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.
[Illustration: 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.
[Illustration: 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.
[Illustration: 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.’
[Illustration: 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.
[Illustration: 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.”
[Illustration: 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.
[Illustration: 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.
[Illustration: TAIL PIECE, REINDEER]