CHAPTER XIII

AMONG THE TCHUKTCHIS--(_continued_)

The time at Whalen passed with exasperating slowness, especially after

the first ten days, when monotony had dulled the edge of success and

worn off the novelty of our strange surroundings. On the Lena we had

experienced almost perpetual darkness; here we had eternal daylight,

which, with absolutely nothing to do or even to think about, was even

more trying. Almost our sole occupation was to sit on the beach and gaze

blankly at the frozen ocean, which seemed at times as though it would

never break up and admit of our release from this natural prison. Every

day, however, fresh patches of brown earth appeared through their white

and wintry covering, and wild flowers even began to bloom on the

hillsides, but the cruel waste of ice still appeared white and unbroken

from beach to horizon. One day Harding fashioned a rough set of chessmen

out of drift-wood, and this afforded some mental relief, but only for a

few days. "Pickwick" had been read into tatters, even our Shakespeare

failed us at last, and having parted with the "_Daily Mail_ Year Book"

at Verkhoyansk, this was our sole library. Sometimes we visited our

neighbours, where we were generally kindly received, presents

occasionally being made us. One day the Chief's eldest daughter worked

and presented me with a pair of deerskin boots with a pretty pattern

worked in deerskins of various colours, obtained from dyes of native

manufacture. I naturally wondered how these could be extracted from

natural products in this barren land of rock, sand and drift-wood, but

Billy partly explained the secret of the operation which is, I fancy,

peculiar to the coast.[63] The ex-whaleman furnished me with this

information during a talk we had over his experiences of the previous

winter. From the same source I also gleaned many facts concerning these

people, who invariably try to mislead the ingenuous stranger. Billy,

however, enjoyed their complete confidence, and had stored up a fund of

interesting information, some of which I reproduce for the reader's

benefit.

[Footnote 63: A bright red colour is obtained from a rock found in the

interior. Green by boiling the fur in the urine of a dog. I was unable

to ascertain how dark blue, the only other dye, is made.]

Next to irresponsible and armed drunkards my greatest anxiety at Whalen

was caused by the medicine men, of whom there were about a score, and

who never lost an opportunity of setting their patients against us.

Medicine men are all-powerful here, although their treatment consists

solely of spells and incantations. But the unfortunate dupes have a firm

belief in these men, who are not only medical advisers, but are

consulted on everything pertaining to the affairs of life, from marital

differences to the price of whalebone. Billy had at one time aroused the

enmity of these impostors, who naturally distrust the influence

generally gained by the owner of a modern medicine chest. Our friend had

landed in Siberia with a bottle of embrocation and some Cockle's pills,

but even this modest pharmacopoeia had aroused the bitterest jealousy

amongst the doctors at East Cape. But familiarity breeds contempt, and

when Billy had gradually been reduced to the social standing of the

humblest Tchuktchi the medicine men simply ignored him, and made no

objection to his presence at their _seances_, which generally took place

in the dark. Occasionally, however, the Shamans officiated in the

daylight, when their skill as conjurers would, according to Billy, have

eclipsed an Egyptian Hall performance. To swallow several pieces of

walrus hide, and afterwards vomit forth a pair of miniature moccasins,

would seem a trick beyond the powers of the untutored savage, but the

whaleman often saw it accomplished. He also assisted to bind a Shaman

hand and foot with walrus thongs, and in less than ten seconds the man

had freed himself, although secured by knots which Billy himself could

not have unravelled in a week.

My friend is probably the only white man who has ever assisted at a

whale dance, which took place in a hut, dimly lit by seal oil lamps and

crowded with both sexes in a state of nature, with the exception of

their sealskin boots. The performance commenced with music in the shape

of singing accompanied by walrus-hide drums, after which a long plank

was brought in and suspended on the shoulders of four men. Upon this

three women were hoisted astride, and commenced a series of wild

contortions, back and forth and from side to side, not unlike the "Dance

du ventre." Relays of girls continued this exercise for two or three

hours, until all were exhausted, and then flesh of the whale, caught

the preceding summer, was handed round by children, and washed down by

floods of raw whisky, which brought the entertainment to a close for

that night. The following day athletic sports were indulged in by those

sufficiently sober, the owner of one hut furnishing the prizes and

refreshments. This giver of the feast and his family were distinguished

by faces plastered with the red paint already mentioned as being

obtained from the mountains of the interior. Wrestling and racing were

the chief pastimes, the prizes consisting of a cartridge, a piece of

calico, or perhaps a fox skin. The women did not join in these contests,

but with them a form of "tossing in a blanket" was gone through. A

walrus skin perforated around with holes to give a firmer grip was held

by seven or eight stalwart men, and at a given signal a girl lying in

the centre was sent flying into the air, she who reached the greatest

height receiving the appropriate prize of a needle or thimble. At night

the dance was continued, and on this occasion a fire was kindled around

which the medicine men seated themselves, mumbling incantations and

casting small pieces of deer or walrus meat into the flames as a

sacrifice to the evil spirits. The whale entertainment lasted for three

nights, but the incidents which occurred upon the last evening are not

fit for reproduction here. The whaleman, being more or less of a

celebrity, had attracted the bright glances of several Tchuktchi

maidens. But even when he found his affinity poor Billy's courtship was

of short duration, for his ladylove, when embraced for the first time

upon the lips, indignantly thrust him away and screamed for help.

According to Tchuktchi customs, she had suffered an irreparable insult,

the only recognised mode of kissing here being to rub noses while

murmuring "Oo" for an indefinite period. This was Billy's first and last

experience of love-making here, although Teneskin would gladly have

welcomed a white man as a son-in-law, and without the tiresome

preliminaries which generally precede a Tchuktchi marriage. For, on

ordinary occasions, a man must first obtain the consent of his

_fiancee_, then that of her parents, and when these points are settled

he must reside for several months as an inmate of the girl's hut before

he becomes her husband. A Tchuktchi may put a wife away on the slightest

pretext, but no crime on his part entitles his wife to a divorce. A

curious custom here is that of exchanging wives with a friend or

acquaintance, who thereupon becomes a brother, even legally, and so far

as the disposal of property is concerned.

A Tchuktchi may have as many wives as he pleases or can afford, but

married life here is usually a happy one, which is probably due to the

fact that a wife is never idle. Not only must she attend to the wants of

the household, needlework, cooking, washing, and in winter clearing the

roof of the _yarat_ of snow, but there are hides to be tanned and

deerskins to be dressed and sewn into clothing. A married woman must

also pass cold and weary hours in winter watching for seal and walrus,

and in summer probe the depths of boredom by fishing with a line for

"Tom cod." And from a feminine point of view, there is no reward for her

labours, no balls or parties, nor smart hats or gowns to excite the

envy of her neighbours; all the Tchuktchi spouse can hope for being a

"quid" of tobacco, so rare a luxury that it only reaches her lips when

her husband has extracted most of its flavour. While smoking, the

Tchuktchis, like the Yakutes, use tiny pipes; the smoke is not ejected

or inhaled, but swallowed, and the rankest tobacco is so precious here

that it is usually eked out with seal-hairs.

Tchuktchi-land teems with legends and superstitions of which Whalen had

its full share. A rock off the coast hard by was said to sing and talk

whenever a chief of the village was about to die, and the following

curious legend was gravely related to me by Yemanko. Many years ago

there lived at Whalen a chief with a wife so pretty that even fish were

attracted to the land by her charms. Amongst the dwellers of the sea was

a whale, with whom, unknown to her husband, she contracted a union.

Eventually a young whale was born to the amazement of the settlement,

which, regarding it as a mysterious gift from the spirits, paid the new

arrival great homage. A huge tank was dug and contained the monster

until it had attained its full growth, when it was marked and turned

loose in the sea to decoy other whales. But the natives of Inchaun, an

adjoining village, caught and killed the marked whale, which was scaring

away all their fish. The Inchaun people were thereupon attacked by the

Whalen men, who slaughtered every soul in their village. There is no

doubt that this tribal conflict did take place some time during the

eighteenth century, but I cannot say whether the murder of the marked

whale was the real cause of the battle.

The Tchuktchis appeared to have no religion, and I never saw any

ceremony performed suggestive of a belief in a Supreme Being, although

good and evil spirits are believed to exist, and when I was at

Oumwaidjik, sacrifices of seal and walrus meat were often thrown into

the sea by the medicine men to abate its fury. Three men who died at

Whalen during our visit were clad after death in their best deerskins

and carried some distance away from the settlement, where I believe they

were eventually devoured by the dogs. Several natives told me that a man

who dies a violent death ensures eternal happiness, but that an easy

dissolution generally means torment in the next world, which shows that

the Tchuktchi has some belief in a future state. The theory that a

painful death meets with spiritual compensation probably accounts for

the fact that loss of life is generally regarded here with utter

indifference. A ghastly ceremony I once witnessed at Oumwaidjik is a

proof of this. It was called the _Kamitok_, in other words the

sacrifice, with the full consent, of the aged and useless members of the

community. When a man's powers have decreased to a depreciable extent

from age, accident, or disease, a family council is held and a day and

hour is fixed for the victim's departure for another world. The most

curious feature of the affair is the indifference shown by the doomed

one, who takes a lively interest in the preliminaries of his own

execution. The latter is generally preceded by a feast where seal and

walrus meat are greedily devoured and whisky is consumed until all are

intoxicated. After a while the executioner, usually a near relative of

the victim, steps forward, and placing his right foot against the back

of the condemned, quickly strangles him with a walrus thong. Or perhaps

he is shot with a Winchester rifle, this being the usual mode of

despatching a friend who has asked another to put him out of the world

on account, perhaps, of some trifling but troublesome ailment such as

earache or neuralgia, which the sufferer imagines to be incurable.[64]

And a request of this kind must be obeyed, or if not lifelong misfortune

will attend the man who has refused to fire the fatal shot. Women,

however, are never put to death, nor, so far as I could glean, do they

ever want to be. The origin of this custom is probably due to the barren

nature of this land where every mouthful of food is precious, and where

a man must literally work to live.

[Footnote 64: Mr. Waldemar Bogoras, the Russian naturalist, writes as

follows in _Harper's Magazine_ of April 1903: "One of the attendants I

had with me for two years while in the Kolyma country belonged to a

family with a tradition of this kind. He was a man of fifty, and the

father and elder brothers had already followed in the way of their

ancestors [by the _Kamitok_]. One time, while stricken with a violent

fever, instead of taking the medicine that I gave him, he inquired

anxiously if I were sure that he would recover at all, otherwise he felt

bound to send for his son and ask for the last stroke."--"A Strange

People of the North," by Waldemar Bogoras, _Harper's Magazine_, April

1903.]

That the _Kamitok_ also exists amongst the Eskimo of Alaska is shown by

the following anecdote. Captain Healy, of the Revenue cutter _Thetis_,

told me that he once inquired of a native near Point Barrow whether one

Charlie he had known the previous year was still alive and in good

health.

"Oh no," was the reply, "Charlie dead, I shot him."

"Shot him?" said Healy, taken aback. "What did you do that for?"

"Oh, poor Charlie sick, pains all over, he asked me shoot him, so I shot

him with his own gun and kept it afterwards!"

The Tchuktchis are by no means an idle race, and whenever I entered a

hut I invariably found even the youngest inmates usefully employed; the

women busily engaged cooking and sewing, or cleaning and polishing

firearms, while the men were away duck-shooting or hunting the seal or

walrus. Sometimes we went seal-hunting with our friends, but this is

poor sport, especially in damp, chilly weather. The outfit is very

simple, consisting of a rifle, snowshoes and spear. A start is made at

daylight until a likely-looking hole in the ice is reached, and here you

sit down and wait patiently, perhaps for hours, until a seal's head

appears above water, which it frequently fails to do. In warm weather

this might be an agreeable occupation, but on cold days it seldom

induced me to leave even the comfortless shelter of our hut. Most of the

seals caught here are hair seals, which must not be confounded with the

valuable fur seal, which is used in Europe for wearing apparel, and is

seldom found north of the Privilov Islands in Bering Sea. The latter

animal is too well known to need description, but the skin of the hair

seal is a kind of dirty grey, flecked with dark spots, and is short and

bristly. But it is warm and durable and therefore used by the Tchuktchis

for breeches and foot wear. Recently, too, it has been introduced into

Europe for the use of _chauffeurs_ of automobiles, but ten years ago it

was practically worthless; although the flesh is preferable as food to

that of the more costly species.

A chase after walrus is far more exciting than either a seal or bear

hunt, for their capture involves a certain risk and occasionally actual

danger. As soon as one of these beasts is sighted four or five

_Baidaras_ are launched and set out at a terrific pace, for the crew of

the first boat up gets the lion's share of the spoil. Winchester rifles

are now used instead of the old-fashioned harpoon, so that accidents are

rarer than they used to be, although boats are often upset. I have only

once seen a walrus: a distorted, shapeless mass of discoloured flesh,

sparsely covered with coarse bristles. The one I saw measured about ten

feet long, had quite that girth, and must have weighed over a ton.

Walrus meat as a diet is less repulsive than seal, for it is not so

fishy in flavour and has more the consistency of beef.

We had been here about ten days when a native arrived from East Cape and

reported a whaler off that headland. At Whalen the ice still presented a

hopelessly unbroken appearance, but low, dark clouds to the eastward

looked like open water in the direction of the Straits, and I sent

Harding and Stepan, with the East Cape man, to verify his report. He was

a silent, sulky brute, and I felt some anxiety until the pair returned

the next day after a terrible journey, partly by land but principally

over the sea ice across which they had to wade knee deep in water. For

about six miles crossing the tundra they floundered in soft snow up to

the waist, and finally reached their destination, wet through and

exhausted, to find that the ship, probably scared by heavy pack ice, had

disappeared to the southward. The natives, however, treated them well,

and sent a man to accompany them half way back to Whalen, for the thaw

had come so suddenly that he could proceed no further, and our

companions only just managed to reach home. This was the last journey

made by land between the two settlements, for which I was not sorry, as

the undesirable community at East Cape were now as completely cut off

from us as the pirates of Oumwaidjik. Harding informed me that at East

Cape a totally different dialect was spoken to that at Whalen, but this

did not surprise me, as I compiled while at Oumwaidjik a small glossary

which completely differed from words in use at Whalen. The natives of

the Diomede Island have also a distinctive language, of which, however,

I was unable to obtain any words. A reference to the Appendix will show

the difference existing between the dialects spoken on the mainland of

Siberia. East of Tchaun Bay the same language existed in every village

as far as Whalen. The languages spoken by the Reindeer Tchuktchis of the

interior and the Eskimo of the Alaskan Coast do not in any way resemble

the dialects spoken on the Siberian Coast.

By the end of June the snow on land was fast disappearing, and blue

lakes began to appear amongst the white plains and hummocks of the sea.

But those were weary days of waiting even when warmer weather enabled us

to live altogether in our hut without taking shelter in the chief's

malodorous _yarat_. For the former was crowded all day with natives,

who used it as a kind of club, and left us souvenirs every night in the

shape of a stifling stench and swarms of vermin. As time wore on the

heat in our heavy furs became insupportable, but frequent and sudden

changes of temperature rendered it impossible to discard them

altogether. For often the sun would be blazing at midday with a

temperature of 60 deg. in the shade, and a few minutes later we would be

cowering over the stove listening to the howling of the wind and the

rattle of sleet against the wooden walls. This would last perhaps an

hour or two, and then the sky would again become blue and cloudless, the

sunshine as powerful as before. One day in early June is thus described

in my journal: "Clear, cloudy, warm, cold, windy, calm, sunshine, fog

and a little rain!" The wind troubled us most, for here there is no

happy medium between a dead calm and a tearing gale, and the latter

occurred on an average every second day. Northerly and north-westerly

winds prevailed, and we whistled in vain for a southerly buster to clear

the coast of ice. And yet notwithstanding our many miseries there were

pleasant days, still and sunlit, when I would stroll to the summit of a

grassy hill near the settlement, where the sward was carpeted with wild

flowers and where the soothing tinkle of many rivulets formed by melting

snow were conducive to lazy reverie. From here one could see for a great

distance along the coast to the westward, and on bright days the snowy

range of cliffs and kaleidoscopic effects of colour cast by cloud and

sunshine over the sea ice formed a charming picture. Stepan passed most

of his time on these cliffs watching in vain, like a male sister Anne,

for ships, for, like most Russians, the Cossack suffered severely from

nostalgia.

But the days crawled wearily away, each more dreary than its

predecessor, and the eternal vista of ice greeted each morning the

anxious gaze of the first man up to survey the ocean. Our Union Jack,

now almost torn to shreds by incessant gales, was hoisted on a long

stick lent by Teneskin for the purpose, but I began to think that the

shred of silk might as well have fluttered at the North Pole for all the

attention it was likely to attract from seaward. So passed a month away,

and the grey hag Despair was beginning to show her ugly face when one

never-to-be-forgotten morning Harding rushed into the hut and awoke me

with the joyful news that a thin strip of blue was visible on the

horizon. A few hours later waves were seen breaking near the land, for

when once ice begins to move it does so quickly. Three days later

wavelets were rippling on the beach, and I felt like a man just released

from a long term of penal servitude when on the 15th of July the hull of

a black and greasy whaler came stealing round the point where Stepan had

passed so many anxious hours.

The whaler proved to be the _William Bayliss_ of New Bedford. We boarded

her with some difficulty on account of the jagged ice floes on the beach

to which she was moored. It was an acrobatic feat to jump from the

slippery ice, lay hold of a jibboom towering overhead, and scramble over

the bows. But once aboard, Captain Cottle loaded us with good things

(including a tin of sorely-needed tobacco), and all would now have

seemed _couleur-de-rose_ had Cottle been able to give us news of the

_Thetis_. This, however, he was unable to do, and when that night the

whaler had sailed away I almost regretted that I had declined her

skipper's offer of a passage across the Straits, which might, however,

have been prolonged for an indefinite period as the ship was now bound

in an opposite direction. That night was certainly the worst we ever

experienced, for even Teneskin was rendered helpless by the pandemonium

created by the floods of whisky which had streamed into the settlement

from the hold of the _William Bayliss_. Towards evening things looked so

ugly that the chief and his sons, armed with Winchester rifles, took up

their quarters for the night in our hut, the door of which was

barricaded by means of iron bars. Even Yemanko looked pale and anxious,

for every man in the village, he said, was mad with drink. The chief's

wife and daughters remained in the _yarat_, for a Tchuktchi however

drunk has never been known to molest a woman. Singing, shouting and

deafening yells were heard during the earlier part of the night, as men

reeled about the settlement in bands, and occasionally our door would

re-echo with crashing blows and demands for admission. This went on for

two or three hours, and when things had quieted down and we were

thinking of emerging from the stifling hut for fresh air, a shot rang

out on the stillness. We seized our rifles, and not a moment too soon,

for simultaneously the door flew open with a crash and half a dozen men

reeled into the room. One of them brandished a Winchester, but I noticed

with relief that the rest of the intruders were unarmed. The face of

another whom I recognised as a medicine man, was streaming with blood

from a wound across the forehead. Fortunately all were overcome by the

fiery poison they had been greedily imbibing and were therefore as weak

as children in the hands of seven sober men. In less time than it takes

me to write it the invaders were firmly secured with walrus thongs and

thrown out of doors to sleep the drink off. A watch was kept throughout

the night in case of an attack by reinforcements, but the deadly

"Tangle-foot" had done its work, and the village did not awaken until

the following day from its drunken slumbers. Unfortunately a native was

killed by the shot we heard.

On the morning of the 18th of July Harding and I, while walking on the

beach, remarked a white cloud on the horizon, the only blur on a

dazzling blue sky. Presently the vapour seemed to solidify, and assume

the appearance of a floating berg, until, a few minutes after, we looked

again at the object which had attracted our attention, and lo and behold

a thin black thread was now ascending from it into the clear still air.

"A steamer!" shouted Harding, rushing back to the hut for a field-glass.

But before he could return through the deep heavy shingle doubt had

become certainty and I had recognised the Revenue cutter _Thetis_. This

is the same vessel, by the way, which rescued Lieutenant Greely and his

party on the shores of Smith Sound, but I do not think even they can

have been more heartily grateful to see the trim white vessel than we

were.

In less than an hour our welcome deliverer had threaded her way through

the ice, and we stood on the beach and watched her cast anchor about

half a mile off shore. As the chains rattled cheerily through the hawse

holes Stepan flew, on the wings of a light heart, to the flagstaff. I am

not emotional, but I must confess to feeling a lump in my throat as the

Stars and Stripes were slowly dipped in response to a salute from our

ragged little Union Jack. For with the meeting of those familiar colours

all my troubles seemed to vanish into thin air!

Once aboard the _Thetis_ Harding and I, at any rate, were amongst

acquaintances who had previously served on the Revenue cutter _Bear_. I

also found an old friend, Lieutenant Cochrane, once third officer of the

_Bear_, and now second in command of the _Thetis_, which made this

sudden change from a life of mental and physical misery to one of

security and well-being the more enjoyable. There was nothing to delay

the cutter, save farewells to our kind old host and the repayment for

the food with which he had provided us, and by midday we were steaming

away from the dreary settlement where I had passed so many anxious

hours. And then, for the first time in many weary months, we sat down in

the ward-room to a decent and well-served meal and enjoyed it beyond

description, for are not all pleasures in this world comparative?

Success to the Expedition was drunk in bumpers of champagne, and I then

adjourned to Cochrane's room for coffee and liqueurs and a talk over old

days on the _Bear_. And the afternoon in that cosy, sunlit cabin, the

blessed sensation of rest after toil combined with a luxurious lounge

and delicious cigar, constituted as near an approach to "Nirvana" as the

writer is ever likely to attain on this side of the grave!

PART II

AMERICA

CHAPTER XIV

ACROSS BERING STRAITS--CAPE PRINCE OF WALES

The term "cutter" is somewhat of a misnomer, if literally taken, for the

Government vessels which patrol these Northern waters. The _Bear_, for

instance, which landed us on the Siberian coast in 1896, was a

three-masted screw-steamer of over 600 tons, an old Dundee whaler

purchased for the United States for the Greeley Relief Expedition. The

_Thetis_, although somewhat smaller, is practically a sister ship of the

_Bear_, which latter is regarded as the best and stoutest vessel of the

Revenue Cutter Service. And her officers and men are well worthy of her.

Three or four years ago no less than eight whalers were hopelessly

jammed in the ice off Point Barrow in the Arctic Ocean, and their crews

were in imminent danger of starvation. The season was too far advanced

for a ship to proceed to their rescue, but a party from the _Bear_

managed to carry supplies to the beleaguered ships after a sled journey

of almost unparalleled difficulty, and thereby avert a terrible

catastrophe. Several of the shipwrecked men had already perished, but

the majority were rescued, chiefly through the pluck and perseverance of

Lieutenant Jarvis, first lieutenant of the _Bear_, and leader of the

expedition.

The _Thetis_, when she called for us at Whalen, was bound on a mission

of some peril--the search for two large steamers from San Francisco

which, while trying to reach Nome City, had been caught in the pack and

swept away by drifting ice into the Polar Sea. Both vessels were crowded

with passengers, including many women, and the _Thetis_ had already made

two unsuccessful attempts to ascertain their whereabouts. Indeed, it was

feared that no more would ever be heard of the _Portland_ or _Jeannie_

which had, as usual, been racing to reach Nome City before any rival

liner from the Golden Gate.

When, on that sunlit morning, we left Whalen, a cloudless sky and glassy

sea unflecked by the tiniest floe led me to hope that our troubles were

at an end. Captain Healey of the _Thetis_ had resolved to land us on

Cape Prince of Wales, but when, towards evening, that promontory was

sighted, my heart sank at the now familiar sight of ice packed heavily

around the coast. By nine o'clock we were (to use a whaling term) "up

against" the outer edge of the pack, and shortly afterwards the engines

of the _Thetis_ were slowed down, for the man in the crow's nest

reported trouble ahead. And we found it in plenty, for the stout little

vessel, after cleaving and crashing her way through the floes for a

couple of hours, was finally brought to a standstill by an impassable

barrier. We were now about six miles from the land, but an Eskimo

village under the Cape was plainly visible across the swirling masses of

ice which were drifting to the northward.

"I can't go in any further," cried Healey, and I now had the choice of

two evils--to attempt a landing with the aid of the natives, or remain

on board the Thetis perhaps for weeks searching for the _Portland_ and

_Jeannie_.[65] But I quickly decided on the former course, and a signal

was run up for assistance from the shore, which was quickly seen by a

crowd of natives assembled on the beach. To add to our difficulties a

breeze, which had arisen towards evening, was now assuming the

proportions of a southerly gale, and Healey impatiently paced the deck,

as he watched the Eskimo launch a _baidara_, and cautiously approach us,

now threading narrow leads of water, now hauling their skin-boat across

the drifting ice.

[Footnote 65: Both these vessels were eventually rescued without loss of

life.]

Finally, after a perilous journey, they reached us, and without a

moment's delay the expedition was bundled, bag and baggage, into the

_baidara_, for the position of the _Thetis_ was now not devoid of

danger. Amidst hearty cheers from those on board, we pushed off with

some misgivings, while the cutter slowly veered away northward on her

errand of mercy. I shall never forget that short, but extremely

unpleasant journey. At times it seemed as though our frail craft must be

overwhelmed and swamped, for it was now blowing a gale. Every moment

huge cakes of ice around us were dashed against each other, and

splintered into fragments with a report as of a gun. We made way so

slowly that the shore seemed to recede instead of to advance, for often

boat and baggage had to be hauled across the floes which now travelled

so quickly with the wind and tide that it seemed as though we must be

carried past our destination and into the Arctic Ocean. Sometimes it

looked as though we could never reach the coast, for--

"The ice was here, the ice was there,

The ice was all around,

It cracked and growled, and roared and howled

Like noises in a swound."

At times the ice-islands we were crossing were tossed to and fro by the

waves so violently that it became almost impossible to stand, much less

walk, on their slippery surface; at others, while all were paddling for

dear life, a towering berg would sail down in perilous proximity, for

its touch would have sunk our skin boat like a stone. Once I thought it

was all over, when a floe we were on became detached from the main pack,

and there was barely time to regain the latter by quickly leaping from

one cake of ice to the other as the waves and current tore them apart.

It took us four hours to reach land, or rather the foot-ice securely

attached to it, and here, worn out after the tough struggle against the

forces of nature, every man took a much-needed rest. It was not until 7

A.M. on June 19 that our feet actually touched the soil of America, six

months to a day after our departure from the Gare du Nord, Paris.

Cape Prince of Wales is a rocky, precipitous promontory about 2000 ft.

high, which stands fully exposed to the furious winds, prevalent at all

times on this connecting link between Bering Sea and the Arctic Ocean.

Why Bering Straits should be so known remains a mystery, for the

explorer of that name only sailed through them in the summer of 1728,

while Simeon Deschnev, a Cossack, practically discovered them in the

middle of the seventeenth century.[66] Captain Cook, of British fame,

who passed through the Straits in 1778, is said to be responsible for

the nomenclature, which seems rather an unjust one, but perhaps the

intrepid English navigator had never heard of Deschnev.

[Footnote 66: "On June 20, 1648, Simeon Deschnev, a Cossack trader,

sailed from the River Kolyma for the eastward to trade for ivory with

the Tchuktchis. His party sailed in three small shallops drawing but

little water. After a while the known waters behind them closed up with

floes, rendering a return to the Kolyma impossible, but the unknown

wastes ahead were open, and invited exploration. Hugging the coast,

Deschnev sailed through the Bering Straits, landing there in September.

He called the Siberian shore an isthmus, and described the Diomede

Islands, which he plainly saw. Although no mention is made by this party

of having seen the American continent, it was probably observed by them,

for Cape Prince of Wales can easily be seen on a clear day from the

Asiatic side. Deschnev's voyage was quite forgotten until discovered by

accident amongst some old records in 1774.

"Only in August, 1728, did Bering sail through here, going a short

distance into the Arctic Ocean, but returning without giving any sign of

the importance of the pass, or its nature, and believing, most likely,

that what land he saw on the eastern side was a mere island, and not the

great American continent. Captain Cook, who came third, made no mistake,

for he fully realised that the division of the two hemispheres was here

affected, and gave to these straits the name of Bering, August

1778."--"An Arctic Province," by H. W. Elliott.]

The Eskimo settlement which nestles at the foot of Cape Prince of Wales

is known as Kingigamoot, and contains about 400 souls. The place looked

infinitely drearier and more desolate than the filthy Tchuktchi village

which had been our home for so many weary weeks, and it seemed to me at

first as though we had stepped, like the immortal Mr. Winkle in

"Pickwick," "quietly and comfortably out of the frying-pan into the

fire." For our welcome on the shores of America was a terrific gale,

and driving sleet against which we could scarcely make headway from the

spot where a landing was effected to the village, a distance of perhaps

a mile, which took us an hour to accomplish. It was barely eight

o'clock, and no one was yet stirring in the settlement, which is only

visible a short distance away, for the Eskimo, unlike the Tchuktchis,

dwell under the ground.

The sight of a wooden house with glass windows considerably enlivened

the dismal and storm-swept landscape, and we made our way to this

solitary haven, which proved to be the residence of Mr. Lopp, an

American missionary. His home, though snug enough, was too small to

contain more inmates, being already occupied by its owner's wife and

family, but an empty shed adjoining it was placed at our disposal, and

our hospitable friend bustled about to make it as cosy as possible for

our reception. The place was cold, pitch dark, and draughty, being only

used as a store-house, but by mid-day our tent was pitched inside the

building, and a fire was burning merrily in a small stove cleverly fixed

up by the missionary, whose kindly assistance was very welcome on this

bleak and barren shore. Food is scarce enough here, and had it not been

for these good friends in need, we should indeed have fared badly,

having landed with but few provisions. But although they could ill

afford it, the missionary and school teacher, Mrs. Bernardi, gave freely

from their scanty store, thereby rendering us a service which I can

never adequately repay.

Nome City was now our objective point, but how to reach it by land was

a puzzler, the hundred odd miles of country being flooded by melting

snow. Two or three wide rivers must also be crossed, which at this

season of the year are often swollen and impassable. It was clearly

useless to think of walking, so there was nothing for it but to wait for

some passing craft to take us down, a rather gloomy prospect, for

whalers were now entering the Arctic, and few other vessels get so far

north as this. We were lucky to find a white man at Cape Prince of

Wales, for the natives would certainly have afforded us no assistance,

and might, indeed, have been actually unfriendly without the firm and

restraining hand of Mr. Lopp to keep them in order. A wide and varied

experience of savage races has seldom shown me a more arrogant,

insolent, and generally offensive race than the Alaskan Eskimo, at any

rate of this portion of the country. The Tchuktchis were infinitely

superior in every respect but perhaps cleanliness, which, after all,

matters little in these wilds. With all their faults our Whalen friends

were just and generous in their dealings, though occasionally

disquieting during their periods of festivity. The Eskimo we found

boorish and surly at all times, and the treachery of these people is

shown by the fact that a few years previously they had brutally murdered

Mr. Lopp's predecessor by shooting him with a whale-gun. A monument on

the cliff facing the Straits bears the following inscription:

HARRISON R. THORNTON, born January 5, 1858,

died August 19, 1893.

A good soldier of Christ Jesus.

Erected by friends in Southport, Conn.

It is satisfactory to note that the cowardly assassins met with their

deserts, for the usual excuse of intoxication could not be pleaded for

this foul and deliberate crime.

Although many of the Prince of Wales natives were fairly well educated,

thanks to missionary enterprise, the Tchuktchis could certainly have

taught them manners, for the latter is a gentleman by nature, while the

Eskimo is a vulgar and aggressive cad. Thanks, however, to the untiring

zeal and energy of Mr. Lopp, the younger generation here were a distinct

improvement upon their elders, and the small school conducted by Mrs.

Bernardi had produced several scholars of really remarkable

intelligence. Amongst these were the publisher and printer of the most

curious little publication I have ever seen, _The Eskimo Bulletin_, a

tiny newspaper which is annually published here by the aid of a small

printing-press belonging to the missionary. The illustrations were

engraved solely by the natives, and were, under the circumstances, very

creditable productions. The advertisements in this unique little journal

are suggestive of a fair sized town, whereas Kingigamoot resembled a

collection of sand-hills, the only visible signs of civilisation being

the rather dilapidated huts of the mission.

The ten days we remained here seemed fully as long, if not longer, than

the five weeks we had passed at Whalen for the sun only made his

appearance twice, for a couple of hours each time, during the whole

period of our stay. Most of our time was passed in the cold draughty

hut, for it was impossible to face the gales and dense fogs which

succeeded each other with startling rapidity, while on gusty days clouds

of fine gritty sand would fill the eyes, mouth, and nostrils, causing

great discomfort. There is probably no place in the world where the

weather is so persistently vile as on this cheerless portion of the

earth's surface. In winter furious tempests and snow, in summer similar

storms, accompanied by rain, sleet, or mist, are experienced here five

days out of the seven. If by accident a still, sunlit day does occur, it

is called a "weather-breeder," for dirtier weather than before is sure

to be lurking behind it. A howling south-wester on the English coast

would be looked upon here as a moderate gale. While walking on the beach

one day I was lifted clean off my feet by the wind, although the day was

locally called rather a pleasant one.

One would think that this storm-swept, grey-skied region would

discourage even the natives after a time and make them pine for a more

congenial climate. But to the native of even this bleak and desolate

coast there is no place like home. Mr. Elliott, a reliable authority on

the subject, writes that cases have come under his notice where whalers

have carried Eskimo down to the Sandwich Islands (the winter whaling

ground) under an idea that these people would be delighted with the warm

climate, fruits and flowers, and be grateful for the trip. But in no

instance has an individual of this hyperborean race failed to sigh for

his Arctic home after landing at Hawaii. Nor is this nostalgia of the

frozen north confined to its aboriginal inhabitants, for most explorers

who return from its fastnesses experience sooner or later a keen desire

to return. And the majority do so, obedient to an invisible influence as

unerring as that of a toy magnet over its fish.

I had little opportunity of studying the manners and customs of the

natives while at Kingigamoot. Outwardly the Eskimo differs little from

the Tchuktchi, that is, so far as costume is concerned, but the

physiognomy and languages essentially differ. That the former is fully

as filthy even if more civilised in other ways than the latter I can,

from personal experience, testify. Also that the introduction of

Christianity has failed to eradicate the love for strong drink, which

was quite as prevalent here as at Whalen, although more cunningly

concealed. An American explorer, Mr. Eugene McElwaine, who recently

travelled extensively throughout these regions, gleaned the following

facts, which may interest the reader, but which I am unfortunately

unable to furnish from my own personal experience. He writes:

"The average Eskimo is very uncleanly in his personal habits and

domestic customs, but is always willing to be taught habits of

cleanliness, and is even anxious to change his mode of living when

brought to realise its inferiority or repulsiveness. He recognises the

white man to be his superior, and his inclination is to better his

condition.

"The Eskimo's knowledge of the past is vague and indefinite. Their time

is computed by the revolutions of the moon, their distances when

travelling by 'sleeps,' and they measure a 'yard' by the length between

the two hands with arms stretched horizontally. The Eskimo believe in a

power that rewards the good and punishes the bad, indicating by gestures

that the former go above and the latter below after death. They bury

their dead usually on top of the ground in a box made of small timbers

or drift-wood, elevating the box four feet from the surface, and resting

it on cross poles. Their meagre belongings are generally buried with

them. The small _bidarka_ (skin canoe) is not infrequently used for a

casket when the head of the household dies.

"Their simple funeral rites are conducted by members of the deceased's

own family, no other member of the tribe coming near the house during

the time or attending the obsequies at the grave. While the remains are

being deposited in the box a member of the family builds a small fire

with twigs of willows, and the fire is kept burning until the burial is

completed, after which all present march around the fire in single file,

chanting a prayer, with bowed heads, and then return to their hut. The

household belongings are now removed from the hut and the family move

off to build a cabin in another place which the evil spirit will not

enter.

"The Eskimo are clever in many ways. Nearly all the men are experts in

building canoes, while many are good carvers and draughtsmen. The writer

has a map of the Arctic region, drawn by one of the Kowak River natives,

which is one of the most complete things of the kind ever made. It shows

every river, creek, lake, bay, mountain, village and trail, from the

mouth of the Yukon River to Point Hope, and the native drew it in four

days.

"A hut here is simply an excavation, about three feet deep, twelve feet

long, and sixteen feet wide. Spruce saplings about four feet long and

four inches through are set upright side by side around the interior,

supported by the beams. Two posts six feet long and one ridge piece

support the arched roof, light saplings being used for rafters. An

oblique external portal, five feet long, two feet high, and eighteen

inches wide is constructed in the same manner as the hut. The opening

for the door is about eighteen inches wide by two feet high. This

addition has a twofold purpose: it shelters the entrance to the family

room of the hut, and the air which passes through the portal into the

apartment carries away the smoke and foul air through a hole in the

roof. The structure is finally banked and covered with dirt, and more

resembles a mound than a human habitation. The interior of these

dwellings is not luxurious. The floor is strewn with the pliant branches

of the Arctic willow. A few deerskins lie scattered about, and here the

men, women, and children of the tribe sit day after day, and month after

month, performing their tasks of labour, and it is here when fatigued

that they sleep in security and comfort. A miniature camp fire is kept

burning day and night during the winter months."

My unfavourable opinion of the specimens of this race whom we met at

Cape Prince of Wales is somewhat modified by the following anecdote,

also related by Mr. McElwaine:

"An Eskimo lad about sixteen years of age came into my cabin one morning

suffering with an acute bowel complaint. I happened to have a

preparation for this trouble in my medicine chest, and administered to

him a dose according to directions. It relieved him somewhat, and after

eating his dinner, he returned home, a distance of some ten miles. In a

week or ten days later he came back, bringing with him a number of

curios which he had wrapped with care in a piece of deerskin and placed

in a small canvas sack. Taking the curios out of the sack one by one,

and unwrapping them carefully, he laid them on my table, saying as he

did so in his broken English, 'You like 'em?' Receiving an affirmative

reply, he said, 'You catch 'em,' at the same time shoving the articles

towards me. I thought the young man was bent upon a trade, so, to please

him, I laid out upon the table a number of edible articles, together

with a red bandana handkerchief (a red handkerchief is prized very

highly by all the natives), and awaited his decision. It was soon

forthcoming. 'Me no catch 'em,' he said, pointing to the articles which

he had placed upon the table; 'me give him you.' He left the trinkets

with me, but would not accept a thing in return for them.

"Some four weeks afterwards this Indian boy came to my cabin again. He

brought with him on his second visit a pair of small snowshoes and a

miniature Eskimo sled. He had been told that I had a little boy at home,

and he made me understand that he had made the snowshoes and sled for

him, insisting that I should take them, which I did, but he stoutly

refused anything in return for them. All this was to show his

appreciation of the little act of kindness which I had inadvertently

done him."

Mr. McElwaine concludes: "And yet, against the aborigines of Northern

Alaska many explorers have charged that they are the most ungrateful

wretches in the world."

Personally, I can cordially endorse this statement, but perhaps a very

short residence amongst these people has left me ignorant of their real

merits, and Mr. McElwaine may be perfectly right when he adds, in

connection with the aforesaid explorers: "All such statements are, in my

opinion, founded upon a misapprehension of the true character of this

peculiar race."

Mr. Henry Elliott thus describes the Eskimo, or Innuit, as he is

sometimes called, inhabiting the far northern portions of Alaska: "The

average Innuit stands about five feet seven inches in his heelless

boots. He is slightly Mongolian in his complexion and facial expression.

A broad face, prominent cheek-bones, a large mouth with full lips, small

black eyes, prominently set in their sockets, not under a lowering brow,

as in the case of true Indian faces. The nose is insignificant, and much

depressed, with scarcely any bridge. He has an abundance of coarse black

hair, which up to the age of thirty years is cut pretty close; after

this period in life it is worn in ragged, unkempt locks. The hands and

feet are shapely, the limbs strong and well-formed. An Eskimo woman is

proportionately smaller than the man, and when young sometimes

good-looking. She has small, tapering hands, and high-instepped feet,

and rarely pierces her lips or disfigures her nose. She lavishes upon

her child or children a wealth of affection, endowing them with all her

ornaments. The hair of the Innuit woman is allowed to grow to its full

length and is gathered up behind into thick braids, or else bound up in

ropes, lashed by copper wire or sinews. She seldom tattoos herself, but

a faint drawing of transverse blue lines upon the chin and cheeks is

usually made by her best friend when she is married."

The reader will probably infer, after reading the foregoing notes, that

there is really very little difference, broadly speaking, between a

Tchuktchi and an Eskimo, and yet the two are as dissimilar in racial

characteristics and customs as a Russian and a Turk. Personal experience

inclines me to regard the Siberian native as immeasurably superior to

his Alaskan neighbours,[67] both from a moral and physical point of

view, for the Eskimo is fully as vicious as the Tchuktchi, who frankly

boasts of his depravity, while the former cloaks it beneath a mantle of

hypocrisy not wholly unconnected with a knowledge of the white man and

his methods. But every cloud has its silver lining, and it is

comforting to think that even this rapacious and dissipated race can

occasionally derive pleasure from the beauties of nature. While

strolling round the settlement one day, I gathered a nosegay of wild

flowers, including a species of yellow poppy, anent which Kingigamoot

cherishes a pretty superstition. This flower blossoms in profusion about

mid June around Cape Prince of Wales, and by the end of July has

withered away. Simultaneously a tiny golden butterfly makes its

appearance for about a fortnight, and also disappears. I was gravely

informed by perhaps the greatest inebriate in the village that the poppy

and the insect bear a similar name, for when the former has bloomed for

a while it develops a pair of wings and flies away to return again the

following summer in the guise of a flower.

[Footnote 67: It is only fair to say that the only Eskimo I met were

those at Kingigamoot, and the enmity of these particular natives to most

white men is by some ascribed to the following incident. Some thirty

years ago a small trading-schooner from San Francisco dropped anchor off

the village, and was at once boarded and looted by the natives, who

killed two of her crew. The remainder of the white men escaped with

their vessel, and returned the following year under escort of a revenue

cutter. Several natives were induced to visit the latter, and when

perhaps a score had been lured on board the Government vessel, she

steamed away, intending to carry off the Kingigamoot men and punish them

for the outrage committed the preceding year. But a fight at once ensued

on the deck of the cutter, and every Eskimo was shot down and killed.

Relatives of these men are still living at Kingigamoot, and the

generally aggressive demeanour of the natives here is often ascribed to

this fact, for the vendetta practised amongst both the Tchuktchis and

Eskimo is fully as bitter and relentless as that which exists in

Corsica.]

During my rambles I came across some curious stone erections on the

summit of the Cape. They were moss-grown, much dilapidated, and

apparently of great age. The tomb-like contrivances are said to have

been constructed by the Eskimo as a protection against invaders--the

pillars of stone, laid loosely one on the other, about ten feet high, to

represent men, and thus deceive the enemy. But for the truth of this I

cannot vouch.

The ice remained so thickly piled up around the coast for four or five

days after our arrival here that no look-out was kept. No vessel would

willingly have approached this part of the coast without a special

purpose, and Cape Prince of Wales possesses few attractions, commercial

or otherwise. On a clear day the Siberian coast was visible, and the

Diomede islands appeared so close with the aid of a field-glass that

their tiny drab settlements were distinguishable against the dark masses

of rock. The big and little Diomedes are about two miles apart, and the

line of demarcation between Russia and America strikes the former off

its eastern coast. From the most westerly point of Alaska to the most

easterly point of the little Diomede (Ratmanoff) the distance is about

fifteen miles, and from the most easterly point of Siberia to the most

westerly point of the big Diomede (Krusenstern) the distance is about

twenty miles. On the southern extremity of the larger island, a small

village is situated, containing about a hundred and fifty natives

(Russian subjects), and on the smaller one is another small village,

with about the same number of American Eskimo. Fairway rock, a little

way east of Ratmanoff island, is not inhabited. The comparatively short

distance between the two continents and the intermediate islands has

suggested the utilisation of the latter as supports for a leviathan

railway bridge, a theory which (as Euclid would remark) is obviously

"absurd." For no bridge could withstand the force of the spring ice in

Bering Straits for one week. On the other hand, the boring of a tunnel

from shore to shore is not entirely without the range of possibility,

but of this, and of other matters dealing with the construction of a

Franco-American railway, I shall deal fully in the concluding chapter of

this work.

CHAPTER XV

AN ARCTIC CITY

"You will find a magic city

On the shore of Bering Strait,

Which shall be for you a station

To unload your Arctic freight.

Where the gold of Humboldt's vision

Has for countless ages lain,

Waiting for the hand of labour

And the Saxon's tireless brain."

S. DUNHAM.

Billy, the ex-whaleman, accompanied us here on board the _Thetis_,

intending to make his way to Nome City. The commander of the cutter had

let him go free, thinking, no doubt, that the poor fellow had been

sufficiently punished for his misdeeds by a winter passed amongst the

savages of Northern Siberia. One day during our stay here a native set

out in a skin boat for Nome, and notwithstanding my warnings and a

falling barometer Billy resolved to accompany him. But shortly after

leaving us the pair encountered a furious gale, which swept them back to

the Cape in an exhausted condition, nearly frozen to death after a

terrible night in the ice.

By the end of a week the latter had almost disappeared. A vessel could

now anchor with ease off the settlement, but it seemed as though we

should have to wait until the autumn for that happy consummation. I had

therefore decided, after consultation with the missionary, on risking

the journey in a _baidara_, when, on the evening of the tenth day, our

longing eyes were gladdened by the sight of a small steamer approaching

the Cape. She proved to be the _Sadie_, of the "Alaska Commercial

Company," returning from her first trip of the year to Candle Creek,[68]

a gold-mining settlement on the Arctic Ocean, which had been

unapproachable on account of heavy ice. Fortunately for us the Captain

had suddenly resolved to call at Kingigamoot in case the missionary

needed assistance, and on hearing of our plight at once offered the

Expedition a passage to Nome City, whither the _Sadie_ was bound.

Bidding farewell to our kind friends at the Mission, without whose

assistance we should indeed have fared badly, we soon were aboard the

clean and comfortable little steamer. A warm welcome awaited us from her

skipper, a jovial Heligolander, who at the same time imparted to us the

joyful news that the war in South Africa was at an end. Twenty-four

hours later we were once more in civilisation, for during the summer

there is frequent steam communication between the remote although

up-to-date mining city of Nome and our final destination, New York.

[Footnote 68: In the summer of 1901, $30,000 were taken out of this

creek.]

Cape Nome derives its name from the Indian word "_No-me_," which

signifies in English, "I don't know." In former days, when whalers

anchored here to trade, the invariable answer given by the natives to

all questions put by the white men was "_No-me_," meaning that they did

not understand, and the name of the place was thus derived. On Cape

Nome, four years ago an Arctic desert, there now stands a fine and

well-built city. In winter the place can only be reached by dog-sled,

after a fatiguing, if not perilous, journey across Alaska, but in the

open season you may now travel there almost any week in large liners

from San Francisco. It seemed like a dream to land suddenly in this

modern town, within a day's journey of Whalen with all its savagery and

squalor, and it was somewhat trying to have to walk up the crowded main

street in our filthy, ragged state. Eventually, however, we were rigged

up at a well-stocked clothing establishment in suits of dittos which

would hardly have passed muster in Bond Street, but which did very well

for our purpose. And that evening, dining at a luxurious hotel, with

people in evening dress, palms, and a string band around us, I could

scarcely realise that only a few days ago we were practically starving

in a filthy Siberian village. Handsome buildings, churches, theatres,

electric light and telephones are not usually associated with the

ice-bound Arctic, but they are all to be found in Nome City, which is

now connected by telegraph with the outside world.

And yet the first log-cabin here was only built in the winter of 1898.

This formed the nucleus of a town of about three thousand inhabitants by

August of the following year, which by the middle of July 1900 had grown

into a colony of more than twenty thousand people. As sometimes happens,

the first discoverers of gold were not the ones to profit by their

lucky find, for this is what happened. Early in July 1898 three

prospectors, one Blake, an American, and his two companions, were

sailing up the coast in a small schooner, when, abreast of Cape Nome, a

storm struck their tiny craft and cast her up on the beach. The gale

lasted for several days, and the men made use of the time prospecting in

the vicinity of the Snake River, which now runs through the city. At the

mouth of Anvil Creek, good colours were found at a depth of one foot,

the dirt averaging from fifty cents to one dollar the pan. Satisfied

that they had made an important discovery, the men returned as soon as

the weather would permit to their permanent camp in Golovin Bay, down

coast, for provisions and mining tools, and thus lost, perhaps, the

richest gold-producing property yet discovered in Alaska. How the secret

got about was never known (perhaps "tanglefoot" was not unconnected with

its disclosure), but three Swedes (one of whom was then a

reindeer-herder and is now a millionaire), got wind of the news, and

quickly and quietly set out for Cape Nome, which they reached late in

September of the same year. Ascending Snake River, they prospected Anvil

and other Creeks, and in three days took out $1800 (nearly L400). After

staking all the claims of apparent value, the Swedes returned to Golovin

Bay, and having staked their ground, were not afraid to communicate the

news of their discovery. It was, therefore, only after all the good

claims had been appropriated that poor Blake and his associates

discovered that their anticipated golden harvest had been reaped by the

energetic Scandinavians.

Fresh finds speedily followed, notably of one rich spot about five miles

west of Nome, where $9000 was rocked out of a hole twelve foot square

and four feet deep in three days. Then gold began to appear on the

beach. Small particles of it were found in the very streets, so that

this Arctic township may almost be said to have been at one time

literally paved with gold. In 1899 the seashore alone produced between

$1,750,000 and $2,000,000.

The presence here of a numerous and influential Press astonished me more

than anything else. Nome City can boast of no less than three

newspapers, and no sooner was the Expedition comfortably installed in

the "Golden Gate Hotel" than it was besieged by the usual reporters. The

rapidity with which the interviews were published would have done credit

to a London evening paper, and I could only admire the versatility of

the gentleman who, only four hours after our arrival, brought out a

special edition of the _Nome Nugget_, containing a portrait of His Royal

Highness the Duke of the Abruzzi in full naval uniform, which was

described as his humble servant: the writer! The jealousy amongst these

Arctic editors is as keen and bitter as it ever was in Eatanswill, and

the next day the following paragraph appeared in the _News_, a rival

publication:

"One of our contemporaries has celebrated the rescue of some explorers

from starvation by publishing the picture of Prince Louis of Savoy under

the caption 'Harry de Windt.' But the Italian prince is also an

explorer, and probably all explorers look alike to the _Nugget_!"

Nome City impressed me at first as being a kind of squalid Monte Carlo.

There is the same unrest, the same feverish quest for gold, and the same

extravagance of life as in the devil's garden on the blue Mediterranean.

On landing, I was struck with the number of well-dressed men and women

who rub shoulders in the street with the dilapidated-looking mining

element. In the same way palatial banks and prim business houses are

incongruously scattered amongst saloons and drinking bars. Front Street,

facing the sea, is the principal thoroughfare, so crowded at midday that

you can scarcely get along. It is paved with wood, imported here at

enormous expense, and a pavement of the same material is raised about

two feet above the roadway. Here are good shops where everything is

cheap, for during the great gold-rush Nome was over-stocked. Wearing

apparel may be purchased here even cheaper than in San Francisco, and

everything is on the same scale; oranges, for instance, which two years

ago cost one dollar apiece and which are now sold in the streets for

five cents. Luxurious shaving saloons abound, also restaurants--one kept

by a Frenchman who is deservedly reaping a golden harvest.

In summer there is no rest here throughout the twenty-four hours. People

wander aimlessly about the streets, eternally discussing quartz and

placer-claims, and recent strikes, which here form the sole topic of

conversation, like a run on zero or the cards at Monaco. Port Said is

suggested by the dusty, flashy streets and cosmopolitan crowd, also by

the fact that gambling saloons and even shops remain open all night, or

so long as customers are stirring, which is generally from supper until

breakfast-time, for at this season of perpetual daylight no one ever

seemed to go to bed. The sight of the principal street at four in the

morning, with music halls, restaurants, drinking and dancing saloons

blazing with electricity in the cold, grey light of a midnight sun was

both novel and unique. At this hour the night-houses were always

crowded, and you might re-visit them at midday and find the same

occupants still out of bed, drinking, smoking, and gambling, yet as

quiet and orderly in their demeanour as a company of Quakers. For,

notwithstanding its large percentage of the riff-raff element, crime is

very rare in Nome. I frequently visited the gambling saloons, where

gum-booted, mud-stained prospectors elbowed women in dainty Parisian

gowns and men in the conventional swallowtail, but I never once saw a

shot fired, nor even a dispute, although champagne flowed like water.

These places generally consisted of a spacious and gaudily decorated

hall with a drinking bar surrounded by various _roulette_, _crap_, and

_faro_ tables. The price of a drink admitted you to an adjoining music

hall, where I witnessed a variety entertainment that would scarcely have

passed the London County Council. But gambling was the chief attraction,

and it seemed to be fair, for cheating is clearly superfluous with three

zeros! Many of the frequenters of these night-houses appeared to be

foreigners, chiefly Swedes and Germans, and a few Frenchmen, and the

company was very mixed, Jews, Greeks, and Levantines being numerous

amongst the men, whilst the ladies were mostly flashily dressed birds

of passage from San Francisco, only here for a brief space before

flitting South, like the swallows, at the first fall of snow.

There was a delightfully free-and-easy, _laisser-aller_ air about

everybody and everything at Nome City, which would, perhaps, have jarred

upon an ultra-respectable mind. Most of the ladies at the Golden Gate

Hotel were located there in couples, unattended, permanently at any

rate, by male protectors. The bedroom adjoining mine was occupied by two

of these Californian _houris_, whose habits were apparently not framed

on Lucretian lines. For the manager appeared at my bedside early one

morning with a polite request that I would rise and dress as quietly as

possible, as the "ladies" next door had just gone to bed for the first

time in three days, and rather needed a rest!

A stroll through the streets of Nome at midday was also amusing,

although the sun blazed down with a force which recalled summer-days in

Hong-kong or Calcutta. It was then hard to picture these warm and sunlit

streets swept by howling blizzards and buried in drifts which frequently

rise to the roofs of the houses, until their inmates have to be

literally dug out after a night of wind and snow. But when we were at

Nome, Cairo in August would have seemed cool by comparison, and I began

to doubt whether ice here could ever exist, for nothing around was

suggestive of a Northern clime. The open-air life, muslin-clad women,

gaily striped awnings, and Neapolitan fruit-sellers seemed to bear one

imperceptibly to some sunlit town of Italy or Spain, thousands of miles

away from this gloomy world (in winter) of cold and darkness. Only

occasionally a skin-clad Eskimo from up coast would slouch shyly through

the busy throng, rudely recalling the fact that we were still within the

region of raw seal-meat and walrus-hide huts.

Most of the prospectors I met here had no use for the place as a

gold-mining centre, but I should add that these grumblers were usually

inexperienced men, who had come in with no knowledge whatever of quartz

or placer-mining. On the other hand, fortunes have been made with

remarkable ease and rapidity, as in the case of one of the first

pioneers, Mr. Lindeberg, a young Swede (already mentioned), who arrived

here as a reindeer-herder and now owns the largest share of Anvil Creek.

From this about $3,000,000 have been taken in two years, and the lucky

proprietor has recently laid a line of railway to his claims, about

seven miles out of Nome. Anvil Creek has turned out the largest nugget

ever found in Alaska.

Generally speaking, however, Nome is no place for a poor man, although

when we were there five dollars a day (and all found) could be easily

earned on the Creeks. I invariably found men connected with large

companies enthusiastic, and grub-stakers down on their luck. Lack of

water in this district has proved a stumbling block which will shortly

be dispelled by machinery. Anvil Creek will probably yield double the

output hitherto extracted when this commodity has been turned on, and

this is now being done at an enormous cost by its enterprising

proprietors. But the days are past when nuggets were picked up here on

the beach, for it now needs costly machinery to find them in the

interior. Even during the first mad rush, when Nome was but a town of

tents, many who expected to find the country teeming with gold were

disappointed. In those days men would often rush ashore, after restless

nights passed on board ship in wakeful anticipation, catch up half a

dozen handfuls of earth, and finding nothing, cry, "I told you it was

all a fake," and re-embark on the first steamer for San Francisco. It

therefore came to pass that patient, hard-working men like Lindeberg,

inured to hardship and privation, whose primary object in the country

was totally unconnected with mining, have made colossal fortunes solely

by dogged perseverance and the sweat of their brow. The general opinion

here seemed to be that at the present time a man with a capital of, say,

L10,000 could succeed here, but even then it was doubtful whether the

money could not be more profitably invested in a more temperate clime,

and one involving less risk to life and limb.

Although epidemics occasionally occur, Nome cannot be called unhealthy.

The greatest variation of temperature is probably from 40 deg. below

zero in winter to 90 deg. above in summer, and the dry, intense cold we

experienced in Northern Siberia is here unknown. Only a short time ago

the sea journey to Nome was no less hazardous than the land trip

formerly was over the dreaded Chilkoot Pass and across the treacherous

lakes to Dawson City. In those days catastrophes were only too frequent

in that graveyard of the Pacific, Bering Sea, and this was chiefly on

account of unseaworthy ships patched up for passenger-traffic by

unscrupulous owners in San Francisco. Nome City can now be reached by

the fine steamships of the "Alaska Commercial Company" as safely and

comfortably as New York in an Atlantic liner, but these boats are

unfortunately in the minority, and even while we were at Nome,

passengers were arriving there almost daily on board veritable

coffin-ships, in which I would not willingly navigate the Serpentine.

Shipping disasters have been frequent not only at sea, but also while

landing here, for Nome has no harbour, but merely an open, shallow

roadstead, fully exposed to the billows of the ocean. There is therefore

frequently a heavy surf along the beach, and here many a poor miner has

been drowned within a few yards of the Eldorado he has risked his all to

reach.

Intending prospectors should know that nearly every available mile of

country from Norton Sound to the Arctic Ocean has now been staked out,

and before claims are now obtained they must be paid for. American

missionaries have not been behind-hand in the race for wealth, and in

connection with this subject, the following lines by a disappointed

Klondiker are not without humour:

"Then we climbed the cold creeks near a mission

That is run by the agents of God,

Who trade Bibles and Prayer-books to heathen

For ivory, sealskins and cod.

At last we were sure we had struck it,

But alas! for our hope of reward,

The landscape from sea-beach to sky-line

Was staked in the name of the Lord!"[69]

[Footnote 69: "The Goldsmith of Nome," by Sam Dunham. (Neale Publishing

Company, Washington, D.C.)]

That these lines, however, do not apply to _all_ Alaskan missionaries I

can testify from a personal knowledge of our good friend Mr. Lopp's

comfortless, primitive life, and unselfish devotion to the cause of

Christianity.

CHAPTER XVI

A RIVER OF GOLD

The heading of this chapter is not suggested by a flight of fancy, but

by solid fact, for there is not a mile along either bank of the Yukon

River, over 2000 miles long from the great lakes to Bering Sea, where

you cannot dip in a pan and get a colour. Gold may not be found in

paying quantities so near the main stream, but it is there.

From Nome to Dawson City is about 1600 miles, the terminus of the Yukon

River steamers being St. Michael, on Bering Sea. When I was at this

place in 1896, it consisted of two or three small buildings of the

"Alaska Commercial Company," a Russian church and ruined stockade, and

about a dozen Eskimo wigwams. During my stay there, on that occasion,

one small cargo-boat arrived from the South, and a solitary whaler put

in for water, their appearance causing wild excitement amongst the few

white settlers.

Although the civilisation of Nome City had somewhat prepared me for

surprises, I scarcely expected to find St. Michael converted from a

squalid settlement into a modern city almost as fine as Nome itself. For

here also were a large hotel, good shops, electric light, and a

roadstead alive with shipping of every description from the Eskimo

_kayak_ to the towering liner from 'Frisco. We arrived at 6 A.M. after a

twelve hours' journey from Nome, but even at that early hour the clang

of a ship-yard and shriek of steam syrens were awakening the once silent

and desolate waters of Norton Sound. St. Michael feeds and clothes the

Alaskan miner, despatches goods and stores into the remotest corner of

this barren land, and has thus rapidly grown from a dreary little

settlement into a centre of mercantile activity. Seven years ago I

journeyed down the Yukon towards Siberia and a problematical Paris in a

small crowded steamer, built of roughly hewn logs, and propelled by a

fussy little engine of mediaeval construction. We then slept on planks,

dined in our shirt-sleeves, and scrambled for meals which a respectable

dog would have turned from in disgust. On the present occasion we

embarked on board a floating palace, a huge stern-wheeler, as large and

luxuriously appointed as the most modern Mississippi flyer. The

_Hannah's_ airy deck-halls were of dainty white, picked out with gold,

some of the well-furnished state-rooms had baths attached, and a perfect

_cuisine_ partly atoned for the wearisome monotony of a long river

voyage.

A delay here of twenty-four hours enabled me to re-visit the places I

had known only too well while wearily awaiting the _Bear_ here for five

weeks in 1896. But everything was changed beyond recognition. Only two

landmarks remained of the old St. Michael: the agency of the "Alaska

Commercial Company," and the wooden church built by the Russians during

their occupation of the country.[70] A native hut near the beach, where

I was wont to smoke my evening pipe with an old Eskimo fisherman, was

now a circulating library; the ramshackle rest-house, once crowded with

"Toughs," a fashionable hotel with a verandah and five o'clock

tea-tables for the use of the select. And here I may note that tea is,

or was, all that the traveller can get here, for St. Michael is now a

military reservation, where even the sale of beer or claret is strictly

prohibited. My old friend Mikouline would have fared badly throughout

this part of the journey, for from here on to Dawson City alcoholic

refreshment of any kind was absolutely unprocurable, and although the

heat was tropical, iced water, not always of the purest description, was

the only cold beverage obtainable at St. Michael or on the river. I was

afterwards informed that the initiated always carry their own cellar,

and having a rooted antipathy to tea at dinner (especially when served

in conjunction with tinned soup), regretted that I had not ascertained

this fact before we left Nome.

[Footnote 70: The Russo-Greek religion is still maintained throughout

Alaska, and nearly a hundred of its churches and chapels still exist

throughout the country and in the Aleutian Islands.]

But although this liquor law was enforced with severity ashore its

infringement afloat was openly winked at by the authorities. Soldiers

were stationed night and day with loaded rifles on the beach to prevent

the importation of spirits, and yet within half a mile of them, anchored

in the roadstead, were four or five hulks, floating public-houses, where

a man might get as drunk as he pleased with impunity, and often for

the last time, especially when a return to the shore had to be made

through a nasty sea in a skin _kayak_. It was even whispered that

"Hootch" (a fiery poison akin to "Tanglefoot") was manufactured at the

barracks, and retailed by the soldiers to the natives, the very class

for whose protection against temptation the prohibitive law was framed.

[Illustration: ESKIMO GIRLS.]

"All my men are intoxicated," the Commandant at St. Michael was said to

have exclaimed. "So I suppose I had better get drunk myself."

But there was little love lost here between the civil and military

element, and these were probably libels, for I have seldom seen a better

drilled or disciplined set of men, although the hideous uniform of the

American linesman is less suggestive of a soldier than of a railway

guard.[71]

[Footnote 71: Permanent military posts of the United States have been

established as follows, throughout Alaska: Fort Egbert at Circle City,

Fort Gibbon on the Tanana River, Fort Valdez on Prince William Sound,

Fort Davis at Nome, and Fort St. Michael on the island of that name.]

The heat at St. Michael was even more oppressive than at Nome, and it

was impossible to stir out of doors at midday with any comfort. We were

therefore not sorry to embark on board the _Hannah_, of the "Alaska

Commercial Company," which contained one hundred state-rooms, of which

barely a dozen were occupied, for at this season of the year travellers

are mostly outward bound. The White Pass railway has practically killed

the Yukon passenger trade, for people now travel to Dawson by rail, and

to Nome by sea direct. They used to go by ocean steamer to St. Michael,

and thence ascend the river to Dawson, for in those days the perilous

Chilkoot Pass was the only direct way from the South into the Klondike

region. Our fellow travellers, therefore, lacked in numbers but not in

originality, for they included a millionaire in fustian, who preferred

to eat with the crew; a young and well-dressed widow from San Francisco,

who owned claims on the Tanana and worked them herself; a confidence-man

with a gambling outfit, who had struck the wrong crowd; and last, but

not least, Mrs. Z., recently a well-known _prima donna_ in the United

States, who, although in the zenith of her youthful fame and popularity,

had abandoned a brilliant career to share the fortunes of her husband,

an official of the "Alaska Commercial Company," in this inartistic land.

I found the conditions of travel on the Yukon as completely changed as

everything else. Even the technical expressions once used by the

gold-mining fraternity were now replaced by others. Thus the "Oldtimer"

had become "a Sourdough," and his antithesis, the "Tenderfoot," was now

called a "Chechako." A word now frequently heard (and unknown in 1896)

was "Musher," signifying a prospector who is not afraid to explore the

unknown. This word is of Canadian origin, and probably a corruption of

the French "_Marcheur_." Various passengers on board the _Hannah_ were

said to be returning to their homes with "Cold feet," also a new term,

defining the disappointed gold-seeker who is leaving the country in

disgust.

But a change which excited both my admiration and approval was that in

the accommodation provided on board the _Hannah_ and the really

excellent dinner to which we sat down every day, although enforced

teetotalism was somewhat irritating to those accustomed to wine with

their meals. It is no exaggeration to say that an overland journey may

now be made from Skagway to Nome City with as little discomfort as a

trip across Switzerland, if the tourist keeps to the beaten track by

rail and steamer. But the slightest deviation on either side will show

him what Alaskan travel really was, and he will then probably curse the

country and all that therein lies. The tourist may even experience some

trying hours on the river-boat, for although the latter is fitted with

cunning contrivances for their exclusion, mosquitoes invariably swarm,

and the Yukon specimen is so unequalled for size and ferocity that I

once heard an old miner declare that this virulent insect was "as big as

a rabbit and bit at both ends." But this is about the only discomfort

that travellers by the main route through Alaska need now endure.

Otherwise the path of travel has been made almost as smooth as Cook's

easiest tours.

As the reader may one day summon the courage to visit this great

Northern land, it may not be out of place to give a brief history of

Alaska, which, only thirty years ago, was peopled solely by Indians and

a few Russian settlers, and was practically unknown to the civilised

world.

It has always seemed strange to me that Russia, a country with a

world-wide reputation for diplomatic shrewdness, should have made such

an egregious error as to part with Alaska at a merely nominal

price,[72] the more so that when the transfer took place gold had long

been known to exist in this Arctic province. Vitus Bering discovered

traces of it as far back as the eighteenth century. William H. Seward,

Secretary of State under President Johnson, was mainly responsible for

the purchase of this huge territory, which covers an area of about

600,000 square miles, measuring 1000 miles from north to south and 3500

miles from east to west. It is said that the coast line alone, if

straightened out, would girdle the globe.

[Footnote 72: The word "Alaska" is derived from the Indian "Al-ay-eksa,"

which signifies a great country.]

The formal transfer of Alaska to the United States was made on October

18, 1867, and its acquisition was first regarded with great disfavour by

the majority of the American public. Although only $7,200,000 was paid

for the whole of Russian America,[73] the general opinion in New York

and other large cities of the Union was that "Seward's ice-box," as it

was then derisively termed, would prove a white elephant, and that the

statesman responsible for its purchase had been, plainly speaking, sold.

It was only when the marvellous riches of Nome were disclosed that

people began to realise what the annexation of the country really meant,

although even at this period Alaska had already repaid itself many times

over. Klondike had already startled the civilised world, but this is,

of course, in British territory. Nevertheless, between the years 1870

and 1900 Secretary Seward's investment had returned nearly $8,000,000,

and within the same period fisheries and furs had yielded no less than

$100,000,000. Gold and timber had produced $40,000,000 more, making a

clear profit of nearly $200,000,000 in thirty years.

[Footnote 73: It is said that most of this was used in Petersburg to

satisfy old debts and obligations incurred by Alaskan enterprises,

attorneys' fees, &c., so in short Russia really gave her American

possessions to the American people, reaping no direct emolument

whatsoever from the transfer. ("Our Arctic Province," by Henry W.

Elliott.)]

It is sad to think that the once maligned politician who acquired this

priceless treasure did not live to see his golden dream realised. A few

days before his death the Secretary was asked what he considered the

most important measure of his official career.

"The purchase of Alaska," was the reply, "but it will take the people a

generation to find it out."

Alaska may be divided into two great south-east and western districts.

Mount St. Elias, nearly 20,000 ft. high, marks the dividing line at 141

deg. west long., running north from this point to the Arctic Ocean. The

diversity of climate existing throughout this huge province from its

southern coast to the shores of the Polar Sea is naturally very great,

and the marvellous contrast between an Alaskan June and December has

nowhere been more picturesquely and graphically described than by

General Sir William Butler in his "Great Lone Land": "In summer a land

of sound--a land echoed with the voices of birds, the ripple of running

water, the mournful music of the waving pine branch; in winter a land of

silence, its great rivers glimmering in the moonlight, wrapped in their

shrouds of ice, its still forests rising weird and spectral against the

auroral-lighted horizon, its nights so still that the moving streamers

across the Northern skies seem to carry to the ear a sense of sound!"

On the North Pacific coast densely wooded islands are so numerous that

from Victoria in British Columbia to the town of Skagway at the head of

the Lynn Canal there are but a few miles of open sea. Inland, almost as

far as the Arctic Circle, mountain ranges, some of great altitude, are

everywhere visible. There are also many large lakes, surrounded by the

swamps, and impenetrable forests, that formerly rendered Alaska so hard

a nut for the explorer to crack. Only a few miles north of the coast

range fertile soil and luxurious vegetation are replaced by Arctic

deserts. Here, for eight months of the year, plains and rivers are

merged into one vast wilderness of ice, save during the short summer

when dog-roses bloom and the coarse luxurious grass is plentifully

sprinkled with daisies and other wild flowers. In Central Alaska the

ground is perpetually frozen to a depth of several inches, and in the

North wells have been sunk through forty feet of solid ice.

Alaska is fairly healthy, although the temperature in the interior

ranges from 90 deg. in the shade to over 60 deg. below zero Fahr. May,

June, and July are the best months for travelling, for the days are then

generally bright and pleasant and the heat tempered by a cool breeze. On

the coast during the summer rain and fogs prevail, and the sun is only

occasionally visible, for there are on an average only sixty-six fine

days throughout the year. In 1884, a rainfall of sixty-four inches was

registered at Unalaska. The rain seldom pours down here, but falls in a

steady drizzle from a hopelessly leaden sky, under which a grey and

sodden landscape presents a picture of dreary desolation. But this damp

cheerlessness has its advantages, for incessant humidity sheds perpetual

verdure over the coast-districts, where the thermometer rarely falls as

low as zero Fahr. Winter only sets in here about the 1st of December,

and snow has vanished by the end of May, while in the interior lakes and

rivers are still in the grip of the ice. Near the sea the soil is rich

and root-crops are prolific, while horses and cattle thrive well, also

the ports as far north as Cook's Inlet are open to navigation all the

year round, so that, taking all these facts into consideration, coast

settlements are preferable as a permanent residence to those of the

interior, with the exception, perhaps, of Dawson City.

It is said that the mild climate of Southern Alaska is due to the Japan

Gulf Stream, which first strikes the North American continent at the

Queen Charlotte Island in latitude 50 deg. north. At this point the

stream divides, one part going northward and westward along the coast of

Alaska, and the other southward along the coast of British Columbia,

Washington territory, Oregon, and California. Thus the climate of these

states is made mild and pleasant in precisely the same way as the shores

of Spain, Portugal and France by the ocean currents of the Atlantic.

Notwithstanding the society of pleasant fellow travellers, life on board

the _Hannah_ became intolerably tedious after the first few days. The

Lower Yukon is not an attractive river from a picturesque point of

view, and only the upper portion of its two thousand odd miles possesses

any scenic interest. Grey and monotonous tundra rolling away to the

horizon, and melancholy, grey-green shrubs lining the stream formed the

daily and dismal landscape during the first week. There is literally

nothing of interest to be seen along the banks of the Yukon from its

mouth to Dawson City, save perhaps the Catholic mission of the Holy

Cross at Koserefski; which is prettily situated within a stone's throw

of the river, and consists of several neat wooden buildings comprising a

beautiful little chapel and school for native children. The _Hannah_

remained here for some hours, which enabled me to renew my acquaintance

with the good nuns, and to visit the schoolhouse, where some Indian

children of both sexes were at work. French was the language spoken, and

it seemed strange to hear the crisp, clear accent in this deserted

corner of civilisation. An old acquaintance of my former voyage, pretty

Sister Winifred, showed us around the garden, with its smooth green

lawns, bright flower-beds, and white statue of Our Lady in a shrine of

pine boughs. All the surroundings wore an air of peace and homeliness

suggestive of some quiet country village in far-away France, and I could

have lingered here for hours had not large and bloodthirsty mosquitoes

swarmed from the woods around and driven me reluctantly back to the

steamer.

At Koserefski we bade a final farewell to the "Tundra" and its Eskimo,

and from here onwards encountered only dense forests and the unsavoury

and generally sulky Alaskan Indian. They are not a pleasing race, for

laziness and impudence seemed to be the chief characteristics of those

with whom we had to deal throughout the former journey. On this occasion

we met with very few natives, who have apparently been driven out of the

principal towns by the white man. The Alaskan Indian's once picturesque

costume is now discarded for clothes of European cut, which render him

even more unattractive than ever. Moccasins and his pretty bark-canoe

are now the only distinctive mark of the _Siwash_, who is as fond of

strong drink as the Eskimo, and also resembles the latter in his

boundless capacities for lying and theft. But there are probably not

more than 1500 natives in all inhabiting the Yukon region, and these are

rapidly decreasing. I do not think I saw more than fifty Indians

throughout the journey from Cape Nome to Skagway, the terminus of the

"White Pass" railway. South of this, along the coast to Vancouver, they

were more numerous, and apparently less lazy and degraded than the

Indians of the interior.

On board the _Hannah_ the talk was all of gold, and every one, from

captain to cook, seemed indirectly interested in the capture of the

precious metal. The purser had claims to dispose of, and even your

bedroom steward knew of a likely ledge of which he would divulge the

position--for a consideration. The Koyukuk and Tanana rivers on this

part of the Yukon are new ground, and are said to be promising, but I

could hear of no reliable discoveries of any extent on either of these

streams.

"Cities" on the American Yukon consist of perhaps a score or more of log

huts, which Yankee push and enterprise have invested with the dignity

of towns. "Rampart City," for instance, which the _Hannah_ reached on

the sixth day in from the coast, consisted of only about thirty

one-storied wooden dwellings, the erection of which had been due to the

discovery of gold in the vicinity, although during the previous year

(1901) the claims around had only produced L40,000. And yet even this

tiny township could boast of two hotels, five or six saloons, electric

light and two newspapers: the _Alaska Forum_ and _Rampart Sun_. The

circulation of these journals was not disclosed to the writer, who was,

however, gravely interviewed by the editors of both publications. Just

before leaving Rampart City news of the postponement of the coronation

of his Majesty King Edward VII. on account of serious illness, reached

us, and it was gratifying to note the respectful sympathy for the Queen

of England displayed by the American inhabitants of this remote Alaskan

settlement.

Four days after this the hideous Yukon flats were reached, a vast desert

of swamp and sand dunes, through which the great river diffuses itself,

like a sky-rocket, into hundreds of lesser streams, lakes, and aqueous

blind alleys, which severely taxed the skill and patience of our

skipper. Here the outlook was even more depressing than on the dreary

Lena. Before reaching Circle City the Yukon attains its most northerly

point and then descends in a south-easterly direction for the remainder

of its course. At the bend it is joined by the Porcupine River; and here

is Fort Yukon, once an important trading coast of the Hudson Bay

Company, but now an overgrown clearing in the forest, of which a few

miserable Indians in grimy tents disputed the possession with dense

clouds of mosquitoes. But even the appearance of Circle City,[74] once a

prosperous mining town and now a collection of ruined log-huts, was

hailed with delight by the hopelessly bored passengers in the _Hannah_,

for it meant the end of another stage in this wearisome journey.

[Footnote 74: In 1901 the diggings around Circle City produced about

L30,000.]

There is nothing exciting or even picturesque about a modern Alaskan

mining camp. Bowlers and loud checks have superseded the red flannel

shirt and sombrero, and while missions and libraries abound, Judge Lynch

and the crack of a six-shooter are almost unknown in these townships,

the conventional security of which would certainly have amazed and

disgusted the late Bret Harte. When last I travelled down the Yukon,

Circle City (now called Silent City) was known as the "Paris of Alaska,"

and there was certainly more gaiety, or rather life, of a tawdry,

disreputable kind here than at Forty Mile, the only other settlement of

any size on the river, for Klondike was not then in existence. Circle

City could then boast of two theatres, a so-called music hall, and

several gambling and dancing saloons, which, together with other dens of

a worse description, were now silent heaps of grass-grown timber. In

those days the dancing rooms were crowded nightly, and I once attended a

ball here in a low, stuffy apartment, festooned with flags, with a

drinking bar at one end. The orchestra consisted of a violin and guitar,

the music being almost drowned by a noisy crowd at the bar, where a

wrangle took place on an average every five minutes. One dollar was

charged by the saloon-keeper for the privilege of a dance with a gaily

painted lady (of a class with which most mining camps are only too

familiar), who received twenty-five cents as her share of the

transaction. The guests numbered about sixty, and about a third that

number of dogs which had strayed in through the open doorway. When an

attendant (in shirt-sleeves) proceeded to walk round and sprinkle the

rough boards with resin, the dancers fairly yelled with delight, for a

hungry cur closely followed him, greedily devouring the stuff as it

fell! But although in those days the Yukon gold-digger was as tough a

customer as ever rocked a cradle in the wildest days of Colorado, there

was a rough and friendly _bonhomie_ amongst the inhabitants of Circle

City which is now lacking in the Klondike metropolis.

Between Rampart and Circle Cities we experienced an annoyance almost as

great as that caused by the mosquitoes, in the shape of clouds of

pungent smoke caused by forest fires. In these densely wooded regions a

smouldering match dropped by a careless miner often sets hundreds of

square miles of timber ablaze. As the natives are also constantly

clearing and burning the woods for cultivation, the air was seldom

entirely clear, and often so thick as to cause irritation in the eyes,

especially after suffering, as most of us had, from snow blindness and

incipient ophthalmia. On still, sultry days the pain resulting from

smoke and the glare off the river was almost as severe as that which I

had experienced in the Arctic. Mosquitoes now attacked us in myriads,

and the heat was insupportable, but the cooler air of the upper deck was

rendered unattainable by showers of sparks which constantly issued from

the funnels of the hard-driven _Hannah_.

At Eagle City, consisting of about thirty log-huts, we reached for the

first time the end of a telegraph wire,[75] and I was able to cable home

the safe arrival in Alaska of the Expedition; and none too soon, for the

total loss of the latter had already been reported in London. How this

baseless rumour was spread remains a mystery, but fortunately the wire

announcing our safety was published in the London newspapers only three

days after the public had read of a probable disaster. Eagle City,

although even smaller than Rampart, also boasted of a newspaper, the

enterprising owner of which made me a tempting offer for the tiny silk

banner which had shared our fortunes all the way from France. But "the

flag which braved a thousand years" was not for sale, and it now adorns

the walls of the author's smoking-room, the only Union Jack which, so

far as I know, has safety accomplished the journey from Paris to New

York by land.

[Footnote 75: This has since been extended and telegraphic messages may

now be sent through from Europe to Nome City.]

Above Eagle City the journey was rendered even more weary by frequent

stoppages. Once we tugged for twenty-four hours at a stranded steamer,

and finally got her off a sand-bank at considerable risk to ourselves.

Every hundred miles or so the _Hannah_ would tie up to take in fuel at

some wood-cutter's shanty, where the cool, green forest, with its

flowers and ferns, looked inviting from the deck, but to land amongst

them was to be devoured by clouds of ferocious mosquitoes. De Clinchamp

was the happiest being on board, for his days were passed in developing

the hundreds of photographs taken since our departure from Yakutsk; and

Stepan was perhaps the most forlorn, amongst strangers unacquainted with

his language. The poor fellow had been as gay as a cricket amidst the

dangers of the Arctic, but here he was as timid as a lost child, gazing

hour by hour into the water, smoking endless cigarettes, and thinking,

perhaps, of his wife and little "Isba" in now distant Siberia.

On July 15 we passed the boundary into British North-west territory, and

shortly afterwards hailed the British flag fluttering from the barracks

at Forty Mile City as an old and long-lost friend. This was the chief

town of the Upper Yukon in the palmy days of the Hudson Bay Company when

furs rather than gold were the attraction to these gloomy regions. In

1896 this was the highest point reached by the larger river-boats, and

here, on that occasion, we left the tiny skiff in which we had travelled

for over a month on the great lakes, and boarded the steamer for St.

Michael. Forty Mile then consisted of eighty or ninety log-huts on a mud

bank, where numerous tree-stumps, wood-shavings, empty tins, and other

rubbish littered the ground amongst the houses, adding to the general

appearance of dirt and neglect. But now several neat, new buildings have

arisen from the ashes of the old; streets have been laid out with

regularity; and a trim fort is occupied by a khaki-clad detachment of

the North-west Mounted Police. Forty Mile is more of a military post

than anything else, most of its prospectors having left the place for

the Klondike, although a few years back this was the chief rendezvous of

Yukon pioneers. These, however, were mostly "grub-stakers," quite

content if enough gold-dust was forthcoming to keep the wolf from the

door. In those days a nugget of any size was a rarity, and fortunes were

made here, not by the miner, but by those who fed and clothed him. For

instance, in 1886 Forty Mile Creek yielded less than L30,000, but at

this time the total number of prospectors in the entire territory of the

Upper Yukon was under 250, and very few of these who could avoid it

wintered in the country.

At last, on the thirteenth day, we neared our destination. "It seems a

month since we left St. Michael," says the confidence-man as for the

last time we watch the pine forest darken and the great river fade into

a silvery grey in the twilight. From the brightly lit saloon come the

tinkle of a piano and the clear notes of Mrs. Z.'s voice. Her pathetic

little melody is familiar to the wanderer in every lonely land:

"All the world am sad and dreary

Everywhere I roam!"

But, fortunately for us, the Yukon, like the Suwanee River, must have an

ending, and I am awakened early next morning to find the _Hannah_ moored

alongside a busy wharf at Dawson City.

CHAPTER XVII

DAWSON

"The Yukon district is a vast tract of country which forms the extreme

north-westerly portion of the north-west territories of Canada. It is

bounded to the south by the northern line of British Columbia, to the

west by the eastern line of the United States territory of Alaska, to

the east by the Rocky Mountains, and to the north by the Arctic Ocean.

The district has an area of 192,000 square miles, or about the size of

France. The region, as a whole, is mountainous in character, but it

comprises as well an area of merely hilly or gently undulating country,

besides many wide and flat bottomed valleys. It is more mountainous in

the south-east and subsides generally and uniformly to the

north-westward, the mountains becoming more isolated and separated by

broader tracts of low land. The Yukon or Pelly River provides the main

drainage of this region, passing from Canadian into American territory

at a point in its course 1600 miles from the sea. The two hundred miles

of its course in Canada receives the waters of all the most important of

its tributaries--the Stewart, Macmillan, Upper Pelly, Lewes, White

River, &c., each with an extensive subsidiary river system, which

spreading out like a fan towards the north-east, east, and south-east

facilitate access into the interior." So writes my friend Mr. Ogilvie,

the Dominion Surveyor, who has an experience of over twenty years of

this country and who is probably better acquainted with its natural

characteristics and resources than any other living white man.

On the occasion of my last attempt to travel overland from New York to

Paris the spot upon which Dawson City now stands was occupied by perhaps

a dozen Indian wigwams.[76] The current was so strong that we only

landed from our skiff with difficulty and the timely assistance of some

natives in birch bark canoes, the first of these graceful but rickety

craft we had yet encountered. Just below the village a small river flows

into the Yukon from the east, and the water looked so clear and pure

that we filled our barrels, little dreaming that in a few months this

apparently insignificant stream would be the talk of the civilised

world. For this was the Thron-diuck,[77] a word eventually corrupted

into "Klondike" by the jargon of many nationalities. Then we visited the

village, in search of food; finding in one hut some salmon, in another a

piece of moose meat, both of venerable exterior. Most of the braves of

the tribe were away hunting or fishing, but the old men and maidens were

eager for news from up river, the sole topic of interest being, not the

finding of nuggets, but the catching of fish. Strange as it may seem the

name of Klondike is to this day associated in my mind with

comparatively clean Indians and a good square meal. But hardly a year

had elapsed before I discovered that on that quiet, sunlit evening, I

was carelessly strolling about over millions of money without being

aware of the fact.

[Footnote 76: Dawson City is named after Dr. Dawson who first

established the boundary between Alaska and British north-west

territory.]

[Footnote 77: An Indian word signifying "Plenty of fish." On old maps

the place is marked "Tondack."]

Dawson City stands on the right bank of the Yukon on a plain almost

surrounded by picturesque and partly wooded hills. There are towns

existing much further north than this notwithstanding all that has been

written to the contrary. Many a cheap tripper from Aberdeen or Newcastle

has been a good deal nearer the Pole, so far as actual latitude is

concerned, for Dawson is south of the Norwegian towns of Hammerfest and

Tromso; Archangel--on the White Sea--being situated on about the same

latitude as the Klondike metropolis. The latter was founded shortly

after the first discovery of gold in 1896, and a few months afterwards

seven or eight thousand people were living there in tents and log huts.

In 1898 a fire occurred and the whole town was rebuilt on more

business-like lines, buildings, streets, and squares being laid out with

regularity. The fire had not been wholly disastrous, for before its

occurrence typhoid fever was raging amongst the miners, chiefly on

account of improper food, impure water, and the miasma arising from the

marshy, undrained soil. But when the town was restored, these evils were

remedied, and, at the present day, Dawson contains about 30,000

inhabitants (probably more in summer), who, save for a rigorous winter,

live under much the same conditions as the dweller in any civilised city

of England or America. Out on the creeks, the life is still rough and

primitive, but all the luxuries of life are obtainable in town, that is

if you can afford to pay for them, for prices here are, at present,

ruinous. This is chiefly due to the almost prohibitive tariff imposed

upon everything, from machinery to cigars, by the Canadian Government.

During our stay much discontent also prevailed in consequence of the

vexatious gold-mining regulations which had lately come into operation

and which had already compelled many owners of valuable claims to sell

them at a loss and quit the country. An Englishman residing here told me

that so long as the present mining laws exist prospectors will do well

to avoid Canadian territory, and this I could well believe, for while we

were there, Dawson was, on this account, in a ferment of excitement

which threatened shortly to blaze into open rebellion unless the tension

was removed.

The natural charms of Dawson have hitherto been sadly neglected by

writers on Klondike, and yet it is in summer one of the prettiest places

imaginable. Viewed from a distance on a still July day, the clean bright

looking town and garden-girt villas dotting the green hills around are

more suggestive of a tropical country than of a bleak Arctic land. An

interesting landmark is the mighty landslip of rock and rubble which

defaces the side of a steep cliff overlooking the city, for this

avalanche of earth is said to have entombed some fifty or sixty Indians

many years ago, and is of course therefore, according to local

tradition, haunted. Notwithstanding its remoteness Dawson may almost be

called a gay place. Stroll down the principal street at mid-day and you

will find a well-dressed crowd of both sexes, some driving and cycling,

others inspecting the shops or seated at flower-bedecked tables in the

fashionable French "Restaurant du Louvre" with its white aproned

_garcons_ and central snowy altar of silver, fruit, and _hors-d'oeuvres_

all complete. Everything has a continental look, from the glittering

jewellers' shops to the flower and fruit stalls, where you may buy roses

or strawberries for a dollar apiece. I recollect discussing a meal of

somewhat rusty bacon and beans (or Alaska strawberries as they were then

called) when we landed for the first time amongst the Indians of

Thron-diuck, and it seemed like some weird dream when one sultry

afternoon during my recent stay I was invited by a party of smartly

dressed ladies to partake of ices in a gilded _cafe_ with red-striped

sun-blinds on the very same spot. But you can now get almost anything

here by paying for it, on a scale regulated by the local daily

newspapers, which are sold for a shilling and sometimes more. Even in

the cheaper eating-houses, where sausages steam in the window, the most

frugal meal runs away with a five dollar note, while at the Regina Hotel

(by no means a first-class establishment) the price charged for the most

modest bedroom would have secured a sumptuous apartment at the Ritz

palaces in Pall Mall or the Place Vendome! On the day of our arrival I

thought a bar-tender was joking when he charged me three dollars for a

pint of very ordinary "Medoc," but quickly discovered that the man was

in sober earnest. Nevertheless, only big prices are to be expected in a

region almost inaccessible ten years ago. And what a change there is

since those days. In 1896 it took us two months to reach Thron-diuck

from the coast, and on the last occasion I received a reply from London

to a cable within seven hours! This new era of progress and

enlightenment seemed to have scared the insect creation, for, in 1896,

"smudges" were lit here to drive away the clouds of mosquitoes which

mingled with our very food; and now not a gnat was to be seen in Dawson,

although the creeks around were said to be alive with them.

This is essentially a cosmopolitan city, and you may hear almost every

known language, from Patagonian to Chinese, talked in its streets.

"First Avenue," about a mile long and fronting the river, is the finest

thoroughfare, and the high-sounding title is not incongruous, for

several handsome stone buildings now grace this street which in a few

years will doubtless be worthy of Seattle or San Francisco. One side of

the road is lined by busy wharves, with numberless steamers ever on the

move, the other by shops of every description, restaurants, and gorgeous

drinking-saloons. A stranger here cannot fail to be struck with the

incongruity with which wealth and squalor are blended. Here a dainty

restaurant is elbowed by a cheap American _gargote_, there a plate-glass

window blazing with diamonds seems to shrink from a neighbouring

emporium stocked with second-hand wearing apparel. Even the exclusive

Zero Club with its bow window generally crowded with fashionable

loungers, is contaminated by the proximity of a shabby drinking-bar,

which, however, does not impair the excellence of its internal

arrangements, as the writer can testify. For a Lucullian repast, of

which I was invited to partake at this hospitable resort of good fellows

of all nationalities, yet lingers in my memory!

But hospitality seems ingrained in the nature of the Klondiker high or

low, and during its short stay here the Expedition was regally received

and entertained. A wood-cut, which appeared in the principal newspaper

representing "Dawson City extending the glad hand of welcome to Explorer

De Windt" was no mere figure of speech, for we were seldom allowed to

pay for a meal, while the refreshments and cigars lavished upon me by

total strangers at every moment of the day would have set up a

regimental mess. My host here was the manager of the "Alaska Commercial

Company," which has practically ruled the country from the year of its

annexation, and without whose assistance I should often have fared badly

during my travels in the interior. Mr. Mizner, the agent, occupied one

of the newest and finest houses in Dawson, but I was awakened the first

night by a sound suggestive of a spirited wrestling bout in an adjoining

apartment. The noise continued almost without cessation, and only ceased

when the business of the day recommenced in the streets. Then the

mystery was explained; my imaginary wrestlers were rats, which are not,

I believe, indigenous to Alaska. Originally brought to St. Michael

during the gold rush by an old and patched-up barque from San Francisco,

the enterprising rodents boarded a river steamer and landed here, where

conditions appear especially favourable to their reproduction. Scarcely

a house in the place was free from them, and at night, or rather

through its twilight hours, the streets swarmed with the disgusting

brutes who seemed to regard human beings with supreme indifference. From

latest advices this annoyance still exists and a fortune therefore

awaits a good London rat-catcher in Dawson.

Dissipation used to reign here supreme as it does to-day at Nome, but

the Canadian authorities have now placed a heavy heel upon

gambling-saloons, dancing-halls, and similar establishments. And

although the closing of these places has caused much dissatisfaction

amongst those who profited by them, the measure has undoubtedly been for

the general good of the community. Many a poor miner has come in from

the creeks with gold-dust galore, the result of many months of hard work

and privation, and found himself penniless after a single night passed

amongst the saloons, dives, and dens of an even worse description which

formerly flourished here. In those days the place swarmed with women of

the lowest class, the very sweepings of San Francisco, and with them

came such a train of thieves and bullies that finally the law was

compelled to step in and prevent a further influx of this undesirable

element. Dawson is now as quiet and orderly as it was once the opposite,

for ladies unable to prove their respectability are compelled to reside

in a distant suburb bearing the euphonious name of Louse-Town. This

place is probably unique, at any rate amongst civilised nations,

although the Japanese Yoshiwara, outside Tokio, where every dwelling is

one of ill-fame, is, although, much larger, almost its exact prototype.

Crime in and about Dawson is now rare thanks to that fine body of men,

the North-west Mounted Police. Piccadilly is no safer than the streets

here, which, during the dark winter months, blaze with electricity. The

Irish ruffian, George O'Brien, who, a couple of years ago, built a

shanty in a lonely spot and robbed and murdered many prospectors, was

arrested and hanged with a celerity which has since deterred other evil

doers. For the system of police surveillance here is almost as strict as

in Russia, and although passports are not required the compulsory

registration of every traveller at the hotels and road houses answers

much the same purpose.

Although rowdy revelry is discountenanced by the authorities Dawson City

can be gay enough both in summer and winter. In the open season there is

horse-racing along First Avenue, where notwithstanding the rough and

stony course and deplorable "crocks" engaged, large sums of money change

hands. There are also picnics and A. B. floaters, or water parties

organised by a Society known as the "Arctic Brotherhood," who charter a

steamer once a week for a trip up or down river, which is made the

occasion for dancing and other festivities entailing the consumption of

much champagne. At this season there is also excellent fishing in the

Yukon and its tributaries, where salmon, grayling, and trout are

plentiful. The first named run to an enormous weight, but are much

coarser and less delicate in flavour than the European fish. The Fourth

of July is a day of general rejoicing, for there are probably as many,

if not more, Americans than Canadians here. There is good rough shooting

within easy distance of Dawson, and the sporting fraternity

occasionally witnesses a prize fight, when Frank Slavin (who owns an

hotel here) occasionally displays his skill.

The history of the Klondike gold-fields has so often been told that I

shall not weary the reader by going over old ground: how George Cormack

made his lucky strike on Bonanza Creek, taking out L240 of gold in a

couple of days from a spot which, with proper appliances, would have

yielded L1000, or how the steamship _Excelsior_ arrived in San Francisco

one July day in 1897 with half a million dollars and thirty old timers

whose tales of a land gorged with gold were almost universally

discredited. But these were confirmed by the arrival of the _Portland_ a

few days later with over a million dollars' worth of dust stowed away in

oil cans, jam-tins, and even wrapped in old newspapers, so desolate and

primitive was the region from whence it came.[78] Then, as every one

knows, the news was flashed over the world and was followed by a

stampede the like of which had not been witnessed since the days of '49.

Unfortunately, the simple and primitive way in which the gold was gained

seemed suggestive of a poor man's "El Dorado," and consequently many of

those who went into the Klondike with the first batch of gold seekers

were small tradesmen, railway officials, clerks, and others, whose

sedentary occupation had rendered them quite unfit for a life of peril

and privation in the frozen north. The tragic experiences of these first

pilgrims to the land of gold are probably still fresh in the mind of the

reader--the deaths by cold and hunger on the dreaded Chilkoot Pass, or

by drowning in the stormy lakes and treacherous rapids of the Yukon. The

death list during the rush of 1897 will long be remembered in Dawson

City, for many of those who survived the dangers of the road were

stricken down on arrival by typhoid fever, which allied to famine,

claimed, in those days, a terrible percentage of victims. And yet if the

risks were great, the rewards were greater for those blessed with youth,

perseverance and, above all, a hardy constitution. Perhaps the most

notable case of success in the early days was that of Clarence Berry

(then known as the "Barnato of the Klondike"). When Berry left

California his capital consisted of L20 which enabled him to reach the

scene of operations and to take L26,000 out of the ground within six

months of his departure from home. Mrs. Berry, who pluckily joined her

husband at Dawson, is said to have lifted no less than L10,000 from her

husband's claims in her spare moments. About this period many other

valuable discoveries took place and amongst them may be mentioned

MacDonald's claim on "El Dorado" which yielded L19,000 in twenty-eight

days, Leggatt's claims on the same creek which in eight months produced

L8400 from a space only twenty-four square feet, and Ladue, a Klondike

pioneer, who for seven consecutive days took L360 from one claim and

followed his good fortune with such pluck and persistency that he is now

a millionaire. Of other authentic cases I may mention that of a San

Francisco man and his wife who were able to secure only one claim which

to their joy and surprise yielded L27,000, and that of a stoker on board

a Yukon river boat who in 1896 was earning L10 a month and who, the

following summer, was worth his L30,000!