The first landing made by United States boats after leaving Seattle is
at Ketchikan. This is a comparatively new town. It is seven hundred
miles from Seattle, and is reached early on the third morning out. It is
the first town in Alaska, and glistens white and new on its gentle hills
soon after crossing the boundary line in Dixon Entrance--which is always
saluted by the lifting of hats and the waving of handkerchiefs on the
part of patriotic Americans.
Ketchikan has a population of fifteen hundred people. It is the
distributing point for the mines and fisheries of this section of
southeastern Alaska. It is the present port of entry, and the Customs
Office adds to the dignity of the town. There is a good court-house, a
saw-mill with a capacity of twenty-five thousand feet daily, a shingle
mill, salmon canneries, machine shops, a good water system, a cold
storage plant, two excellent hotels, good schools and churches, a
progressive newspaper, several large wharves, modern and well-stocked
stores and shops, and a sufficient number of saloons. The town is
lighted by electricity and many of the buildings are heated by steam. A
creditable chamber of commerce is maintained.
There are seven salmon canneries in operation which are tributary to
Ketchikan. The most important one "mild-cures" fish for the German
market.
Among the "shipping" mines, which are within a radius of fifty miles,
and which receive mails and supplies from Ketchikan, are the Mount
Andrews, the Stevenston, the Mamies, the Russian Brown, the Hydah, the
Niblack, and the Sulzer. From fifteen to twenty prospects are under
development.
There are smelters in operation at Hadley and Copper Mountain, on Prince
of Wales Island. From Ketchikan to all points in the mining and fishing
districts safe and commodious steamers are regularly operated. The chief
mining industries are silver, copper, and gold.
The residences are for the most part small, but, climbing by green
terraces over the hill and surrounded by flowers and neat lawns, they
impart an air of picturesqueness to the town. There are several
totem-poles; the handsomest was erected to the memory of Chief "Captain
John," by his nephew, at the entrance to the house now occupied by the
latter. The nephew asserts that he paid $2060 for the carving and making
of the totem. Owing to its freshly painted and gaudy appearance, it is
as lacking in interest as the one which stands in Pioneer Square,
Seattle, and which was raped from a northern Indian village.
* * * * *
Four times had I landed at Ketchikan on my way to far beautiful places;
with many people had I talked concerning the place; folders of steamship
companies and pamphlets of boards of trade had I read; yet never from
any person nor from any printed page had I received the faintest glimmer
that this busy, commercially described northwestern town held, almost in
its heart, one of the enduring and priceless jewels of Alaska. To the
beauty-loving, Norwegian captain of the steamship _Jefferson_ was I at
last indebted for one of the real delights of my life.
It was near the middle of a July night, and raining heavily, when the
captain said to us:--
"Be ready on the stroke of seven in the morning, and I'll show you one
of the beautiful things of Alaska."
"But--at Ketchikan, captain!"
"Yes, at Ketchikan."
I thought of all the vaunted attractions of Ketchikan which had ever
been brought to my observation; and I felt that at seven o'clock in the
morning, in a pouring rain, I could live without every one of them.
Then--the charm of a warm berth in a gray hour, the cup of hot coffee,
the last dream to the drowsy throb of the steamer--
"It will be raining, captain," one said, feebly.
The look of disgust that went across his expressive face!
"What if it is! You won't know it's raining as soon as you get your eyes
filled with what I want to show you. But if you're one of _that_ kind--"
He made a gesture of dismissal with his hands, palms outward, and turned
away.
"Captain, I shall be ready at seven. I'm not one of that kind," we all
cried together.
"All right; but I won't wait five minutes. There'll be two hundred
passengers waiting to go."
[Illustration: Copyright by E. A. Hegg, Juneau
SCENE ON THE WHITE PASS]
"You know that letter that Thomas Bailey Aldrich wrote to Professor
Morse," spoke up a lady from Boston, who had overheard. "You know
Professor Morse wrote a hand that couldn't be deciphered, and among
other things, Mr. Aldrich wrote: 'There's a singular and perpetual charm
in a letter of yours; it never grows old; it never loses its novelty.
One can say to one's self every day: "There's that letter of Morse's. I
have not read it yet. I think I shall take another shy at it." Other
letters are read and thrown away and forgotten; but yours are kept
forever--unread!' Now, that letter, somehow, in the vaguest kind of way,
suggests itself when one considers this getting up anywhere from three
to six in the morning to see things in Alaska. There's _always_
something to be seen during these unearthly hours. Every night we are
convinced that we will be on deck early, to see something, and we leave
an order to be wakened; but when the dreaded knocking comes upon the
door, and a hoarse voice announces 'Wrangell Narrows,' or 'Lama Pass,'
our berths suddenly take on curves and attractions they possess at no
other time. The side-rails into which we have been bumping seem to be
cushioned with down, the space between berths to grow wider, the air in
the room sweeter and more drowsily delicious. We say, 'Oh, we'll get up
to-morrow morning and see something,' and we pull the berth-curtain down
past our faces and go to sleep. After a while, it grows to be one of the
perpetual charms of a trip to Alaska--this always going to get up in the
morning and this never getting up. It never grows old; it never loses
its novelty. One can say to one's self every morning: 'There's that
little matter to decide now about getting up. Shall I, or shall I not?'
I have been to Alaska three times, but I've never seen Ketchikan. Other
places are seen and admired and forgotten; but it remains
forever--unseen.... Now, I'll go and give an order to be called at
half-past six, to see this wonderful thing at Ketchikan!"
I looked around for her as I went down the slushy deck the next morning
on the stroke of seven; but she was not in sight. It was raining heavily
and steadily--a cold, thick rain; the wind was so strong and so
changeful that an umbrella could scarcely be held.
Alas for the captain! Out of his boasted two hundred passengers, there
came forth, dripping and suspicious-eyed, openly scenting a joke, only
four women and one man. But the captain was undaunted. He would listen
to no remonstrances.
"Come on, now," he cried, cheerfully, leading the way. "You told me you
came to Alaska to see things, and as long as you travel with me, you are
going to see all that is worth seeing. Let the others sleep. Anybody
can sleep. You can sleep at home; but you can't see what I am going to
show you now anywhere but in Alaska. Do you suppose I would get up at
this hour and waste my time on you, if I didn't know you'd thank me for
it all the rest of your life?"
So on and on we went; up one street and down another; around sharp
corners; past totem-poles, saloons, stylish shops, windows piled with
Indian baskets and carvings; up steps and down terraces; along gravelled
roads; and at last, across a little bridge, around a wooded curve,--and
then--
Something met us face to face. I shall always believe that it was the
very spirit of the woods that went past us, laughing and saluting,
suddenly startled from her morning bath in the clear, amber-brown stream
that came foaming musically down over smooth stones from the mountains.
It was so sudden, so unexpected. One moment, we were in the little
northern fishing- and mining-town, which sits by the sea, trumpeting its
commercial glories to the world; the next, we were in the forest, and
under the spell of this wild, sweet thing that fled past us, returned,
and lured us on.
For three miles we followed the mocking call of the spirit of the brown
stream. Her breath was as sweet as the breath of wild roses covered with
dew. Never in the woods have I been so impressed, so startled, with the
feeling that a living thing was calling me.
We could find no words to express our delight as we climbed the path
beside the brown stream, whose waters came laughingly down through a
deep, dim gorge. They fell sheer in sparkling cataracts; they widened
into thin, singing shallows of palest amber, clinking against the
stones; narrow and foaming, they wound in and out among the trees; they
disappeared completely under wide sprays of ferns and the flat,
spreading branches of trees, only to "make a sudden sally" farther down.
At first we were level with them, walked beside them, and paused to
watch the golden gleams in their clear depths; but gradually we climbed,
until we were hundreds of feet above them.
Down in those purple shadows they went romping on to the sea; sometimes
only a flash told us where they curved; other times, they pushed out
into open spaces, and made pause in deep pools, where they whirled and
eddied for a moment before drawing together and hurrying on. But always
and everywhere the music of their wild, sweet, childish laughter floated
up to us.
In the dim light of early morning the fine mist of the rain sinking
through the gorge took on tones of lavender and purple. The tall trees
climbing through it seemed even more beautiful than they really were, by
the touch of mystery lent by the rain.
I wish that Max Nonnenbruch, who painted the adorable, compelling "Bride
of the Wind," might paint the elfish sprite that dwells in the gorge at
Ketchikan. He, and he alone, could paint her so that one could hear her
impish laughter, and her mocking, fluting call.
The name of the stream I shall never tell. Only an unimaginative modern
Vancouver or Cook could have bestowed upon it the name that burdens it
to-day. Let it be the "brown stream" at Ketchikan.
If the people of the town be wise, they will gather this gorge to
themselves while they may; treasure it, cherish it, and keep it
"unspotted from the world"--yet _for_ the world.
* * * * *
Metlakahtla means "the channel open at both ends." It was here that Mr.
William Duncan came in 1857, from England, as a lay worker for the
Church Mission Society. It had been represented that existing
conditions among the natives sorely demanded high-minded missionary
work. The savages at Fort Simpson were considered the worst on the coast
at that time, and he was urged not to locate there. Undaunted, however,
Mr. Duncan, who was then a very young man, filled with the fire and zeal
of one who has not known failure, chose this very spot in which to begin
his work--among Indians so low in the scale of human intelligence that
they had even been accused of cannibalism.
Port Simpson was then an important trading-post of the Hudson Bay
Company. It had been established in the early thirties about forty miles
up Nass River, but a few years later was removed to a point on the
Tsimpsian Peninsula. In 1841 Sir George Simpson found about fourteen
thousand Indians, of various tribes, living there. He found them
"peculiarly comely, strong, and well-grown ... remarkably clever and
ingenious."
They carved neatly in stone, wood, and ivory. Sir George Simpson relates
with horror that the savages frequently ate the dead bodies of their
relatives, some of whom had died of smallpox, even after they had become
putrid. They were horribly diseased in other ways; and many had lost
their eyes through the ravages of smallpox or other disease. They fought
fiercely and turbulently with other tribes.
Such were the Indians among whom Mr. Duncan chose to work. He was
peculiarly fitted for this work, being possessed of certain unusual
qualities and attributes of character which make for success.
The unselfishness and integrity of his nature made themselves visible in
his handsome face, and particularly in the direct gaze of his large and
intensely earnest blue eyes; his manners were simple, and his air was
one of quiet command; he had unfailing cheerfulness, faith, and that
quality which struggles on under the heaviest discouragement with no
thought of giving up.
His word was as good as his bond; his energy and enthusiasm were
untiring, and he never attempted to work his Indians harder than he
himself worked. The entire absence of that trait which seeks self-praise
or self-glory,--in fact, his absolute self-effacement, his devotion of
self and self-interest to others, and to hard and humble work for
others,--all these high and noble parts of an unusual and lovable
character, added to a most winning and attractive personality, gradually
won for young William Duncan the almost Utopian success which many
others in various parts of the world have so far worked for in vain.
The Indians grew to trust his word, to believe in his sincerity and
single-heartedness, to accept his teachings, to love him, and finally,
and most reluctantly of all, to work for him.
At first only fifty of the Tsimsheans, or Tsimpsians, accompanied him to
the site of his first community settlement. Here the land was cleared
and cultivated; neat two-story cottages, a church, a schoolhouse, stores
on the cooperative plan, a saw-mill, and a cannery, were erected by Mr.
Duncan and the Indians. At first a corps of able assistants worked with
Mr. Duncan, instructing the Indians in various industries and arts,
until the young men were themselves able to carry along the different
branches of work,--such as carpentry, shoemaking, cabinet building,
tanning, rope-making, and boat building. The village band was instructed
by a German, until one among them was qualified to become their
band-master. The women were taught to cook, to sew, to keep house, to
weave, and to care for the sick.
Here was a model village, an Utopian community, an ideal life,--founded
and carried on by the genius of one young, simple-hearted, high-minded,
earnest, and self-devoted English gentleman.
But William Duncan's way, although strewn with the full sweet roses of
success, was not without its bitter, stinging thorns. Mr. Duncan was not
an ordained minister, and in 1881 it was decided by the Church of
England authorities who had sent Mr. Duncan out, that his field should
be formed into a separate diocese, and as this decision necessitated the
residence of a bishop, Bishop Ridley was sent to the field--a man whose
name will ever stand as a dark blot upon the otherwise clean page
whereon is written the story which all men honor and all men praise--the
story of the exalted life-work of William Duncan.
Mr. Duncan, being a layman, had conducted services of the simplest
nature, and had not considered it advisable to hold communion services
which would be embarrassing of explanation to people so recently won
from the customs of cannibalism. Bigoted and opinionated, and failing
utterly to understand the Indians, to win their confidence, or to
exercise patience with them, Bishop Ridley declined to be under the
direction of a man who was not ordained, and criticised the form of
service held by Mr. Duncan. The latter, having been in sole charge of
his work for more than thirty years, and being conscious of its full and
unusual results, chafed under the Bishop's supervision and
superintendence.
In the meantime, seven other missions had been established at various
stations in southeastern Alaska. The Bishop undertook to inaugurate
communion services. This was strongly opposed by Mr. Duncan, and he was
supported by the Indians, who were sincerely attached to him, the
Society in England sympathizing with the Bishop. Friction between the
two was ceaseless and bitter, and continued until 1887. This has
been given out as the cause of the withdrawal of Mr. Duncan
to New Metlakahtla; but his own people--graduates of Eastern
universities--claim that it is not the true reason. He and his Indians
had for some time desired to be under the laws of the United States, and
in 1887 Mr. Duncan went to Washington City to negotiate with the United
States for Annette Island. The Bishop established himself in residence,
but failed ignominiously to win the respect of the Indians. He
quarrelled with them in the commonest way, struck them, went among them
armed, and finally appealed to a man-of-war for protection from people
whom he considered bloodthirsty savages.
Mr. Duncan, having been successful in his mission to Washington, his
faithful followers, during his absence, removed to Annette Island, and
here he found on his return all but one hundred out of the original
eight hundred which had composed his village on the Bishop's
arrival--the few having been persuaded to remain with the latter at Old
Metlakahtla. Those who went to the new location on Annette were allowed
by the Canadian government to take nothing but their personal property;
all their houses, public buildings, and community interests being
sacrificed to their devotion to William Duncan--and this is, perhaps,
the highest, even though a wordless, tribute that this great man will,
living or dead, ever receive.
This story, brief and incomplete, of which we gather up the threads as
best we may--for William Duncan dwells in this world to work, and not to
talk about his work--is one of the most pathetic in history. When one
considers the low degree of savagery from which they had struggled up in
thirty years of hardest, and at times most discouraging, labor, to a
degree of civilization which, in one respect, at least, is reached by
few white people in centuries, if ever; when one considers how they had
grown to a new faith and to a new form of religious services, to
confidence in the possession of homes and other community property, and
to believe their title to them to be enduring; when one considers the
tenacity of an Indian's attachment to his home and belongings, and his
sorrowful and heart-breaking reluctance to part with them--this shadowy,
silent migration through northern waters to a new home on an uncleared
island, taking almost nothing with them but their religion and their
love for Mr. Duncan, becomes one of the sublime tragedies of the
century.
On Annette Island, then, twenty years ago, Mr. Duncan's work was taken
up anew. Homes were built; a saw-mill, schools, wharf, cannery, store,
town hall, a neat cottage for Mr. Duncan, and finally, in 1895, the
large and handsome church, rose in rapid succession out of the
wilderness. Roads were built, and sidewalks. A trading schooner soon
plied the near-by waters. All was the work of the Indians under the
direct supervision of Mr. Duncan, who, in 1870, had journeyed to England
for the purpose of learning several simple trades which he might, in
turn, teach to the Indians whom he fondly calls his "people." Thus
personally equipped, and with such implements and machinery as were
required, he had returned to his work.
To-day, at the end of twenty years, the voyager approaching Annette
Island, beholds rising before his reverent eyes the new Metlakahtla--the
old having sunken to ruin, where it lies, a vanishing stain on the fair
fame of the Church of England of the past; for the church of to-day is
too broad and too enlightened to approve of the action of its Mission
Society in regard to its most earnest and successful worker, William
Duncan.
The new town shines white against a dark hill. The steamer lands at a
good wharf, which is largely occupied by salmon canneries. Sidewalks
and neat gravelled paths lead to all parts of the village. The buildings
are attractive in their originality, for Mr. Duncan has his own ideas of
architecture. The church, adorned with two large square towers, has a
commanding situation, and is a modern, steam-heated building, large
enough to seat a thousand people, or the entire village. It is of
handsome interior finish in natural woods. Above the altar are the
following passages: _The angel said unto them: Fear not, for behold, I
bring you good tidings of great joy which shall be to all people....
Thou shalt call his name Jesus, for he shall save his people from their
sins._
The cottages are one and two stories in height, and are surrounded by
vegetable and flower gardens, of which the women seem to be specially
proud. They and the smiling children stand at their gates and on corners
and offer for sale baskets and other articles of their own making. These
baskets are, without exception, crudely and inartistically made; yet
they have a value to collectors by having been woven at Metlakahtla by
Mr. Duncan's Indian women, and no tourist fails to purchase at least
one, while many return to the steamer laden with them.
There is a girls' school and a boys' school; a hotel, a town hall,
several stores, a saw-mill, a system of water-works, a cannery capable
of packing twenty thousand cases of salmon in a season, a wharf, and
good warehouses and steam-vessels.
The community is governed by a council of thirty members, having a
president. There is a police force of twenty members. Taxes are levied
for public improvements, and for the maintenance of public institutions.
The land belongs to the community, from which it may be obtained by
individuals for the purpose of building homes. The cannery and the
saw-mill, which is operated by water, belong to companies in which
stock is held by Indians who receive dividends. The employees receive
regular wages.
The people seem happy and contented. They are deeply attached to Mr.
Duncan, and very proud of their model town. They have an excellent band
of twenty-one pieces, at the mere mention of which their dark faces take
on an expression of pride and pleasure, and their black eyes shine into
their questioner's eyes with intense interest; in fact, if one desires
to steady the gaze and hold the attention of a Metlakahtla Indian, he
can most readily accomplish his purpose by introducing the subject of
the village band.
It is a surprise that these Indians do not, generally, speak English
more fluently; but this is coming with the younger generations. Some of
these young men and young women have been graduated from Eastern
colleges, and have returned to take up missionary work in various parts
of Alaska. Meeting one of these young men on a steamer, I asked him if
he knew Mr. Duncan. The smile of affection and pride that went across
his face! "_I am one of his boys_," he replied, simply. This was the
Reverend Edward Marsden, who, returning from an Eastern college in 1898,
began missionary work at Saxman, near Juneau, where he has been very
successful.
Mr. Duncan is exceedingly modest and unassuming in manner and bearing,
seeming to shrink from personal attention, and to desire that his work
shall speak for itself. He is frequently called "Father," which is
exceedingly distasteful to him. Visitors seeking information are welcome
to spend a week or two at the guest-house and learn by observation and
by conversation with the people what has been accomplished in this ideal
community; but, save on rare occasions, he cannot be persuaded to dwell
upon his own work, and after he has given his reasons for this
attitude, only a person lost to all sense of decency and delicacy would
urge him to break his rule of silence.
"I am here to work, and not to talk or write about my work," he says,
kindly and cordially. "If I took the time to answer one-tenth of the
questions I am asked, verbally and by letter, I would have no time left
for my work, and my time for work is growing short. I am an old
man,"--his beautiful, intensely blue eyes smiled as he said this, and he
at once shook his white-crowned head,--"that is what they are saying of
me, but it is not true. I am young, I _feel_ young, and have many more
years of work ahead of me. Still, I must confess that I do not work so
easily, and my cares are multiplying. Some to whom I make this
explanation will not respect my wishes or understand my silence. They
press me by letter, or personally, to answer only this question or only
that. They are inconsiderate and hamper me in my work."
Possibly this is the key-note to Mr. Duncan's success. "Here is my work;
let it speak for itself." He has devoted his whole life to his work,
with no thought for the fame it may bring him. For the latter, he cares
nothing.
This is the reason that pilgrims voyage to Metlakahtla as reverently as
to a shrine. It is the noble and unselfish life-work of a man who has
not only accomplished a great purpose, but who is great in himself. When
he passes on, let him be buried simply among the Indians he has loved
and to whom he has given his whole life, and write upon his headstone:
"Let his work speak."
The settlement on Annette Island was provided for in the act of
Congress, 1891, as follows:--
"That, until otherwise provided for by law, the body of lands known as
Annette Islands, situated in Alexander Archipelago in southeastern
Alaska, on the north side of Dixon Entrance, be, and the same is hereby,
set apart as a reservation for the Metlakahtla Indians, and those
people known as Metlakahtlans, who have recently emigrated from British
Columbia to Alaska, and such other Alaskan natives as may join them, to
be held and used by them in common, under such rules and regulations,
and subject to such restrictions, as may be prescribed from time to time
by the Secretary of the Interior."
The Indians of the Community are required to sign, and to fulfil the
terms of, the following Declaration:--
"We, the people of Metlakahtla, Alaska, in order to secure to ourselves
and our posterity the blessings of a Christian home, do severally
subscribe to the following rules for the regulation of our conduct and
town affairs:--
"To reverence the Sabbath and to refrain from all unnecessary secular
work on that day; to attend divine worship; to take the Bible for our
rule of faith; to regard all true Christians as our brethren; and to be
truthful, honest, and industrious.
"To be faithful and loyal to the Government and laws of the United
States.
"To render our votes when called upon for the election of the Town
Council, and to promptly obey the by-laws and orders imposed by the said
Council.
"To attend to the education of our children and keep them at school as
regularly as possible.
"To totally abstain from all intoxicants and gambling, and never attend
heathen festivities or countenance heathenish customs in surrounding
villages.
"To strictly carry out all sanitary regulations necessary for the health
of the town.
"To identify ourselves with the progress of the settlement, and to
utilize the land we hold.
"Never to alienate, give away, or sell our land, or any portion thereof,
to any person or persons who have not subscribed to these rules."