CUT OFF BY STORM--STARVATION THREATENED--RACE WITH A RISING TIDE--TWO
DAYS WITHOUT FOOD--RETURN TO LESNOI
Early Saturday morning we moved on to the mouth of the valley, pitched
our tent in a position to command a view of the approaches to the
Samanka River, ballasted its edges with stones to keep the wind from
blowing it down, and prepared to wait two days, according to orders,
for the whale-boat. The storm still continued, and the heavy sea,
which dashed sullenly all day against the black rocks under our tent,
convinced me that nothing could be expected from the other party. I
only hoped that they had succeeded in getting safely landed somewhere
before the storm began. Caught by a gale under the frowning wall of
rock which stretched for miles along the coast, the whale-boat, I
knew, must either swamp with all on board, or be dashed to pieces
against the cliffs. In either case not a soul could escape to tell the
story.
That night Viushin astonished and almost disheartened me with the news
that we were eating the last of our provisions. There was no more
meat, and the hardbread which remained was only a handful of
water-soaked crumbs. He and all the Kamchadals, confidently expecting
to meet the whale-boat at the Samanka River, had taken only three
days' food. He had said nothing about it until the last moment, hoping
that the whale-boat would arrive or something turn up; but it could no
longer be concealed. We were three days' journey from any settlement,
and without food. How we were to get back to Lesnoi I did not know,
as the mountains were probably impassable now, on account of the snow
which had fallen since we crossed, and the weather did not permit us
to indulge a hope that the whale-boat would ever come. Much as we
dreaded it, there was nothing to be done but to attempt another
passage of the mountain range, and that without a moment's delay.
I had been ordered to wait for the whale-boat two days; but
circumstances, I thought, justified a disobedience of orders, and I
directed the Kamchadals to be ready to start for Lesnoi early the next
morning. Then, writing a note to the Major, and enclosing it in a tin
can, to be left on the site of our camp, I crawled into my fur bag to
sleep and get strength for another struggle with the mountains.
The following morning was cold and stormy, and the snow was still
falling in the mountains, and heavy rain in the valley. We broke camp
at daylight, saddled our horses, distributed what little baggage we
had among them, as equally as possible, and made every preparation for
deep snow and hard climbing.
Our guide, after a short consultation with his comrades, now came to
me and proposed that we abandon our plan of crossing the mountains as
wholly impracticable, and try instead to make our way along the narrow
strip of beach which the ebbing tide would leave bare at the foot
of the cliffs. This plan, he contended, was no more dangerous than
attempting to cross the mountains, and was much more certain of
success, as there were only a few points where at low water a horse
could not pass with dry feet. It was not more than thirty miles to
a ravine on the south side of the mountain range, through which we
could, leave the beach and regain our old trail at a point within one
hard day's ride of Lesnoi. The only danger was in being caught by high
water before we could reach this ravine, and even then we might save
ourselves by climbing up on the rocks, and abandoning our horses to
their fate. It would be no worse for them than starving and freezing
to death in the mountains. Divested of its verbal plausibility, his
plan was nothing more nor less than a grand thirty-mile race with a
high tide along a narrow beach, from which all escape was cut off by
precipitous cliffs one and two hundred feet in height. If we reached
the ravine in time, all would be well; but if not, our beach would be
covered ten feet deep with water, and our horses, if not ourselves,
would be swept away like corks. There was a recklessness and dash
about this proposal which made it very attractive when compared with
wading laboriously through snow-drifts, in frozen clothes, without
anything to eat, and I gladly agreed to it, and credited our guide
with more sense and spirit than I had ever before seen exhibited by a
Kamchadal. The tide was now only beginning to ebb, and we had three or
four hours to spare before it would be low enough to start. This
time the Kamchadals improved by catching one of the dogs which had
accompanied us from Lesnoi, killing him in a cold-blooded way with
their long knives, and offering his lean body as a sacrifice to the
Evil Spirit, in whose jurisdiction these infernal mountains were
supposed to be. The poor animal was cut open, his entrails taken out
and thrown to the four corners of the earth, and his body suspended
by the neck from the top of a long pole set perpendicularly in the
ground. The Evil Spirit's wrath, however, seemed implacable, for it
stormed worse after the performance of these propitiatory rites than
it did before. This did not weaken at all the faith of the Kamchadals
in the efficacy of their atonement. If the storm did not abate, it
was only because an unbelieving American with a diabolical brass box
called a "come-_pass'_" had insisted upon crossing the mountains in
defiance of the _genius loci_ and all his tempestuous warnings. One
dead dog was no compensation at all for such a sacrilegious violation
of the Evil Spirit's clearly expressed wishes! The sacrifice, however,
seemed to relieve the natives' anxiety about their own safety; and,
much as I pitied the poor dog thus ruthlessly slaughtered, I was glad
to see the manifest improvement which it worked in the spirits of my
superstitious comrades.
About ten o'clock, as nearly as I could estimate the time without a
watch, our guide examined the beach and said we must be off; we would
have between four and five hours to reach the ravine. We mounted
in hot haste, and set out at a swinging gallop along the beach,
overshadowed by tremendous black cliffs on one side, and sprinkled
with salt spray from the breakers on the other. Great masses of green,
slimy seaweed, shells, water-soaked driftwood, and thousands of
medusas, which had been thrown up by the storm, lay strewn in piles
along the beach; but we dashed through and over them at a mad gallop,
never drawing rein for an instant except to pick our way among
enormous masses of rock, which in some places had caved away from
the summit of the cliff and blocked up the beach with grey
barnacle-encrusted fragments as large as freight-cars.
We had got over the first eighteen miles in splendid style, when
Viushin, who was riding in advance, stopped suddenly, with an
abruptness which nearly threw him over his horse's head, and raised
the familiar cry of "Medveidi! medveidi! dva." Bears they certainly
seemed to be, making their way along the beach a quarter of a mile or
so ahead; but how bears came in that desperate situation, where they
must inevitably be drowned in the course of two or three hours, we
could not conjecture. It made little difference to us, however,
for the bears were there and we must pass. It was a clear case of
breakfast for one party or the other. There could be no dodging or
getting around, for the cliffs and the sea left us a narrow road.
I slipped a fresh cartridge into my rifle and a dozen more into my
pocket; Viushin dropped a couple of balls into his double-barrelled
fowling-piece, and we crept forward behind the rocks to get a shot at
them, if possible, before we should be seen. We were almost within
rifle range when Viushin suddenly straightened up with a loud laugh,
and cried out, "Liudi"--"They are people." Coming out from behind the
rocks, I saw clearly that they were. But how came people there? Two
natives, dressed in fur coats and trousers, approached us with violent
gesticulations, shouting to us in Russian not to shoot, and holding
up something white, like a flag of truce. As soon as they came near
enough one of them handed me a wet, dirty piece of paper, with a
low bow, and I recognised him as a Kamchadal from Lesnoi. They were
messengers from the Major! Thanking God in my heart that the other
party was safe, I tore open the note and read hastily:
Sea Shore, 15 versts from Lesnoi, October 4th. Driven ashore here by
the storm. Hurry back as fast as possible.
S. Abaza.
The Kamchadal messengers had left Lesnoi only one day behind us, but
had been detained by the storm and bad roads, and had only reached on
the previous night our second camp. Finding it impossible to cross the
mountains on account of the snow, they had abandoned their horses,
and were trying to reach the Samanka River on foot by way of the sea
beach. They did not expect to do it in one tide but intended to take
refuge on high rocks during the flood, and resume their journey as
soon as the beach should be left bare by the receding water. There was
no time for any more explanations. The tide was running in rapidly,
and we must make twelve miles in a little over an hour, or lose our
horses. We mounted the tired, wet Kamchadals on two of our spare
animals, and were off again at a gallop. The situation grew more
and more exciting as we approached the ravine. At the end of every
projecting bluff the water was higher and higher, and in several
places it had already touched with foam and spray the foot of the
cliffs. In twenty minutes more the beach would be impassable. Our
horses held out nobly, and the ravine was only a short distance
ahead--only one more projecting bluff intervened. Against this the sea
was already beginning to break, but we galloped past through several
feet of water, and in five minutes drew rein at the mouth of the
ravine. It had been a hard ride, but we had won the race with a clear
ten minutes to spare, and were now on the southern side of the snowy
mountain range, less than sixty miles from Lesnoi. Had it not been
for our guide's good sense and boldness we should still have been
floundering through the snow, and losing our way among the bewildering
peaks, ten miles south of the Samanka River. The ravine up which
our road lay was badly choked with massive rocks, patches of
trailing-pine, and dense thickets of alder, and it cost us two hours'
more hard work to cut a trail through it with axes.
Before dark, however, we had reached the site of our second day's
camp, and about midnight we arrived at the ruined _yurt_ where we had
eaten lunch five days before. Exhausted by fourteen hours' riding
without rest or food, we could go no farther. I had hoped to get
something to eat from the Kamchadal messengers from Lesnoi, but was
disappointed to find that their provisions had been exhausted the
previous day. Viushin scraped a small handful of dirty crumbs out of
our empty bread-bag, fried them in a little blubber, which I suppose
he had brought to grease his gun with, and offered them to me; but,
hungry as I was, I could not eat the dark, greasy mass, and he divided
it by mouthfuls among the Kamchadals.
The second day's ride without food was a severe trial of my strength,
and I began to be tormented by a severe gnawing, burning pain in
my stomach. I tried to quiet it by eating seeds from the cones of
trailing-pine and drinking large quantities of water; but this
afforded no relief, and I became so faint toward evening that I could
hardly sit in my saddle.
About two hours after dark we heard the howling of dogs from Lesnoi,
and twenty minutes later we rode into the settlement, dashed up to the
little log house of the _starosta_, and burst in upon the Major and
Dodd as they sat at supper. Our long ride was over.
Thus ended our unsuccessful expedition to the Samanka Mountains--the
hardest journey I ever experienced in Kamchatka.
Two days afterward, the anxiety and suffering which the Major had
endured in a five days' camp on the sea beach during the storm,
brought on a severe attack of rheumatic fever, and all thoughts of
farther progress were for the present abandoned. Nearly all the horses
in the village were more or less disabled, our Samanka mountain guide
was blind from inflammatory erysipelas brought on by exposure to five
days of storm, and half my party were unfit for duty. Under such
circumstances, another attempt to cross the mountains before winter
was impossible. Dodd and the Cossack Meranef (mer-ah'-nef) were sent
back to Tigil after a physician and a new supply of provisions, while
Viushin and I remained at Lesnoi to take care of the Major.
[Illustration: Stone Lamps]