Gulf and Glacier; or, The Percivals in Alaska

In another moment the boat was alongside, the gangway steps were let down, and Fred sprang on board. Mr. Percival came more slowly, assisting Tom, who was observed to limp. The sailors passed up several pieces of baggage, the officer in charge touched his cap, and away went the boat toward Sitka. As she receded, Randolph could read on the stern the single word in gilt letters, Pinta.

What wild handshakings and congratulations and volleys of questions followed on the deck of the Queen, you can well guess.

But we must let Tom explain for himself his adventures, his return to civilization, and his unexpected appearance in Sitka harbor that morning.

CHAPTER XI.

FAIR SITKA

“It was pretty dark and lonesome up there, I can tell you,” said Tom, having described his long tramp and the death of the bear. “The wind rose at about nine o’clock, and cut like knives. Solomon had built the camp so as to face away from the wind, and after supper Fred and I were glad to curl up in our blankets on the fir boughs. Solomon threw half a dozen of his big logs on the fire, and then sat down on our front doorstep to have a smoke.

“I wish you could have heard some of his stories, Randolph! Some years ago, before there was any Canadian Pacific, or even a Northern Pacific railroad, he guided a party across the Chilkoot Pass and down the Yukon. They were on a hunt for a ‘mountain of cinnabar,’ a ‘Red Mountain,’ which an Indian had told about, somewhere in the interior. There were women in the party, and how they ever got through the woods, I don’t see.

“Well, they struck off from the Yukon, after having a brush with the Indians, followed a native map, had to winter in the woods, almost starved to death, and at last found the ‘Red Mountain’ was Mount Wrangell – a volcano, you know, twenty thousand feet high.”

“Did they find their cinnabar?” asked Randolph.

“Only a small quantity. But there was enough outcrop of copper and gold to pay them for the trip. They rafted down the Copper River, after leaving Solomon to locate, and a year or two later sold out at a big profit to some San Francisco capitalists. So far as Solomon knows, the mines have never been worked yet, they are so far inland.”

“Now tell us about your getting home,” broke in Kittie. “We’re more interested in that than in your ‘Red Mountain.’ Did you sleep any, poor boys?”

“Not very much,” laughed Fred. “The mosquitoes settled down to business pretty soon after midnight, and made things lively. Baranov had some pieces of netting, and we put them over our heads, but they didn’t seem to do much good.”

“They say the Alaskan mosquitoes are so intelligent,” remarked Rossiter, “that two of them will hold the wings of a third close to his body, and push him through the meshes of a net. That accounts for their neighborliness in your camp. Go on with the story.”

“My leg hurt so that I couldn’t sleep much,” said Tom, taking up the narrative again. “Whenever I did dose for a few minutes, I would wake up with a start and see Solomon putting on another log. I don’t believe he slept a wink all night.

“Toward morning Fred and I both got a good nap of nearly an hour. When I opened my eyes, I looked for Solomon, but he wasn’t in sight” —

“Then of course he must wake me,” interrupted Fred, “and I had to get up and put wood on the fire, lest that His Royal Highness should feel cold. I had just got a good blaze going when Baranov hove in sight, with a big bear steak in one hand and a string of trout in the other.

“‘Where in the world did you get those fish?’ Tom sung out.

“‘Oh! back here a piece, in a leetle pool I knew about,’ says Solomon. ‘I ’lowed we’ll have a dish o’ fried traouts fer breakfast, ef the brook hedn’t dried up.’”

There was a shout at Fred’s imitation of Baranov’s tone.

“The trout were delicious,” said Tom, when he could make himself heard; “and the flavor of the bear meat was all right, but ’twas tough as leather. After breakfast Solomon skinned the bear in good shape” —

“Where is the skin now?” put in Bess. “I didn’t see it in your bundles.”

“It’s at Juneau,” said Mr. Percival. “Solomon said he’d have it nicely dressed, and as soon as it was cured and prepared for mounting, he would ship it to our Boston address. Tom wanted it for a rug with the head on, and Fred generously yielded all claim to it.”

Kittie smiled such warm approval at his generosity that the young student blushed, and gave Tom a dig to go ahead with his account of their adventures.

“I was so stiff and lame that I could just hobble when we first started, right away after dinner. I knew father and all of you would be worried, but it couldn’t be helped. We managed to get down about three quarters of the way, before it was time to stop for the night. Of course it was ever so much easier going down than up, but it hurt some, you can believe! Solomon helped me over the bad places, and Fred took a double load.

“We camped right beside the brook we had followed up the day before, and started on again before sunrise next morning. Just as we reached the clearing above Juneau, we met a dozen men, with father at their head, starting up the mountain after us.”

“What I want to know,” broke in Randolph, “is how you ever got to Sitka as soon as we did?”

“Why, father made inquiries for a doctor, and was told the best one in Juneau was the surgeon of the Pinta. She’s a Government steamer, you know, stationed on this coast to look after our sealing and fishery interests and the like. Dr. Parks was awfully kind, and a splendid doctor, I guess, by the way he treated my bear scratch. He put some kind of a liniment on, then bound it all up in good shape, and wouldn’t take a fee, either – not a cent. When he heard our story, he told father the Pinta was going to run over to Sitka that very day, starting before noon. If we liked, he believed the captain would take us on board, and we could meet you there instead of waiting for you at Juneau, and leaving you to worry all that extra time.

“We said good-by to Baranov – I don’t know how much father insisted on paying him – went on board the little Pinta, arrived safe and sound at Sitka, and here we are!”

As soon as Tom had finished his story, he was showered with questions, and it was an hour longer before the party, having taken breakfast, assembled on deck to witness the approach to the wharf. Another boat from the south, much smaller and dirtier, headed for her moorings at the same time.

The Queen, like a true King’s Daughter, permitted the other to pass her and make fast to the wharf. In stately wise, Her Majesty then moved quietly up beside her companion, and the Percivals landed over the latter’s decks.

I will not try to describe Sitka for you; in the first place, because other people have written and printed a great deal about it, which you can find for yourselves in the books on Alaska on the third shelf of the fourth alcove of your Public Library; and secondly, because Rossiter Selborne gave his mother so concise an account of his impressions of the place, that I shall put a part of his letter into this chapter, as I did at Banff.

After describing the buildings about the wharf, he told how he and one or two others walked directly up the main street to the famous church of Sitka; continuing as follows:

“The little church, long ago built by the Russians (from whom, you know, the United States bought Alaska for about seven million dollars in 1867), was a quaint building, with a solemn guardian, who demanded a small fee before he permitted us to enter. There was an altar arranged after the requirements and ceremonies of the Eastern Catholic church; some fine priestly robes, and a really beautiful painting of Mary, the mother of Jesus. Services are still held in the church every Sunday.

“Coming out of the church we walked along the narrow streets, looking at the houses built of squared logs by the Russians many years ago. The building on the hill was of logs like the rest, and proved to be the castle of stern old Governor Baranov. I found pieces of bear’s fur still sticking to the walls, where the great hides had once been nailed up, to keep out the bitter cold of winter.

“Such funny times we had buying trinkets of the Indians, squatting in a long row on the broad sidewalk! All the English the Indian squaws seemed to know was, ‘One tollar!’ ‘Two tollar!’

“I must not forget to tell you about the Mission School. You walk to it along the curving, sandy beach, near which the school buildings stand, about half a mile from the wharf. Such fine, intelligent faces the boys and girls have, compared with the natives outside! It is beautiful to see the human, the divine, driving the animal look out of the dark faces, the eyes kindling with light, the whole, God-given soul waking up before your very eyes. The old fairy story of the fair princess, Sleeping Beauty, brought to life by the kiss of a prince, is pretty; but it will hardly move one, after seeing the wonderful awakening of a poor, Sitkan woman-child, at the touch of loving hands – at the sound of her Father’s voice, speaking through the noble men and women who are doing his work in these desolate Northern lands.

“A little paper, the ‘Northern Star,’ is printed at the school, and gives all the latest items of news concerning it. It costs fifty cents a year, and the gentle lady who conducted us through the buildings was so pleased when two or three of us subscribed. Of course the paper comes irregularly in the winter, when the sea-passages are dangerous with fogs and icebergs; but you are sure to get all your numbers sooner or later.

“I wish you could have seen Mr. Percival sitting in the Mission Parlor, holding a dot of a Thlinket child on each knee! One of them was named Marion, and the other had a long, funny Indian name that I forgot the beginning of, before she’d got to the end of it.

“The scholars had a prayer meeting at the close of day, and sang our dear, familiar hymns with strange words to them. Here is one verse of ‘I am so glad that Jesus loves me,’ in the Thlinket tongue:

“‘Hä ish dickeewoo ŭhtoowoo yŭkehHä een ukkonniknooch dookoosăhŭnne,Thlēkoodze ut dookookwoo kädā häteen:Uh yŭkeh klŭh hutsehunne Jesus.Cho.     Uhtoowoo yŭkeh Jesus hŭtsehŭ,Jesus hutsehun, Jesus hutsehun;Uhtoowoo yŭkeh Jesus hutsehun;Jesus kluh hutsehun.’

“It seems as if Our Father must smile tenderly when he hears such uncouth sounds. Yet he understands them all, and answers each shyly murmured Sitka prayer, just as he does the ‘Now I lay me,’ lisped by New England baby lips.

“The long, beautiful Northern day drew to a close. We left the bustling town, and walking past the Mission School, kept on around the shore of the bay. Now the path wound in and out of the forest; now it emerged upon the beach, where the ripples softly patted the sand and laughed and played together. Before long we reached the banks of Indian River, and crossed it by a rustic foot-bridge. The air was fragrant with odors of balsam fir and all the cool, delicious scents of the forest. We turned back toward the ship. Although it was near the hour of ten, the western sky was all golden with sunset. Against it rose the delicate spire of the Russian church, and the sturdy bulk of the castle. Out across the bay the gulls and ravens wavered their slow way among the islands.”

CHAPTER XII.

THE “CHICHAGOFF DECADE.”

“We have two whole days before us,” said Kittie the next morning, as she promenaded up and down the deck with Fred, “and the steamer is going right over the same path we took in coming. Can’t we get up something new so as to have some fun?”

“We might have charades, or tableaux,” suggested Fred. “But we should have to stay below, getting ready for them.”

“And we’ve had ’em all before,” interpolated Tom, who was stretched out at his ease in a steamer chair.

“It’s going to be pretty foggy, I’m afraid,” said Randolph, joining the group. “They say that will delay us, for we shall have to run half-speed, or stop altogether. Do you see how thick it begins to look ahead?”

They had left Sitka in the early morning, and had only Juneau to touch at – probably in the night – before reaching the coaling station of Nanaimo, on Vancouver’s Island.

“Why don’t you get up a paper?” suggested Mr. Percival. “That’s what Arctic explorers do, I believe, when they are frozen in for the winter.”

“Good, good!” cried Pet. “And everybody in our party must contribute – except me!”

There was a laugh at this, and Kittie, seizing her friend around the waist, gave her a little impromptu waltz which set her hair flying and eyes dancing more merrily than ever.

“What shall we call it?” was the next question.

“‘The Alaskan Herald.’”

“‘The Northern Light.’”

“‘The Illustrated Totem Pole’” – this from the wounded warrior in the chair.

All these names being rejected, they decided to leave the choice of names to the editor, to which position Mr. Selborne was unanimously chosen.

“All contributions,” he announced, “must be in my hands at five o’clock this afternoon. The paper will then be put to press, and will be read aloud at precisely eight o’clock, on deck, in front of Stateroom 2 (Mr. Percival’s), if the weather permits; if not, in a corner of the lower cabin, after the supper table has been cleared.”

All that day the literary circle thus suddenly formed were hard at work at their manuscripts; and many were the gales of laughter in which the girls indulged, as they compared notes from time to time. The editor, it should be said, had laid down the rule that any contribution might be in verse or prose, but if the latter, it should not contain over twelve hundred words.

One by one in the course of the afternoon, the manuscripts, signed by fictitious names, were dropped into a box provided by the editor, who was busy, meanwhile, not only with his own contribution, but in arranging an artistic heading for the sheet which was to form the first page of the paper. He had also furnished all the aspiring authors and authoresses with sermon paper of uniform size, so that the whole collection might afterward be bound together, if desired.

Evening came at last, and to the gratification of all concerned, the fog lifted, so that there was a bright sunset, which would render out-of-doors reading easy until after ten o’clock. The party accordingly met at the appointed spot on deck, having kept their plan a profound secret among themselves, so as not to have strangers present at the reading.

Mrs. Percival sat just within the door of her stateroom, while the rest grouped themselves outside in various comfortable attitudes. The editor, with a formidable-looking flat package in his hand, took his position on the seat by the rail, where the light was favorable for reading.

“I will first,” he said, “pass round the title page of this unique periodical, merely premising that its simple and musical title was suggested in part by the name of the island, the wood-clad shores of which we were passing when the idea of the paper was first promulgated.”

The title sheet was accordingly inspected and praised, with shouts of laughter, by the circle of authors. Fortunately it has been preserved, and can be given here in fac-simile, just as it came from the hand of Rossiter and of his sister, who, he admitted, had helped him by drawing the lifelike designs with which it was embellished.

The title chosen, as you see, was the “Tri-Weekly Chichagoff Decade.”

“Why ‘Tri-Weekly’?” asked Pet and Mr. Percival together.

“Because,” replied Mr. Selborne, in his gravest tones, “it has greatly interested your editor to see you all try weakly to produce” —

The rest of the sentence was drowned in a chorus of outcries and laughter.

“But,” persisted Mr. Percival, “do you expect to sail these waters again, in just ten years from now? Else, why is it the ‘Decade’?”

“Oh! that, sir, merely indicates that it is a deck aid to cheerfulness.”

Here Tom collapsed and fell over upon Randolph, murmuring that it was enough to give a weakly-chick-a-cough to hear such puns. But such ill-timed levity was promptly suppressed.

Mr. Selborne now squared his shoulders, and opened the reading with a short editorial, which he called his

SALUTATORY

It is seldom that an editor finds himself in the position of one who greets his friends with one hand and bids them farewell with the other; who combines, as it were, his welcoming and his parting bow; who enters the room and backs out of it simultaneously; who, in short, is obliged to write at one and the same moment, his Salutatory and Valedictory.

Such is the novel and mildly exciting task of the present incumbent of the editorial chair of the “Decade.” We greet most heartily the host of subscribers who are sure to flock to its standard; and we beg to assure them of the integrity of its aims, and the sound financial basis of this enterprise. We pledge ourselves to endeavor, at any cost, to maintain the high standard we have set up, and so long as the “Decade” is published, to suffer no unworthy line to disgrace its fair pages.

At the same time we feel obliged to give notice that this is the last issue of the paper. Circumstances over which we have no control compel the proprietors to suspend its publication. The editor, in resigning his position, wishes to express his deep sense of the obligation under which his readers have placed him, in the universal and constant support they have given him and his assistants, from the very inception of the enterprise, and the kindly criticism with which he has always been favored.

The editorial was received with a round of subdued applause, which subsided the more quickly that the little circle around the reader saw curious eyes cast in their direction, and an evident inclination on the part of other passengers to share in the fun, which was, however, of too personal a nature to admit a general public.

“The opening piece,” remarked Mr. Selborne, “is contributed by a noted historian, who of late seems to have given his most serious attention to verse. I am glad to have the opportunity of laying before you this exquisite production, which gives an accurate review of our travels thus far, and, as the dullest reader must admit” (“Don’t look at me!” put in Tom), “blends instruction with poetry with the most delightful result. The poem is entitled – with no reference, I believe, to the farming interests of the Territories —

WESTWARD, HO!An Historico-Poetical ReviewBY HERODOTUS KEATS MACAULAY, A. E

“What does ‘A. E.’ stand for?” asked Mrs. Percival.

“‘Animated Excursionist,’ I presume, ma’am.”

“Alaskan Editor,” “Expatriated Amateur,” and various other suggestions were kindly offered by the boys, but were frowned down by the older members, who now called for the poem itself.

“One bright summer morning in early JulyOur party assembled in Boston, to tryOf travels abroad an entirely new versionAfforded by Raymond & Whitcomb’s Excursion.”

“Hold on!” shouted Tom, who was privileged by his lameness. “That’s an ad. Herodotus Keats wants a free ticket next year. Who is he, I wonder?”

“Thomas,” remarked Fred, eying him severely through his glasses, “don’t display your ignorance of the great authors, nor interrupt with ribald comments. Go on, please, Mr. Selborne.”

“I know now, any way,” muttered the Irrepressible. The editor paid no further attention to him, but resumed the reading:

“The train was on hand in a place you all know well,The Causeway Street depot marked “Boston & Lowell”;It started, and cheers rose above lamentationAs, waving our hands, we rolled out of the station.The daisies were white in the fields around Boston,Like meadows in autumn with garments of frost on;And fair were the skies over Merrimac’s stream,As onward, still onward, with rattle and scream,We flew o’er the rails ever faster and faster,With never a thought of impending disaster.”

“But there wasn’t any disaster – unless the historian foresaw, in his prophetic soul, a certain bear” —

“Oh! let up, Ran. That’s poetical license. Macaulay couldn’t find anything else to rhyme with ‘faster.’”

“Arriving at Weirs, on Lake Winnepesaukee,Our iron steed stopped, and became sort of balky,Backed, snorted and started again with such speedThat some of us nearly ‘got left’ then, indeed!At the Pemigewasset we halted to dine,Then northward we sped to the Canada line,Where Thomas was homesick until pretty soon heBegan to sing sadly of dear ‘Annie Rooney.’In Montreal all the attractions were seen;We dizzily whirled down the falls of LachineTill we hardly knew whether ’twas Memphremagog orThe turbulent rapids of far Caugnawauga.”

“Oh!” groaned Tom.

“And now came the splendid Canadian Pacific —Through scenes now sublime, now tame, now terrific,Past forests of fir, and along the wild shoreAnd storm-beaten crags of Lake Sup-e-ri-or.

There was such an outcry at this that the captain, who was facing the bridge, looked back to see what was the matter.

“All right, Captain,” sung out Randolph. “No iceberg in sight – only a queer kind of ore.”

“I’m glad it isn’t mine,” remarked Tom.

“The Winnepeg grasshoppers followed Miss BessEntangling themselves in each silken tress,Nor struggled for freedom, for when they were caughtThey thought them but meshes the sunbeams had wrought.“We halted at Banff, where the Bow and the SprayCome leaping from cradles of snow far away;And joining white hands, the bridegroom and brideGlide silently down toward the sea side by side.“Again we have entered our palace on wheels,And cry out anew, ‘How homelike it feels!’The ‘Nepigon’ broad and the stately ‘Toronto’We can never forget, not e’en if we want to;Nor ‘Calgary’ sturdy, and fair ‘Missanabie’;But nearest our hearts, there can no better car beThroughout the whole world, whatever befall,Than faithful old ‘Kamloops,’ the dearest of all.“At Glacier we saw the great river of ice,And a bear almost ate up a boy in a trice;While one of the girls gave her poor little ankleA twist and a wrench, whose twinges still rankle!At last we arrive at our long journey’s end;The continent crossed, at Vancouver we sendOne glance of regret and a farewell combinedO’er the car we are leaving forever behind.“At our next stopping place we had to try hardTo pronounce the name of our hotel ‘Dri-árd’;Victoria’s awfully English, you know,And nothing that’s ‘Yankee’ was found high or low,Except our excursionists, everywhere seenUntil they embarked, northward bound, on the Queen.We sailed and we sailed, through channels and reaches,Past wild, rocky shores and verdure-clad beeches,Until we emerged from the tortuous tangleAnd moored at the dreary old wharf of Fort Wrangell,Where many a totem pole reared its proud head,Once gorgeous in trappings of sable and red.“At Juneau we halted – ah! how can I tellOf all the adventures that shortly befellTwo hunters, who started out boldly to killAny sort of a beast that roamed on the hill.Their perils and hardships, when distant from JuneauAnd lost in the woods, I am sure that you do knowEnough that on meeting the enemy there,Venerunt, viderunt, vicerunt– a bear!“Since then our startling events have been fewer;We’ve mounted the glacier that’s named after Muir,And trembled to see its blue pinnacles fallIn fragments before us, like Jericho’s wall.We saw all we could in the fair town of Sitka,But could not go far for want of a fit car,And now we’re sailing o’er Frederick’s Sound,On board the good Queen safe and well,Homeward bound!”

The applause which followed this effusion was tremendous. It was suggested that the last half of the journey had been rather slighted; but Mr. Selborne explained that he had it direct from the author that this disproportionate treatment was caused by lack of time in which to fill out the poem as originally sketched.

“The next piece,” he continued, “was in the nature of an epic. It was certainly personal in its bearings; but so was every epic, and too much delicacy in an editor always results in an insipid periodical.”

The curiosity of his auditors having been thus aroused, he gravely read:

THE BEAR-HUNTER’S FATEBY AN OLD SUBSCRIBERTom, Tom, the valiant one,Shot a bear and away he run;The bear was fleet,Poor Tom was beat,And Bruin stepped upon his feet.

“Is that what Kittie manes by my ‘fate’?” shouted Tom, laughing good-naturedly with the rest. “Sure I knew something was brewin’ when I saw her writing!”