by Eowyn Ivey
When at last we freed ourselves from the roiling current, we pulled at the oars until our hearts would burst. We kept on until we rode even swells with no rocks in sight.
Tillman navigated his boat closer to ours. I thought he came to set our plan, but instead he threw down his oars, leapt across to our boat. Before I knew his intent, he grabbed the old man by the shirt front to jerk him to his feet.
— What the devil is the matter with you? Tillman yelled into the old Eyak’s face. — You’d kill us all!
The old man did not blink. He should have feared for his life. Instead he grinned, his teeth worn nubs. He then spoke with his guttural clucks & hard stops.
— What does he say? Tillman turned to Samuelson.
The trapper hesitated, as if not sure to repeat it.
— He says he’s been hungry for many days.
— What?
Samuelson shrugged.
— That’s what he says. He’s hungry.
Tillman shoved the old man.
— So he’d take us all to hell?
Tillman moved to throw him overboard. The old man squawked a kind of laugh or yelp. I was tempted to let him be sent to the sea, but thought better of it.
— Enough, Tillman. We’ll be rid of him soon enough.
The sergeant hesitated. I thought he would disobey. My misgivings about his reputation were roused, but he shoved the old man back down into the boat.
We returned to rowing without talk or pause. Our progress was slow. Not until early afternoon did we round to north side of Perkins Island.
— The old man says a storm is coming, Samuelson said.
Why should we believe him? None of us trusts the Eyak now.
— I don’t know but maybe we should listen to him this time around, Samuelson said. We all followed his eyes towards the horizon where clouds were building.
— He says there is a safe landing just the other side of that point.
This time the old man did not deceive. A cold torrent chased us to shore. We built no fire but quickly raised the tent amongst the trees & climbed in wet, shivering, weary. The old Eyak remains outside, where to none of us knows or much cares. Rain slaps the canvas tent in a noisy pattering. We eat cold beef from tins, all of us crowded shoulder to shoulder.
I asked Samuelson why the young Indians stayed behind.
— Fear.
— Of the Midnooskies?
— No. The trader Jenson. He expects them to help with the otter pelts when the hunters come back.
— It is a notable amount of sway he holds over them, I observed.
— They aren’t Jenson’s slaves quite yet, but give him time, Samuelson said. — I have seen him yank an Indian child from his mother’s hands in trade for furs the father didn’t bring in.
— What would a white man want with an Indian child?
— Fear, the trapper said.
We may sail along the border, or be drawn by sledge-dogs over the frozen streams, until we arrive at the coldest, farthest west, separated from the rudest, farthest east by a narrow span of ocean, bridged in winter by thick-ribbed ice. What then can be said of this region — this Ultima Thule of the known world, whose northern point is but three or four degrees south of the highest latitude yet reached by man?
— From History of Alaska: 1730–1885,
Hubert Howe Bancroft, 1886
Diary of Sophie Forrester
Vancouver Barracks
January 6, 1885
Oh such amazing news! The general has granted permission so that I will accompany Allen and his men on the steamer north! For days now it has seemed increasingly unlikely, and I am certain it was only Allen’s steady, persistent resolve that has won me passage. Of course, I go only as far as Sitka and will return to the barracks the end of February; I will not even set eyes on the northern mainland where their true adventure will begin, but I am thrilled all the same. Allen, too, is pleased. He charged into the sitting room this afternoon and announced, “You’ll go, my love! Haywood said you’ll go!”
Now there is much for me to do. Until today, I followed Mother’s advice and did not “count my chickens before they hatched,” but consequently I have made no preparations. We expect to board within the month. What should I bring? An abundance of warm clothes. Definitely my walking boots, for I am told the deck is often treacherous with ice and sea spray. My field glasses and notebooks of course, with plenty of spare pencils.
There is this, too — a new diary. I resisted when Allen first gave it to me and said my field notebooks suit me fine. His playful reply was that when he returns from Alaska, he would like to hear about more than the habits of nuthatches and chickadees.
I could not then imagine that my days would hold anything of interest: the long train journey to Vermont, the return to my childhood home. Maybe if I were allowed to walk as far as the quarry pond to watch for the pintails and grebes, or to go to the forest in search of Father’s sculptures (how I would love for Allen to see them someday, especially the sea serpent and the old bear), maybe then I would have something to record. Yet I will never be permitted such wanderings. “Shame is the only fruit of idleness.” How many times did I hear those words as a little girl? Mother is always at the washboard and rags, the rake and the weeds, and she will expect the same of me. Who would want to hear such a diary read aloud?
But now! Now I will have something to write in these pages, for I am going to Alaska!
January 8
I cannot help but be caught up in the excitement. Supplies arrive daily from various parts of the country — tents, sleeping bags, snowshoes, nearly one thousand rations for the men! I do not know how Allen keeps it all in order. This morning, just as he was about to kiss me goodbye at the door, he said, “Yes, Pruitt will be out with the camera, but Tillman can sort the rifles and ammunition. That way I can get to the telegraph office.” He must get word to Sitka, by British Columbia and then mail steamer, that he will need several sledges built and ready when we arrive.
And then, during my afternoon walk, I happened across Mr Pruitt with his camera near the stable. Allen says the Lieutenant has only recently learned photography in order to document their expedition, so he is practicing as much as he is able. Today, the blacksmith was his reluctant subject.
They made an amusing scene, Mr Pruitt so studious and fair-skinned, with his red hair trimmed boyishly; the grimed smith, in leather apron and rolled up sleeves, looking particularly unhappy with having to stand for his picture to be taken. Mr Pruitt peered out from the black cloth and quietly asked the blacksmith to turn his shoulder this way and his chin that, to which the smith obeyed with considerable grumbling.
More than anything, I wanted to ask Mr Pruitt how the camera works, how it can be taken afield, and to even see some of his images, but I thought better than to interrupt him.
Such an extraordinary notion, to be able to seal light and shadow to the page in such a way. I often think of the photographs Allen and I saw in a Boston studio –the old woman with her pipe, a little boy riding a giant dog, and a whimsical scene of actors dressed in animal masks. Startlingly vivid, each of them, so that there was a silvery texture to the fabric and skin, and a quality of light that seemed truly magical, as if life glowed from within the paper itself.
I envy Mr Pruitt that he will document the Far North with such a device! (Alas, I will bring on board only my notebooks and poor drawing skills. It seems a curse, that one should love the work of a naturalist yet be so ill-suited for it.)
January 9
I did not expect to be the cause of such a stir. One would think I was to leave on a polar expedition. During tea this afternoon at Mrs Connor’s house, the officers’ wives reacted with everything from alarm to squealing delight to know that I will go as far as Sitka with Allen and his men.
Where in heaven’s name will you sleep? You must bring extra quilts so you won’t freeze in the ni
ght! What about the polar bears? They are man-eaters! (I explained to Mrs Bailey that to my knowledge the white bears live much farther north than I will venture, so I will not be in their danger.) The food on board will be dreadful, mark my words. And the seasickness you’ll endure! Best pack a tin of good biscuits for yourself.
I should have predicted Miss Evelyn’s response. “At least one nice gown. You must have that. You never know when there might be some fine occasion — don’t make that face at me Mrs Forrester, you could end up having dinner at the governor’s house in Sitka — and it’s appalling to be underdressed.”
Sarah Whithers was the only one who offered sound advice.
“Do you have a good Mackintosh, to keep off the rain and snow?” And the dear, timid woman said I could have hers, as she had recently been given a new one; I thanked her but told her I had a raincoat, and that I would certainly remember to pack it in my trunk.
And then there was blustery Mrs Connor. “Never mind all this nonsense! Why on Earth are you going?”
I apologized but said I did not take her meaning.
“Surely your husband can’t make you go,” she said.
Not go! I explained that it was my very desire to go, and that if permitted, I would accompany Allen the entire distance across Alaska.
“Absurd. There is no need for a bright young woman such as yourself to join in such idiocy. Leave it to the men to throw themselves off the face of the earth. They are quite adept at it by themselves.”
What could I say in my defense?
“But isn’t it romantic?” Mrs Whithers interjected. “Imagine a husband so distraught to be separated from you, that he brings you with him!”
It was kind of her to attempt my rescue, especially knowing how painfully shy she is in front of Mrs Connor. Yet nothing could save me from the sense that I had taken several steps back from the other women. I was silent the rest of tea.
If I had found the words, I would have said this: I do not go because my husband orders me. I do not go out of some need to prove or earn anything. And while it will give me joy to remain some time longer at my husband’s side, it is not even that alone. Instead, I go because I long to see this wild place for myself.
January 11
Am I truly to believe that Mrs Connor came striding to my front door with only the purest of compassion in her heart?
She would not take tea or cake, but only wanted to warm her hands by the cook stove and insist that I did not grasp the severity of Allen’s leaving. I must consider it some sort of holiday to the north! Am I not aware of the danger he will face in Alaska?
I endeavored to remain calm and polite during her visit, allowing myself the occasional, “I see. Yes, I see.” Such replies did not satisfy her, and she grew agitated and began to pace about our small kitchen.
“You force me to speak plainly,” she said. “My Hugh says that the last white men to venture up that river were the Russians, and they were murdered by the Indians. Every last one of them.”
“I see,” I said yet again.
“Is that all you have to say? ‘I see, I see.’ I wonder if you really do see!”
I thanked her for her concern, and led her to the door.
Why would she subject me to such vile talk? Surely I will fret for Allen every day he is gone from me, all the more if what she says is true, yet no amount of worry will bring him back home. Only good fortune and his own skill can do that.
January 12
He has done his best to put my mind at ease. Nearly a hundred years. That’s how long it has been since the Indians massacred the Russians in Alaska. Beyond that, Allen said, there are few details as to what caused the attack. And just as I believed, the American expeditions since have been turned back by the Wolverine River, well before any remote tribes could be met.
“We don’t go there looking for a fight, love. I’ll keep our necks safe, you have my word.”
January 13
At my request, Allen retrieved my travel trunk last night, though he gently suggested it might be too soon to begin to pack. I would not listen to common sense, though, and this morning I set to organizing my belongings. I soon saw the folly in it. It is not as if I have a dozen dresses that I can wear now and another dozen I can pack for later. And so, I have shoved the trunk into a corner and now sit at the bedroom window to write.
It is a winter afternoon like many others in this country– chill, gray, and rainy — yet my view of it has been altered somehow. When we first arrived in Washington Territory, I was enthralled by all the wild country we saw, and even the barracks seemed a far outpost of civilization. With the thought of Alaska in my head now, however, this neat line of officers’ houses, the cultivated trees and trimmed hedges and clapboard barracks, the muddy roads — it all seems so tame and ordinary.
Sitka is on the southern-most arm of the Alaska Territory, yet it is well beyond the reaches of common civilization, railroad, or telegraph. We will see mountain glaciers that calve into the sea, breaching whales, and perhaps birds native only to those northern landscapes. And then we will arrive at the end of the map, and Allen will disappear over its edge. It is both exhilarating and terrifying, and I find I can think of nothing else. These next weeks before our departure will be long indeed.
It is good that Mr Tillman has organized a dance, and that Allen and I are obliged to attend. If nothing else, it will provide a distraction.
I will go in search of Miss Evelyn to see if she has a gown I might borrow, since she insists my black wool dress won’t do.
Ivashov and his men were sleeping on their sleds when, at a prearranged sign, the Midnooskies crushed each of the men’s skull with axes.
— From Journal of the Russian Geographical Society,
St. Petersburg, 1849 (translated from the Russian)
Lieut. Col. Allen Forrester
March 24, 1885
Point Blake, Alaska
We set foot on the main land at last, yet the Wolverine River remains out of reach. We crossed in a storm that pushed us two miles to port, made land at Point Blake. The shore between here & the mouth of the river is mile after mile of slick, blue-yellow mud. Tracks crisscross the tidal flats where Indians slide their dugouts over scant water. Our row boats, weighted with 1,000 pounds of provisions, do not slide so well.
We have made our way into a small cove where we spotted a group of Indians stringing clams. The old Eyak was the first to jump from the boat to the rocky beach. He is agile even with his deformed leg. I thought he meant to flee Tillman, but instead he hopped & ran to the pile of clam shells. He plucked one, then another, slurped at them. An Indian woman smacked him with her hand. Yelled — Aiii! As if to shoo a pest. The old man was quick on his feet, dodged, then scooped up another clam. Another. The Indian woman chased him about the beach.
— Looks like he was hungry after all, Tillman said. — Crazy old man.
We remain here the afternoon & night, with hopes of catching the tide at dawn to row to the river’s mouth. Tillman & I raised the tent on the beach. The trapper gathers firewood.
Lieut. Pruitt strives to photograph the Indians. He has a quick mind for scientific devices. When he served under me in Arizona Territory, I was much impressed with his scholarly ways. While most soldiers caroused for leisure, he read books of science & literature. Regularly he would push his wire-rimmed spectacles up his nose, then fire away with his many questions. It irritated some officers, but I found his youthful curiosity a respite.
When I wrote to him of the expedition, I said I would have him collect data for mapping, as I know he is handy with sextant & artificial horizon. Barometer, psychrometer — such weather implements would be his chore as well. In his returning letter, he said he would also like to employ a camera for the journey. Recent advances make it possible for them to be brought easily afield, he said.
— It would be worth its weight, he wrote.
Pruitt has erected the tripod on the
beach, attached camera box & now stands with black cloth over his head, so that he appears as a bulbous-headed monster with many legs. The Indians watch from their camp. They point, gawk, whisper. I am not much less mystified. Pruitt attempted to explain the chemistry, the glass plates, silver bromide gelatin, lens, focusing glass. For Sophie’s sake, I tried to learn as much as I could.
Pruitt has set his focus on the Eyak, who now stands, cocks his head at an angle, slowly approaches the camera. The old man dips his head, weaves side to side, almost like a fighter, or a wily animal with an injured leg. He is now just a few yards from Pruitt’s gaze. Closer. Closer. Pruitt has stuck out an arm, is waving at the old man.
— Back! You’re too close. Go back & stay still!
The old man presses his face right up to the camera, reaches up, pulls the black cloth over his head as well. It looks as if he will disappear into the maw of a great monster.
I doubt Pruitt will have much luck with this venture.
We heard an unusual tale this evening. As we prepared our meal on the beach, a young Indian woman walked from the willow brush carrying two dead hares, knelt at sea’s edge to skin them out with a sure quickness. She wears a beaded shift of animal hide & a fur mantle across her shoulders. She gave one rabbit to the Indian camp, her family I presume. Much to our surprise she then walked down the beach to our campfire. She slid the other rabbit into a pot of water we had boiling on the campfire. We heated only tins of beans in the flames for our meal so did not hesitate to accept her gift. We expressed our gratitude, but she did not seem to know our words.
— Doesn’t she have a man to hunt for her? Tillman asked.
He gave her a wink, but the girl gave no response.
Samuelson asked her a series of questions in her own tongue, which she answered in a near whisper. They spoke a long time. Never once did she bring up her eyes, as if she feared our gaze would turn her to stone. She then walked down the beach towards her own camp, but before she had gone a few steps, she spoke one last time to Samuelson. He nodded.
