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.
[Illustration: 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.
[Illustration: STEAMSHIP WRIGHT IN A STORM.]
[Illustration: 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.
[Illustration: 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.
[Illustration: 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.”