Читать книгу THE SEA - Its Stirring Story of Adventure, Peril & Heroism - Frederick Whymper - Страница 20

Across the Pacific—Approach to the Golden Gate—The Bay of San Francisco—The City—First Dinner Ashore—Cheap Luxury—San Francisco by Night—The Land of Gold, Grain, and Grapes—Incidents of the Early Days—Expensive Papers—A Lucky Sailor—Chances for English Girls—The Baby at the Play—A capital Port for Seamen—Hospitality of Californians—Victoria, Vancouver Island—The Naval Station at Esquimalt—A Delightful Place—Advice to Intending Emigrants—British Columbian Indians—Their fine Canoes—Experiences of the Writer—The Island on Fire—The Chinook Jargon—Indian “Pigeon-English”—North to Alaska—The Purchase of Russian America by the United States—Results—Life at Sitka—Grand Volcanoes of the Aleutian Islands—The Great Yukon River—American Trading Posts round Bering Sea.

A common course for a vessel crossing the Pacific would be from Australia or New Zealand to San Francisco, California. The mail-steamers follow this route, touching at the Fiji and Hawaiian groups of islands; and the sailor in the Royal Navy is as likely to find this route the orders of his commander as any other. If the writer, in describing the country he knows better than any other, be found somewhat enthusiastic and gushing, he will at least give reasons for his warmth. On this subject, above all others, he writes con amore. He spent over twelve years on the Pacific coasts of America, and out of that time about seven in the Golden State, California.

It has been said, “See Naples, and die!” The reader is recommended to see the glorious Bay of San Francisco before he makes up his mind that there is nought else worthy of note, because he has sailed on the blue waters of the most beautiful of the Mediterranean bays. How well does the writer remember his first sight of the Golden Gate, as the entrance to San Francisco Bay is poetically named! The good steamer on which he had spent some seventy-five days—which had passed over nearly the entire Atlantic, weathered the Horn, and then, with the favouring “trade-winds,” had sailed and steamed up the Pacific with one grand sweep to California, out of sight of land the whole time—was sadly in want of coals when she arrived off that coast, which a dense fog entirely hid from view. The engines were kept going slowly by means of any stray wood on board; valuable spars were sacrificed, and it was even proposed to strip the woodwork out of the steerage, which contained about two hundred men, women, and children. Guns and rockets were fired, but at first with no result, and the prospect was not cheering. But at last the welcome little pilot-boat loomed through the fog, and was soon alongside, and a healthy, jovial-looking pilot came aboard. “You can all have a good dinner to-night ashore,” said that excellent seaman to the passengers, “and the sea shan’t rob you of it.” The fog lifted as the vessel slowly steamed onwards.

On approaching the entrance to the bay, on the right cliffs and rocks are seen, with a splendid beach, where carriages and buggies are constantly passing and repassing. On the top of a rocky bluff, the Seal Rock or “Cliff” House, a popular hotel; below it, in the sea, a couple or so of rocky islets covered with sea-lions, which are protected by a law of the State. To the left, outside some miles, the Farralone Islands, with a capital lighthouse perched on the top of one of them. Entering the Golden Gate, and looking to the right again, the Fort Point Barracks and the outskirts of the city; to the left the many-coloured headlands and cliffs, on whose summits the wild oats are pale and golden in the bright sunlight. Before one, several islands—Alcatraz, bristling with guns, and covered with fortifications; Goat Island, presumably so called because on it there are no goats. Beyond, fifty miles of green water, and a forest of shipping; and a city, the history of which has no parallel on earth. Hills behind, with streets as steep as those of Malta; high land, with spires, and towers, and fine edifices innumerable; and great wharves, and slips, and docks in front of all; with steamships and steam ferry-boats constantly arriving and departing. And now the vessel anchors in the stream, and if not caring to haggle over the half-dollar—a large sum in English ears—which the boatman demands from each passenger who wishes to go ashore, the traveller finds himself in a strange land, and amid a people of whom he will learn to form the very highest estimate.

That first dinner, after the eternal bean-coffee, boiled tea, tinned meats, dried vegetables, and “salt horse” of one’s ship, in a neat restaurant, where it seems everything on earth can be obtained, will surprise most visitors. An irreproachable potage: broiled salmon (the fish is a drug, almost, on the Pacific coasts); turtle steaks, oyster plant, artichokes, and green corn; a California quail “on toast;” grand muscatel grapes, green figs, and a cooling slice of melon; Roquefort cheese, or a very good imitation of it; black coffee, and cigars; native wine on the table; California cognac on demand; service excellent—napkins, hot plates, flowers on the table; price moderate for the luxuries obtained, and no waiter’s fees. The visitor will mentally forgive the boatman of the morning. Has he arrived in the Promised Land, in the Paradise of bon vivants? It seems so. In the evening, he may take a stroll up Montgomery Street, and a good seat at a creditably performed opera may be obtained. Nobody knows better than the sailor and the traveller the splendid luxury of such moments, after a two or three months’ monotonous voyage. And, in good sooth, he generally abandons himself to it. He has earned it, and who shall say him nay? The same evening may be, he will go to a 300-roomed hotel—they have now one of 750 rooms—where, for three dollars (12s. 6d.), he can sup, sleep, breakfast, and dine sumptuously. He will be answered twenty questions for nothing by a civil clerk in the office of the hotel, read the papers for nothing in the reading-room, have a bath—for nothing—and find that it is not the thing to give fees to the waiters. It is a new revelation to many who have stopped before in dozens of first-class English and Continental houses.

“Seen,” says Mr. W. F. Rae,104 “as I saw it for the first time, the appearance of San Francisco is enchanting. Built on a hill-slope, up which many streets run to the top, and illumined as many of these streets were with innumerable gas-lamps, the effect was that of a huge dome ablaze with lamps arranged in lines and circles. Those who have stood in Princes Street at night, and gazed upon the Old Town and Castle of Edinburgh, can form a very correct notion of the fairy-like spectacle. Expecting to find San Francisco a city of wonders, I was not disappointed when it seemed to my eyes a city of magic—such a city as Aladdin might have ordered the genii to create in order to astonish and dazzle the spectator. I was warned by those whom personal experience of the city had taught to distinguish glitter from substance, not to expect that the reality of the morrow would fulfil the promise of the evening. Some of the parts which now appeared the most fascinating were said to be the least attractive when viewed by day. Still, the panorama was deprived of none of its glories by these whispers of well-meant warning.” The present writer has crossed the Bay in the ferry and other boats a hundred times, and on a fine night—and they have about nine months of fine nights in California—he never missed the opportunity of going forward towards the bows of the boat when it approached San Francisco. As Mr. Rae writes, “The full-orbed stars twinkling overhead are almost rivalled by the myriads of gas-lights illuminating the land.” Less than thirty years ago this city of 300,000 souls was but a mission-village, and the few inhabitants of California were mostly demoralised Mexicans, lazy half-breeds, and wretched Indians, who could almost live without work, and, as a rule, did so. Wild cattle roamed at will, and meat was to be had for the asking. The only ships which arrived were like the brig Pilgrim, described by Dana in “Two Years before the Mast,” bound to California for hides and tallow. Now, the tonnage of the shipping of all nations which enters the port of San Francisco is enormous. The discovery made by Marshall, in 1847, first brought about the revolution. “Such is the power of gold.” Now, California depends far more on her corn, and wool, and hides, her wine, her grapes, oranges, and other fruits, and on innumerable industries. Reader, you have eaten bread made from California wheat—it fetches a high price in Liverpool on account of its fine quality; you may have been clothed in California wool, and your boots made of her leather; more than likely you have drunk California wine, of which large quantities are shipped to Hamburgh, where they are watered and doctored for the rest of Europe, and exported under French and German names; your head may have been shampooed with California borax; and your watch-chain was probably, and some of your coin assuredly, made from the gold of the Golden State.

This is not a book on “The Land,” but two or three stories of Californian life in the early days may, however, be forgiven. The first is of a man who had just landed from a ship, and who offered a somewhat seedy-looking customer, lounging on the wharf, a dollar to carry his portmanteau. He got the reply, “I’ll give you an ounce of gold to see you carry it yourself.” The new arrival thought he had come to a splendid country, and shouldered his burden like a man, when the other, a successful gold-finder, not merely gave him his ounce—little less than £4 sterling—but treated him to a bottle of champagne, which cost another ounce. The writer can well believe the story, for he paid two and a half dollars—nearly half a guinea—for an Illustrated London News, and two dollars for a copy of Punch, in the Cariboo mines, in 1863; while a friend—now retired on a competency in England—started a little weekly newspaper, the size of a sheet of foolscap, selling it for one dollar (4s. 2d.) per copy. He was fortunately not merely a competent writer, but a practical printer. He composed his articles on paper first, and then in type; worked the press, delivered them to his subscribers, collected advertisements and payments, and no doubt would have made his own paper—if rags had not been too costly!

A sailor purchased, about the year 1849, in an auction-room, while out on a “spree,” the lots of land on which the Plaza, one of the most important business squares of San Francisco, now stands. He went off again, and after several years cruising about the world, returned to find himself a millionaire. The City Hall stands on that property; it is surrounded by offices, shops, and hotels, and very prettily planted with shrubs, grass-plots, and flowers.

There was a period when females were so scarce in California that the miners and farm-hands, ay, and farmers and proprietors too—a large number of these were old sailors—would travel any distance merely to see one.105 At this present time any decent English housemaid receives twenty dollars (£4) per month, and is “found,” while a superior servant, a first-class cook, or competent housekeeper, gets anything from thirty dollars upwards.

Theatres at San Francisco were once rude buildings of boards and canvas, and the stalls were benches. A story is told that at a performance at such a house quite a commotion was caused by the piercing squall of a healthy baby—brought in by a mother who, perhaps, had not had any amusement for a year or two, and most assuredly had no servant with whom to leave it at home—which was heard above the music. “Here, you fiddlers,” roared out a stalwart man in a red shirt and “gum” boots, just down from the mines, “stop that tune; I haven’t heard a baby cry for several years; it does me good to hear it.” The “one touch of nature” made that rough audience akin, and all rose to their feet, cheering the baby, and insisting that the orchestra must stop, and stop it did until the child was quieted. Then a collection was made—not of coppers and small silver, but of ounces and dollars—to present the child with something handsome as a souvenir of its success.

THE BAY OF SAN FRANCISCO.

San Francisco, as the most important commercial emporium and port of the whole Pacific, has a particular interest to the “man of the sea.” It has societies, “homes,” and bethels for his benefit, and a fine marine hospital. At the Merchants’ Exchange he will find the latest shipping-news and quotations, while many public institutions are open to him, as to all others. Above all, he will find one of the most conscientious and kind, as well as influential, of British Consuls there—and how often the sailor abroad may need his interference, only the sailor and merchant knows—who is also one of the oldest in H.B.M. consular service. No matter his sect, it is represented; San Francisco is full of churches and chapels. If he needs instruction and literary entertainment, he will get it at the splendid Mercantile Library, or admirably-conducted Mechanics’ Institute. There is a capital “Art Association,” with hundreds of members. He will find journalism of a new type: “live,” vigorous, generous, and semi-occasionally vicious. The papers of San Francisco will, however, compare favourably with those of any other American city, short of New York and Boston. The sailor will find the city as advanced in all matters pertaining to modern civilisation, whether good or bad, as any he has ever visited. The naval officer will find admirable clubs, and if of the Royal Navy will most assuredly be put on the books of one or more of them for the period of his stay. He will find, too, that San Francisco hospitality is unbounded, that balls and parties are nowhere better carried out, and that the rising generation of California girls are extremely good-looking, and that the men are stalwart, fine-looking fellows, very unlike the typical bony Yankee, who, by-the-by, is getting very scarce even in his own part of the country, the New England States.

If Jack has been to China, he will recognise the truth of the fact that parts of San Francisco are Chinese as Hong Kong itself. There are Joss-houses, with a big, stolid-looking idol sitting in state, the temple gay with tinsel and china, metal-work and paint, smelling faintly of incense, and strongly of burnt paper. There are Chinese restaurants by the dozen, from the high-class dining-rooms, with balconies, flowers, small banners and inscriptions, down to the itinerant restaurateur with his charcoal-stove and soup-pot. Then there are Chinese theatres, smelling strongly of opium and tobacco, where the orchestra sits at the back of the stage, which is curtainless and devoid of scenery. The dresses of the performers are gorgeous in the extreme. When any new arrangement of properties, &c., is required on the stage, the changes are made before your eyes; as, for example, placing a table to represent a raised balcony, or piling up some boxes to form a castle, and so forth. Their dramas are often almost interminable, for they take the reign of an emperor, for example, and play it through, night after night, from his birth to his death. In details they are very literal, and hold “the mirror up to nature” fully. If the said emperor had special vices, they are displayed on the stage. The music is, to European ears, fearful and wonderful—a mixture of discordant sounds, resembling those of ungreased cart-wheels and railway-whistles, mingled with the rolling of drums and striking of gongs. Some of the streets are lined with Chinese shops, ranging from those of the merchants in tea, silks, porcelain, and lacquered ware—a dignified and polite class of men, who are often highly educated, and speak English extremely well—to those of the cigar-makers, barbers, shoemakers, and laundry-men. Half the laundry-work in San Francisco is performed by John Chinaman. There is one Chinese hotel or caravanserai, which looks as though it might at a stretch accommodate two hundred people, in which 1,200 men are packed.

The historian of the future will watch with interest the advancing or receding waves of population as they move over the surface of the globe, now surging in great waves of resistless force, now peacefully subsiding, leaving hardly a trace behind. The Pacific Mail Steamship Company’s steamers have brought from China to San Francisco as many as 1,200 Chinamen—and, very occasionally, of course, more than that number—on a single trip. The lowest estimate of the number of Chinese in California is 70,000, while they are spread all over the Pacific states and territories, and, indeed, in lesser numbers, all over the American continent. One finds them in New England factories, New York laundries, and Southern plantations. Their reception in San Francisco used to be with brickbats and other missiles, and hooting and jeering, on the part of the lower classes of the community. This is not the place to enter into a discussion on the political side of the question. Suffice it to say that they were and still are a necessity in California, where the expense of reaching the country has kept out “white” labour to an extent so considerable, that it still rules higher than in almost any part of the world. The respectable middle classes would hardly afford servants at all were it not for the Chinese. All the better classes support their claims to full legal and social rights. The Chinamen who come to San Francisco are not coolies, and a large number of them pay their own passages over. When brought over by merchants, or one of the six great Chinese companies, their passage-money is advanced, and they, of course, pay interest for the accommodation. On arrival in California, if they do not immediately go to work, they proceed to the “Company-house” of their particular province, where, in a kind of caravanserai, rough accommodations for sleeping and cooking are afforded. Hardly a better system of organisation could be adopted than that of the companies, who know exactly where each man in their debt is to be found, if he is hundreds of miles from San Francisco. Were it possible to adopt the same system in regard to emigrants from this country, thousands would be glad to avail themselves of the opportunity of proceeding to the Golden State.

One little anecdote, and the Chinese must be left to their fate. It happened in 1869. Two Chinese merchants had been invited by one of the heads of a leading steamship company to visit the theatre, where they had taken a box. The merchants, men of high standing among their countrymen, accepted. Their appearance in front of it was the signal for an outburst of ruffianism on the part of the gallery; it was the “gods” versus the celestials, and for a time the former had it all their own way. In vain Lawrence Barrett, the actor, came forward on the stage to try and appease them. He is supposed to have said that any well-conducted person had a right to his seat in the house. An excited gentleman in the dress-circle reiterated the same ideas, and was rewarded by a torrent of hisses and caterwauling. The Chinamen, alarmed that it might result in violence to them, would have retired, but a dozen gentlemen from the dress-circle and orchestra seats requested them to stay, promising them protection, and the merchants remained. They could see that all the better and more respectable part of the house wished them to remain. After twenty or more minutes of interruption, the gallery was nearly cleared by the police, and the performance allowed to proceed. And yet the very class who are so opposed to the Caucasian complain that he does not spend his money in the country where he makes it, but hoards it up for China. The story explains the actual position of the Chinaman in America to-day. The upper and middle classes, ay, and the honest mechanics who require their assistance, support their claims; the lowest scum of the population persecute, injure, and not unfrequently murder them. Many a poor John Chinaman has, as they say in America, been “found missing.”

The sailor ashore in San Francisco may likely enough have an opportunity of feeling the tremor of an earthquake. As a rule, they have been exceedingly slight, but that of the 21st October, 1868, was a serious affair. Towers and steeples swayed to and fro: tall houses trembled, badly-built wooden houses became disjointed; walls fell. Many buildings, for some time afterwards, showed the effects in cracked walls and plastering, dislocated doors and window-frames. A writer in the Overland Monthly, soon after the event, put the matter forcibly when recalling the great earthquake of Lisbon. He said, “Over the parts of the city where ships anchored twenty years ago, they may anchor again,” for the worst effects were confined to the “made” ground—i.e., land reclaimed from the Bay. Dwellings on the rocky hills were scarcely injured at all, reminding us of the relative fates of the man “who built his house upon a rock” and of him who placed it on the sand. Four persons only were killed on that occasion, all of them from the fall of badly-constructed walls, loose parapets, &c. The alarm in the city was great; excited people rushing wildly through the streets, and frightened horses running through the crowds.

California possesses other ports of importance, but as regards English naval interests in the Pacific, Esquimalt, Vancouver Island, B.C., which has a fine land-locked harbour of deep water, dock, and naval hospital, deserves the notice of the reader. It is often the rendezvous for seven or eight of H.M.’s vessels, from the admiral’s flag-ship to the tiniest steam gun-boat. Victoria, the capital, is three miles off, and has a pretty little harbour itself, not, however, adapted for large vessels. Formerly the colonies of Vancouver Island and British Columbia, the mainland, were separate and distinct colonies; they are now identified under the latter name. Their value never warranted the full paraphernalia of a double colonial government—two governors, colonial secretaries, treasurers, attorney-generals, &c., &c.; for these countries, charming and interesting to the tourist and artist, will only attract population slowly. The resources of British Columbia in gold, timber, coal, fisheries, &c., are considerable; but the long winters on the mainland, and the small quantity of open land, are great drawbacks. Approaching Vancouver Island from the sea, the “inside channel” is entered through the grand opening to the Straits of Fuca, which Cook missed and Vancouver discovered. To the eastward are the rocks and light of Cape Flattery, while the rather low termination of Vancouver Island, thick with timber, is seen to the westward. The scene in the Straits is often lively with steamers and shipping, great men-of-war, sometimes of foreign nationalities; coast packet-boats proceeding not merely to Vancouver Island, but to the ports of Washington Territory, on the American side; timber (called “lumber” always on that side of the world) vessels; colliers proceeding to Nanaimo or Bellingham Bay to the coal-mines; coasting and trading schooners; and Indian canoes, some of them big enough to accommodate sixty or more persons, and carrying a good amount of sail. The Straits have many beauties; and as, approaching the entrance of Esquimalt Harbour, the Olympian range of mountains, snow-covered and rugged, loom in the distance, the scene is grandly beautiful; while in the channel, rocky islets and islands, covered with pine and arbutus, abound. Outside the Straits two lighthouses are placed, to warn the unwary voyager by night. Often those lighthouses may be noted apparently upside down! Mirage is common enough in the Straits of Fuca.

Victoria, in 1862, had at least 12,000 or 15,000 people, mostly drawn thither by the fame of the Cariboo mines, on the mainland of British Columbia. Not twenty per cent. ever reached those mines. When ships arrived in the autumn, it was utterly useless to attempt the long journey of about 600 miles, partly by steamer, but two-thirds of which must be accomplished on foot or horseback, or often mule-back, over rugged mountain-paths, through swamps and forests. Consequently, a large number had to spend the winter in idleness; and in the spring, in many cases, their resources were exhausted. Many became tired of the colony; “roughing it” was not always the pleasant kind of thing they had imagined, and so they went down to California, or left for home. Others were stuck fast in the colony, and many suffered severe privations; although, so long as they could manage to live on salmon alone, they could obtain plenty from the Indians, who hawked it about the streets for a shilling or two shillings apiece—the latter for a very large fish. The son of a baronet at one time might be seen breaking stones for a living in Victoria; and unless men had a very distinct calling, profession, or trade, they had to live on their means or have a very rough time of it.

These remarks are not made to deter adventurous spirits from going abroad; but we would advise them to “look well before they leap.” But how utterly unfitted for mining-work were the larger part of the young men who had travelled so far, only to be disappointed. There was no doubt of the gold being there: two hundred ounces of the precious metal have been “washed out” in an eight hours’ “shift” (a “shift” is the same as a “watch” on board ship); and this was kept up for many days in succession, the miners working day and night. But that mine had been three years in process of development, and only one of the original proprietors was among the lucky number of shareholders. A day or so before the first gold had been found—“struck” is the technical expression—his credit was exhausted, and he had begged vainly for flour, &c., to enable him to live and work. The ordinary price of a very ordinary meal was two dollars; and it will be seen that, unless employed, or simply travelling for pleasure, it was a ruinous place to stop in. Fancy, then, the condition of perhaps as many as 4,000 unemployed men, out of a total of 7,000 men, on the various creeks, a good half of whom were of the middle and upper classes at home. But for one happy fact, that beef—which, as the miners said, packed itself into the mines (in other words, the cattle were driven in from a distance of hundreds of miles)—was reasonably cheap, hundreds of them must have starved. Everything—from flour, tea, sugar, bacon, and beans, to metal implements and machinery—had to be packed there on the backs of mules, and cost from fifty cents and upwards per pound for the mere cost of transportation. Tea was ten shillings a pound, flour and sugar a dollar a pound, and so on. Those who fancy that gold-mining, and especially deep gravel-mining, as in Cariboo, is play-work, may be told that it is perhaps the hardest, as it is certainly the most risky and uncertain, work in the world; and that it requires machinery, expensive tools, &c., which, in places like Cariboo, cost enormous sums to supply. If labour was to be employed—good practical miners, carpenters, &c. (much of the machinery was of wood)—received, at that period, ten to sixteen dollars per day. This digression may be pardoned, as the sea is so intimately bound up with questions of emigration. Apart from this, from personal observation, the writer knows that quite a proportion of miners have been sailors, and, in many cases, deserted their ships. In the “early days” of Australia, California, and British Columbia, this was eminently the case.

A large proportion of the sailors in the Royal Navy have, or will at some period, pass some time on the Pacific station, in which case, they will inevitably go to Vancouver Island, where there is much to interest them.106 They will find Victoria a very pretty little town, with Government house, cathedral, churches and chapels, a mechanics’ institute, a theatre, good hotels and restaurants—the latter generally in French hands. He will find a curious mixture of English and American manners and customs, and a very curious mixture of coinage—shillings being the same as quarter-dollars, while crowns are only the value of dollars (5s., against 4s. 2d.). Some years ago the island system was different from that of the mainland; on the latter, florins were equal to half-dollars (which they are, nearly), while on the island they were 37½ cents only (1s. 7½d.). The Hudson’s Bay Company, which has trading-posts throughout British Columbia, took advantage of the fact to give change for American money, on their steamers, in English florins, obtaining them on the island. They thus made nearly twenty-five per cent. in their transaction, besides getting paid the passenger’s fare. Yet the traveller, strange to say, did not lose by this, for, on landing at New Westminster, he found that what was rated at a little over eighteenpence on Vancouver Island, had suddenly, after travelling only seventy miles or so, increased in value to upwards of two shillings!

THE BRITISH CAMP: SAN JUAN.

Outside Victoria there are many pleasant drives and walks: to “The Arm,” where, amid a charming landscape, interspersed with pines and natural fir woods, wild flowers, and mossy rocks, there is a pretty little rapid, or fall; to Saanich, where the settlers’ homesteads have a semi-civilised appearance, half of the houses being of squared logs, but comfortable withal inside, and where a rude plenty reigns; or to Beacon Hill, where there is an excellent race-course and drive, which commands fine views up and down the Straits. In sight is San Juan Island, over which England and America once squabbled, while the two garrisons which occupied it fraternised cordially, and outvied with each other in hospitality. The island—rocky, and covered with forest and underbrush, with a farm or two, made by clearing away the big trees, with not a little difficulty, and burning and partially uprooting the stumps—does not look a worthy subject for international differences. But the fact is, that it commands the Straits to some extent. However, all that is over now, and it is England’s property by diplomatic arrangement. There are other islands, nearly as large, in the archipelago which stretches northward up the Gulf of Georgia, which have not a single human inhabitant, and have never been visited, except by some stray Indians, miners, or traders who have gone ashore to cook a meal or camp for the night.

Any one who has travelled by small canoes on the sea must remember those happy camping-times, when, often wet, and always hungry and tired, the little party cautiously selected some sheltered nook or specially good beach, and then paddled with a will ashore. No lack of drift-wood or small trees on that coast, and no lord of the manor to interfere with one taking it. A glorious fire is soon raised, and the cooking preparations commenced. Sometimes it is only the stereotyped tea—frying-pan bread (something like the Australian “damper,” only baked before the fire), or “slapjacks” (i.e., flour-and-water pancakes), fried bacon, and boiled Chili beans; but ofttimes it can be varied by excellent fish, game, bear-meat, venison, or moose-meat, purchased from some passing Indians, or killed by themselves. It is absurd to suppose that “roughing it” need mean hardship and semi-starvation all the time. Not a bit of it! On the northern coasts now being described, one may often live magnificently, and most travellers learn instinctively to cook, and make the most of things. Nothing is finer in camp than a roast fish—say a salmon—split and gutted, and stuck on a stick before the fire, not over it. A few dozen turns, and you have a dish worthy of a prince. Or a composition stew—say of deer and bear-meat and beaver’s tail, well seasoned, and with such vegetables as you may obtain there; potatoes from some seaside farm—and there are such on that coast, where the settler is as brown as his Indian wife—or compressed vegetables, often taken on exploring expeditions. Or, again, venison dipped in a thick batter and thrown into a pan of boiling-hot fat, making a kind of meat fritter, with not a drop of its juices wasted. Some of these explorers and miners are veritable chefs. They can make good light bread in the woods from plain flour, water, and salt, and ask no oven but a frying-pan. They will make beans, of a kind only given to horses at home, into a delicious dish, by boiling them soft—a long job, generally done at the night camp—and then frying them with bread-crumbs and pieces of bacon in the morning, till they are brown and crisp.

It was at one of these camps, on an island in the Gulf of Georgia, that a camp fire spread to some grass and underbrush, mounted with lightning rapidity a steep slope, and in a few minutes the forest at the top was ablaze. The whole island was soon in flames! For hours afterwards the flames and smoke could be seen. No harm was done; for it is extremely unlikely that island will be inhabited for the next five hundred years. But forest fires in partially inhabited districts are more serious, or when near trails or roads. In the long summer of Vancouver Island, where rain, as in California, is almost unknown, these fires, once started, may burn for weeks—ay, months.

The Indians of this part of the coast, of dozens of petty tribes, all speaking different languages, or, at all events, varied dialects, are not usually prepossessing in appearance, but the male half-breeds are often fine-looking fellows, and the girls pretty. The sailor will be interested in their cedar canoes, which on Vancouver Island are beautifully modelled. A first-class clipper has not more graceful lines. They are always cut from one log, and are finely and smoothly finished, being usually painted black outside, and finished with red ornamental work within. They are very light and buoyant, and will carry great weights; but one must be careful to avoid rocks on the coast, or “snags” in the rivers, for any sudden concussion will split them all to pieces. When on the Vancouver Island Exploring Expedition, a party of men found themselves suddenly deposited in a swift-running stream, from the canoe having almost parted in half, after touching on a sunken rock or log. All got to shore safely, and it took about half a day of patching and caulking to make her sufficiently river-worthy (why not say “river-worthy” as well as “sea-worthy?”) to enable them to reach camp. The writer, in 1864, came down from the extreme end of Bute Inlet—an arm of the sea on the mainland of British Columbia—across the Gulf of Georgia (twenty miles of open sea), coasting southwards to Victoria, V.I., the total voyage being 180 miles, in an open cedar canoe, only large enough for four or five people. The trip occupied five days. But while there is some risk in such an undertaking, there is little in a voyage in the great Haidah canoes of Queen Charlotte’s Island (north of Vancouver Island). These canoes are often eighty feet long, but are still always made from a single log, the splendid pines of that coast107 affording ample opportunity. They have masts, and carry as much sail as a schooner, while they can be propelled by, say, forty or fifty paddles, half on either side, wielded by as many pairs of brawny arms. The savage Haidahs are a powerful race, of whom not much is known. They, however, often come to Victoria, or the American ports on Puget Sound, for purposes of trading.

“How,” it might be asked, “does the trade communicate with so many varieties of natives, all speaking different tongues?” The answer is that there is a jargon, a kind of “pigeon-English,” which is acquired, more or less, by almost all residents on the coast for purposes of intercourse with their Indian servants or others. This is the Chinook jargon, a mixture of Indian, English, and French—the latter coming from the French Canadian voyageurs, often to be found in the employ of the Hudson’s Bay Company, as they were formerly in the defunct North-West Company. Some of the words used have curious origins. Thus, an Englishman is a “King-George-man,” because the first explorers, Cook, Vancouver, and others, arrived there during the Georgian era. An American is a “Boston-man,” because the first ships from the United States which visited that coast hailed from Boston. This lingo has no grammar, and a very few hundred words satisfies all its requirements. Young ladies, daughters of Hudson’s Bay Company’s employés in Victoria, rattle it off as though it were their mother-tongue. “Ikte mika tikkee?” (“What do you want?”) is probably the first query to an Indian who arrives, and has something to sell. “Nika tikkee tabac et la biscuit” (“I want some tobacco and biscuit”). “Cleush; mika potlatch salmon?” (“Good; will you give me a salmon?”). “Naāāāwitka, Se-ām” (“Yes, sir”); and for a small piece of black cake-tobacco and two or three biscuits (sailors’ “hard bread” or “hard tack”) he will exchange a thirty-pound or so salmon.

The Chinook jargon, in skilful hands, is susceptible of much. But it is not adapted for sentiment or poetry, although a naval officer, once stationed on the Pacific side, did evolve an effusion, which the sailor is almost sure to hear there. It needed, however, a fair amount of English to make it read pleasantly. Old residents and visitors will recognise some of its stanzas:—

“Oh! be not quass of nika;

Thy seahoose turn on me;

For thou must but hyas cumtux,

That I hyas tikkee thee!

Nika potlatch hyu ictas;

Nika makook sappalell

Of persicees and la biscuit,

I will give thee all thy fill!”

which, addressed to a “sweet Klootchman,” a “forest maiden,” means, that loving her so much, all that he had was hers. Much greater absurdities have been put in plain English.

A bishop of British Columbia was, however, hardly so successful; not being himself a student of Chinook, the entire vocabulary of which would have taken him rather less time to learn than the barest elements of Latin, he engaged an interpreter, through whom to address the Indians. The latter was perfectly competent to say all that can be said in Chinook, but was rather nonplussed when his lordship commenced his address by “Children of the forest!” He scratched his head and looked at the bishop, who, however, was determined, and commenced once more, “Children of the forest!” The interpreter knew that it must make nonsense, but he was cornered, and had to do it. And this is what he said: “Tenass man copa stick!”—literally, “Little men among the stumps” (or trunks of trees). The writer will not comment upon the subject here, more than to say that Chinook is not adapted for the translation of Milton or Shakespeare; while the simplest story or parable of the Scriptures must be unintelligible, or worse, when attempted in that jargon.

The only other settlement on Vancouver Island which has any direct interest to the Royal Navy, is Nanaimo, the coal-mines of which yield a large amount of the fuel used by the steamships when in that neighbourhood and about all that is used on the island; a quantity is also shipped to San Francisco. The mines are worked by English companies, and are so near the coast that, by means of a few tramways and locomotives, the coal is conveyed to the wharves, where it can be at once put on board. It is a pleasant little place, and many an English miner would be glad to be as well off as the men settled there, who earn more money than at home, own their cottages and plots of land, obtain most of their supplies cheaper than in England, and have a beautiful gulf before them, in summer, at least, as calm as a lake, on which boating and canoeing is all the rage in the evenings or on holidays.

The Pacific Station is an extensive one, for it commences at the most northernmost parts of Bering Sea, and extends below Cape Horn. It embraces the Alaskan coast. Many English men-of-war have visited these latitudes, principally, however, in the cause of science and discovery.

In the old days, when the colony of Russian America was little better than are many parts of Siberia—convict settlements—the few Government officials and officers of the Russian Fur Company were, it may well be believed, only too ready to welcome any change in the monotony of their existence, and a new arrival, in the shape of a ship from some foreign port, was a day to be remembered, and of which to make much. The true Russians are naturally hospitably and sociably inclined, and such times were the occasion for balls, dinners, and parties to any extent. The writer well remembers his first visit to Sitka, which, although the capital of Alaska, is situated on an island off the mainland. On approaching the small and partially land-locked harbour, a mountain of no inconsiderable height, wooded to the top, appeared in view, and below it a little town of highly-coloured roofs, in the middle of which rose a picturesque rock, surmounted by a semi-fortified castle, which, in the distance at least, looked most imposing. Near this, but separated by a stockade, was the village of the Kalosh Indians, a powerful tribe, who had at times, as the members of the expedition learned, given a considerable amount of trouble to the Russians—in 1804 they murdered nearly the whole of the Russian garrison—while beyond on every side were rocky shores and wooded heights. An old hulk or two, lying on the beach below the old castle, itself principally built of wood, the residence of the Governor of Russian America, then Prince Maksutoff, which had been roofed in and were used for magazines of stores, and some rather shaky pile-wharfs, made up the town.

Soon was experienced the warmth of a Russian welcome, and for a week afterwards a succession of gaieties followed, which were so very gay that they would have killed most men, unless they had been fortified with a long sea-trip just before. Every Russian seemed to wish the party to consider all that he had at their service; the samovar boiled up everywhere as they approached; the little lunch-table of anchovies, and pickles, rye-bread, butter, cheese, and so forth, with the everlasting vodka, was everywhere ready, and except duty called, no one was obliged to go off at night to the three vessels comprising the expedition to which the writer was attached, for the best bed in the house was always at his service. There was only one bar-room in the whole town, and there only a kind of lager-bier and vodka were to be obtained. When the country was, for a consideration of 7,250,000 dollars, transferred to the United States, there was a “rush” from Victoria and San Francisco. Keen Hebrew traders, knowing that furs up country bore a merely nominal price, and that Sitka was the great entrepôt for their collection—a million dollars’ worth being frequently gathered there at a time—thought they would be able to buy them for next to nothing still. Parcels of land in the town, which had not at the utmost a greater value than a few hundred dollars, now ran up to fabulous prices; 10,000 dollars was asked for a log house! Hotels, “saloons”—i.e., bar-rooms à l’Américaine—German lager-bier cellars, and barbers’ shops sprang up like mushrooms; a newspaper-office was opened, and everything reminded one of the sudden growth of mining-towns in the early days of California. Alas! everything else went up in proportion, excepting salmon, which must be a drug on that coast for many centuries to come;108 provisions greatly 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. The lofty Andes tower to the skies in the distance, forming a grand background, and a fruitful, cultivated, and peaceful country surrounds it.

Valparaiso—the “Vale of Paradise”—was probably named by the early Spanish adventurers in this glowing style because any coast whatever is delightful to the mariner who has been long at sea. Otherwise, the title would seem to be of an exaggerated nature. The bay is of a semi-circular form, surrounded by steep hills, rising to the height of near 2,000 feet, sparingly covered with stunted shrubs and thinly-strewed grass. The town is built along a narrow strip of land, between the cliffs and the sea; and, as this space is limited in extent, the buildings have straggled up the sides and bottoms of the numerous ravines which intersect the hills. A suburb—the Almendral, or Almond Grove—much larger than the town proper, spreads over a low sandy plain, about half a mile broad, bordering the bay. In the summer months—i.e., November to March—the anchorage is safe and pleasant; but in the wintry months, notably June and July, gales are prevalent from the north, in which direction it is open to the sea.

THE PORT OF VALPARAISO.

Captain Basil Hall, R.N., gave some interesting accounts of life in Chili in his published Journal,110 and they are substantially true at the present day. He reached Valparaiso at Christmas, which corresponds in climate to our midsummer. Crowds thronged the streets to enjoy the cool air in the moonlight; groups of merry dancers were seen at every turn; singers were bawling out old Spanish romances to the tinkle of the guitar; wild-looking horsemen pranced about in all directions, stopping to talk with their friends, but never dismounting; and harmless bull-fights, in which the bulls were only teased, not killed, served to make the people laugh. The whole town was en carnival. “In the course of the first evening of these festivities,” says Captain Hall, “while I was rambling about the streets with one of the officers of the ship, our attention was attracted, by the sound of music, to a crowded pulperia, or drinking-house. We accordingly entered, and the people immediately made way and gave us seats at the upper end of the apartment. We had not sat long before we were startled by the loud clatter of horses’ feet, and in the next instant, a mounted peasant dashed into the company, followed by another horseman, who, as soon as he reached the centre of the room, adroitly wheeled his horse round, and the two strangers remained side by side, with their horses’ heads in opposite directions. Neither the people of the house, nor the guests, nor the musicians, appeared in the least surprised by this visit; the lady who was playing the harp merely stopped for a moment to remove the end of the instrument a few inches further from the horses’ feet, and the music and conversation went on as before. The visitors called for a glass of spirits, and having chatted with their friends around them for two minutes, stooped their heads to avoid the cross-piece of the doorway, and putting spurs to their horses’ sides, shot into the streets as rapidly as they had entered; the whole being done without discomposing the company in the smallest degree.” The same writer speaks of the common people as generally very temperate, while their frankness and hospitality charmed him. Brick-makers, day-labourers, and washerwomen invited him and friends into their homes, and their first anxiety was that the sailors might “feel themselves in their own house;” then some offering of milk, bread, or spirits. However wretched the cottage or poor the fare, the deficiency was never made more apparent by apologies; with untaught politeness, the best they had was placed before them, graced with a hearty welcome. Their houses are of adobes, i.e., sun-dried bricks, thatched in with broad palm-leaves, the ends of which, by overhanging the walls, afford shade from the scorching sun and shelter from the rain. Their mud floors have a portion raised seven or eight inches above the level of the rest, and covered with matting, which forms the couch for the invariable siesta. In the cottages Hall saw young women grinding baked corn in almost Scriptural mills of two stones each. From the coarse flour obtained, the poor people make a drink called ulpa. In the better class of houses he was offered Paraguay tea, or mattee, an infusion of a South American herb. The natives drink it almost boiling hot. It is drawn up into the mouth through a silver pipe: however numerous the company, all use the same tube, and to decline on this account is thought the height of rudeness. The people of Chili, generally, are polite to a degree; and Jack ashore will have no cause to complain, provided he is as polished as are they. He generally contrives, however, to make himself popular, while his little escapades of wildness are looked upon in the light of long pent-up nature bursting forth.