Chapter LIII · RUSSIANS AFLOAT.

Reflections on leaving Siberia.—Departure.—The Russian navy.—The Djiguitt.—Seamen’s food, clothing, work.—Relation between officers and men.—Received as captain’s guest.—Progress.—Hospital arrangements.—Arrival at Hakodate.—Divine service.—Religious professions of seamen.—Inspection of ship.—A “strong gale.”—Russian sentiments towards Englishmen.—Cause of dislike.—Misrepresentations by English press.—Russian writings.—Transhipped to American steamer.—Arrivals at San Francisco and London.

Siberia was not my native land, and I did not climb for a last fond look; yet I confess to drawing half a sigh as I was borne away from Vladivostock. At all events I was not unmoved, and various thoughts presented themselves—some, I hope, of thankfulness that I had been permitted to cross the Old World without scratch or bruise.⁠[1]

But my happiest reflections were connected with what has been called my work. I entered the country very much in the dark as to what could be done, and what I did was little enough to boast of; yet, to me, it was a source of gratitude that I had been permitted to place within reach of at least every prisoner and hospital patient in Siberia a portion of the Word of God. A few opportunities also for the exercise of clerical functions had presented themselves, such as the services at Nikolaefsk and Vladivostock, as also some others of a private character, which linger pleasingly in the memory. Since my return, news has come from Archangel that the books I left in 1878 have caused inquiry and demand for the Scriptures. Again, more than one who has followed me in Northern Asia has told of the manner in which the books left at the post-houses are treasured, and, last winter, two gentlemen, travelling over a large portion of Western Siberia, found the tracts I had left in great demand. One of them writes that they have been a boon and a pleasure at many a peasant’s fireside. If, then, the result were no more than this, it would be something to have ministered gratification to tens of thousands of readers. But I had higher aims; for I believed that in those Scriptures and tracts there were germs of new life and thought and hope. I remembered what reading the Scriptures had done for men in other lands,—for Luther in his cell, and Bunyan in prison; and having sown the seed, I was content to leave it with Him in Whose name I went forth. Then I sailed away with the thought that I had done what little I could. Those who labour in similar fields will understand and sympathize with my feelings, and some perhaps will breathe a prayer that in the great day of account the harvest may be plenteous.

As the Djiguitt steamed out of the harbour we fired a salute of seven guns, and, gliding past the admiral’s house, saw his Excellency and Madame Erdmann waving their handkerchiefs from the verandah. Our captain, Charles de Livron, is the admiral’s son-in-law, so that there were hearty farewells passing. Madame Erdmann had kindly expressed to me a wish that our acquaintance thus begun might be continued, and, on leaving, I felt that I was parting from pleasant friends, not only in the Governor’s house, but in the town and country too. As I had applied to Captain de Vries for lodgings, I asked, of course, for my bill; but Mrs. de Vries would not hear of one, and the old captain said, “Well, write me a letter, and tell me how you get home, and then come again as soon as you can.”

We had hardly lost sight of land before I began to inquire about the Siberian fleet, which I understood to consist of 12 ships, divided into four classes, some being of iron and some of wood; 1 is for the China station, and there are besides 5 transports, 2 cruisers, and 4 gunboats, the last with 3 guns each; the whole being manned by 208 officers and 2,240 seamen. Of these about 380 are employed on shore for mechanical and building purposes, and a far larger number live ashore in winter. Their pay is much higher (nearly double, I heard) than that of sailors in the Baltic fleet.⁠[2]

And now a word about the Djiguitt (pronounced “Jee-geet,” and meaning “a horseman”), on board which I was favoured with a passage from Vladivostock to Japan. The clipper had been built four years previously, at a cost of £62,500, and measured 218 feet long, was of 1,300 tons burden, and fitted with engines of 250 nominal, but 1,200 registered, horse-power. She carried 200 men, with three large guns in the middle of the deck, and four small ones at the sides. The captain said he relied less upon his guns than upon his torpedoes, the apparatus connected with which fired 30 for defensive and 5 for offensive purposes. By means of wires the torpedoes—a kind supposed to be in possession only of the Russian navy—could be moved about under the water, and caused to explode automatically or at will. I am incapable of judging how far this information was correct, but I observed subsequently, from one of the English newspapers describing the Djiguitt, and some of her sister ships, that they were said to be well fitted to damage merchant shipping; and there is no doubt that, had England and Russia declared war in 1878, this clipper would have done her best to cripple the English commercial navy in the Pacific.

The Djiguitt had three masts, could spread 15,000 square feet of canvas, and, under sail and steam, was supposed to make 13 knots an hour. We were not fortunate enough, however, to get up to anything near this speed, nine knots on the first day being, if I mistake not, our best travelling. Often it was not more than six knots, and one day we made only 103 miles. Everything on board was scrupulously clean. The same thing struck me at Vladivostock, when steering the boat of the chief of the staff, in which I was rowed to the end of the harbour. The boat was manned by six men with 18-feet oars. According to Russian regulations, the men row up to 42 strokes a minute, and I noticed that when their arms were outstretched the men simultaneously bobbed their heads, but whether for obtaining more pulling power, or for appearance’ sake, I did not make out.

The sailors in the Imperial navy are now shorter than formerly. The Russian plan was to give from recruits, taken from all parts of the country, the tallest men to the navy, the next to the artillery, and the next to the infantry; but now they have made an alteration, and the navy takes the shortest.⁠[3]

The food of the seamen on shore I have already alluded to. At sea, each man gets 1 lb. of beef per day and plenty of biscuit. As I saw them eating their meals, sitting at tables, or on deck in circles round a common soup-bowl, they appeared to have enough and to spare, for a good deal of broken victuals was at times thrown overboard; and if, moreover, they do not eat all their allowance (which is usually the case), they may economise and purchase extras for holidays. Rum was served out at least once a day (for the notion that this benefits the men is not yet exploded in Russia), but a man might forego this if he pleased, and receive a trifling pittance instead.⁠[4]

It was difficult sometimes on so small a ship to find work for 200 men; consequently, a large number of them were employed in labour of a time-killing character, polishing the fittings of the ship and guns, making them in some parts as bright as silver plate. Others were weaving stays, or binding fine wire on telegraph lines for use with the torpedoes. Once or twice I saw them at gun drill. The smaller guns were breech-loaders, firing 15-lb. shot, worked by five men each; and the larger were 90-lb. muzzle-loaders, each worked by 19 men.

There seemed to me to exist an excellent feeling between officers and men. The captain, on leaving Cronstadt, hinted to his crew that, as he was proceeding to Siberia, he might leave some of them there if they misbehaved. He gave them, however, an excellent character, and said that, on arriving in Japan, he told an officer to let him know the number of men whose conduct since leaving port had been immaculate, and out of 180 men more than 100 were found without a bad mark. These, by way of encouragement, he treated to a special performance in a circus. On another occasion the captain paid some Chinese jugglers to come on board and give the men an exhibition, whilst, in the tropics, the officers had given the men lectures on scientific subjects, illustrated by a magic lantern.

On boarding the Djiguitt I had as usual “fallen on my feet.” There was a small berth in the vessel set apart for a chance passenger; but the captain honoured me with a place at his table in his own cabin, where things were more than comfortable. My host spoke excellent English, to say nothing of several other languages; and so well educated in this respect were the officers that, although the captain usually invited two of them to dine with us daily, there was seldom or never an occasion when they could not converse with me in English or French. Among the officers were some of the Russian nobility, one a prince, another a baron, and so on; and after sailing with them for 12 days, I came to the conclusion that they were gentlemen and officers of whom any navy might be proud. The doctor played the violoncello, a second officer accompanied on the piano, and others sang part songs. A young baron in Siberia had told me that the officers of the army were badly educated, and worse “elevé”; but this certainly was not the case with the officers of the Djiguitt.

On Sunday the captain and I were invited to lunch in the officers’ cabin, where I was reminded of the smallness of the world by the discovery that the first lieutenant sitting next me had been to the Greenwich Observatory, and as he had gained scholastic distinction in Russia, and had the privilege of spending two years in foreign study, he thought of coming again to Greenwich to the Naval College.

We left Vladivostock on Tuesday, the 30th of September, for Yokohama, and made fair progress till, next morning, a slight derangement of the machinery caused us to lift the screw and depend on sails. This piece of brass machinery, weighing nearly five tons, was heaved up by two lines of seamen on either side of the deck, which operation interested me, as did also some of the manœuvres for setting the sails, of which 11 were one day hoisted on the foremast, thereby spreading to the wind about 5,000 square feet of canvas. I accompanied the captain once or twice on his rounds of inspection, and was surprised at the stock of carpenters’ tools and stores on board. In the kitchen, divided into two compartments for officers and men, was a Chinese cook, who received excellent wages (the Chinese cook at Madame Erdmann’s at Vladivostock received £60 a year); and to him I paid the ordinary passenger’s tariff for food of 4s. a day. In the fore part of the clipper were two small compartments almost dark, used, when needed, for a prison.⁠[5] There was a lazarette on board, and I found that the doctor was obliged to keep a daily report, showing the number of patients in the ship, the number of cases standing over, new cases, cured, sent to hospital, remaining, and dead.⁠[6]

We sighted Japan on Friday, October 3rd, and early on Saturday morning reached Hakodate, where the ship stayed to get coal. I went on shore, not dreaming that I should know a creature, but soon found a missionary with whom, as a student, I had played football and cricket; and then, walking along the streets, a second surprise awaited me on meeting a youth whom I had known as a boy in Sussex. We stayed only a few hours, but I had time to visit the prison with Mr. Dening, the missionary; and then, getting on board, we steamed away on Saturday afternoon.

On Sunday morning, at half-past nine, a white sail with a red cross was run up to the mast-head, the bugle and drum sounded, and the crew assembled on deck for Divine service. Two men, uncovered, reverently brought an ikon, which was fastened by an officer to the captain’s bridge. It was a new ikon (about two feet square) of silver gilt, lately presented by the captain and officers of the ship at a cost of £20. It had been purchased in Petersburg, been sent to Vladivostock by post, and was used on this particular Sunday for the first time.⁠[7]

When all was ready the officers and choir were ranged in front and the men behind, and the Commander (in place of Captain de Livron, who is a Lutheran) read prayers and a psalm, the men responding and singing. The service was of short duration, but highly impressive, and very reverential. So, too, was their daily evening prayer, just before going to their hammocks at dusk, when the men, drawn up in double lines facing each other, at a signal doffed their caps, and chanted the Lord’s Prayer.⁠[8]

After Divine service the captain proceeded officially to inspect the ship, which he did in a very thorough manner, looking into every hole and corner for the least speck of dust or disorder. Here a cloth had been left in a recess, and there a piece of biscuit remained on a shelf. Both were ordered to be removed, and the attention of an officer was drawn to the broken hook and eye which attached the hen-house to the bulwarks. The captain even complained because, putting his hand on the polished brass of a gun, he found it somewhat dusty.

This, however, was fine-weather inspection, and we were to have a taste of something different. On Tuesday and Wednesday all had been bright. About two o’clock on Thursday morning a sudden squall struck the ship from right ahead, and caused a commotion, but did no harm, and for the remainder of the day the wind blew coldly from the north. On Friday and Saturday the temperature rose, and on Wednesday, 8th October, we passed through a warm stream with a temperature of 77°, whilst the thermometer on deck indicated only 70°. I had frequently asked how soon we should arrive at Yokohama, and the captain had prudently declined to say; but on Sunday afternoon he volunteered the remark that he was able to assure me that we should be at Yokohama in four days. Luckless boast! for the words had not been long spoken when there came on a tempest such as I had never experienced. Towards sunset the wind whistled and blew “a strong gale,” that would be marked 9 in the Beaufort notation (the remaining three degrees being 10, “a whole gale”; 11, “a storm”; 12, “a hurricane”). The topmasts were lowered, the sails furled, and the heavy guns, lest they should break away, were fastened by two extra lashings. Then followed great running about on deck, and climbing the rigging, at which I was looking on amused rather than otherwise. The captain, perceiving this, said, “Ah! we shall soon have the water rough!” And so it came to pass; there was a pendulum on the deckhouse to indicate the careen of the ship, the scale being marked up to 35°, and when I say that the ship heeled over to 32°, the reader will be prepared for the statement that in the captain’s cabin, where I was writing, the heavy table and myself behind it quitted our respective bases, in a very undignified manner, in favour of the opposite side of the cabin. The carpenter was called, and the table screwed down, after which, by tucking my knees tightly between it and a chair, I managed to hold my own. I know not whether the jolting of the tarantass across Siberia had rendered my nerves sea-proof, but, to my agreeable surprise, I found myself able to write during three severe storms on the Pacific and Atlantic. On Monday there ran “a high sea,” which the captain marked “7” (“8” standing for “very high,” and “9” for “tremendous,” beyond which my figures to indicate the disturbance of the water do not go). After the storm came a calm wind with rough waves. We dropped the screw, used steam, and to some extent steadied the ship; but, with all our efforts, made little progress, and burnt a great deal of coal, so that we had not sufficient to steam the remainder of the voyage. The captain said he had never known, in so short a space of time, so many changes of wind, barometer, and weather.

I had learned that the steamer left Yokohama for San Francisco on Saturday, the 11th of October, and as the mail-packet makes the passage from Hakodate to Yokohama in 64 hours, my hope was that I might land in the early part of the week, take a peep at the capital, and then embark for California; but the storm and the calm upset our calculations completely, and I had nothing to do but to submit, and make the best of my ebbing opportunities of gaining Russian information, and of getting my statistics translated.

Being brought into such close proximity with Russian gentlemen for several days, we naturally became somewhat intimate; restraint wore off, and I learned more fully than I had done before the feelings of educated Russians towards England. When passing through Petersburg a general had said to me, “J’adore les Anglais, mais je hais leurs conseils,” which, in 1879, was natural enough. Also the Djiguitt had left Europe during the Russo-Turkish war, and I discovered that her officers had brought away with them unpleasant feelings towards my nation. One of them observed, though not unkindly, that the English had interfered most rudely with Russian affairs, for which, he thought, the English Government was deeply hated by the Russian people, though Englishmen, he said, were not so. He was ready to discuss, very keenly, the probability of war between our two nations; and did not attempt to hide the disappointment of the Russians at being foiled of their purpose to enter Constantinople. He thought that, if war did break out, it would, on the Russian side, be intensely popular.

I set myself to discover, if possible, the cause of the alleged dislike, whereupon I found that, among other reasons, he was extremely sore about the frequent misrepresentation of Russia in English newspapers. He complained that there were certain journals always ready to exaggerate Russian defects; and, to be honest, I could not help allowing there was a measure of truth in what he said. Misrepresentation, however, may arise from two different sources—from ignorance or from malevolence. When passing through the northern capital, I myself saw, in some of the best English newspapers, statements to the effect that Petersburg was then in such a state that it was penal for anyone to stir out after nine without a certificate; that no evening party might be given without leave from the police; that no student might burn the midnight oil; and that a curfew law forbade a light to be seen in a dwelling after ten: all of which I read with amazement, for I myself was out as I pleased till past midnight, and burned a light in packing nearly all the night through. When I returned to London I said so to the editor of one of the papers, and found that his statements had been due to wrong information.

But complaint was made not merely of mistakes arising from ignorance or wrong information. It was urged that false statements were frequently put forth, and not properly and honorably rectified, when it afterwards became manifest that they were wrong.⁠[9] I had not up to that time realized to what an extent this was true; but, after reading various books and papers for the present work, I cannot but acknowledge that some of the writers upon Russian affairs do, to put it in the mildest form, make the most extraordinary statements. Some of these, as I have said, arise from ignorance, and are pardonable; but others, it is to be feared, arise from something far worse, which I prefer not to have to name. What, for instance, will the reader think of the following extract from an article in the Sheffield Daily Telegraph of December 6th last, which has come to my hand just before going to press?—“The Russian Government does a regular and an important business with Sheffield. Our Russophiles will be charmed. The Government of ‘the Divine figure from the North’ takes from Sheffield five tons per week of horseflesh. The horses killed for Holy Russia are those which, through decay or disease, are worthless. The dogs’ meat thus obtained is bought as food for human beings in Siberia, and, having to travel so far, it is often in a putrid condition when it arrives there, and in all its horrible putrescence it is so served out.”

This is remarkable information. The cheapest cost of carriage known to me from Petersburg to the Siberian frontier is £5 a ton, taking 12 months in transit (no wonder that the meat is putrid!); and if to this sum be added the cost of the horseflesh and its conveyance from Sheffield, and salt (for the Telegraph is kind enough to say, on Dec. 3rd, that the meat is salted, although it becomes putrid!), then how strange it will seem that the Russian Government should come to Sheffield to buy meat, when live stock, as I have already stated, can be purchased in Western Siberia at less than ½d. per pound! This, with a vengeance, is “carrying coal to Newcastle”! But the article goes on to speak of the prisoners working “in quicksilver-mines, where the mercury produces an artificial leprosy that rots blood, bones, and skin”; and then the writer pathetically adds that this “is the unspeakable fate of thousands of Russians in whom education and a disposition and temperament naturally brave have aroused thoughts too deep for tears, and a devoted courage worthy of the Christian martyrs.” These “martyrs,” moreover, are fed with “flesh swept up from English knackers’ yards”—that is to say, with horseflesh carried overland 8,000 miles!—I suppose to Nertchinsk, for the writer wisely abstains from naming the locality of his mines. O wonderful information from the Sheffield Daily Telegraph! Would that I could be informed where there exists in Siberia a quicksilver-mine at all, that I might hasten thither if only to clear up this mystery about—Sheffield horseflesh!

To return, however, to serious writing. Is it surprising if Russians feel annoyed at calumnies so gross? and ought one who knows them to be so to abstain from giving such statements the lie? Few Englishmen, one trusts, will be proud to read misstatements like these, and the exposure of them, it is to be hoped, may lead the unimpassioned to reflect on such injustice, and to call it by its proper name. For my own part (humiliating as it is to acknowledge), I have learned to expect from certain quarters exaggerations and misstatements respecting Russian affairs. If any complain to me of the character of Russian diplomacy I reply that I do not defend it. I say nothing of Russians as politicians, and so long as human nature remains as it is there will probably not be wanting writers to fan national jealousies and misgivings to a flame; but no right-minded persons will ever look upon misstatements like those I have quoted, other than with shame and disgust. Such misrepresentations carry also their own Nemesis, for the uninformed, led astray thereby, when they see themselves duped often espouse the opposite cause. Such unfairness has taught me at least to sympathize with Russians who are thus misrepresented; and perhaps I ought to confess that this feeling had something to do with my resolving to write this book.

It does one an immensity of good sometimes to have to listen calmly to an opponent, and I was thankful for the plain speaking I heard on the Djiguitt. I am indebted for other similar thoughts to various writings by Russians, among them to Madame Novikoff’s “Russia and England—a Protest and an Appeal” (by “O. K.”); all the more forcibly put because so politely written. I have said in my preface that of politics I know next to nothing, and it is not in this connection that I agree or disagree with what that accomplished lady has published; but I perceive that “O. K.” has found in England what I have found in Russia—a number of warm and generous friends, between whom one would desire that only the best of feelings should exist. If Russia were but better known, a similar feeling would grow, I feel sure, between Englishmen and Russians generally, and both would be gainers thereby. There are many who wish to know the truth respecting Siberia, and to form an unbiassed opinion, and if what I have written should tend in any degree to this end, I shall be thankful indeed.

On Saturday morning, October 11th, the Djiguitt was creeping along, without coal and almost without wind, when a five-masted steamer was seen on the horizon, coming away from Yokohama. “That,” said the captain, “is your steamer. Shall I ask them if they will take a passenger?” I quickly decided in the affirmative, packed my luggage, and embarked in a gig. The commander of the City of Peking did not stay to read the signals, but, seeing a boat put off from a man-of-war, concluded that it could be nothing short of an officer with important dispatches, and came to a standstill, to discover, however, that it was only to pick up a man “escaped from Siberia.” San Francisco was reached in sixteen days. From thence I visited the Yo-Semite Valley, Salt Lake City, Chicago, and Niagara; and then, pushing on to New York, crossed the Atlantic to Liverpool, and on November 25th re-entered London, having compassed the world in nearly a straight line of 25,500 miles.

FOOTNOTES:

Gratias Deo.