east is the arrowhead of Mount Verstovia; the glaciers glisten beyond; and the sweep of mist-clad mountains, in their softness, beyond the bay to the southeast completes the circle.

Radiating like the spokes of a wheel, waterways with historic memories reach out from the town. Krestof Bay, where the early navigators cast anchor; Neva Strait, commemorating the first Russian ship that visited Sitka from around the world; Katleanski Bay, on which was situated Old Sitka; Silver Bay, a Norwegian fjord transplanted to Alaska; Lisianski Bay, named for the Russian navigator of a century ago; the inlet at Ozerskoe Redoubt and Globokoe (Deep) Lake; the island-studded way to the Hot Springs; each with its individual charm; the ocean, with the deep, rich, marine tints of northern waters; the forest of blue, that folds like a robe over the mountains; the mountain summits beside the glaciers, clad in the exquisitely wonderful green of the Northland, all are delightful. But when the sun sinks low in the west, with the long, lingering twilight of the North, and the soft, delicate rays touch and blend with the water and islands, the mountains and sky–then, in the mystery of the evening, is the supreme beauty of the land. To those who have really known and loved Sitka, there is no place on earth to compare.

There are pleasant recollections of those who have lived there. Jovial Edward Degroff and his stories at the Roastology Club; the Mills, whose hospitable home is known to every resident of the town; Wm. Gouverneur Morris, whose name recalls a leader of Revolutionary days; genial George Barron, who upheld every good tradition of the Navy; the gallant old soldier, Matthew P. Berry; dignified Judge Delaney, Alaska’s staunchest advocate through all vicissitudes; Governor Brady, with his neverfailing faith in Alaska’s greatness; Captain Francis, without whom the early naval commanders thought the warships could not thread the intricate passages; Nicholas Haley, with his optimistic dreams of El Doradoes; Pauline Archangelsky, for whom the “Old Timers” have pleasant recollections; Alonzo Austin and his mission; Captain Kilgore of the “Rush”; Merrill, who caught on the photograph plate the elusive spirit of the varying surroundings as only a true artist could; Katherine Delaney Abrams, whose touch in watercolor delineated the glory of the sunsets as none else could; Professor Richardson, who for a quarter of a century returned year after year thousands of miles to perpetuate in paintings the exquisite tintings of glaciers and mountain; George Kostromitinoff (Father Sergius); Father Metropolski, and many others who have made a part of the quaint old town.

There is a saying that whosoever comes to love the waters of the Indian River will ever after yearn for them, and it seems true, for always is that harking back to its banks with an unsatisfied longing.

From prehistoric time this has been the home of the Sitka Kwan of the Thlingit people. For sixty-three years it was the scene of the chief activities of the Russian American Company, who represented the rule of the Muscovites, who, when Chicago was but a blockhouse in a sedgy swamp on the banks of a sluggish, reedy river, and when San Francisco was but a mission and a Presidio of sun-burned bricks, maintained in Sitka a community of busy people who were casting cannon and bells, and who were building ships for commerce.

In the establishment of this outpost the foundation was laid for the title of the United States to the southeastern part of Alaska, a land rich in fur and forest, in gold and copper, in marble and fish, the potential possibilities of which are not even approximately forecasted today. Enough to say of it, that in its limits are two mines, one of which has yielded over sixty-five millions of dollars in gold, and the other ranks among the richest of the mineral producing veins of the world.

Some may have an interest in the story of the quaint, quiet, beautiful village on the shore of Baranof Island. I hope this may add something to history, keeping the events of the past bright in the memory of those who love the Northland and its story, and add a little of interest and information of the present to those who come as transient visitors to while away a few days among the myriad islands of the Sitkan Archipelago. It is a link to connect the Sitka of the past, the Novo Arkangelsk of the great Russian American Company in the romantic days of the fur trade when it was the center of the vast domain of Russian America and gathered to its magazines the pelts of sea-otter and fox, with the Sitka of today with its fisheries and mines. The old landmarks are fast disappearing, scarce a year passes without some monument passing away, and even their location will soon be forgotten unless some record is made for those who do not know where they stood.

SITKA

THE HISTORIC OUTPOST OF THE
NORTHWEST

CHAPTER I
DISCOVERY

Sitka of the Russians, a century ago, was the center of trade and civilization on the Northwest Coast of America, the chief factory of the Russian American Company in the vast and little known land of the Russian Possessions in America. The sails of ships from far off Kronstadt on the Baltic brought Russian cargoes. The famous clipper ships of New England made it a stopping place on their way to the China seas. English traders and explorers visited it on their voyages, and in it was centered the trade of a wide region. It was the chief factory of the greatest rival in the fur trade of the world, with which the Honourable, the Hudson’s Bay Company, which then was the controlling power in the English fur market, had to contend.

The story of Sitka goes back past the middle of the Eighteenth Century. There are Russians, Spanish, English, French and Americans who have woven each their own part of the web of the tale, and the scenes have been as varied and strange as the people.

July 16, 1741, a Russian ship stood into a broad harbor on the Northwest Coast of America. The commander, Captain Alexei Chirikof, had sailed three thousand miles across the unknown Pacific from the shores of the Okhotsk Sea. Civilized eyes had never before rested on these shores and he was keen with the excitement of adventure and discovery as he dropped anchor. He sent a party ashore in the ship’s longboat to explore, and awaited the result. Days passed and no word or signal came, so the remaining boat was sent to recall the party and it was swallowed up in the labyrinth among the green islands. Signals indicated that it safely landed but none returned to the ship although the orders were imperative that both boats return at once. The last boat was gone. Three weeks passed. Captain Chirikof could not reach the shore and could no longer lie at anchor, so reluctantly and sadly he set his course for the far off Kamchatkan shores and sailed away from the port of missing men.

Nearly two centuries have passed since the Russian seamen landed and no word has come from them. For more than seventy years the Russian Government sought for some sign of their fate.^[1] Tales were told of a colony of Russians existing on the coast but each upon investigation proved but a rumor.

There is a dim tradition among the Sitkas of men being lured ashore in the long ago. They say that Chief Annahootz, the predecessor