Alaska, Its Southern Coast and the Sitkan Archipelago

by Eliza Ruhamah Scidmore

The governors brought all their household goods with them from Russia; and surrounded themselves with comfort and luxury. The castle was richly furnished, the walls of the drawing-room were lined with mirrors, and its interior appointments were all that Muscovite ideas could suggest. When it was turned over to the United States as government property seventeen years ago, the castle was well furnished and in perfect condition, but after the troops left, it was neglected like everything else, and has been stripped, despoiled, and defaced. Every portable thing has been carried off, the curiously wrought brass chandeliers, the queer knobs and branching hinges on the doors, and all but the massive porcelain stoves in the corners of the large apartments. The lantern, and even the reflector, that used to send beacons to the mariner from the castle tower, have gone, and the place is little better than a ruin. The hall where the governors received and entertained the Indian chiefs is a rubbish hole; of the carved railing that fenced off a little boudoir in the great drawing-room, not a vestige remains; and not a relic is left of the old billiard-room to prove that it ever existed.

The signal officer has rescued two rooms on the ground floor for his use, but otherwise the only tenant of the castle is the ghost of a beautiful Russian, whose sad story is closely modelled on that of the Bride of Lammermoor. She haunts the drawing-room, the northwest chamber, where she was murdered, and paces the governor’s cabinet, where the swish of her ghostly wedding-gown chills every listener’s blood. Twice a year she walks unceasingly and wrings her jewelled hands.

At Easter time she wanders with sorrowful mien from room to room, and leaves a faint perfume as of wild roses where she passes. Innumerable young officers from the men-of-war have nerved up their spirits and gone to spend a solitary night in the castle, but none have yet held authentic converse with the beautiful spirit, and learned the true story of her unresting sorrow. By tradition, the lady in black was the daughter of one of the old governors. On her wedding night she disappeared from the ball-room in the midst of the festivities, and after long search was found dead in one of the small drawing-rooms. Being forced to marry against her will, one belief was that she voluntarily took poison, while another version ascribes the deed to an unhappy lover; while, altogether, the tale of this Lucia of the northwest isles gives just the touch of sentimental interest to this castle of the Russian governors. The Russian residents cannot identify this ghost with any member of the governors’ families, and say that the whole thing has been concocted within a few years to keep sailors and marauders away at night, and to entertain the occasional tourist.

The room is pointed out in the castle that was occupied by Secretary Seward during his visit, and the same guest-chamber has an additional interest in the memory of Lady Franklin’s visit. It is possible that with the arrival of a territorial governor the castle may again become an official residence; and if repaired and restored to its original condition, it could be made quite a pleasant place.

The Custom House building also shelters the postmaster, whose office, not being a salaried one, does not offer great temptations to any aspiring citizens as yet. His compensation was a little over one hundred dollars for the last year, and by the quarterly accounts, which all the Alaska postmasters are dilatory about sending to the department, the Sitka post-office has only about the same amount of business as the Juneau and Wrangell offices.

A detachment of marines from the man-of-war in the harbor was quartered in the old barracks at the opposite side of the steps leading down from the castle terrace. Every morning while we were there, about eight men went through guard mount and inspection with as much military precision and form as if a company or regiment were deploying on the parade ground. The houses that were used for officers’ quarters during the time that a garrison was maintained were burned by the Indians, after the soldiers were withdrawn, and there is a blank on that side of the green quadrangle. The Indian village is reached through a gate in the stockade fence at one side of the parade ground, and in the Russian days the gate was closed every night, and the Indians obliged to remain outside until morning. Under United States rule they have been permitted to roam as they pleased, and during the time between the withdrawal of the troops and the arrival of a naval ship, they held the inhabitants at their mercy.

The buildings on the main street are all heavy log houses, some of them clapboarded over, and a few of them whitewashed, but decay has seized upon many, and their roofs are sinking under the weight of moss. Both at the Northwest Trading Company’s store on the wharf, and in the large, rambling stores on this street, there were curios by the roomful, and everything from canoes to nose rings were to be seen. Though the prices were higher, as befits a capital, the Sitka traders had the most tempting arrays of carved and painted woodwork, and baskets, and bracelets in endless designs.

THE GREEK CHURCH AT SITKA.

At the end of the main street, fronting on the small square or court, stands the Russian Orthodox Church of St. Michael. It has the green roof, the bulging spire, the fine clock, and the chime of bells, that might distinguish any shrine in Moscow. In these days of its decadence, much of the glory has been stripped from the Sitka church, and the faded walls and roof, almost destitute of paint, tell a sad tale. It was once a cathedral, presided over by a resident bishop, and when dedicated in 1844, the venerable Ivan Venianimoff, Metropolite of Moscow, who had labored for years as priest and bishop at Ounalaska and Sitka, sent richest vestments, plate, and altar furnishings to this church. Since the purchase of Alaska by the United States, the richer and better class of Russians have left, and there are only three families of pure Russian blood to worship in the church. Of the Creoles, or half-breeds, the emancipated serfs, and the converted natives, who once crowded the church on Sundays and saints’ days, not a third remain, and decreasing numbers bow before the altar of St. Michael’s each year.