constant heaving of the lead, to tell of the treacherous shoals which,
all up and down the length of the river, lie in wait for every passing
steamer. Constantly, day and night, week in and week out, stands a man
near the bow with a stick about ten feet long, loaded at the lower end.
To the upper end of this pole a cord is attached, which is tied to the
leadsman’s wrist, and this pole he constantly casts, once a minute on
the average, to ascertain the depth of the water. The pole is divided
into foot lengths, each painted a different color, so that he can tell
at a glance how much water there is when the leaded end strikes bottom.
When the water is deeper than his pole, he gives no warning cry, but
when it comes down to nine, eight, seven, six feet, he calls out the
depth with every cast, to the man at the wheel, and throughout half the
day and half the night we hear his monotonous sing-song: “shest” (six),
“shest polovina” (six and one-half), “pyat” (five), “pyat polovina”
(five and one-half). When the leadsman calls out “pyat,” O helmsman,
look out, for there is only five feet of water below your water-line,
and when he calls out “chiteery polovina,” ring “half-speed” down to
the engine-room, for there is only four feet and a half of water, and
the _Baron Korff_, flat bottomed as she is, draws four feet.
[Illustration: A THUNDER-STORM BY NIGHT ON THE AMOUR]
These frequent shoals add a spice of excitement to the voyage, for one
never knows when he may hear the bottom grating on the gravel, and find
the steamer laid up for an hour or a day or a week on a sand-bar.
The Amour River, like certain men, spreads itself out too thin, and
gains breadth at the expense of depth.
The cry of the leadsman reminds one of Mark Twain’s days on the
Mississippi, only they “mark dva,” and “tree,” and “chiteery,” and
“pyat,” instead of “mark twain,” and “mark three,” and four, and five.
When will the genius of the Amour come to the front? And when he comes
will he call himself “Dva” or “Pyat”?
The second and third days on the _Baron Korff_ were much like the
first--bright, beautiful, rare days in early June. The breath of
the flowers came sweet and fresh from either shore, as the steamer
swept from one side of the river to the other. No grand scenery
marked these early days of the voyage, but much that was exceedingly
beautiful, with a quiet loveliness all its own. The whole country has
a peculiarly finished and cultivated appearance for such a wild and
almost uninhabited land. Though there are few settlements and fewer
farms visible from the steamer, there is little of the tangled wildwood
of our American forests. Much of the country is open and treeless, and,
where trees abound, they grow in stately ranks, with little undergrowth
and no impenetrable thickets.
At night the helmsman steers by lights set along the shore at
advantageous points and at a distance of a few hundred yards from
each other. These lights are like kerosene street lamps, set on posts
fifteen or twenty feet high. Some of the lamps are white and others
red, and, though their light is feeble, they afford points to steer by,
and boats are able to steam day and night, except when stuck upon a
sand-bar.
A familiar sight towards evening is the lonely lamplighter in his
little Rob Roy canoe, the paddles flashing alternately on either side
in the evening sun. Often he is the only inhabitant along the shore for
miles and miles, and he must make his solitary rounds alone day after
day to fill and light his lamps, and is often obliged to scale almost
inaccessible precipices to get at them, for, wherever it is possible,
the lamps are placed upon a bluff or headland.
The voyager on the Amour has reason, indeed, to bless the lonely
lamplighter, and to say to himself, as the steamer ploughs along
through the darkness, guided by the minute points of light in the
distance: “How far the little candle throws its beams!”
VII
BETWEEN TWO GREAT NATIONS
For three days longer we continued to steam on the _Baron Korff_
between China and Russia. On the third day out from Khabaroffsk the
scenery grows more charming with every mile. The Amour here passes
through a cleft in a spur of the Khingan Mountains, which close in on
her on both the Manchurian and Siberian sides. The hills here are not
very high, perhaps not more than five hundred feet, but their sides are
often precipitous and present a sheer wall of rock to the view, through
which it forces its way with many a swirl and eddy and with tremendous
force of current, against which our good ship could make but slow
headway.
[Illustration: ON THE BANKS OF THE AMOUR]
We here remarked again the peculiar open, park-like effect of the
forests, especially on the Manchurian side. I could scarcely believe
that these trees in these far Eastern wilds had not been planted
by man, and that they did not indicate some great baronial estate,
whose castle, to be sure, was hidden behind the hills. Some beautiful
hill slopes were covered with stately white birches, without a sign
of underbrush, but with green grass forming a soft carpet beneath.
In other places trees with black boles took the place of the white
birch, but they were at such a distance that I could not determine
the species, though they looked like oaks. For miles and miles these
natural parks continued, and even where the park-like effect was not
so pronounced and beautiful, the lovely open character of the forest
continued, for nearly the whole of our fifteen hundred miles on the
Amour. The cause of this beautiful effect I do not know. Perhaps in
the severe Siberian winters only the fittest survive. The small wood,
vines, and parasites of all kinds are killed off by the cold, and
only the hardier and stronger trees remain. Whatever the cause, the
resultant parks make the banks of the Amour singularly attractive
during the brief summer.
The approach to a village was a matter of much interest, both to those
on ship and those on shore. When within a quarter of a mile the captain
would blow a tremendous blast on the whistle to summon every man,
woman, and child to the banks. They would all respond with promptness
and despatch, and come streaming down the bluff to the shore, each
woman hugging two or three bottles of milk or carrying a pail of butter
or a basket of eggs or a bowl of sour cream or a great loaf of black
bread, with a hole in the middle like a huge doughnut. Sometimes a
woman would appear holding a large goose in her arms as tenderly as
though it were a baby, the body of the goose being concealed in the
blouse that covered her ample bosom, while its long neck craned out,
exhibiting as much interest in the passing show as any one on the
shore.
The passengers on the ship would all congregate on the upper deck,
many of them with empty bottles in their hands, to exchange, with ten
kopeks added, for the full bottles on the shore. There are, of course,
no docks or piers at these villages along the Amour, and to make fast
to the shore in this swift and shallow water is a work of time and
patience. First the anchor is thrown out about a hundred yards from
the shore, and cable enough is paid out to allow the boat to drift
within twenty feet of the bank. Then a bowline is carried ashore in the
ship’s boat and made fast to a tree or a post. A stern line is treated
in the same way, and by this time the steamer is near enough for the
long gangplanks to be pulled ashore. A wooden horse is put underneath
to steady them, and then the eager passengers stream ashore, and there
is, for a time, a lively barter in milk and eggs and curd cheese and
black bread, until the market is exhausted or the passengers’ wants
satisfied.
The villages on the Amour all have a striking family resemblance, and
usually consist of one or two streets of log-houses, often chinked with
moss, one or two stores of general merchandise, and, if the village
is of any size, a handsome Greek church, and a triumphal arch to
indicate that the czarewitch, in his famous journey to the far East,
stopped there. Sometimes the arch is anything but majestic in its
proportions, a mere pitiful little affair of unpainted wood, ten feet
high, but it indicates the loyalty of the Siberians and their love for
their “Little Father” just as well as though it was a magnificent and
imposing work of art. The larger towns, like Vladivostock, Khabaroffsk,
and Blagavestchensk, all have lofty and imposing arches, blazing with
colors or shining with burnished copper, as becomes the larger and
wealthier municipalities.
[Illustration: SOME OF OUR FELLOW-TRAVELLERS. SIBERIAN EMIGRANTS ON THE
AMOUR]
Just at nightfall on the third day out we passed a Chinese village
on the Manchurian shore, called into being by some rich gold-mines in
the vicinity. It is only placer-mining that has yet been attempted,
and the quartz awaits the enterprise and the machinery of the Western
nations.
On the fourth day we passed the Chinese town of Aigun, a city of forty
thousand inhabitants, and noted, as I have before said, as the place
where the treaty was signed in 1868 which gave all eastern Siberia to
Russia.
These places, even from the steamer’s deck, mellowed and sweetened
as they were by distance, looked dirty and wretched and squalid, and
showed none of the thrift, neatness, and prosperity of the towns on the
Russian side. These were the only Chinese towns that border the Amour
for a thousand miles from Khabaroffsk. Besides them we scarcely saw
a hut or a wood-pile in Manchuria. Here are vast stretches of virgin
soil, rich and productive, millions of acres of noble forest, great
park-like estates, laid out by nature, without a single inhabitant. Yet
there are uncounted millions of Celestials huddled together in hundreds
of cities and thousands of reeking villages in China, who need this
sweet air and the wide freedom of these Manchurian fields, which for
centuries have belonged to the “Middle Kingdom.” That the Chinaman has
not occupied his own domain is the more remarkable, for he is in a way
an enterprising individual and often leaves home to seek “fresh fields
and pastures new.” He finds his home in America and Australia, in the
Sandwich Islands and Manila, in the Straits Settlement and Colombo, in
Japan and Corea--even across the Amour into Russian territory he has
wandered in large numbers, while much of his own country is still a
wilderness. I suppose the fact is that the Chinaman knows a good thing
in the way of a stable and just government when he sees it, as well
as the rest of mankind, and that he does not propose to develop a
country where he will be robbed and pillaged under the form of law, and
the fruits of his toil taken away from him as soon as they are ripe.
[Illustration: SOME OTHER FELLOW-PASSENGERS. RUSSIAN OFFICERS AND THEIR
FAMILIES]
Almost every day our steamer had to take on a fresh supply of wood,
for she had a vast appetite for birch and pine. Fortunately there was
enough to satisfy the most voracious of furnaces. When wooding-up time
came at night, it was a most picturesque sight. Two great flares would
be built of large logs on either side of the gangplank, a cord of the
best wood being piled on at one time to light up the scene. Then the
roustabouts from the steamer would tumble ashore, each with a long,
stout pole and a strap to go over his shoulders. Two roustabouts,
working in partnership, would then lay down their poles and pile the
heavy sticks upon them till they had as much as they could carry.
Then, hitching the straps over their shoulders, they would hoist their
load hip high and rush it on board. The banks down which they had to
carry the wood were often steep and slippery, and the gangplank was
long and unsteady, and there was many a slip and a spill between the
wood-pile and the steamer’s hold. But these minor accidents made the
scene all the more interesting from the passengers’ point of view. How
the roustabouts looked at the matter I cannot tell. At any rate, they
good-naturedly made the best of it, without any profanity that English
ears could understand, picked up themselves and their wood, and started
on again.
The fourth and fifth days on the Amour were cold and rainy, but we
comforted ourselves for the discomfort of the weather by remembering
that the rain would raise the river, which was exceptionally low, and
perhaps enable the _Baron Korff_ to reach Blagavestchensk.
[Illustration: A TRIUMPHAL ARCH IN HONOR OF THE CZAREWITCH’S JOURNEY
THROUGH SIBERIA]
On the afternoon of the fourth day we reached a little village, which
consisted mostly of wood-pile, and here the wait continued hour after
hour. No one knew the cause of the delay, and the Russian of none
of the foreign passengers was equal to the strain of finding out.
At last it was rumored that the _Baron Korff_ could go no farther,
and that we must wait for a boat of lighter draught to take us up to
Blagavestchensk. After several hours, two other steamers came sweeping
down the river, and brought up with a graceful curve and flourish, like
a stage-coach in the olden times, at our anchorage. They were little
boats, cramped and dirty as compared with the _Baron Korff_, and many
were the groans of the passengers that the change must be made. But low
water is no respecter of persons, and we were told that at four o’clock
in the morning we must make the transfer. At midnight, however, the
captain changed his mind and concluded to scrape through if he could,
so, getting up steam, at two o’clock he started. The critical shallows
were reached. The _Baron_ scraped and grated on the sandy bottom. A
half inch less of water and she would have been stranded, perhaps for
a day. But the captain whistled down the speaking-tube for full speed
ahead, the engineer opened the throttle-valve, the engine responded,
and, with a mighty shove and jerk, our great leviathan pushed herself
over the shallows and into the deeper water beyond. It was a “close
call,” but on the Amour, as elsewhere, an inch is as good as an ell.
About eight o’clock in the evening, precisely five days after
leaving Khabaroffsk, the beautiful spires of the great churches of
Blagavestchensk appeared in sight above the tree-tops, and, sweeping
around a bend in the river and heading due north, we were soon
alongside the bustling wharf of the metropolis of eastern Siberia. In
these five days from Khabaroffsk we had journeyed nine hundred and
eighteen versts, or about six hundred miles, having made an average of
less than five miles an hour, which is about the average rate of speed
on the Amour River when there are no extraordinary delays. Here ended
the first stage of our river journey, for now we must wait two days
and then change to a smaller steamer that can more easily scrape over
the shallows that are before us on the upper reaches of the river.
[Illustration: A MODEST TRIUMPHAL ARCH AT A LITTLE SIBERIAN VILLAGE]
VIII
A SIBERIAN CAPITAL
Blagavestchensk, a mouthful of a name for any one but a Russian, is a
surprising city to be found in the heart of the wild woods of eastern
Siberia.
Almost immediately after our departure it was besieged by the Chinese
and became well known the world around as one of the storm-centres of
the Yellow Tempest. But I must confess that my knowledge of geography
was so defective that I had scarcely heard the name of this city three
weeks before I saw it.
[Illustration: “EACH WOMAN HUGGING TWO OR THREE BOTTLES OF MILK”]
Had I been particularly conceited on this point, my geographical pride
would have received a severe blow, for here is the natural metropolis
of a vast section, as large as all New England, with New York,
Pennsylvania, and New Jersey thrown in. Here is a city of nearly 40,000
inhabitants, with wide streets, as fine blocks for its leading banks
and stores as Portland, Maine, or Portland, Oregon, could show, or any
of the smaller cities of the Union; very comfortable hotels, and at
least five really fine churches.
The glories of Blagavestchensk, moreover, are not in the past by any
means, but largely in the future, as is evidenced by the amount of
new building going on. Piles of brick, masons and hod-carriers, and
carpenters and stone-cutters, are seen everywhere, busy at their
trades, and it is evident that Blagavestchensk is preparing for the
time when the Siberian Railway will be completed from Stretinsk to
Khabaroffsk, and still further add to her importance as the chief
city on the Amour--indeed, the chief city between Lake Baikal and the
Pacific.
We did not have time, however, to make these observations on the
evening of our arrival, for before the _Baron Korff_ was made
fast it was half-past nine o’clock, and nearly dark. Having heard
of the Central Hotel, and knowing not whether it was good, bad, or
indifferent, we directed the drosky man to drive thither, which he did,
and soon set us down in front of a large brick building of imposing
dimensions. But here our troubles began. No office could be discovered.
No one seemed to be in charge. The register which hung in the front
hall--a large blackboard with the numbers of the rooms written in
chalk--indicated that every room, with one exception, was full. At
last a peasant, in Russian blouse and top-boots, appeared who seemed
to belong to the establishment; but, alas! he spoke a word of naught
but Russian. To polyglot inquiries: “Do you speak English?” “Sprechen
Sie Deutsch?” “Parlez-vous français?” he responded with a “nyet,” and a
helpless shake of the head. At length his instinct, or our bad Russian,
enabled him to understand that we wished lodgings for the night, and
he showed us to a large room with a single narrow bed, a sofa, and some
chairs.
But there were four in this particular party that sought the shelter
of the Central Hotel--two ladies, a small boy, and a man. It was
evident that all could not be accommodated in these limited quarters.
What could be done about it? All the other hotels were crowded. It
was ten o’clock at night, and we were on the sidewalk outside of this
thoroughly Russian hotel, with our baggage unloaded from the tarantass.
At this opportune moment our good genius came to our rescue in the
shape of a young Russian lieutenant who spoke French, and who insisted
on my sharing his room with him, so that the ladies and the small boy
might have the only vacant room. Moreover, he acted as translator,
asked for another bed, arranged prices, and in every possible way
became our guide, interpreter, and friend. I shared his room for two
days, and when I tried to pay for my part of it he absolutely refused,
saying, with the utmost delicacy, but with firm insistence: “I could
not think of it. You are my guest.”
Would such graceful and delicate hospitality be found in New York,
or Chicago, or London? I very much doubt it, or whether the average
American, or even the exceptional American, would have taken a
foreigner into his room, and, for a couple of days, concerned himself
for the welfare of a party of absolute strangers.
Our good angel in military clothes had recently graduated at the
Russian West Point, and had been stationed at Nikolskoie, on the
Siberian frontier. He was on his way to visit his mother at St.
Petersburg, and thence to the Paris Exposition. As I expected to travel
farther with him, I neglected to learn his name. But he was detained at
the last moment, and I shall not be able to send him my acknowledgment
of his kindness by post, and I can scarcely hope that he will read
them in this account of our travels. What I think will please him
most, however, could he but see it in print, I will record here, that
such kindness and delicate consideration I believe to be characteristic
of the great people of whom he is such a worthy representative.
[Illustration: THE LEADING HOTEL, BLAGAVESTCHENSK]
While we are still at the hotel, it may give some idea of Siberian
hostelries of the better class if I say that the rooms at the Central
were large and comfortably furnished, but there were some peculiarities
which strike a traveller as odd. A bed with a mattress upon it is
provided, but no blankets, sheets, or pillows. A common wash-room, not
over tidy, served all the guests, and such a thing as a bath-tub or
a bath-room seemed unknown. Every guest is expected to bring his own
bedding, towels, and soap. Not knowing this, we naturally asked for
sheets and blankets and pillows and towels, which, after some delay,
were brought, though only one sheet, blanket, and pillow apparently
could be raised.
What was my surprise to have a lengthy bill brought when I came to
leave, for I was conscious of having had but few “extras.” When I
inquired for a translation of the items, the waiter pointed to the
different articles ordered the night before, and then to the cabalistic
words upon the bill, and I learned that the charge was: Blanket, 25
kopeks; sheet, 20 kopeks; pillow, 30 kopeks; towel, 15 kopeks. No
wonder the bill was a long, if not a large, one. The room itself
was only two roubles and a half, or one dollar and a quarter, for a
large double room, and the _table d’hôte_ meals, which consisted of
soup, meat, dessert, and tea, cost 80 kopeks (40 cents). Breakfast
was served in our rooms, and normally consisted of tea made on the
spot in a porcelain teapot, with water boiling hot from the samovar,
very nice and refreshing, with lemon as a substitute for milk, and
bread-and-butter. We did not attempt the coffee, which is not the
national drink, and does not compare with the tea. On tea and
bread-and-butter the Russian would be sure to break his fast, though
eggs might be had by the Outlander, if he should insist upon it.
[Illustration: THE CEMETERY AT BLAGAVESTCHENSK]
It so happened that the day after our arrival at Blagavestchensk was
the emperor’s birthday, and all the city was in holiday mood. But it
seemed to take its pleasure seriously, if not sadly, as the English
are said to do. A few flags were flying, the churches were open, and
the stores were closed, and a general air of solemnity pervaded the
town. The great German store of Kunst & Albers was religiously closed
in front and the curtains drawn, but I was told that it had a back
door, like the saloons in Maine. As my conscience did not compel me to
observe the emperor’s birthday sacredly, I sought the side entrance,
where I made some necessary purchases.
I may mention for the benefit of future travellers that many of the
necessaries of life cost about the same in eastern Siberia as in
New York--linen collars two dollars a dozen, cuffs twice that sum,
shirts, underclothing, and other dry goods in like proportion. Two
of the stores in Blagavestchensk, Kunst & Albers and a Russian store
nearly opposite, are really palatial in proportions and equipment. The
department store has blossomed out in full proportions in Siberia, and
it is far more surprising to find such a store as I have mentioned in
Blagavestchensk than to find Wanamaker’s, in Philadelphia, or Jordan &
Marsh, in Boston.
Here you find books and bric-à-brac, pipes and pickles, flowers and
flat-irons, oil and oysters, waistcoats and watches, indigo and
icons. Here were attentive clerks and cash-boys (Chinese cash-boys,
by-the-way), cashier girls in their little elevated desks, receiving
the money, and all the conveniences and appliances of the great modern
establishments.
[Illustration: ONE OF BLAGAVESTCHENSK’S BEAUTIFUL CHURCHES]
But the chief interest in Blagavestchensk centred in the churches on
the day of our visit, especially in the blue and green military church.
Here a high mass was held in honor of the emperor. The church was
crowded with soldiers and peasants, and all were most devout and
earnest. Old peasants would come in, and, though there was scarcely
standing room, would spread down their bandannas, and, kneeling on
them, would touch their grizzled forelocks to the floor, and then
rise and join heartily in the service. This was conducted chiefly
by a priest in beautiful robes of cloth of gold, whose magnificent
bass voice chanted the service as I never heard it rendered before.
A sweet-voiced choir of boys answered the priest, and the whole
congregation joined reverentially, but in stentorian tones, in part
of the service. Behind the altar and facing the officiating priest,
whose back was to the audience, stood a figure clad, apparently, in
pure gold, and with a golden mitre upon its head. Whether man or image
I could not at first make out. But it stood so immovable, and was
apparently so solidly built of gold, that I concluded it was an image,
a huge icon, which did duty in the soldiers’ church. I thought that I
detected the image solemnly winking, but the moment after I concluded
that I was the victim of an optical illusion. Nothing so stately,
solemn, and immovable could wink. It was almost sacrilegious to think
of such a thing. But when I had fully made up my mind to the icon
theory, the golden image stepped from behind the altar, and, coming to
the front, an attendant took off his heavy mitre, and in a deep, rich
voice, he intoned the part of the service that fell to his share.