CHAPTER IX.
CAN'T PASS THROUGH!
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ALASKA is that portion of the continent comprised, to the northwest of North America, between the fifty-second and the seventy-second degree of latitude. It is transversely cut by the line of the Arctic polar circle which curves through Behring Strait.
Look at the map with a little attention, and you will recognize without much trouble the outline of a head, of the Israelite type. The forehead is developed between Cape Lisbon and Barrow Point; the orbit of the eye is Kotzebue Sound; the nose is Cape Prince of Wales; the mouth is Norton Bay; and the traditional beard is the Alaska peninsula, continued on by that sprinkling of Aleutian Islands which dots the Pacific Ocean. As to the head, it ends with the termination of the ranges, the last slopes of which die off into the Ice Sea.
Such is the country about to be crossed obliquely by the Fair Rambler over a distance of eighteen hundred miles.
Of course, John had carefully studied the map, its mountains, its water-courses, the shape of the coast line, in fine the whole itinerary to be followed. He even had delivered a little lecture on the subject, a lecture listened to with the utmost interest by the whole family.
Thanks to him, everybody—not forgetting Clovy—knew that this country, the northwestern extremity of the American continent, had first been visited by the Russians, then by the Frenchman Lapérouse and by the Englishman Vancouver, and lastly by the American McClure, at the time of his expedition in search of Sir John Franklin.
In reality, the district had already been known—though partly only—thanks to the explorations of Sir Frederick Whymper and of Colonel Bulkley, in 1865, when there had been a question of laying a submarine cable between the old and the new worlds through Behring Strait. Up to this time, the interior of Alaska had hardly been journeyed through except by the travelers of houses in the fur and hide trade.
It was then that Monroe's famous doctrine made its reappearance in international politics, a doctrine in accordance with which America should be the exclusive property of Americans. If the colonies of Great Britain, Columbia, and the Dominion, were fated to remain non-American for a more or less lengthened period, Russia, perhaps, might be induced to cede Alaska to the Union, say a hundred and thirty-five thousand square feet[1] of territory. And with this object in view, correspondence was entered into with the Muscovite government.
No little sneering was raised at first, in the United States, when Secretary of State Seward proposed the purchase of this “Walrus Sea,” which seemed likely to prove a white elephant for the Republic. Still, Seward plodded on, with Yankee obstinacy, and in 1867 things had made considerable progress. Indeed it may be said that, if the convention between America and Russia was not signed, it was expected to be from one day to another.
It was on the evening of the 31st of May that the Cascabels had halted at the frontier, under a grove of tall trees. In this spot, the Fair Rambler stood on Alaskan territory, fully under Russian dominion, and no longer on the soil of British Columbia. Mr. Cascabel might be free from all uneasiness on this score.
And his good-humor had returned, and in so contagious a manner that it was shared by all his people. Now, all along as far as the boundary of Russia in Europe, the road should lie unceasingly on Muscovite territory. Be they called Alaska, or Siberia, did not these immense countries belong to the Czar?
Supper was unusually gay. John had killed a fine hare, fat and plump, that Wagram had raised in the thicket; a real Russian hare, if you please!
“And we shall drink a good bottle!” said Mr. Cascabel. “On my honor, I fancy my lungs breathe better this side of that frontier! It looks to me like a mixture of Russian and American air! Breathe the full of your chests, my children! Don't stint yourselves! There is enough for everybody—even Clovy, in spite of that thirty-six-inch nose of his! Why, I have been stifling these five weeks past, coming through that cursed Columbia!”
Supper over, and the last drop of the good bottle gone, each one repaired to his bunk and his little bed. The night was spent in the greatest calm. It was disturbed neither by the approach of dangerous animals nor by the apparition of wandering Indians. Next morning, horses and dogs had completely recovered from their fatigue.
The camp was raised at early morn, and the guests of hospitable Russia, “that sister of France,” as Mr. Cascabel said, prepared for their journey. Nor was much time needed. A little before six in the morning, the Fair Rambler was making headway, northwest, toward Simpson River, which it would be easy to ferry across.
This spur, which Alaska shoots forth toward the south, is a narrow strip, known under the general name of Thlinkilthen, and flanked, to the west, by a certain number of islands and archipelagos, such as the isles of the Prince of Wales, of Crooze, of Kuju, of Baranoff, of Sitka, etc. It is in the latter island that the capital of American Russia is situated, called likewise New Archangel. As soon as the Fair Rambler had arrived at Sitka, Mr. Cascabel intended halting for a few days, first of all to take some rest, and secondly to prepare for the completion of that first portion of his journey which was to bring him to Behring Strait.
This itinerary obliged them to follow a strip of land which skirted in capricious zigzags the mountains of the coast line.
Mr. Cascabel started then; but he had not advanced a step on Alaskan soil, when he was stopped short by an obstacle which had every appearance of proving insurmountable.
Friendly Russia, the sister of France, did not seem disposed to extend her hospitality to those French brethren who constituted the Cascabel family.
For, Russia suddenly stood before them under the shape and form of three frontier guards, muscular fellows, with thick beard, large heads, “tip-tilted” noses, a decidedly Kalmuk look about them, wearing the dark uniform of the Muscovite official, and that flat cap which strikes wholesome fear into the hearts of so many millions of human beings.
At a signal from the chief of these guards the Fair Rambler stood still, and Clovy, who drove the horses, called to his master.
Mr. Cascabel appeared at the door of the first compartment and was joined by his sons and his wife. And, somewhat uneasy at the sight of these uniforms, all alighted.
“Your passports!” demanded the officer in Russian—a language Mr. Cascabel understood but too well on this occasion.
“Passports?” he repeated.
“Yes, there is no entering the possessions of the Czar without passports.”
“Why, we have none, dear sir,” politely answered Mr. Cascabel.
“Then, you'll stay where you are!”
This was clear and to the point, just like a door slammed in an intruder's face.
Mr. Cascabel winced. He knew how severe are the regulations of the Muscovite administration; and a friendly compromise was a very doubtful eventuality. In truth, it was incredible ill-luck to have come across these guards at the very moment when the Fair Rambler had crossed the frontier.
Cornelia and John, in great anxiety, were awaiting the result of the conversation, on which depended the accomplishment of their journey.
“Brave Muscovites,” Mr. Cascabel began, bringing out the full power of his voice and the eloquence of his gestures to give more emphasis to his usual oratory, “we are French people, traveling for our pleasure, and, I presume to say, for the pleasure of others, more especially that of the noble Bojars, when they condescend to honor us with their presence! We had imagined that papers could be dispensed with in the case of the dominions of His Majesty the Czar, Emperor of all the Russias.”
“Entering the Czar's territory without a special permit,” was the answer, “such a thing was never seen,—never!”
“Might it not be seen once,—just on one little occasion?” suggested Mr. Cascabel in his most insinuating manner.
“No,” replied the agent, stiff and dry. “And so, back you go, and no comments!”
“Still, may I ask where passports may be had?” inquired Mr. Cascabel.
“That's your business!”
“Let us pass on, as far as Sitka, and there, through the intervention of the consul of France—”
“There is no French consul at Sitka! And besides, where do you come from?”
“From Sacramento.”
“Well, you should have supplied yourselves with passports at Sacramento! Now, it is no use saying any more.”
“It is very great use, on the contrary,” replied Cascabel, “as we are on our way home to Europe.”
“To Europe!—and by what road?”
Mr. Cascabel felt that his remark was likely to arouse suspicions about him, for, returning to Europe by this route was rather extraordinary.
“Quite so,” he added. “Certain circumstances have compelled us to come this round.”
“After all, that is beside the question,” remarked the officer. “Russian territories are closed to travelers without passports!”
“If the only thing needful is the payment of certain dues,” continued Mr. Cascabel, “we might come to an understanding perhaps.”
And a knowing wink accompanied this gentle hint.
But an understanding was not to be arrived at, even on these conditions.
“Brave Muscovites,” reiterated Cascabel, as a drowning man who clutches at a straw, “have you never heard of the Cascabel family?”
And he spoke the words as though the Cascabel family were on a foot of equality with the Romanoff House!
The hit proved as utter a failure as the rest. They had to turn the horses round and retrace their steps. The guards even carried their strict orders out to the extent of accompanying the Fair Rambler to the other side of the frontier, with a distinct injunction to the travelers never to cross it again. And the consequence was that Mr. Cascabel found himself once more, with a very long face, on the territory of British Columbia.
It will be confessed this was an unpleasant position, nay, a most alarming one. All the plans were now upset. The itinerary, adopted with such enthusiasm, should now be laid aside. The journey home through the west, the return to Europe by Siberia, became an impossibility for want of passports. Going back to New York through the Far West could be done in the usual way. But how was the Atlantic Ocean to be crossed without a boat, and where was the boat to be had without money to pay the passage fare?
As to earning, along the road, a sum sufficient to cover that amount, it would have been unwise to expect it. Besides, how long would it have taken them to save it up? The Cascabel family—why not hit the nail on the head?—must be well-nigh overdone by this time in the United States. For the past twenty years there was hardly a town or a village that; the Cascabels had not “worked” all along the Great Trunk. They would not now take in as many cents as they formerly took dollars. No, the eastern route was beset with endless delays; years perhaps would roll by before they could take ship for Europe. At any cost, combinations should be found which would enable the Fair Rambler to reach Sitka. Such were the thoughts, such was the language, of the members of this interesting family when they were left to their painful meditations.
“Well, here we are in a pretty pass!” said Cornelia, with a shake of her head.
“It is not a pass at all,” retorted her husband, “you can't pass through, it's a blind alley!”
Now then, old wrestler, you the Hercules of the popular arena, will you lack the means to get the better of your evil fortune? Will you let yourself be nonplussed by ill-luck? You have all the showman's tricks and dodges at your fingers' ends, will you not succeed in juggling yourself out of this difficulty? Is your bag of tricks really emptied out? Can it be that your imagination, so fruitful in expedients, will not carry off the victory in this struggle?
“Cæsar,” said Cornelia, “since those wretched guards happened to be on our path just in time to prevent us stepping into the country, let us apply to their superior officer!”
“Their superior officer!” exclaimed Mr. Cascabel. “No doubt, that is the Governor of Alaska, some Russian colonel, as unmanageable as his men, and who will send us to the devil!”
“Besides, his residence must be at Sitka, and Sitka is the very place they wont let us go to.”
“Who knows,” suggested Clovy with no little judgment, “perhaps these frontier-men might not object to bring one of us to the Governor.”
“Why, Clovy is right,” answered Mr. Cascabel. “That's a good idea!”
“Unless it's not worth a clove,” added the clown with his luibitual qualifying clause.
“It is worth trying before we retrace our steps,” replied John, “and, if you like, father, I shall go—”
“No, I had better go,” said Mr. Cascabel. “Is it a far cry to Sitka?”
“Some three hundred miles.”
“Well, in the course of nine or ten days I can be back here again. Let us have a sleep over it, and to-morrow we shall make the venture!”
Next morning, at break of day, Mr. Cascabel went out in search of the guards. His search proved neither hard nor of long duration, for they had remained on the look-out in the vicinity of the Fair Rambler.
“Why, there you are again?” they cried to him in a threatening tone of voice.
“Here I am again,” he replied, trying the effect of his most bewitching smile.
And with a running accompaniment of compliments to the Russian authorities, he expressed his wish to be brought to the presence of His Excellency the Governor of Alaska. He offered to pay all the traveling expenses of the “honorable officer” who would be kind enough to accompany him, and even hinted at a handsome remuneration in hard cash for the generous and noble-hearted man who would,—etc.
The proposal fell through. Even the perspective of the handsome remuneration proved of no avail. It is probable that the guards, as obstinate as custom-officers, and stubborn as tax-gatherers, were beginning to look upon this persistent desire to cross the Alaskan frontier as extremely suspicious. In truth, one of them cut matters short by ordering Cascabel to return to where he came from, forthwith, and added:
“If we ever find you again on Russian territory, it is not to Sitka we shall bring you, but to the nearest fort. And once you get in there, you never know how or when you will get out.”
Mr. Cascabel, not without being somewhat roughly handled, was immediately conducted back to the Fair Rambler, where his disappointed look told the tale of his failure.
Had the day really come when the home on wheels of the Cascabels was about to be transformed into a sedentary dwelling? Was the skiff, that carried the showman and his fortune, to remain stranded on the Columbo-Alaskan frontier like a boat that the outgoing tide leaves high and dry on the rocks? To all appearance, there was but too much fear of it.
How sad and gloomy the first day that was spent in these conditions, how sad the days that wore their weary length away, ere the wanderers could resolve on a new course!
Luckily, there was no lack of food; of the provisions that they expected to renew at Sitka a sufficient stock still remained. Besides, it was surprising to see the abundance of game in the neighborhood. Only, John and Wagram took good care not to venture out of the Columbian territory. It would have meant much more for the youth than the confiscation of his gun and a fine to the benefit of the Muscovite treasury.
Meanwhile, grief “clawed in its chilly clutch” the hearts of our friends. The very animals themselves seemed to feel their share of sorrow. Jako jabbered less than usual. The dogs indulged in dismal fits of howling. John Bull was forgetting his antics and grimaces. Vermont and Gladiator alone seemed to accept their situation without a murmur, having nothing to do but graze the rich, fresh grass supplied to them by the surrounding plain.
“For all that, and all that, we must make up our minds one way or the other!” Mr. Cascabel would often say, folding his arms across his chest.
That was evident, but which way?—which way? This should not have puzzled Mr. Cascabel; for, in truth, he had no choice in the matter. Seeing that he was forbidden going on ahead, the only alternative was moving back and giving up that trip westward that he had so courageously undertaken. Return he should on that hated soil of British Columbia, thence away through the prairies of the Far West, and on to the coast of the Atlantic! Once in New York, what would they do? Perhaps a subscription might be set on foot by some charitable souls, to enable them to pay their voyage home? How humiliating for these brave-hearted folks, who had always lived by their labor and never held out a begging hand, to come down so low as to be the recipients of charity! What wretches they were who had robbed them of their little all, in the passes of the Sierra!
“If they don't get hanged in America, garroted in Spain, guillotined in France, or impaled in Turkey,” Mr. Cascabel used to say, “justice has fled this nether world.”
And at length his mind was made up.
“We shall be off to-morrow!” he said during the evening of the 4th of June. “We shall go back to Sacramento, and then—”
He said no more. In Sacramento, they would see. As to setting off, everything was ready. There was nothing to do but putting the horses to the wagon and turning their heads to the south.
This last evening on the frontier of Alaska was still sadder than the rest. Each one sat in his corner, without a word. Outside, darkness was intense. Heavy clouds hovered to and fro through the sky like icebergs sent adrift by the gale toward the east.
In vain would the eye seek a single star, and the crescent of the new moon had just disappeared behind the lofty mountains at the horizon.
It may have been nine o'clock when Mr. Cascabel gave the order to go to bed. Next morning they should start before daybreak. The Fair Rambler would resume the track it had followed from Sacramento, and even without a guide, it would not be a difficult matter to get along. Once at the springs of the Fraser, the valley would bring them straight on to the frontier of Washington Territory.
And accordingly Clovy was preparing to lock the door of the outer compartment, after saying good-night to the two dogs, when a sudden report was heard within a short distance.
“That sounded uncommonly like a shot!” exclaimed Mr. Cascabel.
“Yes, it was a shot,” answered John.
“Some sportsman, no doubt!” said Cornelia.
“A sportsman—this dark night?” observed John. “That's hardly likely!”
Just then, a second report broke the stillness of the night, and cries were heard.
1↑ Translation Error. Verne: quarante-cinq mille lieues carrées, 45,000 square leagues.