Gulf and Glacier; or, The Percivals in Alaska

Emboldened by this declaration of war, a deacon declared that it was an insult to religion and its founder, to ring such a bell. It was the laughing-stock of the village, he added, and its flat discords were but a signal for derision on the part of every scoffer and backslider in the parish.

Other evidence of convincing character was given by various members of the congregation; the bell was tried, condemned and sentenced; and more than one face showed its relief as good old Dr. Manson, the pastor, instructed the sexton publicly to omit the customary call to services on the following Sabbath.

“I hope,” he further said, looking around gravely on his people, “that you will all make more than usual effort to be in your pews promptly at half-past ten.”

For a time the members of the First Congregational Society of North Penfield were noticeably and commendably prompt in their attendance upon all services. They were so afraid that they should be late that they arrived at the meeting-house a good while before the opening hymn. Dr. Manson was gratified, the village wits were put down, and the old bell hung peacefully in the belfry over the attentive worshipers, as silent as they. Snow and rain painted its surface with vivid tints, and the swallows learned that they could perch upon it without danger of its being jerked away from their slender feet.

There was no other meeting-house in the town, and as the nearest railroad was miles away, the sound of a clear-toned bell floating down from the summer sky, or sending its sweet echoes vibrating through a wintry twilight in an oft-repeated mellow call to prayers, was almost forgotten.

Gradually the congregation fell into the habit of dropping in of a Sunday morning while the choir were singing the voluntary, or remaining in the vestibule where, behind the closed doors, they had a bit of gossip while they waited for the rustle within which announced the completion of the pastor’s long opening prayer. It became a rare occurrence for all to be actually settled in their pews when the text was given out. The same tardiness was noticeable in the Friday evening meetings; and, odd to say, a certain spirit of indolence seemed to creep over the services themselves.

Whereas in former days the farmers and their wives were wont to come bustling briskly into the vestry while the bell was ringing, and the cheerful hum of voices arose in the informal handshaking “before meeting,” soon quieting and then blending joyously in the stirring strains of “How Firm a Foundation,” or “Onward, Christian Soldier,” followed by one brief, earnest prayer or exhortation after another, in quick succession, in these later days it was quite different. It was quite difficult to carry the first hymn through, as there were rarely enough good singers present to sustain the air. Now it was the pianist who was late, now the broad-shouldered mill-owner, whose rich bass was indeed a “firm foundation” for all timid sopranos and altos; now the young man who could sing any part with perfect confidence, and often did wander over all four in the course of a single verse, lending a helping hand, so to speak, wherever it was needed.

The halting and dispirited hymn made the members self-distrustful and melancholy at the outset. There were long pauses during which all the sluggish or tired-out brothers and sisters nodded in the heated room, and the sensitive and nervous clutched shawl fringes and coat buttons in agonized fidgets. The meetings became so dull and heavy that slight excuses were sufficient to detain easy-going members at home, especially the young people. It was a rare sight now to see bright eyes and rosy cheeks in the room. The members discussed the dismal state of affairs, which was only too plain, and laid the blame on the poor old minister.

“His sermons haven’t the power they had once, Brother Stimpson,” remarked Deacon Fairweather, shaking his head sadly, as they trudged home from afternoon service one hot Sunday in August. “There’s somethin’ wantin’. I don’t jestly know what.”

“He ain’t pussonal enough. You want to be pussonal to do any good in a parish. There’s Squire Radbourne, now. Everybody knows he sets up Sunday evenin’s and works on his law papers. I say there ought to be a reg’lar downright discourse on Sabbath breakin’.”

“Thet’s so, thet’s so,” assented the deacon. “And Brother Langworth hasn’t been nigh evenin’ meetin’ for mor’n six weeks.”

From one faulty member to another they wandered; forgetting, as they jogged along the familiar path side by side, talking eagerly, the banks of golden-rod beside them, the blue sky and fleecy clouds above, the blue hills in the distance, and all the glory and brightness of the blessed summer day.

The next morning, North Penfield experienced a shock. The white-haired pastor, overcome by extra labor, increasing cares, the feebleness of age, or a combination of all these causes, had sunk down upon his bed helplessly, on his return from the little white meeting-house the afternoon before, never to rise again until he should leave behind him the weary earth-garments that now but hindered his slow and painful steps.

The townspeople were greatly concerned, for the old man was dearly loved by young and old. Those who of late had criticised now remembered Dr. Manson’s palmy days, when teams came driving in from Penfield Center, “The Hollow,” and two or three other adjoining settlements, to listen to the impassioned discourses of the young clergyman.

A meeting of the committee was called at once, to consider the affairs of the bereft church – for bereft they felt it to be – and take steps for an immediate supply during the vacancy of the pulpit. Two months later Dr. Manson passed peacefully away, and there was one more mound in the little churchyard.

The snows of early December already lay deep on road and field before the North Penfield Parish, in a regularly called and organized meeting, was given to understand that a new minister was settled. Half a dozen candidates had preached to the people, but only one had met with favor.

Harold Olsen was a Norwegian by parentage, though born in America. Tall and straight as the pines of the Norseland, with clear, flashing blue eyes and honest, winning smile, the congregation began to love him before he was half through his first sermon. His sweet-faced little wife made friends with a dozen people between services; by nightfall the question was practically settled, and so was the Rev. Harold Olsen, “the new minister,” as he was called for years afterward.

At the beginning of the second week in December, Harold ascended the pulpit stairs of the North Penfield meeting-house, feeling very humble and very thankful in the face of his new duties. He loved his work, his people, his wife and his God; and here he was, with them all at once.

Sleigh bells jingled merrily outside the door; one family after another came trooping in, muffled to the ears, and moved demurely up the central or side aisles to their high-backed pews.

The sunlight found its way in under the old-fashioned fan-shaped blinds at the tops of the high windows, and rested upon gray hair and brown, on figures bowed with grief and age, on restless, eager children, on the pulpit itself, and finally upon the golden-edged leaves of the old Bible.

Still the people came in. A hymn was given out and sung. While Harold was lifting his soul to Heaven on the wings of his prayer, he could not help hearing the noise of heavy boots in the meeting-house entry, stamping the snow. His fervent “Amen” was the signal for a draft of cold air from the doors, followed by a dozen late comers.

After the sermon, which was so simple and straightforward that it went directly to the hearts of the people, he was eager to confer with his deacons for a few minutes.

“The bell didn’t ring this morning, Brother Fairweather. What was the matter?” he asked, after a warm hand-grasp all round.

“Why, the fact is, sir, there ain’t no bell.”

“That is, none to speak of,” put in Deacon Stimpson apologetically. “There’s a bell up there, but it got so cracked an’ out o’ tune that nobody could stan’ it, sick or well.”

The Rev. Harold Olsen’s eyes twinkled.

“How long have you gone without this unfortunate bell?”

“Oh! a matter o’ two or three years, I guess.”

“Weddings, funerals, and all?”

“Well, yes,” reluctantly, “I b’lieve so. I did feel bad when we follored the minister to his grave without any tollin’ – he was master fond o’ hearing that bell, fust along – but there, it couldn’t be helped. Public opinion was against that ’ere particular bell, and we jes’ got laughed at, ringin’ it. So we stopped, and here we be, without it.”

Mr. Olsen’s blue eyes sparkled again as he caught his little wife’s glance, half-amused, half-pained. He changed the subject, and went among his parishioners, inquiring kindly for the absent ones, and making new friends.

At a quarter before three (the hour for afternoon service) he entered the meeting-house again. The sexton was asleep in one of the pews. He was roused by a summons so startling that a repetition was necessary before he could comprehend its import.

“R-ring the bell!” he gasped incredulously. “W-why, sir, it hasn’t been rung for” —

“Never mind, Mr. Bedlow,” interrupted Harold, with his pleasant smile. “Let’s try it to-day, just for a change.”

Harold had attended one or two prayer meetings, as well as Sunday services, and – had an idea.

On reaching the entry, the sexton shivered in the cold air, and pointed helplessly to a hole in the ceiling, through which the bell rope was intended to play.

“I put it up inside out of the way, so’s the boys couldn’t get it,” he chattered. “D-don’t you think, sir, we’d better wait till” —

But it was no use to talk to empty air. The new minister had gone, and presently returned with a long, heavy bench, which he handled as easily as if it were a lady’s work-basket.

“Just steady it a bit,” he asked; and Mr. Bedlow, with conscientious misgivings as to the propriety of his assisting at a gymnastic performance on Sunday, did as he was bid.

Up went the minister like a cat; and presently down came the knotted end of the rope. “Now, let’s have a good, hearty pull, Mr. Bedlow.”

The sexton grasped the rope and pulled. There was one frightened, discordant outcry from the astonished bell; and there stood poor Mr. Bedlow with about three yards of detached rope in his hands. It had broken just above the point where it passed through the flooring over his head.

“Now, sir,” expostulated the sexton.

“Here, Dick!” called Mr. Olsen, to a bright-faced little fellow who had put his head in at the door and was regarding these unwonted proceedings with round-eyed astonishment; “won’t you run over to my house and ask my wife for that long piece of clothes-line that hangs up in the kitchen closet?”

Dick was gone like a flash, his curiosity excited to the highest pitch.

“What does he want it for?” asked pretty Olga Olsen, hurrying to produce the required article.

“Don’t know,” panted Dick. “He’s got Mr. Bedlow – in the entry – an’ he sent for a rope, double quick!”

With which bewildering statement he tore out of the house and back to the church.

Five minutes later the population of North Penfield were astounded by hearing a long-silent, but only too familiar voice.

“It’s that old cracked bell!” exclaimed half a hundred voices at once, in as many families. “Do let’s go to meetin’ an’ see what’s the matter.”

The afternoon’s congregation was, in fact, even larger than the morning’s. Harold noted it with quiet satisfaction, and gave out as his text the first verse of the sixty-sixth Psalm.

At the close of his brief sermon he paused a moment, then referred to the subject in all their thoughts, speaking in no flippant or jesting tone, but in a manner that showed how sacredly important he considered the matter.

“I have been pained to notice,” he said gravely, “the tardiness with which we begin our meetings. It is perfectly natural that we should be late, when there is no general call, such as we have been accustomed to hear from childhood. I do not blame anybody in the least. I do believe that we have all grown into a certain sluggishness, both physical and spiritual, in our assembling together, as a direct consequence of the omission of those chimes which to us and our fathers have always spoken but one blessed word – ‘Come!’ I believe,” he continued, looking about over the kindly faces before him, “I believe you agree with me that something should be done. Don’t think me too hasty or presuming in my new pastorate, if I add that it seems to me vitally important to take action at once. Our bell is not musical, it is true, but its tones, cracked and unmelodious as they are, will serve to remind us of our church home, its duties and its pleasures. On Tuesday evening we will hold a special meeting in this house to consider the question of purchasing a new bell, to take the place of the old. The Prudential Committee, and all who are interested in the subject are urged to be present. Let us pray.”

It was a wonderful “season,” that Tuesday evening conference. The cracked bell did its quavering best for a full twenty minutes before the hour appointed, to call the people together; and no appeal could have been more irresistible.

Two thirds of the sum required was raised that night. For ten days more the old bell rang on every possible occasion, until it became an accusing voice of conscience to the parish. Prayer meetings once more began sharp on the hour, and proceeded with old-time vigor. The interest spread until a real revival was in progress before the North Penfield Society were fairly aware of the change. Still the “bell fund” lacked fifty dollars of completion.

On the evening of the twentieth of December, in the midst of a furious storm, a knock was heard at the parsonage, and lo, at the hastily opened door stood Squire Radbourne, powdered with snowflakes, and beaming like a veritable Santa Claus.

“I couldn’t feel easy,” he announced, after he had been relieved of coat and furs, and seated before the blazing fire, “to have next Sunday go by without a new bell on the meeting-house. We must have some good hearty chimes on that morning, sure; it’s the twenty-fifth, you know. So here’s a little Christmas present to the parish – or the Lord, either way you want to put it.”

The crisp fifty dollar note he laid down before the delighted couple was all that was needed.

Harold made a quick calculation – he had already selected a bell at a foundry a hundred miles away – and sitting down at his desk, wrote rapidly.

“I’ll mail your letter,” said the squire. “It’s right on my way – or near enough. Let’s get it off to-night, to save time.”

And away he trudged again, through the deepening drifts and the blur of the white storm.

On Saturday evening, after all the village people were supposed to be abed and asleep, two dark figures might have been seen moving to and fro in the old meeting-house, with a lantern. After some irregular movements in the entry, the light appeared in the belfry, and a little later, one queer, flat, brassy note, uncommonly like the voice of the cracked bell, rang out on the night air. Then there was absolute silence; and before long the meeting-house was locked up and left to itself again on Christmas Eve – alone, with the wonder-secret of a new song in its faithful heart, waiting to break forth in praise of God at dawn of day.

How the people started that fair Christmas morning, as the sweet, silvery notes fell on their ears! They hastened to the church; they pointed to the belfry where the bell swung to and fro in a joyous call of “Come! come! come! come!”

They listened in rapt silence, and some could not restrain their sobs, while others with grateful tears in their eyes looked upon the old, rusty, cracked bell that rested, silent, on the church floor; and as they looked, and even passed their hands lovingly over its worn sides, they thanked God for its faithful service and the good work it had wrought – and for the glad hopes that filled that blessed Christmas Day.

CHAPTER VII.

SOLOMON BARANOV

“All ashore!” sung out Tom as the Queen touched the wharf at Fort Wrangell, at nine o’clock the next morning. “Come on, all of you. We have four hours here, the captain says.”

Mounting the rail for a jump, the boy brought upon himself a sharp rebuke from the officer; but the ship was soon safely moored and the gangplank run down to the wharf.

The excursionists straggled ashore in twos and threes, and began an eager inspection of their first Alaskan town.

The Percivals and their friends stroll down the single street of the village, which borders the shore with a row of low wooden houses.

Here are three or four squaws in gaudy blankets, crouching on a little wooden platform in front of their hut. Their favorite position is that of a seal, or a pussy cat – half-reclining, face downward. Spread out on the platform are baskets made of cedar-root, fiber and bark; carved wooden knives and forks; spoons of horn; little stone images, silver bracelets, and other curiosities of home manufacture.

Mr. Percival purchased one or two of these trinkets for friends at home, and continued his walk, followed by a pack of yelping dogs.

A singular object now came in view – a pole about twenty feet tall and two feet in diameter, carved in strange and fantastic shapes. There were the figures of a bear, a raven, a fish and a frog, with a grotesque human head at the top of all. This was one of the famous “totem poles,” which indicate the tribe to which the owner belongs, and generally display an image of one or more ancestors. A thousand good American dollars could hardly purchase this ugly, worn, weather-beaten old pole from the natives who live in squalid poverty in the log hut behind it.

Here was another totem pole belonging to the chief of the Bear tribe. It had simply the figure of a crouching bear on the top, with prints of his feet carved in the wood leading up to it. Another had a raven in the same way. There was a huge wooden wolf set on the tomb of a prominent member of the “Wolves” – once a powerful Alaskan tribe.

“Do you suppose they would let us go inside their house?” whispered Adelaide to her brother, glancing timidly in at one of the open front doors.

“I’ll see,” he replied, and soon returned, laughing. “They don’t object in the least,” he said. “They seem used to visitors.”

Entering the door, the party found themselves in a large square room, which comprised the whole interior of the house. The floor was of earth, beaten hard, but a wooden platform, raised about two feet, ran around three sides. In the exact center was a smouldering fire of logs, the smoke finding its way out through a hole in the roof.

“Where do you sleep?” asked Rossiter.

Only one of the half-dozen natives who were seated around the fire could understand English.

“Bed,” she said, pointing to a heap of blankets lying on the raised platform in one corner of the room.

On the dingy walls of the little hut there hung a colored print of the Saviour’s face. All around were the strange heathen carvings and rude implements of the Alaskan native. The four posts which supported the roof were “totems,” representing in hideous caricature the tribe to which the inhabitants of the hut belonged. The natives themselves, slow of movement and speech, their dull eyes hardly glancing at the strangers, were grouped on the raised margin of the floor.

I said the faces were dull. There was one exception. A young mother bent over a solemn brown baby who lay, round-eyed and contented, in her lap. The girl’s eyes shone with mother-love; her dark hand was gentle as she smoothed Baby’s tumbled little blanket, and looked up shyly and proudly at the new-comers.

The child in its mother’s bosom; the Christ face upon the wall: these were the two points of light in that shadowy home. Christ, who came as a little child to Bethlehem, had sent a baby to Fort Wrangell, and a thought, vague and unformed though it was, of the Saviour whose face looked down upon the little group, from its rude frame upon the wall.

The girls waved their hands to the round little brown berry of a baby, and the mother laughed and looked pleased, just as a New England mother would. Mr. Selborne left in her hand a silver coin – “two bits,” everybody in Alaska called a quarter – and said good-by.

“What tribe do they belong to?” asked Randolph, as they emerged from the gloomy hut.

“Stickeen,” promptly replied Tom. “Let’s give ’em a sing.” And sing they did, until the solemn faces of the natives gathering about them on the beach, actually relaxed into the semblance of a smile.

Reaching the steamer once more, they displayed their treasures before Bess, who could not yet quite venture on a long walk.

There were toy paddles, with ravens’ and bears’ heads painted in red and black; horn spoons, dark and light, with finely carved profiles on the handle; great rough garnets, of which Tom had purchased half a handful for a song, and many other oddities. Of course the kodak army had been busy, but the results could not yet be seen. Many a Stickeen portrait and ugly totem lay snugly hidden in those black leather boxes, to be “developed,” printed and laughed over in gay city parlors the coming winter.

Just as the boat cast off her moorings, an Indian, fantastically dressed, appeared on the wharf, and gave a dance for the benefit of the departing passengers, who threw down bits of silver as the Queen once more started on her course.

As the heart of the great ship began to throb and she swung slowly out toward the sea, one tall, quiet-faced man stood upon the old wharf among the Indians, silently watching the departure of all that meant home and friends. He waved his hand and lifted his hat to some one on deck, then turned gravely, and with firm step walked back toward the straggling row of huts which sheltered the poor, degraded natives of Fort Wrangell.

“Who is that?” queried some one carelessly, and the answer came: “The missionary.”

It was Mr. Selborne who spoke last. He explained that he had just been talking with the man, who was doing noble work in this squalid, miserable community. His pay was a mere pittance, and the society supporting him were in sore need of funds for the establishment of a school or home for native children.

Rossiter paused.

“Let’s give them a helping hand,” said Mr. Percival, passing over a bill. Another and another fell into the hat that was sent around, and a few days afterward that missionary’s eyes filled with glad tears as he opened a package containing one hundred and thirty dollars for the needed Home, from the passengers of the Queen.

Another wonderfully beautiful evening followed the Wrangell experience. At half-past nine fine print could be read by daylight, and at eleven it was by no means dark.

The next day the steamer touched at Douglas Island, giving its passengers time for a run up to the richest gold mine in the world. In the early afternoon the Queen steamed across the strait to Juneau, only a few miles distant, and stopped there for the night.

It was a larger town than any they had yet seen in Alaska, and curved around a fine bay at the base of high mountains, on whose high slopes could be seen patches of snow and “young glaciers,” as Fred called them.

Mr. Selborne and his sister at once hunted up the Mission House, and had a long talk with Mrs. Willard, the brave and gentle lady who gave up a happy and comfortable home life in the East to help the Alaskan natives.

“One could listen to her stories all day and not tire of them,” said Rossiter to Mr. Percival afterward. “The sufferings and the superstitions of these poor creatures are almost incredible.”

Shortly after returning from the Mission, he mailed to Fort Wrangell the valuable letter of which we have spoken.

The young people scattered through the village as soon as the steamer was moored. Mr. Percival rode off with two gentlemen who met him upon the wharf, to look at the Silver Bow Basin gold mines, of which he was part owner.

Tom and Fred strolled along arm in arm, in front of the houses and stores that lined the beach, now and then stopping to speak to a native, or examine the trinkets and furs that were everywhere exposed for sale.