The Sea: Its Stirring Story of Adventure, Peril, & Heroism (Vol. 1-4). Frederick Whymper
rose in price, and the competition for furs was so great that they became nearly as dear as in San Francisco. The consequence may be imagined; there was an exodus, and the following January the whole city could have been bought for a song. The Russian officials, of course, left it shortly after the transfer, and most of the others as speedily as they could. The “capital” has never recovered from the shock; for, although organised fur-companies are scattered over the country, in one instance the United States Government leasing the sole right—that of fur-sealing, on the Aleutian Islands—to a firm which has a Russian prince as a partner, Sitka is not the entrepôt it was; everything in furs is brought to San Francisco before being consigned to all quarters of the globe. The value of Alaska to the United States is at present very small, but so little is known about it that one can hardly form an estimate concerning its future. It possesses minerals, but these will always be worked with difficulty, on account of the climate. Its grand salmon-fisheries are, however, a tangible property; the cod in Bering Sea is as plentiful as it ever was on the Newfoundland banks; and there are innumerable forests of trees, easily accessible, reaching down to the coast—of pines, firs, and cedars, of size sufficient for the tallest masts and largest spars, so that Alaska has a direct interest for the ship-builder.
By its acquisition, the United States not merely extended its seaboard for, say, 1,500 miles north, but it obtained Mount St. Elias, by far the largest peak of the North American continent, and one of the loftiest mountains of the globe. “Upon Mont Blanc,” says an American writer,109 “pile the loftiest summit in the British Islands, and they would not reach the altitude of Mount St. Elias. If a man could reach its summit, he would be two miles nearer the stars than any other American could be, east of the Mississippi. … As a single peak it ranks among the half-dozen loftiest on the globe. Some of the Himalaya summits reach, indeed, a couple of miles nearer Orion and the Pleiades, but they rise from an elevated plateau sloping gradually upwards for hundreds of miles. As an isolated peak, St. Elias may look down upon Mont Blanc and Teneriffe, and claim brotherhood with Chimborazo and Cotopaxi.” It acquired also one of the four great rivers of the globe, of which the writer had the pleasure of being one of the earliest explorers. The Yukon, which renders the waters of Bering Sea fresh or semi-fresh for a dozen miles beyond its many mouths, is a sister-river to the Amazon, Mississippi, and, perhaps, the Plata; it has affluents to which the Rhine or Rhône are but brooks.
The Kalosh Indians of Sitka live in semi-civilised wooden barns or houses, with invariably a round hole for a door, through which one creeps. They are particularly ingenious in carving; and Jack has many an opportunity of obtaining grotesque figures, cut from wood or slate-stone, for a cast-off garment or a half-dollar. One brought home represents the Russian soldier of the period, prior to the American annexation, and is scarcely a burlesque of his stolid face, gigantic moustache, close fitting coat with very tight sleeves, and loose, baggy trousers. Masks may be seen cut from some white stone, which would not do dishonour to a European sculptor. But now, leaving Sitka, let us make a rapid trip to the extreme northern end of the Pacific Station.
Men-of-war proceeding north of Sitka—which, except for purposes of science or war, is not likely to be the case, although the Pacific Station extends to the northernmost parts of Alaska—would voyage into Bering Sea through Ounimak Pass, one of the best passages between the rocky and rugged Aleutian Islands. In the pass the scenery is superb, grand volcanic peaks rising in all directions. While there, many years ago, the writer well remembers going on deck one morning, when mists and low clouds hung over the then placid waters, and seeing what appeared to be a magnificent mountain peak, snowy and scarped, right overhead the vessel, and having a wreath of white cloud surrounding it, while a lower and greyer bank of mist hid its base. It seemed baseless, and as though rising from nothing; while the bright sunlight above all, and which did not reach the vessel, lit up the eternal snows in brilliant contrasts of light and shadow. This was the grand peak of Sheshaldinski, which rises nearly 9,000 feet above the sea level.
The Aleutian Islands are thinly inhabited, and the Aleuts—a harmless, strong, half-Esquimaux kind of people—often leave them. They make very good sailors. The few Russian settlements, among the principal of which was Kodiak, were simply trading posts and fur-sealing establishments. Since the purchase of Alaska, the United States Government has leased them to a large mercantile firm, which makes profits from the sealing. North of the islands, after steaming over a considerable waste of waters, the only settlements on the coast of the whole country are Michaelovski and Unalachleet, both trading posts; while south of the former are the many mouths of one of the grandest rivers in the world, the Yukon, almost a rival to the Amazon and Mississippi. That section of the country lying round the great river is tolerably rich in fur-bearing animals, including sable, mink, black and silver-grey fox, beaver, and bear. The moose and deer abound; while fish, more especially salmon, is very abundant. Salmon, thirty or more pounds in weight, caught in the Yukon, has often been purchased for a half-ounce of tobacco or four or five common sewing-needles. The coasts of Northern Alaska are rugged and uninviting, and not remarkable for the grand scenery common in the southern division.
Leaving the north, and passing the leading station already described on Vancouver Island, the sailor has the whole Pacific coasts of both Americas, clear to Cape Horn, before him as part of the Pacific Station. There is Mexico, with its port of Acapulco; New Granada, with the important sea-port town of Panama; Callao, Peru; and Valparaiso, in Chili: at any of which H.B.M. vessels are commonly to be found. Panama is, indeed, a very important central point, as officers of the Royal Navy, ordered to join vessels elsewhere, usually leave their own at Panama, cross the isthmus, and take steamer to England, viâ St. Thomas’s, or by way of New York, thence crossing to Liverpool. The railroad—which, during its construction, is said to have cost the life of a Chinaman for every sleeper laid down, so fatal was the fever of the isthmus—has the dearest fares of any in the world. The distance from Panama across to Aspinwall (Colon) is about forty miles, and the fare is £5! An immense amount of travel crosses the isthmus; and it is only matter of time for a canal to be cut through some portion of it, or the isthmus of Darien adjoining. Steamers of the largest kind are arriving daily at Panama from San Francisco, Mexico, and all parts of South America; while, on the Atlantic side, they come from Southampton, Liverpool, New York and other American ports.
Southward, with favouring breezes and usually calm seas, one soon arrives at Callao—a place which may yet become a great city, but which, like everything else in Peru, has been retarded by interminable dissensions in regard to government and politics, and by the ignorance and bigotry of the masses. Peru had an advantage over Chili in wealth and importance at one time; but, while the latter country is to-day one of the most satisfactory and stable republics in the world, one never knows what is going to happen next in Peru. Hence distrust in commerce; and hence the sailor will not find a tithe of the shipping in Callao Roads that he will at the wharfs of Valparaiso. Lima, the capital, is situated behind Callao, at a distance of about six miles. When seen from the deck of a vessel in the roadstead, the city has a most imposing appearance, with its innumerable domes and spires rising from so elevated a situation, and wearing a strange and rather Moorish air. On nearing the city, everything speaks eloquently of past splendour and present wretchedness; public walks and elegant ornamental stone seats choked with rank weeds, and all in ruins. You enter Lima through a triumphal arch, tawdry and tumbling to pieces; you find that the churches, which looked so imposing in the distance, are principally stucco and tinsel. Lima has a novelty in one of its theatres. It is built in a long oval, the stage occupying nearly the whole of one long side, all the boxes being thus comparatively near it. The pit audience is men, and the galleries, women; and all help to fill the house, between the acts, with tobacco smoke from their cigarettes.
The sailor, who has been much among Spanish people or those of Spanish origin, will find the Chilians the finest race in South America. Valparaiso Harbour is always full of shipping, its wharfs piled with goods; while the railroad and old road to the capital, Santiago, bears evidence of the material prosperity of the country. The country roads are crowded with convoys of pack-mules, while the ships are loading up with wheat, wines, and minerals, the produce of the country. Travelling is free everywhere. Libraries, schools, literary, scientific, and artistic societies abound; the best newspapers published in South America are issued there. Santiago, the city of marble palaces—where even horses are kept in marble stalls—is one of the most delightful places in the world.