On the morning of September 28th we arrived at Ekaterin-Nikolskoi, a
flourishing settlement, said to contain nearly three hundred houses.
It stood on a plateau forty feet above the river, and was the best
appearing village I had seen since leaving Habarofka. The people that
gathered on the bank were comfortably clad and evidently well fed, but
I could not help wondering how so many could leave their labor to look
at a steamboat. The country was considered excellent for agriculture,
yielding abundantly all the grains that had been tried.
On the Amoor the country below Gorin belongs to the Maritime province,
which has its capital at Nicolayevsk. Above Gorin is the Province of
The Amoor, controlled by the governor at Blagoveshchensk. In the
Maritime Province the settlers are generally of the civilian or
peasant class, while in the Amoor Province they are mostly Cossacks.
The latter depend more upon themselves than the former, and I was told
that this was one cause of their prosperity. Many peasants in the
Maritime Province do not raise enough flour for their own use, and
rely upon government when there is a deficiency.
It is my opinion that the Emperor does too much for some of his
subjects in the eastern part of his dominions. In Kamchatka and along
the coast of the Ohotsk sea the people are supplied with flour at a
low price or for nothing, a ship coming annually to bring it. It has
been demonstrated that agriculture is possible in Kamchatka. When I
asked why rye was not raised there, one reply was: “We get our flour
from government, and have no occasion to make it.” Now if the
government would furnish the proper facilities for commencing
agriculture, and then throw the inhabitants on their own resources, I
think it would make a decided change for the better. A self-reliant
population is always the best.
Some of the colonists on the Amoor went there of their own accord,
induced by liberal donations of land and materials, while others were
moved by official orders. In Siberia the government can transfer a
population at its will. A whole village may be commanded to move ten,
a hundred, or a thousand miles, and it has only to obey. The people
gather their property, take their flocks and herds, and move where
commanded. They are reimbursed for losses in changing their residence,
and the expense of new houses is borne by government. A community may
be moved from one place to another, and the settlers find themselves
surrounded by their former neighbors.
The Cossacks are moved oftener than the peasants, as they are more
directly subject to orders. I found the Cossack villages on the Amoor
were generally laid out with military precision, the streets where the
ground permitted being straight as sunbeams, and the houses of equal
size. Usually each house had a small yard or flower garden in its
front, but it was not always carefully tended. Every village has a
chief or headman, who assigns each man his location and watches over
the general good of his people. When Cossacks are demanded for
government service the headman makes the selection, and all cases of
insubordination or dispute are regulated by him.
A Cossack is half soldier and half citizen. He owes a certain amount
of service to the government, and is required to labor for it a given
number of days in the year. He may be called to travel as escort to
the mail or to an officer, to watch over public property, to row a
boat, construct a house, or perform any other duty in his power. In
case of war he becomes a soldier and is sent wherever required. As a
servant of government he receives rations for himself and family, but
I believe he is not paid in money. The time belonging to himself he
can devote to agriculture or any other employment he chooses.
The Cossacks reside with their families, and some of them acquire
considerable property. A Russian officer told me there were many
wealthy Cossacks along the Argoon river on the boundary between Russia
and China. They trade across the frontier, and own large droves of
cattle, horses, and sheep. Some of their houses are spacious and
fitted with considerable attempt at luxury. The Amoor settlements are
at present too young to possess much wealth.
Soon after leaving Ekaterin-Nikolskoi we entered the Buryea or Hingan
mountains. This chain extends across the valley of the Amoor at nearly
right angles, and the river flows through it in a single narrow
defile. The mountains first reach the river on the northern bank, the
Chinese shore continuing low for thirteen miles higher up. There are
no islands, and the river, narrowed to about half a mile, flows with a
rapid current. In some places it runs five miles an hour, and its
depth is from fifty to a hundred feet. The mountains come to the river
on either bank, sometimes in precipitous cliffs, but generally in
regular slopes.
Their elevation is about a thousand feet, and they are covered to
their summits with dense forests of foliferous and coniferous trees.
Occasionally the slopes are rocky or covered with loose debris that
does not give clinging room to the trees. The undergrowth is dense,
and everything indicates a good vegetation.
The mountains are of mica-schist, clay-slate, and rocks of similar
origin resting upon an axis of granite. Porphyry has been found in one
locality. According to the geologists there are indications of gold
and other precious metals, and I would not be surprised if a thorough
exploration led to valuable discoveries.
As the boat struggled against the current in this mountain passage I
spent most of the time on deck. The tortuous course of the river added
much to the scenic effect. Almost every minute the picture changed.
Hill, forest, cliff, and valley assumed different aspects as we wound
our sinuous way up the defile. Here and there were tiny cascades
breaking over the steep rocks to the edge of the river, and
occasionally a little meadow peeped out from the mountain valleys.
Some features of the scenery reminded me of the Highlands of the
Hudson, or the Mississippi above Lake Pepin. At times we seemed
completely enclosed in a lake from which there was no escape save by
climbing the hills. Frequently it was impossible to discover any trace
of an opening half a mile in our front. Had we been ascending an
unexplored river I should have half expected to find it issuing like a
huge spring from the base of a high mountain.
The Russian villages in these mountains are located in the valleys of
streams flowing to the Amoor. In one bend we found a solitary house
newly-erected and waiting its occupants who should, keep the
post-station in winter. We sent a Cossack ashore in a skiff at this
point, and he came near falling into the river while descending the
steps at the steamer’s side. While returning from the bank one of the
men in the skiff broke an oar and fell overboard, which obliged us to
back the steamer nearly half a mile down the river to pick him up. The
unlucky individual was arrayed in the only suit of clothes he
possessed, and was hung up to dry in the engine room.
A mile above this landing place we passed two Manjour boats ascending
the stream. These boats were each about twenty feet long, sitting low
in the water with the bow more elevated than the stern, and had a mast
in the center for carrying a small sail. In the first boat I counted
six men, four pushing with poles, one steering, and the sixth,
evidently the proprietor, lying at ease on the baggage. Where the
nature of the ground permits the crew walk along the shore and tow the
boat.
The men were in cotton garments and conical hats, and their queues of
hair hung like ships pennants in a dead calm, or the tails of a group
of scared dogs. They seemed to enjoy themselves, and were laughing
merrily as we went past them. They waved their hands up the stream as
if urging us to go ahead and say they were coming. The one reclining
was a venerable personage, with a thin beard fringing a sedate visage,
into which he drew long whiffs and comfort from a Chinese pipe.
These boats were doubtless from Kirin or San-Sin, on their way to
Igoon. The voyage must be a tedious one to any but a Mongol, much like
the navigation of the Mississippi before the days of steam-boats. In
spite of the great advantages to commerce, the Manjours resisted to
the last the introduction of steam on the Amoor just as they now
oppose it on the Songaree.
[Illustration: MANJOUR BOAT.]
In the language of the natives along its banks the Amoor has several
names. The Chinese formerly called the Songaree ‘Ku-tong,’ and
considered the lower Amoor a part of that stream. Above the Songaree
the Amoor was called ‘Sakhalin-Oula,’ (black water,) by the Manjours
and Chinese. The Goldees named it ‘Mongo,’ and the Gilyaks called it
‘Mamoo.’ The name Amoor was given by the Russians, and is considered a
corruption of the Gilyak word. When Mr. Collins descended, in 1857,
the natives near Igoon did not or would not understand him when he
spoke of the Amoor. They called the river ‘Sakhalin,’ a name which the
Russians gave to the long island at the mouth of the Amoor. As the
Mongolian maps do not reach the outside world I presume the Russian
names are most likely to endure with geographers. The upper part of
the defile of the Buryea Mountains is wider and has more meadows than
the lower portion. On one of these meadows, where there is a
considerable extent of arable land, we found the village of Raddevski,
named in honor of the naturalist Raddy, who explored this region. The
resources here were excellent, if I may judge by the quantity and
quality of edibles offered to our steward. The people of both sexes
flocked to the landing with vegetables, bread, chickens, butter, and
other good things in much larger quantity than we desired. There was a
liberal supply of pigs and chickens, with many wild geese and ducks.
We bought a pig and kept him on board three or four days. He squealed
without cessation, until our captain considered him a bore, and
ordered him killed and roasted.
Pigs were generally carried in bags or in the arms of their owners.
One day a woman brought a thirty pound pig suspended over her
shoulder. The noise and kicking of the brute did not disturb her, and
she held him as unconcernedly as if he were an infant. Finding no
market for her property, she turned it loose and allowed it to take
its own way home. Milk was almost invariably brought in bottles, and
eggs in boxes or baskets. Eggs were sold by the dizaine (ten,) and not
as with us by the dozen.
At Raddevski several kinds of berries were offered us, but only the
blackberry and whortleberry were familiar to my eyes. One berry, of
which I vainly tried to catch the Russian name, was of oblong shape,
three-fourths an inch in length, and had the taste of a sweet grape.
It was said to grow on a climbing vine. Cedar nuts were offered in
large quantities, but I did not purchase.
Here, as elsewhere on the lower Amoor, men and women labor together in
the fields and engage equally in marketing at the boats. I was much
amused in watching the commercial transactions between the peasants
and our steward. I could not understand what was said, but the
conversation in loud tones and with many words had much the appearance
of an altercation. Several times I looked around expecting to see
blows, but the excitement was confined to the vocal organs alone.
The passage of the Amoor through the Buryea mountains is nearly a
hundred miles in length. Toward the upper end the mountains are more
precipitous and a few peaks rise high above the others, like The
Sentinels in Yosemite valley. The last cliff before one reaches the
level country is known as Cape Sverbef, a bold promontory that
projects into the river and is nearly a thousand feet high. Not far
from this cliff is a flat-topped mountain remarkable for several
crevices on its northern side, from which currents of cold air
steadily issue. Ice forms around these fissures in midsummer, and a
thermometer suspended in one of them fell in an hour to 30°
Fahrenheit.
An hour after passing the mountains I saw a dozen conical huts on the
Chinese shore and a few dusky natives lounging in front of them. They
reminded me of the lodges of our noble red men as I saw them west of
the Missouri several years before. Instead of being Cheyennes or Sioux
they proved to be Birars, a tribe of wandering Tunguse who inhabit
this region. Their dwellings wore of light poles covered with birch
bark. One of the native gentlemen was near the bank of the river in
the attitude of an orator, but not properly dressed for a public
occasion. His only garments were a hat and a string of beads, and he
was accompanied by a couple of young ladies in the same picturesque
costume, minus the hat and beads.
These Tungusians lead a nomadic life. Above the mouth of the Zeya
there are two other tribes of similar character, the Managres and
Orochons. The principal difference between them is that the former
keep the horse and the latter the reindeer. The Birars have no beasts
of burden except a very few horses.
None of these people live in permanent houses, but move about wherever
attracted by fishing or the chase. During spring and summer they
generally live on the banks of the river, where they catch and cure
fish. Their scaffoldings and storehouses were like those of the
natives already described, and during their migrations are left
without guards and universally respected. Their fish are dried for
winter use, and they sell the roe of the sturgeon to the Russians for
making caviar.
My first acquaintance with caviar was at Nicolayevsk, and I soon
learned to like it. It is generally eaten with bread, and forms an
important ingredient in the Russian lunch. On the Volga its
preparation engages a great many men, and the caviar from that river
is found through the whole empire. Along the Amoor the business is in
its infancy, the production thus far being for local consumption. I
think if some enterprising American would establish the preparation of
caviar on the Hudson where the sturgeon is abundant, he could make a
handsome profit in shipping it to Russia.
The roe is taken from the fish and carefully washed. The membrane that
holds the eggs together is then broken, and after a second washing the
substance is ready for salting. One kind for long carriage and
preservation is partially dried and then packed and sealed in tin
cans. The other is put in kegs, without pressing, and cannot be kept a
long time.
In the autumn and winter the natives are hunters. They chase elk and
deer for their flesh, and sables, martens, and squirrels for their
furs. Squirrels are especially abundant, and a good hunter will
frequently kill a thousand in a single season. The Siberian squirrel
of commerce comes from this region by way of Irkutsk and St.
Petersburg. The natives hunt the bear and are occasionally hunted by
him.
At one landing a Birar exhibited an elk skin which he wished to
exchange for tobacco, and was quite delighted when I gave him a small
quantity of the latter. He showed me a scar on his arm where a bear
had bitten him two or three years before. The marks of the teeth and
the places where the flesh was torn could be easily seen, but I was
unable to learn the particulars of his adventure.
These Tungusians are rather small in stature, and their arms and legs
are thin. Their features are broad, their mouths large and lips
narrow, and their hair is black and smooth, the men having very little
beard. Their clothing is of the skins of elk and deer, with some
garments of cotton cloth of Chinese manufacture. Most of the men I saw
wore a belt at the waist, to which several articles of daily use were
attached.
At each Russian settlement above the mountains I observed a large post
painted in the official colors and supporting a board inscribed with
the name of the village. It was fixed close to the landing place, and
evidently designed for the convenience of strangers. One of my
exercises in learning the language of the country was to spell the
names on these signs. I found I could usually spell much faster if I
knew beforehand the name of a village. It was like having a Bohn’s
translation of a Latin exercise.
At the village of Inyakentief I saw the first modern fortification
since leaving Nicolayevsk,—a simple lunette without cannon but with
several hundred cannon shot somewhat rusty with age. The governor of
this village was a prince by title, and evidently controlled his
subjects very well. I saw Madame the princess, but did not have the
pleasure of her acquaintance. She was dressed in a costume of which
crinoline, silk, and ribbons were component parts, contrasting sharply
with the coarse garments of the peasant women.
This village had recently sold a large quantity of wheat and rye to
the government. It had the best church I had seen since leaving
Nicolayevsk, and its general appearance was prosperous. Among the
women that came to the boat was one who recognized Borasdine as an old
acquaintance. She hastened back to her house and brought him two
loaves of bread made from wheat of that year’s growth. As a token of
friendship he gave her a piece of sugar weighing a pound or two and a
glass of bad brandy that brought many tears to her eyes. I think she
was at least fifteen minutes drinking the fiery liquid, which she
sipped as one would take a compound of cayenne pepper and boiling
water. The worst ‘tanglefoot’ or ‘forty-rod’ from Cincinnati or St.
Louis would have been nectar by the side of that brandy.
The country for a hundred miles or more above the Buryea mountains was
generally level. Here and there were hills and ridges, and in the
background on the south a few mountains were visible. There were many
islands which, with the banks of alluvium, were evidently cut by the
river in high freshets. Where the beach sloped to the water there was
a little driftwood, and I could see occasional logs resting upon
islands and sand bars.
When taken in a tumbler the water of the Amoor appeared perfectly
clear, but in the river it had a brownish tinge. There were no snags
and no floating timber. I never fancied an iron boat for river travel
owing to the ease of puncturing it. On the Mississippi or Missouri it
would be far from safe, but on the Amoor there are fewer perils of
navigation. More boats have been lost there from carelessness or
ignorance than from accidents really unavoidable. The Amoor is much
like what the Mississippi would be with all its snags removed and its
channel made permanent.
While among the islands I saw a small flotilla of boats in line across
a channel, and after watching them through a glass discovered they
were hauling a net. There were ten or twelve summer huts on the point
of an island, and the boats were at least twice as many. A dozen men
on shore were hauling a net that appeared well filled with fish. I do
not think a single native looked up as we passed. Possibly they have a
rule there not to attend to outside matters when exercising their
professions.