“All aboard!” At ten o’clock we steamed out of the harbor of Seattle
and headed toward Alaska, the land of icebergs, glaciers and gold
fields. Seattle sat as serenely on her terraced slopes as Rome on her
seven hills. The sun shone bright and clear on the snow-capped peaks of
the Cascades. Mt. Tacoma stood out bold and clear against the sun-lit
sky.
We steamed at full speed down Admiralty Inlet.
At noon we stop at Port Townsend, the port of entry for Puget sound.
One sees at all these coast towns many Japanese, some dressed in nobby
bicycle costumes, leading their wheels about the wharves, others
wearing neat business suits and sporting canes. The less fortunate
almond-eyed people are here too, dressed in the garb of the laborer,
but it is to the former, the padrone, that the American employer goes
for contract labor.
In any case the laborer pays his padrone a per cent. of his wages.
It holds true the world over that “some must follow and some command,
though all are made of clay,” as Longfellow puts it.
We are soon out on the ocean, where it is all sea and flood and long
Pacific swell.
All up and down the picturesque shores of Puget Sound live the Silash
Indians, who to-day dress in American costumes and follow American
pursuits. One sees them on the streets of the cities and towns. The
Silash, like the ancient Greeks, peopled the unseen world with spirits.
Good and evil genii lived in the forest; every spring had its Nereid
and every tree its dryad. They believed the Milky Way to be the path to
heaven; so believed the ancient Greeks.
One beautiful day there gleamed and danced in the sunshine a copper
canoe of wonderful design. Down the sound it came. When the stranger
whom it carried had landed he announced that he had a message for the
red man, and sending for every Silash, he taught them the law of love.
The Indian mind is slow to adjust itself to new thought. Such ideas
were new and strange to these children of nature. When this beautiful
stranger about whose head the sun was always shining, told them of the
new, the eternal life in the world beyond, they listened with deep
interest, but the savage was stronger than the man in the red skins and
they dragged the stranger to a tree, where they nailed him fast with
pegs in his hands and feet, torturing him as they did their victims of
the devil dance.
Then they danced around him until the strange light faded from his
beautiful eyes. Slowly the radiant head dropped and life itself went
out. A great storm arose that shook the earth to its very center. Great
rocks came tearing down the mountain side. The sun hid his face for
three days.
They took the body down and laid it away. On the third day, when the
sun burst forth, the dead man arose and resumed his teaching. The
Indians now declared him a god and believed in him.
Year by year the Silash grew more gentle and less warlike, until of all
Indians they became the most peaceful. My readers will readily see that
this is a confused tale of the Christ.
Another fantastic tale of this region is that of an Indian
miser who dried salmon and jerked meat, which he sold for
haiqua,--tusk-shells,--the wampum of the Silash Indians. Like all
misers, the more haiqua he got the more he wanted.
One cold winter day he went hunting on the slopes of Mount Rainier.
Every mountain has its Tamanous, to which travelers and hunters must
pay homage. Now the miser, instead of paying devotion to the god of
the mountain, only looked at the snow and sighed, “Ah, if it were only
haiqua.”
Up, up he went, and soon reached the rim of the volcano’s crater, and
hurrying down the inside of the crater he came to a rock in the form of
a deer’s head. With desperate energy he flung snow and gravel about.
Presently he came to a smooth, flat rock; summoning all his strength,
he lifted the rock. Beyond was a wonderful cave where were stored great
quantities of the most beautiful haiqua his eyes had ever beheld.
Winding string after string about his body, until he had all the haiqua
he could carry, he climbed out of the crater and started down the
mountain side. But the Tamanous was angry. Wrapping himself in a storm
cloud, he pursued the miser, who buffeted by the wind and blinded by
the snow and darkness, stumbled on, grasping his treasure. The unseen
hands of the god clutched him and tore strand after strand from his
neck.
The storm lulled a moment, but returned with renewed energy; the
thunder and lightning increased; again the unseen hands held him in
a vice-like grasp. Strand after strand the angry god tore from the
miser’s grasp, until by the time he arrived at the timber line but one
strand remained; this he flung aside and hurried on down the mountain.
Not one shell remained to reward him for his perilous journey. Weary
and foot-sore he fell fainting in the darkness. When he awoke his hair
was white as the snow on the mountain’s brow. He looked back at the
snow-crowned peak with never a wish for the treasures of the Tamanous.
When he arrived at his home an aged woman was there cooking fish. In
her he recognized his wife, who had mourned him as dead for many long
years. He dried salmon and jerked meat, which he sold for haiqua, but
never again did he brave the Tamanous of Mount Rainier. Thus ends the
weird tale of Puget Sound.
Clearing this port, our course lay across the straits of Juan de
Fuca, named for the Greek explorer before mentioned. The green slopes
of the beautiful San Juan islands now came into view.
We landed at Victoria, the capital of the province of British Columbia,
at eight o’clock in the morning. The city was still wrapt in slumber. A
cow placidly munching grass in the street, looked at us inquiringly. We
met a dejected looking dog and presently a laborer going to his work.
[Illustration: PARLIAMENT HOUSE, VICTORIA.]
A handsome hotel occupies a commanding site, but the doors were closed.
Not a store was open. The government buildings, naval station and
museum are the only places of interest.
The Island of Vancouver is composed of rock and sand. All along the
shore are magnificent sea weeds, ferns and club mosses, growing fast to
the rocky side and the bottom of the sea. Many of these plants break
loose and go floating about.
Imagine a perfectly smooth, flexible parsnip, from twenty to fifty feet
long, with leaves of the same length like those of the horse radish in
form, but the color of sapless, water-soaked grasses, and you have a
kelp. Coming toward you head on, the long leaves floating back under
it, you have a miniature man-of-war.
The fortifications for the protection of the harbor are submerged. You
would never suspect that below that innocent looking daisy covered
surface great guns were ready at a moment’s notice to blow you and your
good ship to atoms should her actions proclaim her an enemy.
Farther up the coast Exquimalt, the most formidable fortress on the
American Continent, occupies a commanding site.
We were glad to retrace our steps to the steamer and shake from off
our feet the dust of that sleepy old town, which never felt a quiver
when “Freedom from her mountain height unfurled her standard to the
air,” and shake off too that strange feeling which possesses one when
treading a foreign shore.
All day long Mount Baker of the Cascade range has stood like an old
sentinel, white and hoary, to point us on our way.
Fair Haven and New Whatcomb, the terminus of the Great Northern railway
for passenger traffic, are delightfully located on the coast. These
towns are growing rapidly. The population is now twelve hundred. The
largest shingle mill in the world is located here. It turns out
half a million shingles every ten hours. The saw-mill turns out lumber
enough every day to build five ten-room houses, while a tin can factory
turns out a half million cans a day.
In time Fair Haven and New Whatcomb will be two of the most beautiful
towns in Washington. The streets are broad. Green lawns surround
handsome homes and pretty cottages.
At noon we passed the forty-ninth parallel, the boundary line between
the United States and the British possessions. What a vast expanse of
territory had been ours had we adhered to our determination to maintain
the fifty-fourth parallel. “Fifty-four, forty or fight,” we said, but
gave it up without a blow.
Forty miles across from Vancouver lies the busy collier town of
Nanaimo. The Indians discovered the coal fifty years ago. On the knoll
near the coal wharves, there is a beautiful grove of madronas. In the
surrounding forest gigantic ferns and strange wild flowers grow in
great profusion. Berries are plentiful and game abundant.
At Cape Mudge we bid farewell to the Silash tribes. Cape Mudge
potlatches are famous for their extravagance. In 1888 a neighboring
tribe was worth nearly five hundred thousand dollars. The British
Columbia legislature prohibited potlatches and in one year their wealth
decreased four-fifths. The prohibition of potlatches quenched their
desire to accumulate property.
[Illustration: GORGE OF HOMATHCO.]
The wild gorge of Homathco is the result of the relentless glaciers.
In Jervis Inlet is a great tidal rapid, the roar of which can be heard
for miles. It is considered the equal of the famous Malstrom and
Salstrom of Norway.
At Point Robert we pass the last light house on the American coast. The
stars and stripes floated from the flag staff. With a dash and a roar
the white crested waves tumbled on the beach. With a last farewell to
Old Glory, we steam ahead and for six hundred miles plow the British
main.
[Illustration: LIGHT HOUSE, POINT ROBERT.]
The scenery becomes more wild, savage, grand and awful. Snow-clad
mountains guard the waterway on either side. Such Oh’s and Ah’s when
some scene of more than usual grandeur bursts upon our view. A canoe
shoots out from yonder overhanging ledge. The glasses reveal the
occupants to be four Indians out on a fishing expedition.
Nearly every one of our three hundred passengers was interested in
the first whale sighted. “O yonder he goes, a whale;” “O, see him
spout;” “Now look, look!” “Ah, down he goes.” Then everyone questions
everyone else. “Did you see the whale?” “Did you see our whale?” “O,
we had whales on our side of the boat,” and adds some one, “They were
performing whales, too.” Then the gong sounds for dinner and the whale
is forgotten in the discussion of the menu.
Many of our passengers are bound for Dawson City, Juneau and other
Alaskan points. One hears much discussion of the dollar, not the
common American dollar, but the Alaskan dollar, which seems to be more
precious as it is more difficult to obtain.
Here are young men bound for the frozen field of gold who could carry
a message to Garcia and never once ask, “Where is he ‘at?’” “Who is
he?” or “Why do you want to send the message, anyway?” Young men with
backbone, muscle and brains, who would succeed in almost any field.
From Queen Charlotte’s sound to Cape Calvert we were out on the
Pacific. Old Neptune tossed us about pretty much as he liked, although
Captain Wallace, who, by the way, is a genial gentleman and a charming
host, assured us that we had a smooth passage across this arm of the
old ocean. Many suffered from _mal de mer_.
Wrapped in furs and rugs, we sit on deck, enjoying the panorama of sea
and sky. Sun-lit mountains, white with the snows of a thousand years
and green-clad foot hills covered with pines as thick as the weeds on a
common. Here and there in a wild, dreary nook the glasses revealed an
Indian trapper’s cabin. Here he lives and hunts and fishes. When he has
a sufficient number of skins he loads his canoe and skims across the
water, it may be eighty or a hundred miles, to a town, where he trades
his furs and fish for sugar, coffee, tea, and the many things which
he has learned to eat from his white brother. He is very fond of tea
and rum. He does not bury his dead, but wraps them in their blankets
and lays them on the top of the ground, that they may the more easily
find their way to the Happy Hunting Ground. Then he builds a tight
board fence five or six feet high about the lonely grave and covers
it tightly over the top to keep out the wild animals which roam the
mountain sides. A tall staff rises from the grave and a white cloth
floats from its pinnacle. We sighted one of these lonely graves on the
top of a small island on our second day out, and were reminded of that
other lonely grave in the vale of the Land of Moab.
[Illustration: FJORDS OF ALASKA.]
Bella Bella is an Indian town located on Hunter island. The houses are
all two-story and nicely painted. There is nothing in the aspect of the
town to indicate that it is other than a white man’s town, though the
Indians who reside here were once the most savage on the coast. On a
smaller island near by is a cemetery. Small, one-roomed houses are the
vaults in which the bodies are placed after being wrapped in blankets.
Here we saw the first grave stones. They stand in front of these vaults
and are higher. On them are carved the owner’s name and his exploits in
hunting or war in picture language.
The Silash Indians are very gentle and kind. If you are hungry they
will divide their last crust with you. If you are cold they will give
you their last blanket. They wear civilized dress, fish and hunt and
are quite prosperous. Many hops are grown in the State of Washington
and in the fall these Indians go down in their canoes to pick hops.
They are preferred to white pickers, because of their industry and
honesty.
Saturday night we crossed “Fifty-four forty or fight” and Sunday
morning found us in Alaska.
[Illustration: FISHING HAMLET OF KETCHIKAN.]