FOOTNOTE
[2] Dried salmon.
CHAPTER IX.
ST. MICHAEL'S AND SAN FRANCISCO.
St. Michael's is the usual port for the Yukon, though seventy miles from its mouth. The Russians had a fort and garrison at this place before they sold the territory to the United States, and since then the commercial companies have had posts here. The chief part of the population, however, consists of Eskimos.
These people are very expert in carving. From stone they make axes, lamps, skin-scrapers and many other implements; and from bone, and especially from the walrus and mammoth ivory, they carve many things, among them polished pipes. These pipes are evidently modelled after the opium pipes of the East, with a peculiar shaped bowl having only a very small cavity in it, and a long stem. They are ornamented with many figures scratched on the ivory with a sharp knife, and then colored by having charcoal and grease rubbed into the scratches; these figures, of which there may be several hundred on a single pipe, represent the Eskimo in his daily occupations, especially his hunting of deer, wolf, and whale, his dancing in the kashim, or his travelling in his kayak.
Eskimo Houses at St. Michael's.
A Native Doorway.
Strolling around the village, and peering into the barabarras, or private houses, I ran across an old savage who was handling an object which immediately attracted my attention; when he saw my curiosity he explained by signs that it was an apparatus for making fire, and at my request he actually performed the feat. It was the old plan of rubbing two sticks of wood together, such as we have often read that savages do; yet I had never known any one who knew exactly how it was done, although as a boy I had often worn myself out in vain endeavors to make fire in this way. So far as I know, no one had ever satisfactorily explained how the Alaskan natives get their fire, one writer having even supposed that they brought it from volcanoes in the first place; and from the extraordinary care which they take in preserving hot coals and often in carrying them considerable distances, one does not often see them in the process of obtaining a new supply.
The apparatus which I saw here used was simple and ingenious. In a thoroughly dry stick of spruce were cut a number of little grooves,—this was the wood destined to catch fire. The other piece of wood was a rounded stick of some very hard variety, which the Eskimo told me was picked up in the driftwood along the shore: it was very likely a foreign wood. The point of the hard stick was set upright in one of the grooves of the soft dry piece and by means of a leather thong was made to revolve rapidly in it, the hard upright piece being kept in place by a stone socket set in a piece of wood, which was held in the mouth of the operator. After vigorously twirling the stick by means of the thong for about a minute the soft wood began to smoke; a moment afterwards a faint spark was visible. Then the Eskimo stopped revolving the stick and heaping all the fine dust of the soft wood which had been worn off by the grinding on the spark, and blew it carefully till it grew to larger dimensions; then he placed a blade of dry grass on the spark, and, blowing again, it burst into flame. The whole process had lasted about three minutes. The old man explained also that in boring the holes in stone, bone or ivory, they used the same device, employing a stone drill instead of the wooden stick.
There was great commotion among the natives at St. Michael's the morning after we arrived, and the men all dragged their kayaks into the water and getting into them paddled out into the harbor, where a number of small whales were seen disporting themselves. When they neared the school the men separated, and when a whale would sound they spread themselves out so as to be nearly at the spot where he should come up. Each man had several of the light spears they used for capturing fish; these weapons are perhaps three and a half feet long, and weigh about a pound, the shaft being slender and of light wood and the tip of a barbed piece of bone. To each of these they had fastened by a long thong, as they were paddling out, a blown-up bladder. As soon as a whale rose the Eskimo who happened to be near sent his little spear with great force deeply into its flesh. The wound was of course insignificant, and the animal, taking alarm, sank into the water again; but when after some time he was forced to return to the surface, he encountered several hunters again, and received several more spears with attached bladders. This time the buoyancy of the bladders made it difficult for him to sink, and he rose soon afterwards, only to be filled with so many spears that the bladders kept him from sinking at all; then the natives drew near and with all kinds of weapons cut and slashed and worried the creature till he finally gave up from loss of blood, and died. Then he was towed ashore amid great excitement and with rejoicing, not only by the hunters, but by the women, children and old men who flocked down to the beach as it came in.
The next thing was to cut up and divide the carcass, and this was done thoroughly, everybody in the village coming in for a share. Nothing was wasted. Even the blood was carefully saved and divided, and the sinews were given to the women, who would dry and make them into threads for sewing. Soon all the fires in the village were burning, and the smell of boiling whale-flesh came from many pots, into which the women peered expectantly. One old lady whom I noticed doing this showed in her dress some of the effects of civilization, which is a rare thing with the Eskimo, as they dress by preference in their squirrel or muskrat-skin parkas; her flowing garment was made of flour-sacks sewn together, and one might read the legend, inscribed many times and standing in many attitudes, that the wearer (presumably) was Anchor Brand.
The Captured Whale.
St. Michael's is made up of volcanic rock, and has been lifted from the sea in recent geologic times. The natives know this, and say that they find lines of driftwood marking the ancient limit of the waves, at places far above where the highest water now reaches; on the other hand, they say that the island has been thrice submerged since the memory of man. Out of the general swampy level of the land around the village rise, further back, broken cones with old craters at their tops; these were very likely under the level of the sea when they were active. We had time to spend a few days wandering over this country, climbing through the rocky craters, and looking down on the numberless swamp lakes which cover the southeast side of the island. One day, however, we received sudden word that the steamer on which we had engaged passage was about to sail, and we hurried on board. That night we were far out on Behring Sea, tossing in a strong wind which soon increased to a terrific gale.
We lay several days "hove to" in this gale, with oil casks over the bows to break the great waves which threatened more than once to smash us and often seemed about to roll us over and over. Finally, however, it quieted enough to let the seasick ones drop asleep, while the sailors made things taut again, and before long we were in harbor at the island of Unalaska—one of the great chain of Aleutian islands which reaches from America to Asia, and the chief stopping point for nearly all boats between the Yukon mouth and the coast of the United States proper. Unalaska is a country of chaotically wild scenery. The streams in turn meander over level benches and then tumble in waterfalls over steep cliffs to the next bench, and so on till they reach the sea; such a cataract we saw on the right as we entered the harbor.
In the village here we found the Aleuts semi-civilized from their long contact with white men, for here the Russians held direct control long before the territory was sold to the United States; they live in neat wooden houses, and if one peeps in by night he may even see here and there lace curtains and rocking-chairs.
Seventeen days after leaving St. Michael's we finally reached San Francisco. It was a clear, fine Sunday when we passed through the Golden Gate, tingling with excitement which we had felt since seeing the first land on the California coast. The sight of the multitude of houses on the hillside, the smoke of the city, the craft of all kinds going back and forth, had in it something very strange and discomposing for us. It was only when the ship was at the dock, and we had gone ashore, that we realized, from the way the curious crowd formed a circle around us and stared in open-mouthed wonder, that our appearance was unusual for a city. We had not taken much baggage through the Yukon country, and our camp clothes were very shabby. None of us had had opportunity to have hair and beard trimmed since we left—with the result that we had a mane reaching to the shoulders and fierce bushy buccaneer whiskers, inches deep all around. Two of us wore ancient high leather boots and the third wore a kind of moccasin. We all had heavy "mackinaw" trousers of blanket-cloth, with belted coats of the same material, while coarse flannel shirts and dilapidated felt hats, burned with the sparks of many a camp-fire and seamed with the creases of many a night's sleep, completed our costume.
Finding the attention of the crowd embarrassing, we took a carriage for the Grand Hotel, and as we were driving through the streets I noticed that if one so much as caught a glimpse of our faces through the carriage window, he would turn and stare after the cab till it was out of sight. It was Sunday afternoon, and the streets were filled with smartly dressed men and women. For our part, the sight of all this correct and conventional dressing made a disagreeable impression on us, after so long a period of free and easy life; the white collars and cuffs of the men, in particular, obtruded themselves on my attention and irritated me.
We had left our "store clothes" in Seattle and had to telegraph to get them. It took a couple of days for this, and in the meantime we had only to wait. We had been looking forward to going to the theatre as soon as we should arrive in San Francisco, and when our clothes did not arrive, were disappointed, till we suddenly braced up in defiance of the whole city, and said, "Let's go anyhow." We had not had time to get our hair and beard trimmed, and our costume was in all respects the same as when we left Circle City, but we sallied out bravely. We were late at the theatre, and the play had already begun; it was a popular one, and the only seats left were some in the "bald-headed" row.
Although we had by this time the idea forced on us that our appearance was unusual, we were by no means prepared for the commotion which we brought about, as we walked up the broad aisle to our seats. There was a hum and a sizzle of whispers throughout the house, which changed to laughter and exclamations; and the actors on the stage, catching sight of us, got "rattled" and forgot to go on. Up in the peanut gallery the gods began to indulge in catcalls and make personal inquiries. We hurried to our seats to escape this storm, and meeting an usher thrust our tickets into his hand. He looked at us with a puzzled air and a broad grin, as if he thought it all some huge joke, but we were getting nervous, and gave him a glare which made him indicate our seats for us. The audience evidently believed we were part of the show; many were standing by this time, waiting to see what the next would be, but after a while the buzz subsided and the play went on. There was a constant current of conversation about us, however; behind us a young fellow was excitedly asking his companion "Who are they, who are they?" "Don't know," said the other. "Sailors, I guess."
After a while we felt like returning to the solitude of our hotel rooms; the play, too, did not please us, so in the middle of an act we got up, and having remarked very audibly "Dis is a rotten show," we went. As we started down the aisle the commotion grew louder than ever, and we slipped quickly out and down a side street.
FINIS.