The Sea: Its Stirring Story of Adventure, Peril, & Heroism (Vol. 1-4). Frederick Whymper
genuine “Yankee” New Englanders, New Yorkers, Southerners, and Californians, Englishmen, Frenchmen, Germans, and one Italian. Chatting in a babel of tongues, the party climbed a path on the hill-side, leading to a beautiful grassy opening, overlooking the glorious bay below, which extended in all directions a dozen or fifteen miles, and on one side farther than the eye could reach. Several grand snow-covered volcanoes towered above, thirty to fifty miles off; one, of most beautiful outline, that of Vilutchinski, was on the opposite shore of Avatcha Bay.
The sky was bright and blue, and the water without a ripple; wild flowers were abundant, the air was fragrant with them, and, but for the mosquitoes (which are not confined to hot countries, but flourish in the short summer of semi-Arctic climes), it might have been considered an earthly edition of paradise! But even these pests could not worry the company much, for not merely were nearly all the men smokers, but most of the ladies also! Here the writer may remark, parenthetically, that many of the Russian ladies smoke cigarettes, and none object to gentlemen smoking at table or elsewhere. At the many dinners and suppers offered by the hospitable residents, it was customary to draw a few whiffs between the courses; and when the cloth was removed, the ladies, instead of retiring to another room, sat in company with the gentlemen, the larger proportion joining in the social weed. After the enjoyment of a liberal al fresco dinner, songs were in order, and it would be easier to say what were not sung than to give the list of those, in all languages, which were. Then after the songs came some games, one of them a Russian version of “hunt the slipper,” and another very like “kiss in the ring.” The writer particularly remembers the latter, for he had on that occasion the honour of kissing the Pope’s wife! This needs explanation, although the Pope was his friend. In the Greek Church the priest is “allowed to marry,” and his title, in the Russian language, is “Pope.”
And the recollection of that particular “Pope” recalls a well-remembered ceremony—that of a double wedding in the old church. During the ceremony it is customary to crown the bride and bridegroom. In this case two considerate male friends held the crowns for three-quarters of an hour over the brides’ heads, so as not to spoil the artistic arrangement of their hair and head-gear. It seems also to be the custom, when, as in the present case, the couples were in the humbler walks of life, to ask some wealthy individual to act as master of the ceremonies, who, if he accepts, has to stand all the expenses. In this case M. Phillipeus, a merchant who has many times crossed the frozen steppes of Siberia in search of valuable furs, was the victim, and he accepted the responsibility of entertaining all Petropaulovski, the officers of the splendid Russian corvette, the Variag, and those of the Telegraph Expedition, with cheerfulness and alacrity.
The coast-line of Kamchatka is extremely grand, and far behind it are magnificent volcanic peaks. The promontory which terminates in the two capes, Kamchatka and Stolbevoy, has the appearance of two islands detached from the mainland, the intervening country being low. This, a circumstance to be constantly observed on all coasts, was, perhaps, specially noticeable on this. The island of St. Lawrence, in Bering Sea, was a very prominent example. It is undeniable that the apparent gradual rise of a coast, seen from the sea as you approach it, affords a far better proof of the rotundity of the earth than the illustrations usually employed, that of a ship, which you are supposed to see by instalments, from the main-royal sail (if not from the “sky-scraper” or “moon-raker”) to the hull. The fact is, that the royal and top-gallant sails of a vessel on the utmost verge of the horizon may be, in certain lights, barely distinguishable, while the dark outline of an irregular and rock-bound coast can be seen by any one. First, maybe, appears a mountain peak towering in solitary grandeur above the coast-line, and often far behind it, then the high lands and hills, then the cliffs and low lands, and, lastly, the flats and beaches.
It was from the Kamchatka River, which enters Bering Sea near the cape of the same name, that Vitus Bering sailed on his first voyage. That navigator was a persevering and plucky Dane, who had been drawn into the service of Russia through the fame of Peter the Great, and his first expedition was directly planned by that sagacious monarch, although he did not live to carry it out. Müller, the historian of Bering’s career, says: “The Empress Catherine, as she endeavoured in all points to execute most precisely the plans of her deceased husband, in a manner began her reign with an order for the expedition to Kamchatka.” Bering had associated with him two active subordinates, Spanberg and Tschirikoff. They left St. Petersburg on February 5th, 1725, proceeding to the Ochotsk Sea, viâ Siberia. It is a tolerable proof of the difficulties of travel in those days, that it took them two years to transport their outfit thither. They crossed to Kamchatka, where, on the 4th of April, 1728, Müller tells us, “a boat was put upon the stocks, like the packet-boats used in the Baltic, and on the 10th of July was launched, and named the boat Gabriel.” A few days later, and she was creeping along the coast of Kamchatka and Eastern Siberia. Bering on this first voyage discovered St. Lawrence Island, and reached as far north as 67° 18′, where, finding the land trend to the westward, he came to the conclusion that he had reached the eastern extremity of Asia, and that Asia and America were distinct continents. On the first point he was not, as a matter of detail, quite correct; but the second, the important object of his mission, settled for ever the vexed question.
A second voyage was rather unsuccessful. His third expedition left Petropaulovski on the 4th of July, 1741. His little fleet became dispersed in a storm, and Bering pursued his discoveries alone. These were not unimportant, for he reached the grand chain of the rock-girt Aleutian Islands, and others nearer the mainland of America. At length the scurvy broke out in virulent form among his crew, and he attempted to return to Kamchatka. The sickness increased so much that the “two sailors who used to be at the rudder were obliged to be led in by two others who could hardly walk, and when one could sit and steer no longer, one in little better condition supplied his place. Many sails they durst not hoist, because there was nobody to lower them in case of need.” At length land appeared, and they cast anchor. A storm arose, and the ship was driven on the rocks; they cast their second anchor, and the cable snapped before it took ground. A great sea pitched the vessel bodily over the rocks, behind which they happily found quieter water. The island was barren, devoid of trees, and with little driftwood. They had to roof over gulches or ravines, to form places of refuge. On the “8th of November a beginning was made to land the sick; but some died as soon as they were brought from between decks in the open air, others during the time they were on the deck, some in the boat, and many more as soon as they were brought on shore.” On the following day the commander, Bering, himself prostrated with disease, was brought ashore, and moved about on a hand-barrow. He died a month after, in one of the little ravines, or ditches, which had been covered with a roof, and when he expired was almost covered with the sand which fell from its sides, and which he desired his men not to remove, as it gave him some little warmth. Before his remains could be finally interred they had literally to be disinterred.
The vessel, unguarded, was utterly wrecked, and their provisions lost. They subsisted mainly that fearful winter on the carcases of dead whales, which were driven ashore. In the spring the pitiful remnant of a once hardy crew managed to construct a small vessel from the wreck of their old ship, and at length succeeded in reaching Kamchatka. They then learned that Tschirikoff, Bering’s associate, had preceded them, but with the loss of thirty-one of his crew from the same fell disease which had so reduced their numbers. Bering’s name has ever since been attached to the island where he died.
There is no doubt that Kamchatka would repay a detailed exploration, which it has never yet received. It is a partially settled country. The Kamchatdales are a good-humoured, harmless, and semi-civilised race, and the Russian officials and settlers at the few little towns would gladly welcome the traveller. The dogs used for sledging in winter are noble animals, infinitely stronger than those of Alaska or even Greenland. The attractions for the Alpine climber cannot be overstated. The peninsula contains a chain of volcanic peaks, attaining, it is stated, in the Klutchevskoi Mountain a height of 16,000 feet. In the country immediately behind Petropaulovski are the three peaks, Koriatski, Avatcha, and Koseldskai; the first is about 12,000 feet in height, and is a conspicuous landmark for the port. A comparatively level country, covered with rank grass and underbrush, and intersected by streams, stretches very nearly to their base.