know that we were coming off to the bark that night, and would not think of looking out for us; and so far as I could discover, there was not a ray of hope for us in any direction.
How long we drifted out in black darkness, and in that tumbling, threatening, foam-crested sea, I do not know. It seemed to me many hours. I had a letter in my pocket which I had written the day before to my mother, and which I had intended to send down to San Francisco with the bark. In it I assured her that she need not feel any further anxiety about my safety, because the Russian-American telegraph line had been abandoned. I was to be landed by the _Onward_ at Okhotsk; I was coming home by way of St. Petersburg over a good post-road; and I should not be exposed to any more dangers. As I sat there in the dismasted sloop, shivering with cold and drifting out to sea before a howling arctic gale, I remembered this letter, and wondered what my poor mother would think if she could read its contents and at the same time see in a mental vision the situation of the writer.
So far as I can remember, there was very little talking among the men during these long, dark hours of suspense. None of us, I think, had any hope; it was hard to make one’s voice heard above the roaring of the wind; and we all sat or cowered in the bottom of the boat, waiting for an end which could not be very far away. Now and then a heavy sea would break over us, and we would all begin bailing again with our hats; but aside from this there was nothing to be done. It did not seem to me probable that the half-wrecked sloop would live more than three or four hours. The gale was constantly rising, and every few minutes we were lashed with stinging whips of icy spray, as a fierce squall struck the water to windward, scooped off the crests of the waves, and swept them horizontally in dense white clouds across the boat.
It must have been about nine o’clock when somebody in the bow shouted excitedly, “I see a light!”
“Where away?” I cried, half rising from the bottom of the boat in the stern-sheets.
“Three or four points off the port bow,” the voice replied.
“Are you sure?” I demanded.
“I’m not quite sure, but I saw the twinkle of something away over on the Matuga Island side. It’s gone now,” the voice added, after a moment’s pause; “but I saw something.”
We all looked eagerly and anxiously in the direction indicated; but strain our vision as we might, we could not see the faintest gleam or twinkle in the impenetrable darkness to leeward. If there was a light visible, in that or in any other direction, it could only be the anchor-light of the _Onward_, because both coasts of the gulf were uninhabited; but it seemed to me probable that the man had been deceived by a sparkle of phosphorescence or the gleam of a white foam-crest.
For fully five minutes no one spoke, but all stared into the thick gloom ahead. Then, suddenly, the same voice cried aloud in a tone of still greater excitement, assurance, and certainty, “There it is again! I knew I saw it! It’s a ship’s light!”
In another moment I caught sight of it myself–a faint, distant, intermittent twinkle on the horizon nearly dead ahead.
“It’s the anchor-light of the _Onward_!” I shouted in fierce excitement. “Spread the corner of the mainsail a little more if you can, boys, so as to give her better steerage-way. We’ve got to make that ship! Hold her steady on the light, Heck, even if you have to put her in the trough of the sea. We might as well founder as drift past!”
The men forward caught up the loose edges of the mainsail and extended it as widely as possible to the gale, clinging to the thwarts and the stump of the mast to avoid being jerked overboard by the bellying canvas. Heck brought the sloop’s head around so that the light was under our bow, and on we staggered through the dark, storm-lashed turmoil of waters, shipping a sea now and then, but half sailing, half drifting toward the anchored bark. The wind came in such fierce gusts and squalls that one could hardly say from what quarter it was blowing; but, as nearly as I could judge in the thick darkness, it had shifted three or four points to the westward. If such were the case, we had a fair chance of making the ship, which lay nearer the eastern than the western coast of the gulf.
“Don’t let her head fall off any, Heck,” I cried. “Jam her over to the eastward as much as you can, even if the sea comes into her. We can keep her clear with our hats. If we drift past we’re gone!”
As we approached the bark the light grew rapidly brighter: but I did not realise how near we were until the lantern, which was hanging in the ship’s fore-rigging, swung for an instant behind the jib-stay, and the vessel’s illuminated cordage suddenly came out in delicate tracery against the black sky, less than a hundred yards away.
“There she is!” shouted Sandford. “We’re close on her!”
The bark was pitching furiously to her anchors, and as we drifted rapidly down upon her we could hear the hoarse roar of the gale through her rigging, and see a pale gleam of foam as the sea broke in sheets of spray against her bluff bows.
“Shall I try to round to abreast of her?” cried Heck to me, “or shall I go bang down on her?”
“Don’t take any chances,” I shouted. “Better strike her, and go to pieces alongside, than miss her and drift past. Make ready now to hail her–all together–one,–two,–three! Bark aho-o-y! Stand by to throw us a line!”
But no sound came from the huge black shadow under the pitching lantern save the deep bass roar of the storm through the cordage.
We gave one more fierce, inarticulate cry as the dark outline of the bark rose on a sea high above our heads; and then, with a staggering shock and a great crash, the boat struck the ship’s bow.
What happened in the next minute I hardly know. I have a confused recollection of being thrown violently across a thwart in a white smother of foam; of struggling to my feet and clutching frantically at a wet, black wall, and of hearing some one shout in a wild, despairing voice: “Watch ahoy! We’re sinking! For God’s sake throw us a line!”–but that is all.
The water-logged sloop seesawed up and down past the bark’s side, one moment rising on a huge comber until I could almost grasp the rail, and the next sinking into a deep hollow between the surges, far below the line of the copper sheathing. We tore the ends of our finger-nails off against the ship’s side in trying to stop the boat’s drift, and shouted despairingly again and again for help and a line; but our voices were drowned in the roar of the gale, there was no response, and the next sea carried us under the bark’s counter. I made one last clutch at the smooth, wet planks; and then, as we drifted astern past the ship, I abandoned hope.
The sloop was sinking rapidly,–I was already standing up to my knees in water,–and in thirty seconds more we should be out of sight of the bark, in the dark, tumbling sea to leeward, with no more chance of rescue than if we were drowning in mid-Atlantic. Suddenly a dark figure in the boat beside me,–I learned afterward that it was Bowsher,–tore off his coat and waistcoat and made a bold leap into the sea to windward. He knew that it was certain death to drift out of sight of the bark in that sinking sloop, and he hoped to be able to swim alongside until he should be picked up. I myself had not thought of this before, but I saw instantly that it offered a forlorn hope of escape, and I was just poised in the act of following his example when on the quarter-deck of the bark, already twenty feet away, a white ghost-like figure appeared with uplifted arm, and a hoarse voice shouted, “Stand by to catch a line!”
It was the _Onward’s_ second mate. He had heard our cries in his state-room as we drifted under the ship’s counter, and had instantly sprung from his berth and rushed on deck in his night-shirt.
By the dim light of the binnacle I could just see the coil of rope unwind as it left his hand; but I could not see where it fell; I knew that there would be no time for another throw; and it seemed to me that my heart did not beat again until I heard from the bow of the sloop a cheery shout of “All right! I’ve got the line! Slack off till I make it fast!”
In thirty seconds more we were safe. The second mate roused the watch, who had apparently taken refuge in the forecastle from the storm; the sloop was hauled up under the bark’s stern; a second line was thrown to Bowsher, and one by one we were hoisted, in a sort of improvised breeches-buoy, to the _Onward’s_ quarterdeck. As I came aboard, coatless, hatless, and shivering from cold and excitement, the captain stared at me in amazement for a moment, and then exclaimed: “Good God! Mr. Kennan, is that you? What possessed you to come off to the ship such a night as this?”
“Well, Captain,” I replied, trying to force a smile, “it didn’t blow in this way when we started; and we had an accident–carried our mast away.”
“But,” he remonstrated, “it has been blowing great guns ever since dark. We’ve got two anchors down, and we’ve been dragging them both. I finally had them buoyed, and told the mate that if they dragged again we’d slip the cables and run out to sea. You might not have found us here at all, and then where would you have been?”
“Probably at the bottom of the gulf,” I replied. “I haven’t expected anything else for the last three hours.”
The ill-fated sloop from which we made this narrow escape was so crushed in her collision with the bark that the sea battered her to pieces in the course of the night, and when I went on deck the next morning, a few ribs and shattered planks, floating awash at the end of the line astern, were all of her that remained.
[Illustration: War and Hunting Knives. Snowbeaters used for beating snow from the clothing.]
CHAPTER XXXIX
START FOR ST. PETERSBURG ROUTE TO YAKUTSK–A TUNGUSE ENCAMPMENT– CROSSING THE STANAVOI MOUNTAINS–SEVERE COLD–FIRE-LIGHTED SMOKE PILLARS–ARRIVAL IN YAKUTSK
When we reached Okhotsk, about the middle of September, I found a letter from Major Abaza, brought by special courier from Yakutsk, directing me to come to St. Petersburg by the first winter road. The _Onward_ sailed for San Francisco at once, carrying back to home and civilisation all of our employees except four, viz., Price, Schwartz, Malchanski, and myself. Price intended to accompany me to St. Petersburg, while Schwartz and Malchanski, who were Russians, decided to go with us as far as Irkutsk, the east-Siberian capital.
Snow fell in sufficient quantities to make good sledging about the 8th of October; but the rivers did not freeze over so that they could be crossed until two weeks later. On the 21st of the month, Schwartz and Malchanski started with three or four light dog-sledges to break a road through the deep, freshly fallen snow, in the direction of the Stanavoi Mountains, and on the 24th Price and I followed with the heavier baggage and provisions. The whole population of the village turned out to see us off. The long-haired priest, with his cassock flapping about his legs in the keen wind of a wintry morning, stood bareheaded in the street and gave us his farewell blessing; the women, whose hearts we had made glad with American baking-powder and telegraph teacups, waved bright-coloured handkerchiefs to us from their open doors; cries of “Good-bye!” “God grant you a fortunate journey!” came to us from the group of fur-clad men who surrounded our sledges; and the air trembled with the incessant howls of a hundred wolfish dogs, as they strained impatiently against their broad sealskin collars.
“Ai! Maxim!” shouted the ispravnik to our leading driver, “are you all ready?”
“All ready,” was the reply.
“Well, then, go, with God!” and, amid a chorus of good wishes and good-byes from the crowd, the spiked sticks which held our sledges were removed; the howls instantly ceased as the dogs sprang eagerly into their collars, and the group of fur-clad men, the green, bulbous church domes, and the grey, unpainted log houses of the dreariest village in all Siberia vanished behind us forever in a cloud of powdery snow.
The so-called “post-road” from Kamchatka to St. Petersburg, which skirts the Okhotsk Sea for more than a thousand miles, passes through the village of Okhotsk, and then, turning away from the coast, ascends one of the small rivers that rise in the Stanavoi Mountains; crosses that range at a height of four or five thousand feet; and finally descends into the great valley of the Lena. It must not be supposed, however, that this “post-road” resembles anything that we know by that name. The word “road,” in north-eastern Siberia, is only a verbal symbol standing for an abstraction. The thing symbolised has no more real, tangible existence than a meridian of longitude. It is simply lineal extension in a certain direction. The country back of Okhotsk, for a distance of six hundred miles, is an unbroken wilderness of mountains and evergreen forests, sparsely inhabited by Wandering Tunguses, with here and there a few hardy Yakut squirrel hunters. Through this wilderness there is not even a trail, and the so-called “road” is only a certain route which is taken by the government postilion who carries the yearly mail to and from Kamchatka. The traveller who starts from the Okhotsk Sea with the intention of going across Asia by way of Yakutsk and Irkutsk must make up his mind to be independent of roads;–at least for the first fifteen hundred miles. The mountain passes, the great rivers, and the post-stations, will determine his general course; but the wilderness through which he must make his way has never been subdued by the axe and spade of civilisation. It is now, as it always has been, a wild, primeval land of snowy mountains, desolate steppes, and shaggy pine forests, through which the great arctic rivers and their tributaries have marked out the only lines of intercommunication.
The worst and most difficult part of the post-route between Okhotsk and Yakutsk, viz., the mountainous part, is maintained by a half-wild tribe of arctic nomads known to the Russians as Tunguses. Living originally, as they did, in skin tents, moving constantly from place to place, and earning a scanty subsistence by breeding reindeer, they were easily persuaded by the Russian Government to encamp permanently along the route, and furnish reindeer and sledges for the transportation of couriers and the imperial mails, together with such travellers as should be provided with government orders, or “podorozhnayas.” In return for this service they were exempted from the annual tax levied by Russia upon her other Siberian subjects; were supplied with a certain yearly allowance of tea and tobacco; and were authorised to collect from the travellers whom they carried a fare to be computed at the rate of about two and a half cents per mile for every reindeer furnished. Between Okhotsk and Yakutsk, along the line of this post-route, there are seven or eight Tunguse encampments, which vary a little in location, from season to season, with the shifting areas of available pasturage, but which are kept as nearly as possible equidistant from one another in a direct line across the Stanavoi range.
We hoped to make the first post-station on the third day after our departure; but the soft freshly fallen snow so retarded our progress that it was nearly dark on the fourth day before we caught sight of the little group of Tunguse tents where we were to exchange our dogs for reindeer. If there be, in “all the white world,” as the Russians say, anything more hopelessly dreary than one of the Tunguse mountain settlements in winter, I have never seen it. Away up above the forests, on some elevated plateau, or desolate, storm-swept height, where nothing but berry bushes and arctic moss will grow, stand the four or five small, grey reindeerskin tents which make up the nomad encampment. There are no trees or shrubs around them to shut out a part of the sky, limit the horizon, or afford the least semblance of shelter to the lonely settlement, and there is no wall or palisade to fence in and domesticate for finite purposes a little corner of the infinite. The grey tents seem to stand alone in the great universe of God, with never-ending space and unbounded desolation stretching away from their very doors. Take your stand near such an encampment and look at it more closely. The surface of the snowy plain around you, as far as you can see, has been trampled and torn up by reindeer in search of moss. Here and there between the tents stand the large sledges upon which the Tunguses load their camp-equipage when they move, and in front is a long, low wall, made of symmetrically piled reindeer packs and saddles. A few driving deer wander around, with their noses to the ground, looking for something that they never seem to find; evil-looking ravens–the scavengers of Tunguse encampments–flap heavily past with hoarse croaks to a patch of blood-stained snow where a reindeer has recently been slaughtered; and in the foreground, two or three grey, wolfish dogs with cruel, light-coloured eyes, are gnawing at a half-stripped reindeer’s head. The thermometer stands at forty-five degrees below zero, Fahrenheit, and the breasts of deer, ravens, and dogs are white with frost. The thin smoke from the conical fur tents rises perpendicularly to a great height in the clear, still air; the ghostly mountain peaks in the distance look like white silhouettes on a background of dark steel-blue; and the desolate snow-covered landscape is faintly tinged with a yellow glare by the low-hanging wintry sun. Every detail of the scene is strange, wild, arctic,–even to the fur-clad, frost-whitened men who come riding up to the tents astride the shoulders of panting reindeer and salute you with a drawling “Zdar-o-o-va!” as they put one end of their balancing poles to the ground and spring from their flat, stirrupless saddles. You can hardly realise that you are in the same active, bustling, money-getting world in which you remember once to have lived. The cold, still atmosphere, the white, barren mountains, and the great lonely wilderness around you are all full of cheerless, depressing suggestions, and have a strange unearthliness which you cannot reconcile or connect with any part of your pre-Siberian life.
At the first Tunguse encampment we took a rest of twenty-four hours, and then, exchanging our dogs for reindeer, we bade good-bye to our Okhotsk drivers and, under the guidance of half a dozen bronze-faced Tunguses in spotted reindeerskin coats, pushed westward, through snow-choked mountain ravines, toward the river Aldan. Our progress, for the first two weeks, was slow and fatiguing and attended with difficulties and hardships of almost every possible kind. The Tunguse encampments were sometimes three or four days’ journey apart; the cold, as we ascended the Stanavoi range, steadily increased in intensity until it became so severe as to endanger life, and day after day we plodded wearily on snowshoes ahead of our heavily loaded sledges, breaking a road in three feet of soft snow for our struggling, frost-whitened deer. We made, on an average, about thirty miles a day; but our deer often came in at night completely exhausted, and the sharp ivory goads of our Tunguse drivers were red with frozen blood. Sometimes we bivouacked at night in a wild mountain gorge and lighted up the snow-laden forest with the red glare of a mighty camp-fire; sometimes we shovelled the drifted snow out of one of the empty _yurts_, or earth-covered cabins, built by the government along the route to shelter its postilions, and took refuge therein from a howling blizzard. Hardened as we were by two previous winters of arctic travel, and accustomed as we were to all the vicissitudes of northern life, the crossing of the Stanavoi range tried our powers of endurance to the uttermost. For four successive days, near the summit of the pass on the western slope, mercury froze at noon. [Footnote: We had only a mercurial thermometer, so that we did not know how much below -39 deg. the temperature was.] The faintest breath of air seared the face like a hot iron; beards became tangled masses of frosty wire; eyelids grew heavy with long snowy fringes which half obscured the sight; and only the most vigorous exercise would force the blood back into the benumbed extremities from which it was constantly being driven by the iron grasp of the cold. Schwartz, the oldest member of our party, was brought into a Tunguse encampment one night in a state of unconsciousness that would soon have ended in death, and even our hardy native drivers came in with badly frozen hands and faces. The temperature alone would have been sufficient evidence, if evidence were needed, that we were entering the coldest region on the globe–the Siberian province of Yakutsk. [Footnote: In some parts of this province the freezing point of mercury, or about forty degrees below zero Fahrenheit, is the average temperature of the three winter months, and eighty-five degrees below zero have sometimes been observed.]
In a monotonous routine of walking on snowshoes, riding on reindeer-sledges, camping in the open, or sleeping in smoky Tunguse tents, day after day and week after week passed, until at last we approached the valley of the Aldan–one of the eastern tributaries of that great arctic river the Lena. Climbing the last outlying ridge of the Stanavoi range, one dark, moonless evening in November, we found ourselves at the head of a wild ravine leading downward into an extensive open plain. Away below and in front, outlined against the intense blackness of the hills beyond the valley, rose four or five columns of luminous mist, like pillars of fire in the wilderness of the Exodus.
“What are those?” I inquired of my Tunguse driver.
“Yakut,” was the brief reply.
They were columns of smoke, sixty or seventy feet in height, over the chimneys of Yakut farmhouses; and they stood so vertically in the cold, motionless air of the arctic night that they were lighted up, to their very summits, by the hearth-fires underneath. As I stood looking at them, there came faintly to my ears the far-away lowing of cattle. “Thank God!” I said to Malchanski, who at that moment rode up, “we are getting, at last, where they live in houses and keep cows!” No one can fully understand the pleasure that these columns of fire-lighted smoke gave us until he has ridden on dog- or reindeer-sledges, or walked on snowshoes, for twenty interminable days, through an arctic wilderness. It seemed to me a year since our departure from Okhotsk; for weeks we had not taken off our heavy armour of furs; mirrors, beds and clean linen were traditions of the remote past; and American civilisation, as we looked back at it across twenty-seven months of barbarism, faded into the unreal imagery of a dream. But the pillars of fire-lighted smoke and the lowing of domestic cattle were a promise of better things.
In less than two hours, we were sitting before the glowing fireplace of a comfortable Yakut house, with a soft carpet under our feet; real crockery cups of fragrant Kiakhta tea on a table beside us, and pictures on the wall over our heads. The house, it is true, had slabs of ice for windows; the carpet was made of deerskins; and the pictures were only woodcuts from _Harper’s Weekly_ and _Frank Leslie’s_; but to us, fresh from the smoky tents of the Tunguses, windows, carpets, and pictures, of any kind, were things to be wondered at and admired.
Between the Yakut settlements on the Aldan and the town of Yakutsk, there was a good post-road–really a road; so, harnessing shaggy white Yakut ponies to our Okhotsk dog-sledges, we drove swiftly westward, to the unfamiliar music of Russian sleigh-bells, changing horses at every post-station and riding from fifteen to eighteen hours out of the twenty-four.
On the 16th of November, after twenty-three days of continuous travel, we reached Yakutsk; and there, in the house of a wealthy Russian merchant who threw his doors open to us with warm-hearted hospitality, we washed from our bodies the smoke and grime of Tunguse tents and _yurts_; put on clean, fresh clothes; ate a well cooked and daintily served supper; drank five tumblers of fragrant overland tea; smoked two Manila cheroots; and finally went to bed, excited but happy, in beds that were provided with hair mattresses, fleecy Russian blankets, and linen sheets. The sensation of lying without furs and between sheets in a civilised bed was so novel and extraordinary that I lay awake for an hour, trying experiments with that wonderful mattress and luxuriously exploring, with bare feet, the smooth cool expanses of linen sheeting.
[Illustration: Travelling Bag made of Reindeer skin]
CHAPTER XL
THE GREATEST HORSE-EXPRESS SERVICE IN THE WORLD–EQUIPMENT FOR THE ROAD–A SIBERIAN “SEND-OFF”–POST TRAVEL ON THE ICE–BROKEN SLEEP–DRIVING INTO AN AIR-HOLE–REPAIRING DAMAGES–FIRST SIGHT OF IRKUTSK
We remained in Yakutsk only four days–just long enough to make the necessary preparations for a continuous sleigh-ride of five thousand one hundred and fourteen miles to the nearest railway in European Russia. The Imperial Russian Post, by which we purposed to travel from Yakutsk to Nizhni Novgorod, was, at that time, the longest and best organised horse-express service in the world. It employed 3000 or 4000 drivers, with twice as many _telegas, tarantases_ and sleighs, and kept in readiness for instant use more than 10,000 horses, distributed among 350 post-stations, along a route that covered a distance as great as that between New York City and the Sandwich Islands. If one had the requisite physical endurance, and could travel night and day without stop, it was possible, with a courier’s “podorozhnaya” (po-do-rozh’-na-yah), or road-ticket, to go from Yakutsk to Nizhni Novgorod, a distance of 5114 miles, in twenty-five days, or only eleven days more than the time occupied by a railway train in covering about the same distance. Before the establishment of telegraphic communication between China and Russia, imperial couriers, carrying important despatches from Peking, often made the distance between Irkutsk and St. Petersburg–3618 miles–in sixteen days, with two hundred and twelve changes of horses and drivers. In order to accomplish this feat they had to eat, drink, and sleep in their sleighs and make an average speed-rate of ten miles an hour for nearly four hundred consecutive hours. We did not expect, of course, to travel with such rapidity as this; but we intended to ride night and day, and hoped to reach St. Petersburg before the end of the year. With the aid and advice of Baron Maidel, a Russian scientist who had just come over the route that we purposed to follow, Price and I bought a large open _pavoska_ or Siberian travelling sleigh, which looked like a huge, burlap-covered baby-carriage on runners; had it brought into the courtyard of our house, and proceeded to fit it up for six weeks’ occupancy as a bedchamber and sitting-room. First of all, we repacked our luggage in soft, flat, leather pouches, and stowed it away in the bottom of the deep and capacious vehicle as a foundation for our bed. We then covered these flat pouches with a two-foot layer of fragrant hay, to lessen the shock of jolting on a rough road; spread over the hay a big wolfskin sleeping-sack, about seven feet in length and wide enough to hold our two bodies; covered that with two pairs of blankets; and finally lined the whole back part of the sleigh with large, soft, swan’s-down pillows. At the foot of the sleeping-sack, under the driver’s seat, we stowed away a bag of dried rye-bread, another bag filled with cakes of frozen soup, two or three pounds of tea, a conical loaf of white sugar, half a dozen dried and smoked salmon, and a padded box containing teapot, tea-cannister, sugar-jar, spoons, knives and forks, and two glass tumblers. Schwartz; and Malchanski bought another _pavoska_ and fitted it up in similar fashion, and on the 19th of November we obtained from the Bureau of Posts two _podorozhnayas_, or, as Price called them, “ukases,” directing every post-station master between Yakutsk and Irkutsk to furnish us, “by order of his Imperial Majesty Alexander Nikolaivitch, Autocrat of All the Russias,” etc., etc., six horses and two drivers to carry us on our way.
In every part of the world except Siberia it is customary to start on a long journey in the morning. In Siberia, however, the proper time is late in the evening, when all your friends can conveniently assemble to “provozhat,” or, in colloquial English, give you a send-off. Judging from our experience in Yakutsk, the Siberian custom has the support of sound reason, inasmuch as the amount of drinking involved in the riotous ceremony of “provozhanie” unfits a man for any place except bed, and any occupation more strenuous than slumber. A man could never see his friend off in the morning and then go back to his business. He would see double, if not quadruple, and would hardly be able to speak his native language without a foreign accent. When the horses came from the post-station for us, at ten o’clock on the evening of November 20th, we had had one dinner and two or three incidental lunches; had “sampled” every kind of beverage that our host had in the house, from vodka and cherry cordial to “John Collins” and champagne; had sung all the songs we knew, from “John Brown’s Body” in English to “Nastoichka travnaya” in Russian; and Schwartz and Malchanski were ready, apparently, to make a night of it, send the horses back to the station, and have another _provozhanie_ the next day. Price and I, however, insisted that the Czar’s ukase to the station-masters was good only for that evening; that if we didn’t take the horses immediately we should have to pay demurrage; that the curfew bell had rung; that the town gates would close at ten thirty sharp; and that if we didn’t get under way at once, we should probably be arrested for riotous disturbance of the peace!
We put on our _kukhlankas_ and fur hoods at last; shook hands once more all around; and finally got out into the street;–Malchanski dragging Schwartz off to his sleigh singing the chorus of a Russian drinking song that ended in “Ras-to-chee’-tel-no! Vos-khe-tee’-tel-no! Oo-dee-vee’-tel-no!” We then drank a farewell stirrup cup, which our bareheaded host brought out to us after we had taken our seats, and were just about to start, when Baron Maidel shouted to me, with an air of serious concern, “Have you got a club–for the drivers and station-masters?”
“No,” I replied, “I don’t need a club; I can talk to them in the most persuasive Russian you ever heard.”
“Akh! Neilza!” (“Impossible”) he exclaimed. “It is impossible to go so! You must have a club! Wait a minute!” and he rushed back into the house to get me a bludgeon from his private armory. My driver, meanwhile, who evidently disapproved, on personal grounds, of this suggestion, laid his whip across his horses’ backs with a cry of “Noo, rebatta!” (“Now then, boys”) and we dashed away from the house, just as the Baron reappeared on the steps brandishing a formidable cudgel and shouting: “Pastoy! Neilza!” (“Stop, it’s impossible.”) “You can’t go without a club!” When we turned a neighbouring corner and lost sight of the house, our host was waving a bottle in one hand and a lighted candle in the other; Baron Maidel was still gesticulating on the steps, shouting: “Neilza! Hold on! Club! For your drivers! It’s impossible to go so!” and the little group of “provozhatters” on the sidewalk were laughing, cheering, and shouting “Good-bye! Good luck! With God!”
We dashed away at a gallop through the snow-drifted streets, past earth-banked _yurts_ whose windows of ice were irradiated with a warm glow by the open fires within; past columns of luminous smoke rising from the wide chimneys of Yakut houses; past a red stuccoed church upon whose green, balloon-shaped domes golden stars glittered in the frosty moonlight; past a lonely graveyard on the outskirts of the city; and finally down a gentle decline to the snow-covered river, which had a width of nearly four miles and which stretched away to the westward like a frozen lake surrounded by dark wooded hills. Up this great river–the Lena–we were to travel on the ice for a distance of nearly a thousand miles, following a sinuous, never-ending line of small evergreen trees, which had been cut in the neighbouring forests and set up at short intervals in the snow, to guide the drivers in storms and to mark out a line of safety around air-holes and between areas of thin ice or stretches of open water. I fell asleep, shortly after leaving Yakutsk, but was awakened, two or three hours later, at the first post-station, by the voice of our driver shouting: “Ai! Boys! Out with the horses–lively!” Two of us then had to alight from our sleighs, go into the post-station, show our _podorozhnayas_ to the station-master, and superintend the harnessing of two fresh teams. Getting back into my fur bag, I lay awake for the next three hours, listening to the jangle of a big bell on the wooden arch over the thill-horse’s back, and watching, through frosty eyelashes, the dark outlines of the high wooded shores as they seemed to drift swiftly past us to the eastward.
The severest hardship of post travel in eastern Siberia in winter is not the cold, but the breaking up of all one’s habits of sleep. In the first stages of our journey, when the nights were clear and the river ice was smooth and safe, we made the distances between stations in from two to three hours; and at the end of every such period we were awakened, and had to get out of our warm fur bags into a temperature that was almost always below zero and sometimes forty or fifty degrees below. When we got back into our vehicles and resumed our journey, we were usually cold, and just as we would get warm enough to go to sleep, we would reach another station and again have to turn out. Sleeping in short snatches, between shivers, to the accompaniment of a jangling dinner-bell and a driver’s shouts, and getting out into an arctic temperature every two or three hours, night and day, for a whole week, reduces one to a very fagged and jaded condition. At the end of the first four days, it seemed to me that I should certainly have to stop somewhere for an unbroken night’s rest; but man is an animal that gets accustomed to things, and in the course of a week I became so used to the wild cries of the driver and the jangle of the thill-horse’s bell that they no longer disturbed me, and I gradually acquired the habit of sleeping, in brief cat-naps, at all hours of the day and night. As we ascended the river, the moon rose later and later and the nights were often so dark that our drivers had great difficulty in following the line of evergreen trees that marked the road. Finally, about five hundred miles from Yakutsk, a particularly reckless or self-confident driver got off the road, went ahead at a venture instead of stopping to look for the evergreen trees, and just after midnight drove us into an air-hole, about a quarter of a mile from shore, where the water was thirty feet deep. Price and I were fast asleep, and were awakened by the crashing of ice, the snorting of the terrified horses, and the rush of water into the sleigh. I cannot remember how we got out of our fur bags and gained the solid ice. I was so bewildered by sleep and so completely taken by surprise that I must have acted upon blind impulse, without any clear consciousness of what I was doing. From subsequent examination of the air-hole and the sleigh, I concluded that we must have jumped from the widely extended outriggers, which were intended to guard against an accidental capsize, which had a span of ten or twelve feet, and which rested on the broken ice around the margin of the hole in such a way as to prevent the sleigh from becoming completely submerged. But be that as it may, we all got out on the solid ice in some way, and the first thing I remember is standing on the edge of the hole, staring at the swimming, snorting horses, the outlines of whose heads and necks I could just make out, and wondering whether this were not a particularly vivid and terrifying nightmare. For an instant, I could not be absolutely sure that I was awake. In a moment, the other sleigh, which was only a short distance behind, loomed up through the darkness and its driver shouted to our man, “What’s the matter?”
“Oootonoole!” (“We got drowned”) was the reply. “Get out your ropes, quick, while I run to the shore for some driftwood. The horses will freeze and sink in a few minutes. Akh! My God! My God! What a punishment!” and, tearing off his outer fur coat, he started at a run for the shore. I did not know what he expected to do with driftwood, but he seemed to have a clear vital idea of some sort, so Price and I rushed away after him. “We must get a tree, or a small log,” he explained breathlessly as we overtook him, “so I can crawl out on it and cut the horses loose. But God knows,” he added, “whether they’ll hold out till we get back. The water is killing cold.” After a few minutes on the snowy beach, we found a long, slender tree-trunk that our driver said would do, and began to drag it across the ice. Our breath, by this time, was coming in short, panting gasps, and when Schwartz, Malchanski, and the other driver, who ran to our assistance, took hold of the heavy log, we were on the verge of physical collapse. When we got back to the air-hole, the horses were still swimming feebly, but they were fast becoming chilled and exhausted, and it seemed doubtful whether we should save them. We pushed the log out over the broken edge of the ice, and five of us held it while our driver, with a knife between his teeth and a rope about his shoulders, crawled out on it, cut loose one of the outside horses and fastened the line around its neck. He then crept back, and we all hauled on the line until we dragged the poor beast out by the head. It was very much exhausted and badly scraped by the sharp edge of the ice, but it had strength enough to scramble to its feet. We then cut loose and hauled out in the same way the outside horse on the other side. This one was nearly dead and made no attempt to get up until it had been cruelly flogged, but it struggled to its feet at last. Cutting loose the thill-horse was more difficult, as its body was completely submerged and it was hard to get at the rawhide fastening that held the collar, the wooden arch, and the thills together, but our plucky driver succeeded at last, and we dragged the half-frozen animal out. Rescue came for him, however, too late. He could not rise to his feet and died, a few moments afterward, from exhaustion and cold. Fastening ropes to the half-submerged sleigh and harnessing to it the horses of the other team, we finally pulled that up on the ice. Leaving it there for the present, we made traverses back and forth across the river until we found the line of evergreen trees, and then started for the nearest post-station–Price and I riding with Malchanski and Schwartz while our driver followed with the two rescued horses. When we reached the post-station, which was about seven miles away, it was between three and four o’clock in the morning; and, after rousing the station-master and sending a driver with a team of fresh horses after the abandoned sleigh, we drank two or three tumblerfuls of hot tea, brought in blankets and pillows from the sleigh of Schwartz and Malchanski, and went to bed on the floor. As a result of this misadventure, our homeward progress was stopped, and we had to stay at the village of Krestofskaya two days, while we repaired damages. Our sleigh, when it came in that morning, was a mass of ice; our fur bag, blankets, pillows, and spare clothing were water-soaked and frozen solid; and the contents of our leather pouches were almost ruined. By distributing our things among half a dozen houses we succeeded in getting them thawed out and dried in time to make another start at the end of the second day; but after that time I did not allow myself to fall asleep at night. We had escaped once, but we might not be so fortunate again, and I decided to watch the line of evergreen bushes myself. When we lost the road in the darkness afterward, as we frequently did, I made the driver stop and searched the river myself on foot until I found it. The danger that I feared was not so much getting drowned as getting wet. In temperatures that were almost continuously below zero, and often twenty or thirty degrees below, a man in water-soaked clothing would freeze to death in a very short time, and there were so many air-holes and areas of thin ice that watchfulness was a matter of vital necessity.
Day after day and night after night we rode swiftly westward, up a river that was always more than a mile in width and often two or three; past straggling villages of unpainted log houses clinging to the steep sides of the mountainous shores; through splendid precipitous gorges, like those above the Iron Gate of the Danube; along stretches of flat pasture land where shaggy, white Yakut ponies were pawing up the snow to get at the withered grass; through good-sized towns like Kirinsk and Vitimsk, where we began to see signs of occidental civilisation; and finally, past a stern-wheel, Ohio-River steamboat, of primitive type, tied up and frozen in near the head of navigation at Verkholensk. “Just look at that steamer!” cried Price, with an unwonted glow of enthusiasm in his boyish face. “Doesn’t that look like home?” At Verkholensk we abandoned the Lena, which we had followed up almost to its source, and, leaving the ice for the first time in two weeks, we started across country in a line nearly parallel with the western coast of Lake Baikal. We had been forty-one days on the road from Okhotsk; had covered a distance of about 2300 miles, and were within a day’s ride of Irkutsk.
One bright sunshiny morning in early December, from the crest of a high hill on the Verkholensk road, we got our first view of the east-Siberian capital–a long compact mass of wooden houses with painted window-shutters; white-walled buildings with roofs of metallic green; and picturesque Russo-Byzantine churches whose snowy towers were crowned with inverted balloons of gold or covered with domes of ultramarine blue spangled with golden stars. Long lines of loaded sledges from the Mongolian frontier could be seen entering the city from the south; the streets were full of people; flags were flying here and there over the roofs of government buildings; and from the barracks down the river came faintly the music of a regimental band. Our driver stopped his horses, took off his hat, and turning to us, with the air of one who owns what he points out, said, proudly, “Irkutsk!” If he expected us to be impressed–as he evidently did–he was not disappointed; because Irkutsk, at that time and from that point of view, was a very striking and beautiful city. We, moreover, had just come from the desolate moss tundras and wild, lonely forests of arctic Asia and were in a state of mind to be impressed by anything that had architectural beauty, or indicated culture, luxury, and wealth. We had seen nothing that even remotely suggested a city in two years and a half; and we felt almost as if we were Gothic barbarians gazing at Rome. It did not even strike us as particularly funny when our Buriat driver informed us seriously that Irkutsk was so great a place that its houses had to be numbered in order to enable their owners to find them! To us, fresh from Gizhiga, Penzhina, and Okhotsk, a city with numbered houses was really too remarkable and impressive a thing to be treated with levity, and we therefore received the information with proper awe and in silence. We could share the native feeling, even if numbered houses had once been known to us.
Twenty minutes later, we dashed into the city at a gallop, as if we were imperial couriers with war news; rushed at break-neck speed past markets, bazaars, telegraph poles, street lamps, big shops with gilded sign-boards, polished droshkies drawn by high-stepping Orloff horses, officers in uniform, grey-coated policemen with sabres, and pretty women hooded in white Caucasian _bashliks_; and finally drew up with a flourish in front of a comfortable-looking stuccoed hotel–the first one we had seen in more than twenty-nine months.
CHAPTER XLI
A PLUNGE INTO CIVILISATION–THE NOBLES’ BALL–SHOCKING LANGUAGE– SHAKESPEARE’S ENGLISH–THE GREAT SIBERIAN ROAD–PASSING TEA CARAVANS–RAPID TRAVEL–FIFTY-SEVEN HUNDRED MILES IN ELEVEN WEEKS–ARRIVAL IN ST. PETERSBURG
At Irkutsk, we plunged suddenly from a semi-barbaric environment into an environment of high civilisation and culture; and our attempts to adjust ourselves to the new and unfamiliar conditions were attended, at first, with not a little embarrassment and discomfort. As we were among the first Americans who had been seen in that Far Eastern capital, and were officers, moreover, of a company with which the Russian Government itself had been in partnership, we were not only treated with distinguished consideration, but were welcomed everywhere with warm-hearted kindness and hospitality; and we found it necessary at once to exchange calls with high officials; accept invitations to dinner; share the box of the Governor-General’s chief of staff at the theatre, and go to the weekly ball of the “noble-born” in the hall of the “Blagorodnaya Sobrania,” (Assembly of Nobles). The first difficulty that we encountered, of course, was the lack of suitable clothing. After two and a half years of campaigning in an arctic wilderness, we had no raiment left that was fit to wear in such a city as Irkutsk, and–worse than that–we had little money with which to purchase a new supply. The two hundred and fifty dollars with which we left Okhotsk had gradually dribbled away in the defrayment of necessary expenses along the road, and we had barely enough left to pay for a week’s stay at the hotel. In this emergency we fell back upon our telegraph-company uniforms. They had been soaked in the Lena, frozen into masses of ice, and stretched all out of shape in the process of wringing and drying at Krestofskaya; but we got an Irkutsk tailor to press them and polish up the tarnished gilt buttons, and after spending most of the money we had left in the purchase of new fur overcoats to replace the dirty, travel-worn _kukhlankas_ in which we had arrived, we got ourselves up in presentable form to call on the Governor-General.
The severest ordeal through which we had to pass, however, was the dance at the hall of the Blagorodnaya Sobrania to which we were escorted by General Kukel (koo’-kel), the Governor-General’s chief of staff. The spacious and brilliantly lighted apartment, draped with flags and decorated with evergreens; the polished dancing-floor; the crash and blare of the music furnished by a military band; the beautiful women in rich evening toilettes; and the throng of handsome young officers in showy and diversified uniforms, simply overwhelmed us with feelings of mingled excitement and embarrassment. I felt, myself, like a uniformed Eskimo at a Charity Ball, and should have been glad to skulk in a corner behind the band! All I wanted was an opportunity to watch, unobserved, the brilliant picture of colour and motion, and to feel the thrill of the music as the band swept, with wonderful dash, swing, and precision, through the measures of a spirited Polish mazurka. General Kukel, however, had other views for us, and not only took us about the hall, introducing us to more beautiful women than we had seen, we thought, in the whole course of our previous existence, but said to every lady, as he presented us: “Mr. Kennan and Mr. Price, you know, speak Russian perfectly.” Price, with discretion beyond his years, promptly disclaimed the imputed accomplishment; but I was rash enough to admit that I did have some knowledge of the language in question, and was forthwith drawn into a stream of rapid Russian talk by a young woman with sympathetic face and sparkling eyes, who encouraged me to describe dog-sledge travel in north-eastern Asia and the vicissitudes of tent life with the Wandering Koraks. On this conversational ground I felt perfectly at home; and I was succeeding, as I thought, admirably, when the girl suddenly blushed, looked a trifle shocked, and then bit her lip in a manifest effort to restrain a smile of amusement not warranted by anything in the life that I was trying to describe. She was soon afterward carried away by a young Cossack officer who asked her to dance, and I was promptly engaged in conversation by another lady, who also wanted “to hear an American talk Russian.” My self-confidence had been a little shaken by the blush and the amused smile of my previous auditor, but I rallied my intellectual forces, took a firm grip of my Russian vocabulary, and, as Price would say, “sailed in.” But I soon struck another snag. This young woman, too, began to show symptoms of shock, which, in her case, took the form of amazement. I was absolutely sure that there was nothing in the subject-matter of my remarks to bring a blush to the cheek of innocence, or give a shock to the virgin mind of feminine youth, and yet it was perfectly evident that there was something wrong. As soon as I could make my escape, I went to General Kukel and said: “Will you please tell me, Your Excellency, what’s the matter with my Russian?”
“What makes you think there’s anything the matter with it?” he replied evasively, but with a twinkle of amusement in his eyes.
“It doesn’t seem to go very well,” I said, “in conversation with women. They appear to understand it all right, but it gives them a shock. Is my pronunciation so horribly bad?”
“You speak Russian,” he said, “with quite extraordinary fluency, and with a-a-really interesting and engaging accent; but–excuse me please–shall I be entirely frank? You see you have learned the language, under many disadvantages, among the Koraks, Cossacks, and Chukchis of Kamchatka and the Okhotsk Sea coast, and–quite innocently and naturally of course–you have picked up a few words and expressions that are not–well, not–“
“Not used in polite society,” I suggested.
“Hardly so much as that,” he replied deprecatingly. “They’re a little queer, that ‘s all–quaint–bizarre–but it’s nothing! nothing at all! All you need is a little study of good models–books, you know–and a few months of city life.”
“That settles it!” I said. “I talk no more Russian to ladies in Irkutsk.”
When, upon my arrival in St. Petersburg, I had an opportunity to study the language in books, and to hear it spoken by educated people, I found that the Russian I had picked up by Kamchatkan camp-fires and in Cossack _izbas_ on the coast of the Okhotsk Sea resembled, in many respects, the English that a Russian would acquire in a Colorado mining camp, or among the cowboys in Montana. It was fluent, but, as General Kukel said, “quaint–bizarre,” and, at times, exceedingly profane.
I was not the only person in Irkutsk, however, whose vocabulary was peculiar and whose diction was “quaint” and “bizarre.” A day or two after the ball of the Blagorodnaya Sobrania we received a call from a young Russian telegraph operator who had heard of our arrival and who wished to pay his respects to us as brother telegraphers from America. I greeted him cordially in Russian; but he began, at once, to speak English, and said that he would prefer to speak that language, for the sake of practice. His pronunciation, although queer, was fairly intelligible, and I had little difficulty in understanding him; but his talk had a strange, mediaeval flavour, due, apparently, to the use of obsolete idioms and words. In the course of half an hour, I became satisfied that he was talking the English of the fifteenth century–the English of Shakespeare, Beaumont, and Fletcher–but how he had learned such English, in the nineteenth century and in the capital of eastern Siberia, I could not imagine. I finally asked him how he had managed to get such command of the language in a city where, so far as I knew, there was no English teacher. He replied that the Russian Government required of its telegraph operators a knowledge of Russian and French, and then added two hundred and fifty rubles a year to their salaries for every additional language that they learned. He wanted the two hundred and fifty rubles, so he began the study of English with a small English-French dictionary and an old copy of Shakespeare. He got some help in acquiring the pronunciation from educated Polish exiles, and from foreigners whom he occasionally met, but, in the main, he had learned the language alone, and by committing to memory dialogues from Shakespeare’s plays. I described to him my recent experience with Russian, and told him that his method was, unquestionably, better than mine. He had learned English from the greatest master of the language that ever lived; while I had picked up my Russian from Cossack dog-drivers and illiterate Kamchadals. He could talk to young women in the eloquent and impassioned words of Romeo, while my language was fit for backwoodsmen only.
At the end of our first week in Irkutsk, we were ready to resume our journey; but we had no money with which to pay our hotel bill, still less our travelling expenses. I had telegraphed to Major Abaza repeatedly for funds, but had received no reply, and I was finally compelled to go, in humiliation of spirit, to Governor General Shelashnikoff, and borrow five hundred rubles.
On the 13th of December, we were again posting furiously along the Great Siberian Road, past caravans, of tea from Hankow; detachments of Cossacks convoying gold from the placers of the Lena; parties of hard-labour convicts on their way to the mines of the trans-Baikal; and hundreds of sleighs loaded with the products or manufactures of Russia, Siberia, and the Far East.
For the first thousand miles, our progress was retarded and our rest greatly broken–particularly at night–by tea caravans. With the establishment of the winter road, in November, hundreds of low, one-horse sledges, loaded with hide-bound boxes of tea that had come across the desert of Gobi from Peking, left Irkutsk, every day, for Nizhni Novgorod. They moved in solid caravans, a quarter of a mile to a mile in length, and in every such caravan there were from fifty to two hundred sledges. As the tea-horses went at a slow, plodding walk, their drivers were required, by law, to turn out for private travellers and give the latter the road; but they seldom did anything of the kind. There were only twelve or fifteen of them to a caravan of a hundred sledges; and as they usually curled up on their loads at night and went fast asleep, it was practically impossible to arouse them and get the caravan out of the middle of the road. In order to pass, therefore, we ourselves had to turn out and drive three quarters of a mile, or possibly a mile, through the deep soft snow on one side of the beaten track. This so exasperated our driver that he would give every horse and every sleeping teamster in the whole caravan a slashing cut with his long rawhide whip, shouting, in almost untranslatable Russian, “Wake up!” (Whack.) “Get a move on you!” (Whack.) “What are you doing in the middle of the road there?” (Whack.) “Akh! You ungodly Tartar pagans!” (Whack.) “GO TO SLEEP IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT, WILL YOU?” (Whack, whack.) Meanwhile, the strongly braced outrigger of our _pavoska_, on the caravan side, would strike every one of the tea-sledges, as we passed, and the long series of violent shocks, combined with the rolling and pitching of our vehicle, as it wallowed through the deep snow, would be enough to awaken a man from anything except the last sleep of death. Usually, we were aroused by our driver’s preliminary shouts when we first came in sight of a caravan; but sometimes we were in such a stupor of sleep that we did not awake until the outrigger collided with the first load of tea and brought us suddenly to consciousness with a half-dazed impression that we had been struck by lightning, or hit by a falling tree. If we had had to undergo this experience only once or twice in the course of the night, it would not have been so bad; but we sometimes passed half a dozen caravans between sunset and dawn; threw every one of them into disorder and confusion with outrigger and whip; and left behind us a wake of Russian and Tartar profanity almost fiery enough to be luminous in the dark. Shortly after leaving Tomsk, however, we passed the vanguard of these tea caravans and saw them no more.
The road in western Siberia was hard and smooth, and the horses were so good that we made very rapid progress with comparatively little discomfort. We stopped only twice a day for meals, and every night found us 175 or 200 miles nearer our destination than we had been the night before. We succeeded in getting across the Urals before the end of the year, and on the 7th of January, after twenty-five days of almost incessant night-and-day travel, we drew up before a hotel in the city of Nizhni Novgorod, which, at that time, was the eastern terminus of the Russian railway system. We sold our sleigh, fur bag, pillows, tea-equipment, and the provisions we had left, for what they would bring–a beggarly sum; took a train the same day for St. Petersburg; and reached the Russian capital on the 9th of January, eleven weeks from the Okhotsk Sea by way of Yakutsk, Irkutsk, Tomsk, Tiumen, Ekaterineburg, and Nizhni Novgorod. In the eleven weeks we had changed dogs, reindeer, or horses more than two hundred and sixty times and had made a distance of five thousand seven hundred and fourteen miles, nearly all of it in a single sleigh.
[Illustration: Wooden Cup]
INDEX
A
Abaza, Major S., appointed superintendent of Siberian division; forms plan of operations;
starts northward from Petropavlovsk; scares up a bear;
falls ill at Lesnoi;
leaves Gizhiga for Okhotsk;
orders from;
returns to Gizhiga;
makes trip to Anadyrsk;
sails for Okhotsk;
visits Yakutsk;
comes to Yamsk;
returns to Yakutsk;
starts for St. Petersburg;
letter from.
Agaricus muscarius, Korak intoxicant. Air-hole, driving into
Aklan, river
Aldan, river
Amur, river
Anadyr, river;
work on.
Anadyr River party;
finding of;
experience of;
orders concerning.
Anadyrsk, village;
arrival at;
priest’s house in;
history and description of;
climate of;
ball at;
character of inhabitants;
famine at.
Anadyrsk sickness
Animals, of Kamchatka
Anossof, Russian commissioner
Arnold, member of Anadyr River party Astronomical lectures
Atlantic cable, failure of first;
final success of.
Aurora borealis;
remarkable display of.
Aurora of the sea
Avacha, bay
Avacha, river
Avacha, village
Avacha, volcano
B
“Baideras,” Korak skin boats
“Balagans,” fish storehouses
Ball, at Anadyrsk;
at Irkutsk.
“Ballalaikas,” Siberian guitars
“Barabans,” Korak drums
Baths, “black,” Kamchatkan steam baths Bear hunts
Bears
Bering, monument to, in Petropavlovsk Berries
Bickmore, A.S., reference to Korak marriage ceremony Birds
Bivouacs, Kamchatkan
Blueberries
Bollman, merchant in Petropavlovsk Bordman, W.H.
Bowsher, member of Sandford’s party Bragan, Nicolai, guide
Bragans, Kamchatkan traders
British Columbia
British Government, concessions from Bulkley, Colonel Charles S.
Bush, Richard J., becomes member of Siberian party; sails for Amur River;
meeting with, at Gizhiga;
put in command of Northern District; bad news from;
night meeting with;
experience in summer of 1866
Buttercups
C
Cable, Atlantic, failure of first;
final success of
Camp, a winter
Camps
Canoe travel
Canticle, a driver’s
Christmas, in a storm;
in Anadyrsk
Christmas carols
Chuances
Chukchis
Church, Greek, architecture and color; services
Cinquefoil
_Clara Bell_, bark
Climate
Clover
Cold, Asiatic pole of;
phenomena of;
on Myan River;
lowest temperature observed;
in Stanavoi mountains
Collins, P. McD., suggests overland telegraph to Europe Congress, of U. S., promises assistance Cossack waltz
Cossacks
Cows
Cowslips
Crimean war, connection of Petropavlovsk with Crinoline, Korak comment on
Crows
D
Dall, W. H.
Dances, Siberian
Distance, Korak ideas of
Divide, Kamchatkan, crossing of
Dix, Major General, worshipped as a saint Dodd, James, engaged as member of party in Petropavlovsk; goes to Tigil;
left in Gizhiga
Dogs, ancestry:
endurance;
food;
sledges;
loads;
driving of;
first experiment in driving;
howling of, in chorus;
rest;
cutting of feet by ice
“Dole,” arctic desert
Dranka, village
Dress;
of Kamchadals;
of Wandering Koraks;
of Zamutkis and Tunguses
Drunkenness, from poisonous toadstool Ducks
E
Eagles
English, Shakespearian, in Irkutsk Equipment, in San Francisco;
in Petropavlovsk;
in Lesnoi;
in Gizhiga;
in Anadyrsk;
in Yakutsk
Escape, narrowest
Eskimo-like natives
Ethnology, of Siberian natives
Evil spirits, propitiation of
Exploration, plans for
F
Famines
Fashion-plate, Korak comment on
Field glass, Chukchi experiments with Fish-hawks
Fish savings banks
Flowers, in Gizhiga;
in Petropavlovsk;
in Kamchatka
Fluger, German merchant in Petropavlovsk Fly agaric, as intoxicant
Food, of Kamchadals
Fort St. Michael
_Frank Leslie’s_, fashion-plate from; pictures from
Frazer River
Fritillaria;
bulbs eaten
Fronefield, American in Petropavlovsk Frost, George A.
Fruits, of Kamchatka
Fur trade, of Kamchatka
G
Gale, in North Pacific
Geese
Genal, valley
Genal, village
Gilyaks
Gizhiga, village;
arrival at;
first days in;
departure from;
return to, from Anadyrsk;
spring in;
climate of;
dancing parties in
_Golden Gate_, bark, wreck of
Goldsmith, Oliver, reference to Korak intoxicant Grouse “teteer”
Gulls
H
_Hallie Jackson_, brig
Hamilton, captain of whaling bark _Sea Breeze_ Harchina, village
Harder, member of Anadyr River party _Harper’s Weekly_, pictures from
Heck, member of Sandford’s party
_Herald, N.Y._, correspondent of
Horseback travel
Horse-express, Siberian
Houses, Kamchadal
Hunter, American in Petropavlovsk
I
_Illustrated London News_, as wall paper Imperator and operator
Indian type, of Siberian native
Intoxicant, Korak
Irkutsk, city
“Ispravnik,” local governor of Petropavlovsk; of Gizhiga;
of Okhotsk
J
Jelly-fish;
luminous
“Jerusalem,” village
K
Kamchadals, character;
food;
language;
music;
numbers;
physique;
religion;
sable trapping;
summer settlements;
transportation
Kamchatka, animals;
berries;
birds;
climate;
first impressions;
first view of coast;
flowers;
fruits;
government;
mail;
population;
scenery;
topography;
transportation;
volcanoes
Kamchatka River;
raft, life on;
valley of
Kamchatkan Divide, crossing of
Kamchatkan lily
Kamchatkan mountains
Kamenoi
Kazarefski, village
“Kazarm,” a Russian barrack
“Kedrovnik,” see “Pine”
Kennicott, leader of Alaskan exploring party Kirinsk, town on Lena River
Kluchei, village
Kluchefskoi volcano
Knox, Colonel T. W., correspondent of _N.Y. Herald_ Kolyma, mosquitoes in
Korak, village
Koraks, Settled, appearance;
experiments with American food;
in Kamenoi;
stupidity and ugliness;
yurts
Koraks, Wandering, arrival at first encampment; appearance;
character;
comment on dress of American woman; food;
geographical range;
intoxicant;
language;
marriage ceremony;
monotonous life;
old and sick killed;
pologs;
reindeer;
relation to Chukchis;
relieve starving Anadyrsk people;
religion;
social organisation;
superstitions;
tents
Koratskoi, volcano
Krestofskaya, village
Kristi, village
Kuil, village of Settled Koraks
Kukel, General
“Kukhlanka” fur overshirt
L
Labrador tea
Lamutkis
Land, longing for
Language, “American”;
Russian difficulty of learning;
grammar of;
specimen;
experience with, in Irkutsk
La Perouse, monument to, in Petropavlovsk Lecky, W.H., reference to religion of terror Lectures, astronomical
Leet, American brought by bark _Onward_; suicide of
Lesnoi, village
Letovies, summer settlements
Lewis, Richard, telegraph operator brought by bark _Onward_ Lily, Kamchatkan
“Lodkas,” Siberian skiffs
M
Macrae, leader of Anadyr River party Macrae and Arnold, go with Chukchis;
no news from;
arrive in Anadyrsk;
experience with Chukchis;
first winter’s work
Magpies
Mahood, Captain James A.
Mahood and Bush
Maidel, Baron
Malchanski
Malqua, village
Manchus
“Manyalla,” Korak bread
Marriage ceremonies, Russian
Korak
Matches, Koraks see for first time Matuga, island
Maximof, Kamchatkan driver
Medusae;
luminous
Mikina, village
Milkova, village
Mirages
Mongolian type of natives
“Moroshkas,” berries
Mosquitoes
Moss steppe
Mountains, Kamchatkan
“Muk-a-moor,” Korak intoxicant
Music, American, in Kamchatka;
of Kamchadals;
of Greek Church;
on corvette _Varag_
Myan, river
N
Nalgim, mountain
“Nart,” Siberian dog-sledge
_New York Herald_, correspondent of Nights, in summer
Nikolaievsk, town
Nizhni Novgorod
Northern District, famine in;
work in
Norton, forearm of pole-cutting party Norton, sound
O
“Oerstel,” a spiked stick
Okhotsk Sea;
coast of;
temperatures of;
phosphorescence of
Okuta, village
_Olga_, brig, passage engaged on;
inspection of;
sails from San Francisco;
life on;
sails for Amur River
_Onward_, bark
Operator and imperator
P
_Palmetto_, bark
Paren, river
“Pavoskas,” travelling sleighs or sledges Penzhina, river
Penzhina, village
Penzhinsk Gulf
Petropavlovsk
Phillippeus, trip down the Anadyr; boat of
Phosphorescence, of the sea
Pierce, American in Petropavlovsk
Pine, trailing or “Kedrovnik”
Plans, at Gizhiga
Plover
“Podorozhnaya,” order for post-horses “Pologs,” skin bedrooms
Pope, leader of Alaskan party
Porte Crayon, sketches of, in Kamchatka Post-road to Irkutsk
Povorotnoi, cape
Price, telegraph operator, brought by _Onward_ Primroses
“Pripaika,” ice-foot
Propashchina, River of the Lost
“Protoks,” arms of stream
Ptarmigan
Puffin
“Purgas,” blizzards
Pushchin, village
R
Raft, Kamchatkan
Raft travel
Raselskoi, volcano
Ravens
Reception, Kamchatkan
Reindeer
catching;
driving;
food;
guarding;
habits;
of Koraks;
of Tunguses;
stampede;
superstition
about sale of;
uses
Reindeer Koraks, see “Koraks,
Wandering”
Reindeer-sledge travel
Religion, of Kamchadals;
of Wandering Koraks
Reveries, seasick
River of the Lost
Roads
Robinson, member of Anadyr
River party
Roses, wild
Route of line
Routes from Kluchei
Russell and Co.
Russian-American Telegraph Co.
organisation of
failure of
Russian Government
Russian language
S
Sables, trapping;
trade in skins
_Saghalin_, Russian supply steamer St. Petersburg
Sale, a bargain
Salmon, catching and curing;
failure of;
frozen;
dependence of Siberians upon
Samanka Mountains
Samanka River
Sandford, Lieut., foreman of
pole-cutting party
“Sastrugi,” permanent drifts
of snow
Scammon, Captain, commander
of Company’s fleet
Scenery of Kamchatka
Scenery, Siberian, in winter
Schwartz
_Sea Breeze_, whaling bark
Sea life
“Selanka,” Kamchatkan soup
Send-off, a Siberian
Shamanism
“Shchi,” cabbage soup
Shelashnikoff, Governor-General
Sherom, village
Shestakova, village
Sidanka, village
Smith, member of Anadyr River
party
Sparrow song
Spring, in Gizhiga
Squirrel skins
Stanavoi Mountains
Star-flower
“Starosta,” head man of village
Steeplechase, to Sidanka
Stock, of Western Union Extension
Co.
Storm in Northern Pacific;
on the Viliga River;
on the Malkachan steppe;
in Gizhiginsk Gulf
Stovepipe, search for;
finding of
“Struganini,” frozen fish
Sugar, used instead of money
Sulkavoi, captain of port of Petropavlovsk Sutton, captain of bark _Clara Bell_
Suveilich, volcano
Swallows
Swans
Sword-bearer
T
“Taiyon,” Korak chief
“Tarantas,” Siberian travelling carriage Tea, used instead of money
“Tea caravans,”
Telega, four-wheeled Siberian wagon Tents, of Koraks, life in
“Teteer,” Russian grouse
Thrushes
Tide, a race with
Tigil, village
Time, expedients to pass away
Tobacco, used instead of money
Tobezin, captain of steamer, _Saghalin_ Topolofka, river
“Topor,” Russian axe
“Torbasses,” fur boots
Trances, in Anadyrsk sickness
Trailing-pine. See “Pine”
Transportation, means of, in Kamchatka Tundras, mossy plains
Tunguses;
encampments
Turkish type of natives
U
Ural Mountains
Usinova, brook
V
Valerian
_Varag_, Russian corvette
Verkholensk, town on Lena River
Victoria
Viliga, stormy gorge of;
mountains
Villages, Kamchatkan, descriptions Villuchinski, volcano
Vitimsk, town on Lena River
Volcanoes of Kamchatka
Vorrebeoffs, Kamchatkan traders,
W
Wages, paid Yakut laborers
Wedding, in Petropavlovsk;
in Korak tent
Western Union Extension Co.
Western Union Telegraph Co.
Wheeler, sent to Yamsk
Whymper, book of
Wild-rose petals, as food
Women, American, Korak comment on dress of Work accomplished up to March 1886
Writing, Korak and Chukchi, ignorance of
Y
Yakuts
Yakutsk;
winter temperatures
Yamsk, village;
trip to, in March
“Yassak,” a tax on furs
Yolofka, pass
Yolofka, river, canoe travel on
Yolofka, village
“Yukola,” dried fish
“Yurts,” Asiatic habitations;
of settled Koraks,
Z
“Zimovie,” winter settlement
Zinovief, Gregorie, Cossack guide