Despite his dubious advice, Steller did have moments of insight. In his caustic but oddly wise style, he wrote of his growing foreboding:
For the first time I had here the sad occasion to see how it happens that often the greatest and most useful undertakings may in the end, in spite of all care given and great expenses involved and although granted all possible resources, accomplish very much less, as far as the public good is concerned, than was planned originally; while on the other hand the smallest beginnings, through mutual and earnest cooperation in word and deed, of minds devoid of all egotistic aims and gain, may grow into mighty achievements which pay interest on the outlay a thousand fold.
By mid-July they had been at sea for nearly six weeks. Although the ship surged ahead with a good wind in its sails, the sun was pleasant, and all seemed well, they were running low on water and food, and there was a general anxiety at having been so long without seeing land. Just how far could land be? What if the ocean went on and on until they ran out of water and food, or came down with scurvy, and perished miserably, as had other famous mariners of the Pacific they had undoubtedly read about, such as Ferdinand Magellan? They knew enough of world geography to know that the ocean did not go on endlessly, but their minds began to imagine the fearful things that might befall them so far from home on uncharted shores of a foreign continent. The sea council met in the great cabin and agreed that if they did not spy land by July 20, they would turn the ship around, abandon the entire voyage, and hasten back to Avacha Bay.
July 15 was a clear and sunny day with a fine wind propelling the ship onward. In the evening, as clouds appeared to the east, Steller was strolling the deck, straining his eyes into the deepening haze. He squinted at a barely discernible outline through the swirling mist, yelled “land,” and rushed to the railing. The excitement spread throughout the ship, others rushed to the railing, and men scampered up the rigging for a better view. But because of his past behavior, he could not convince others of his sighting. “Because I was the first to announce it,” he sulked, “and because forsooth it was not so distinct that a picture could be made of it, the announcement was regarded as one of my peculiarities.” Though it was drizzling, land was officially sighted in the East the following day, July 16. It was the third time he claimed land was nearby but the only time any actually materialized. Waxell recorded that they took observations and calculated that the St. Peter was at latitude 58 degrees, 38 minutes north, 50 degrees east of Avacha Bay. Though they were within sight of Alaska, it would be another three or four days before they reached it.
Steller privately gloated that he had been right all along. Had they only listened to him, instead of seeing land “six weeks after leaving Avacha, we might have made it in three or four days.”
ACCORDING TO THE SHIP’S log, the first clear view of America was of a range of mighty snow-dusted spires draped in fog, “among them a high volcano.” About a hundred nautical miles from the ship, the “volcano” towered over a vast range of smaller mountains snug against the coast as far as the eye could see. Endless green forests peeked through the mist. It was St. Elias Day, and they named the peak accordingly.* The mountains, Steller observed, “were so lofty that we could see them quite plainly at sea at a distance of sixteen Dutch miles.… I cannot recall having seen higher mountains anywhere in Siberia and Kamchatka.” Waxell confirmed the sighting in his practical manner: “The land consisted of huge, high, snow-covered mountains.”
All the officers and mariners cheered and congratulated each other on their greatness in discovering the new land. They slapped backs, imagined the glory and fame, and discussed the expectations of future reward that awaited them in St. Petersburg. But Bering, roused temporarily from his cabin for the event, showed no elation when he strolled on deck, beheld the scene, and heard faintly the roar of distant breakers crashing against the shore. He shrugged his shoulders, returned inside, and later noted glumly, prophetically, that “we think now we have accomplished everything, and many go about greatly inflated, but they do not consider where we have reached land, how far we are from home, and what may yet happen; who knows but that perhaps trade winds may arise, which may prevent us from returning? We do not know this country; nor are we provided with supplies for a wintering.” Although it was the culmination of his career, of the Great Northern Expedition, and of the dream set into action by Peter the Great a generation earlier, Bering saw only more problems and took no joy in the moment. He had brought the men halfway around the world to discover new lands to be added to the Russian Empire, but how would he get them all back home? The fate of Chirikov and the St. Paul was also on his mind; there was still no evidence of them. Had their ship foundered and the men drowned? Or were they even now in desperate need of help somewhere along the coast?
America, Alaska, Bolshaya Zemlya, the Great Land of rumor and legend, meant different things to different people on the ship. To Steller, the outline of Mount St. Elias on the horizon meant the fulfillment of dreams, an exciting chance for him to make his name as a natural historian, as the first to visit a new land, to describe the flora and fauna, to uncover and reveal to the world the scientific treasures of a new continent. He imagined lengthy forays inland collecting great bundles of exotic specimens and locating the source of valuable minerals that would make the academy and the government in St. Petersburg lavish praise and appointments upon him. On the other hand, to Bering and some of the others, the unknown coast represented danger, something to be kept away from or approached with extreme caution—the abode of hostile people, dangerous sailing conditions, and hidden reefs or shallows. While Bering and Waxell and the other officers concerned with the innumerable nautical dangers awaiting to damage or wreck the ship urged caution, Steller rushed about, excitedly eager to row ashore and explore the new continent. What new animals, what new plants, might he discover and name?
For three days, contrary winds, drizzle, cloudy gusts, and fog kept the sailing ship from approaching the shore. They tacked back and forth, trying to get closer. Soundings could still not find the seafloor. Steller was in a high pitch of excitement, anticipating his chance to explore the new land, telling officers his opinion on where a safe anchorage for the ship could be found, based on his observation of currents in the water. When he was rudely rebuffed (had he been there before, then, and was sure of it?), he sniffed that “in uncertain things it is better to act on even the slightest indication than for no reason at all and only trusting to good luck.” Steller was so sure of himself that he didn’t try to deal respectfully with differing opinions, especially from naval officers accustomed to a chain of command. In this instance, as in many others, he was wrong in his assessment. The currents were not the evidence of a peaceful river outlet but rather a swift sea current running between the nearby Cape Suckling and an island just offshore from the mainland that they intended to anchor near. Bering was cautious, ordering the ship away from the shore of the island at night in case a storm blew in.
Only the next morning did the ship again approach the island after a night of tacking back and forth. After a day inspecting the western coast and observing some dangerous reefs, Bering again ordered the ship away from the island, and they spent another night tacking back and forth. The next morning, July 20, the officers selected a somewhat exposed anchorage on the lee side of what is now called Kayak Island, just off the mainland. They beheld “beautiful forests close down to the sea, as well as the great level ground in from the shore at the foot of the mountains. The beach itself was flat, level, and as far as we could observe, sandy.” Lieutenant Khitrov reported that the island “stands out alone in the sea like a stone column; extending from it a submerged reef of rocks may be seen in low water.” The St. Peter dropped anchor into some grayish blue clay and began lowering boats for closer investigation. Steller stared at the new land: if only he could get off the ship and get his feet onto the sand and hike down the beach.
By now two-thirds of the water barrels were empty, so getting m
ore freshwater was the first priority. Bering ordered Khitrov to take a crew of fifteen in the longboat and cruise to the smaller island nearby, now called Wingham Island. His job was to search for a less exposed anchorage site and a place to harvest some of the huge trees for timber. Khitrov’s excursion was to be brief, with a quick return to the St. Peter to report. Bering was taking no chances—with the St. Paul lost, a single miscalculation could doom them all. But his instructions called on him to note the location of a safe harbor for future expeditions that crossed the Pacific, so as always, he obeyed his orders to the letter.
While Khitrov investigated Wingham Island, the smaller shore boat, called a yawl, would head directly west to the middle of Kayak Island and look for a creek with freshwater. No one had yet spoken to Steller, and so he looked on as the boats were lowered and readied. Finally, he strolled the deck over to Bering to inquire about which shore excursion he should join. Steller was stunned and momentarily silenced when Bering told him it was too dangerous for him to go ashore and that only the water crews would embark to fill the empty barrels. Bering considered Steller’s desire to collect a bunch of plants and animals from the land to be a waste of time: Would they not still be there on the next voyage? he reasoned. Bering believed their limited time should be spent studying the geography of the coast, perhaps doing some charting, and identifying harbors to make the next voyage safer and of course to solidify Russian political claims to the land. Then they would return to Kamchatka, since the season was already advanced and he did not want to be stuck on this distant and dangerous coast with short provisions. Bering also worried about the winds. The St. Peter was not in a secure harbor, and if the weather suddenly changed, he would be able to quickly recall the two crews in the boats—but what would he do if Steller and his assistant were off somewhere inland and unable to get back to the ship?
Steller imagined himself returning in triumph to St. Petersburg as the bearer of wonders from a new world. After he recovered from his shock, he noted in a sarcastic tone his astonishment that they had come all this way merely “for the purpose of bringing American water to Asia.” Both Khitrov and Waxell agreed that Steller should go with one or the other of them, but Bering was adamant and tried to scare Steller with “dreadful tales of murder.” Steller responded hotly (reflecting his eighteenth-century bias) that he had “never been so womanish as to fear danger” and that going ashore on this historic date, the first landing of a European on the shores of Northwest America, was “my principal work, my calling, and my duty.” The longboat pushed off, carrying Khitrov and his crew, and Steller watched dumbfounded as it oared its way north.
He again pleaded with Bering, and then he threatened to report Bering’s actions to the admiralty, the academy, and the senate “in the terms it deserved.” The St. Peter was small enough that the argument was undoubtedly heard by many. Bering called him a “wild man,” and then Steller put “all respect aside and prayed a particular prayer” and pointed out that studying the flora and fauna was his specific purpose on the voyage. The “particular prayer” that Steller wrote about sounds like a curse of some sort, but perhaps it was actually a prayer common between the two Lutherans, for apparently it produced the desired result: rather than lose his temper and toss Steller in the brig, “the Commander was at once mollified.” Bering grudgingly gave his permission for Steller to go ashore in the yawl with the water crew under Waxell’s command, but he was given no assistants apart from his own personal servant, Cossack Thomas Lepekhin. As Steller and Lepekhin clambered down into the yawl amid the empty water barrels at nine in the morning, Bering ordered the two trumpeters to come to the railing and sound a blaring salute, as if Steller were a naval dignitary. It was certainly a mockery, but Steller had the good sense to be gracious in his acceptance, waving jauntily. He was now convinced that Bering relented and let him go ashore only so that Bering could claim to have sent a representative to take note of the mineral potential of the land, in accordance with the official orders for the expedition. Perhaps, Steller mused sarcastically, he “would make watery observations” with the crew while the other shore party under Khitrov was “out on a windy expedition.” It was a fine day of mixed sun and clouds, with a pleasant easterly breeze.
While crews filled the large barrels with freshwater at a small creek (today the creek is called Steller’s Creek), Steller realized that his time was to be “scant and precious,” so he rushed across the sandy beach and ventured inland into the thick forest, Lepekhin following closely. He occasionally stooped and dug up any plant that looked unusual and soon found signs “of people and their doings.” Under the shelter of a large Sitka spruce tree, he found a dugout log that looked like a trough. It contained still-smoldering coals, and Steller noted that the people, “for lack of pots and vessels, had cooked their meat by means of red-hot stones.” He noted that the charred bones, “some of them with bits of meat” attached, were strewn about the campsite where the “eaters had been sitting.” These were not the bones of a sea mammal, and Steller surmised that they must have been caribou, but since there was no evidence of caribou on the island, the bones must have been carried from the mainland. He also found chunks of dried fish, of a type that in Kamchatka was often used to “serve the purpose of bread at all meals,” and several “very large” scallops, eight inches across. He also found a fire-starting tool and moss tinder similar in style to that used by the Kamchadals. As they crept along the forest path, the two men came upon several chopped-down trees and noted that the work was done with many dull blows from stone or bone axes, “similar to those used by the Germans of old and known today as ‘thunderbolts.’” Other trees were stripped of their bark to the height of a man’s reach, the bark probably for use in making houses, hats, and baskets. The style of encampment and tools Steller observed is that which modern ethnographers associate with a summer camp of the Chugach of Prince William Sound. The trees were truly impressive in size, more than one hundred feet tall, easily able to sustain a shipbuilding industry “for centuries,” Steller wrote with his typical exaggeration.
The two men pushed on through the damp and misty forest, along a path with other signs of recent passage. They came upon “a spot covered in cut grass” that Steller cautiously exposed, revealing a depression with a layer of rocks over tree bark. He was nervous, despite his ardent desire to meet “human beings and habitations,” because he had only a small knife to defend himself, while Lepekhin had a gun and knife. It was, he surmised, a cellar or cache about fourteen feet by twenty-one feet and fourteen feet deep, and it was loaded with tools, utensils, a sweetgrass “from which liquor is distilled,” and dried grasses of the sort used to make fishnets in Kamchatka. There were several bark containers containing smoked salmon, thongs of seaweed rope, and a collection of long arrows. It was a hidden food cache, storage for the winter. Steller took small samples of each item and sent Lepekhin back to the ship to warn the shore party to be wary. He continued on alone through the “thick and dark forest” to study and investigate “the noteworthy features of the three kingdoms of nature.” He struggled to the crest of a nearby spruce-covered mountain for a view and saw camp smoke in the distance on the mainland. The camp on the mainland would have likely been from a different people, the Eyak from inland along the Copper River or the Tlingit from the east in Yakutat Bay. With time, Steller could have made contact with several different cultures of people. But he had to return. He “looked once more sorrowfully at the barrier to my investigations, with real regret over the action of those who had in their hands the direction of such important matters.”
Although Steller burned with desire to follow the smoke and encounter the people, his time was limited, so he ran back to the beach with an armful of plants. He sent a note with the next boatload of water barrels back to the ship, which was anchored offshore, seeking Bering’s permission to use the yawl and a few men to further investigate the far side of the island, which he estimated to be about thirteen miles long and only two miles
wide, and to collect some more specimens. “Dead tired,” he wrote. “I made in the meantime descriptions on the beach of the rarer plants which I was afraid might wither and was delighted to be able to test out the excellent water for tea.”
While Steller awaited the reply to his request, he heard the squawking and chirping of unknown birds, saw unfamiliar footprints in the earth, and spied all around him plants unknown in Asia or Europe. The birds, in particular, were “strange and unknown… easily distinguished from the European and Siberian species by their particularly bright coloring.” He continued to marvel at the abundance of natural beauty that lay before him, eager and excited to see more of the new land. “In an hour or so,” he wrote sarcastically, “I received the patriotic and courteous reply that I should betake myself on board quickly or they would leave me ashore without waiting for me.” Steller, always one to push his luck to the limit, was not deterred from his objective by the threats of his shipmates. He estimated the time for filling the remaining water casks and set off once again. “Since there was now no time left for moralizing,” he observed (though he moralized aplenty when he rejoined the ship), “only enough to scrape together as much as possible before our fleeing the country, and as evening was already nearing, I sent my Cossack out to shoot some rare birds that I had noticed, while I once more started out to the westward, returning at sunset with various observations and collections.”
Island of the Blue Foxes Page 13
