The pictures were especially adapted to this youth as he read no language whatever, including his own. On one occasion a quantity of devilled turkey was put up in cans and sent to the Amoor, and the label was beautified with a picture of His Satanic Majesty holding a turkey on the end of a fork. The natives supposed that the devil was in the cans and refused to touch them. The supply was sent back to Nicolayevsk, where it was eaten by the American merchants.
Accompanying Borasdine I called upon the officer in command. We were ushered through two or three small rooms into the principal apartment, which contained a piano of French manufacture. Three or four officers and as many ladies enabled us to pass an hour very pleasantly till the steam whistle recalled us, but we did not leave until two hours after going on board. Two or three men had been allowed on shore and were making themselves comfortable in a lafka. Two others went for them, but as they did not return within an hour the police went to search for both parties. When all were brought to the steamer it was difficult to say it the last were not first—in intoxication.
Several passengers left us at Habarofka, among them the black eyed girl that attracted the eyes of one or two passengers in the cabin; as we departed she stood on the bank and waved us an adieu. In the freight taken at this point there were fifteen chairs of local manufacture; they were piled in the cabin and did not leave us much space, when we considered the number and size of the fleas. On my first night on the Ingodah the fleas did not disturb me as I came after visiting hours and was not introduced. On all subsequent nights they were persevering and relentless; I was bitten until portions of my body appeared as if recovering from a Polynesian tattoo. They used to get inside my under clothing by some mysterious way and when there they walked up and down like sentries on duty and bit at every other step. It was impossible to flee from them, and they appointed their breakfasts and lunches at times most inconvenient to myself.
If I were Emperor of Russia I would issue a special edict expelling fleas from my dominions and ordering that the labor expended in scratching should be devoted to agriculture or the mechanic arts. I suggested that the engines should be removed from the Ingodah and a treadmill erected for the fleas to propel the boat. There have been exhibitions where fleas were trained to draw microscopic coaches and perform other fantastic tricks; but whatever their ability I would wager that the insects on that steamboat could not be outdone in industry by any other fleas in the world.
One of my standard amusements was to have a grand hunt for these lively insects just before going to bed, and I have no doubt that the exercise assisted to keep me in good health. I used to remove my clothing, which I turned inside out and shook very carefully. Then I bathed from head to foot in some villainous brandy that no respectable flea would or could endure; after this ablution was ended, I donned my garments, wrapped in my blanket, and proceeded to dream that I was a hen with thirteen chickens, and doomed to tear up an acre of ground for their support.
CHAPTER XV.
When I rose in the morning after leaving Habarofka the steward was ready with his usual pitcher of water and basin. In Siberia they have a novel way of performing ablutions. They rarely furnish a wash-bowl, but in place of it bring a large basin of brass or other metal. If you wish to wash hands or face the basin is placed where you can lean over it. A servant pours from a pitcher into your hands, and if you are skillful you catch enough water to moisten your face. Frequently the peasants have a water-can attached to the wall of the house in some out-of-the-way locality. The can has a valve in the bottom opened from below like a trapdoor in a roof. By lifting a brass pin that projects from this valve one can fill his hands with water without the aid of a servant.
While I was arranging my toilet the steward pointed out of the cabin window and uttered the single word “Kitie”—emphasizing the last syllable. I looked where he directed and had my first view of the Chinese empire.
“Kitie” is the Russian name of China, and is identical with the Cathay of Marco Polo and other early travelers. I could not see any difference between Kitie on one hand and Russia on the other; there were trees and bushes, grass and sand, just as on the opposite shore. In the region immediately above the Ousuree there are no mountains visible from the river, but only the low banks on either hand covered with trees and bushes. Here and there were open spaces appearing as if cleared for cultivation. With occasional sand bars and low islands, and the banks frequently broken and shelving, the resemblance to the lower Mississippi was almost perfect.
Mr. Maack says of this region:
“In the early part of the year when the yellow blossoms of the Lonicera chrysantha fill the air with their fragrance, when the syringas bloom and the Hylonecon bedecks large tracts with a bright golden hue, when corydales, violets, and pasque flowers are open, the forests near the Ousuree may bear comparison in variety of richness and coloring with the open woods of the prairie country. Later in the year, the scarcity of flowers is compensated by the richness of the herbage, and after a shower of rain delicious perfumes are wafted towards us from the tops of the walnut and cork trees.”
A little past noon we touched at the Russian village of Petrovsky. At this place the river was rapidly washing the banks, and I was told that during three years nearly four hundred feet in front of the village had been carried away. The single row of houses forming the settlement stands with a narrow street between it and the edge of the bank. The whole population, men, women, and children, turned out to meet us. The day was cool and the men were generally in their sheepskin coats. The women wore gowns of coarse cloth of different colors, and each had a shawl over her head. Some wore coats of sheepskin like those of the men, and several were barefooted. Two women walked into the river and stood with utter nonchalance where the water was fifteen inches deep. I immersed my thermometer and found it indicated 51°.
Walking on shore I was nearly overturned by a small hog running between my legs. The brute, with a dozen of his companions, had pretty much his own way at Petrovsky, and after this introduction I was careful about my steps. These hogs are modelled something like blockade runners: with great length, narrow beam, and light draft. They are capable of high speed, and would make excellent time if pursued by a bull-dog or pursuing a swill-bucket.
RECEPTION AT PETROVSKY.
A peasant told us there were wild geese in a pond near by, and as the boat remained an hour or more to take wood, Borasdine and I improvised a hunting excursion. It proved in every sense a wild-goose chase, as the birds flew away before we were in shooting distance. Not wishing to return empty-handed we purchased two geese a few hundred yards from the village, and assumed an air of great dignity as we approached the boat. We subsequently ascertained that the same geese were offered to the steward for half the price we paid.
Just above Petrovsky we passed the steamer Amoor, which left Nicolayevsk a week before us with three barges in tow. With such a heavy load her progress was very slow. Barges on the Amoor river are generally built of iron, and nearly as large as the steamers. They are not towed alongside as on the Mississippi, but astern. The rope from the steamer to the first barge is about two hundred feet long, and the barges follow each other at similar distances. Looking at this steamer struggling against the current and impeded by the barges, brought to mind Pope’s needless Alexandrine:
“That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along.”
Each barge has a crew, subordinate, of course, to the captain of the tow-boat. This crew steers the barge in accordance with the course of the steamer, looks after its welfare, and watches over the freight on board. In case it fastens on a sand bar the crew remains with it, and sometimes has the pleasure of wintering there. The barge is decked like a ship, and has two or three hatchways for receiving and discharging freight. Over each hatchway is a derrick that appears at a distance not unlike a mast.
Above Petrovsky the banks generally retain their level character on the Russian side. Cliffs and hills frequently extend to the water on the Chinese shore, most of the land being covered with forests of foliferous trees. Some of the mountains are furrowed along their sides as regularly as if turned with a gigantic plow. Near the villages of Ettoo and Dyrki the cliffs are precipitous and several hundred feet high; at their base the water is deep and the current very strong. On the north shore the plain is generally free from tall trees, but has a dense growth of grass and bushes. Sand-banks are frequent, and the islands are large and numerous.
This region is much frequented during the fishing season, and the huts of the natives, their canoes and drying scaffolds are quite numerous. There are but few fixed villages, the country not being desirable for permanent habitation. Near one village there was a gently sloping hillside about a mile square with a forest of oak so scattered that it had a close resemblance to an American apple-orchard.
The treaty between Russia and China, fixing the boundaries between the two empires, contains a strange oversight. Dated on the 14th of November, 1860, it says:
“Henceforth the eastern frontier between the two empires shall commence from the junction of the rivers Shilka and Argoon, and will follow the course of the River Amoor to the junction of the river Ousuree with the latter. The land on the left bank (to the north) of the River Amoor belongs to the empire of Russia, and the territory on the right bank (to the south) to the junction of the River Ousuree, to the empire of China.”
The treaty further establishes the boundaries from the mouth of the Ousuree to the sea of Japan, and along the western region toward Central Asia. It provides for commissioners to examine the frontier line.
It declares that trade shall be free of duty along the entire line, and removes all commercial restrictions. It gives the merchants of Kiachta the right of going to Pekin, Oorga, and Kalgan; allows a Russian consulate at Oorga, and permits Russian merchants to travel anywhere in China. It annuls former treaties, and establishes a postal arrangement between Pekin and Kiachta.
I presume the oversight in the treaty was on the part of the Chinese, as the Russians are too shrewd in diplomacy to omit any point of advantage. Nothing is said about the land in the Amoor. “The land on the north bank is Russian, and on the south bank Chinese.” What is to be the nationality of the islands in the river? Some of them are large enough to hold a population of importance, or be used, as the sites of fortifications. There are duchies and principalities in Europe of less territorial extent than some islands of the Amoor.
When Russia desires them she will doubtless extend her protection, and I observed during my voyage that several islands were occupied by Russian settlers for hay-cutting and other purposes. Why could not an enterprising man of destiny like the grey-eyed Walker or unhappy Maximilian penetrate the Amoor and found a new government on an island that nobody owns? Quite likely his adventure would result like the conquests of Mexico and Nicaragua, but this probability should not cause a man of noble blood to hesitate.
Below the Ousuree the Russian villages were generally on the south bank of the river, but after passing that stream I found them all on the north side. The villages tributary to China consisted only of the settlements of Goldees and Mangoons, or their temporary fishing stations. The Chinese empire contains much territory still open to colonization, and I imagine that it would be to the interest of the Celestial government to scatter its population more evenly over its dominions. Possibly it does not wish to send its subjects into regions that may hereafter fall into the hands of the emperor of Russia. There is a great deal of land in Manjouria adapted to agriculture, richly timbered and watered, but containing a very small population. Millions of people could find homes where there are now but a few thousands.
A Russian village and military post seventeen miles below the mouth of the Songaree is named Michael Semenof, in honor of the Governor General of Eastern Siberia. We landed before the commandant’s house, where two iron guns pointed over the river in the direction of China. However threatening they appeared I was informed they were unserviceable for purposes of war, and only employed in firing salutes. A military force was maintained there, and doubtless kept a sharp watch over the Chinese frontier.
The soldiers appeared under good sanitary regulations, and the quarters of the Commandant indicated an appreciation of the comforts of life. The peasants that gathered on the bank were better dressed than those of Petrovsky and other villages. The town is on a plain covered with a scattered growth of oaks. Below this place the wood furnished us was generally ash or poplar; here it was oak, somewhat gnarly and crooked, but very good for steamboat fuel. One design of the colonization of the Amoor is to furnish a regular supply of wood to the government steamers. The peasants cut the wood and bring it to the bank of the river. Private steamers pay cash for what they purchase; the captains of the government boats gives vouchers for the wood they take, and these vouchers are redeemed at the end of the season of navigation. About sixty thousand roubles worth of wood is consumed annually by government, and twelve thousand on private account.
While the boat took wood Borasdine and I resumed our hunting, he carrying a shot-gun and I an opera glass; with this division of labor we managed to bag a single snipe and kill another, which was lost in the river. My opera glass was of assistance in finding the birds in the grass; they were quite abundant almost within rifle-shot of town, and it seemed strange that the officers of the post did not devote their leisure to snipe hunting.
Our snipe was cooked, for dinner, and equalled any I ever saw at Delmonico’s. We had a wild goose at the same meal, and after a careful trial I can pronounce the Siberian goose an edible bird. He is not less cunning than wild geese elsewhere, but with all his adroitness he frequently falls into the hands of man and graces his dinner table.
On the northern horizon, twenty or thirty miles from Michael Semenof, there is a range of high and rugged mountains. As we left the town, near the close of day, the clouds broke in the west and the sunshine lighted up these mountains and seemed to lift them above their real position. With the red and golden colors of the clouds; the lights and shadows of the mountains; the yellow forests of autumn, and the green plains near the river; the stillness broken only by our own motion or the rippling of the river, the scene was ‘most fair to look upon.’ I have never seen sunsets more beautiful than those of the Amoor.
ARMED AND EQUIPPED.
I rose early in the morning to look at the mouth of the Songaree. Under a cloudy moon I could distinguish little beyond the outline of the land and the long low water line where the Amoor and Songaree sweep at right angles from their respective valleys. Even though it was not daylight I could distinguish the line of separation, or union, between the waters of the two streams, just as one can observe it where the Missouri and Mississippi unite above Saint Louis. I would have given much to see this place in full daylight, but the fates willed it otherwise.
This river is destined at some time to play an important part in Russian and Chinese diplomacy. At present it is entirely controlled by China, but it appears on all the late maps of Eastern Siberia with such minuteness as to indicate that the Russians expect to obtain it before long. Formerly the Chinese claimed the Songaree as the real Amoor, and based their argument on the fact that it follows the general course of the united stream and carried a volume of water as large as the other. They have now abandoned this claim, which the Russians are entirely willing to concede. Once the fact established that the Songaree is the real Amoor, the Russians would turn to the treaty which gives them “all the land north of the Amoor.” Their next step would be to occupy the best part of Manjouria, which would be theirs by the treaty.
By far the larger portion of Manjouria is drained by the Songaree and its tributaries. The sources of this river are in the Shanalin mountains, that separate Corea from Manjouria, and are ten or twelve thousand feet high. They resemble the Sierra Nevadas in having a lake twelve miles in circumference as high in air as Lake Tahoe. The affluents of the Songaree run through a plateau in some places densely wooded while in others it has wide belts of prairie and marshy ground. A large part of the valley consists of low, fertile lands, through which the river winds with very few impediments to navigation.
Very little is known concerning the valley, but it is said to be pretty well peopled and to produce abundantly. M. De la Bruniere when traveling to the country of the Gilyaks in 1845, crossed this valley, and found a dense population along the river, but a smaller one farther inland. The principal cities are Kirin and Sansin on the main stream, and Sit-si-gar on the Nonni, one of its tributaries. The Songaree is navigable to Kirin, about thirteen hundred versts from the Amoor, and it is thought the Nonni can be ascended to Sit-si-gar. The three cities have each a population of about a hundred thousand.
According to the treaty of 1860 Russian merchants with proper passports may enter Chinese territory, but no more than two hundred can congregate in one locality. Russian merchants have been to all the cities in Manjouria, but the difficulties of travel are not small. The Chinese authorities are jealous of foreigners, and restrict their movements as much as possible.
The Russians desire to open the Songaree to commerce, but the Chinese prefer seclusion. A month before my visit a party ascended the river to ascertain its resources. A gentleman told me the Chinese used every means except actual force to hinder the progress of the steamer and prevent the explorers seeing much of the country. Whenever any one went on shore the people crowded around in such numbers that nothing else could be seen. Almost the whole result of the expedition was to ascertain that the river was navigable and its banks well peopled.
In the dim light of morning I saw some houses at the junction of the rivers, and learned they were formerly the quarters of a Manjour guard. Until 1864 a military force, with two or three war junks, was kept at the mouth of the Songaree to prevent Russian boats ascending. Mr. Maximowicz, the naturalist, endeavored in 1859 to explore the river as far as the mouth of the Nonni. Though his passport was correct, the Manjour guard ordered him to stop, and when he insisted upon proceeding the Celestial raised his matchlock. Maximowicz exhibited a rifle and revolver and forced a passage.
He was not molested until within forty miles of San-Sin, when the natives came out with flails, but prudently held aloof on seeing the firearms in the boat. Finding he could not safely proceed, the gentleman turned about when only twenty-five miles below the city.
After passing the Songaree I found a flat country with wide prairies on either side of the river. In the forest primeval the trees were dense and large, and where no trees grew the grass was luxuriant. The banks were alluvial and evidently washed by the river during times of freshet. There were many islands, but the windings of the river were more regular than farther down. I saw no native villages and only two or three fishing stations. Those acquainted with the river say its banks have fewer inhabitants there than in any other portion.
On the Russian shore there were only the villages established by government, but notwithstanding its lack of population, the country was beautiful. With towns, plantations, and sugar-mills, it would greatly resemble the region between Baton Rouge and New Orleans. I could perceive that the volume of the river was much diminished above its junction with the Songaree.
At long and rare intervals snags were visible, but not in the navigable channel. We took soundings with a seven foot pole attached to a rope fastened to the rail of the boat. A man threw the pole as if he were spearing fish, and watched the depth to which it descended. The depth of water was shouted in a monotonous drawl. “Sheiste; sheiste polivinnay; sem; sem polivinnay;” and so on through the various quantities indicated. I thought the manner more convenient than that in use on some of our western rivers.