D

URING the last five years a great many people have heard the name of Bering, in connection with the Alaskan seal-fisheries, the Klondike goldfields, and the boundary dispute between Canada and the United States. But few who read or hear the name know who the man was or what he had accom

plished. His work as a discoverer and his tragic death have been, it is safe to say, forgotten. Nevertheless, his name will be imperishable so long as the maps and charts of the world show Bering Sea, Bering Strait, and Bering Island.

Bering was a Dane, born at Horsen, in Jutland, in 1680. He entered the Russian navy, fought against the Swedes, and served Peter the Great as a lieutenant in 1707, and as a captain-lieutenant in 1710. The "rough-and-ready" Czar knew of him as an adventurous man and a well-seasoned navigator. He was just the sort of person wanted in developing a great plan the Czar had been turning in his head for many years. Peter the Great wished that an expedition of his should discover the northwest passage from the Atlantic to the Pacific Ocean, which the maritime nations of Europe had been trying to find for centuries.

Bering came conspicuously to the front in 1725, when, by order of the government, he, with officers, men, and shipcarpenters, went overland to Kamchatka. At a place called Avatchka were built two vessels, in which, in 1725, Bering began an exploration of the coast of Asia, which lasted five years, the results of which were for the exclusive benefit of his government.

Anna was Empress in 1740. She had not forgotten the wishes and death-bed instructions of Peter as to continuing explorations for a northwest passage, and selected Bering, now a commander, to take charge of an expedition of two vessels. One, the St. Peter, conveyed

Bering; the other, the St. Paul, was entrusted to Captain Tchirikov, who had been with him on his previous voyage. The ships left the port of Avatchka, June 4, 1741. By order of the government the two vessels were directed to keep together for mutual aid.

After leaving Avatchka, Bering headed his ships south, steering by the De Fonte chart, which was proved, by later exploration, to have been very faulty, and largely imaginary. No land was sighted up to latitude 46. Eight days later, in latitude 50, both ships being headed to the east, and, unknowingly, for the American coast, they parted company in the midst of storms and fogs. Bering, according to his reckoning, came in sight of land July 18, in latitude 58 28, longitude 50, with an immense mountain confronting him,presumably what is now known as Mount St. Elias, with its 17,000 feet of height; but his companion, Tchirikov, was ahead of him, having made the same discovery on the 15th inst., in latitude 56, longitude 50. Both had found the land now known as Alaska.

At this point Tchirikov had the misfortune to lose not only his small boats, but a number of men who had gone ashore. This so discouraged him that he set sail for his return to Kamchatka.

Bering was, at this point, according to his own reckoning, five hundred leagues south of Avatchka. On the shore where he landed were found huts made of smooth boards, on some of which were carvings; a small box made of poplar; a hollow ball of earth, inside of which was a loose stone; a whetstone on which copper knives had been sharpened; a cellar stocked with salmon, ropes, and pieces of household furniture and wares; and fireplaces in which were fresh ashes and the remains of smoked fish. The inhabitants kept out of sight so long as the white men remained.

After spending three days in taking in water and in charting the coast, Bering held council with his officers, and it was decided to return to Avatchka. The start was made before sunrise July 21. The shore-line route proved a troublesome one. The ship was continually getting tangled up in a maze of islands,-possibly those now known as the Aleutian group. Running short of water, a large island was visited. It held a lake which was so adulterated by the overflow from the ocean that many of the men who drank from it were seized with distemper and died. The movements of the explorers were watched during the day by natives on shore, and at night signal-fires told the story of their vigilance.

While still involved in this network of islands, the St. Peter was caught, September 24, by a storm that lasted seventeen days, and drove her far to the southeast. During that storm neither sun nor stars were seen, and no observations could be taken to determine the vessel's locality. When, at last, a calm did fall, the discovery was made that the return voyage was barely half accomplished, that the stock of provisions was alarm

ingly low, and that only about one-third of the crew remained alive. The situation was made more serious by a difference of opinion as to what should be done. While some advised wintering in a sheltered place on the American shore, others, whose counsels prevailed, insisted on returning to Kamchatka. In this sort of discussion was frittered away nearly the entire month of October. However, the spirits of all revived when, on the 27th of that month, two islands were descried. It was believed these bits of land were off the coast of Kamchatka on the route to Japan, a mistaken assumption, as it proved. But, not knowing they were wrong, they turned the ship's head to the east, and officers and men grew light-hearted in a confidence that they were homeward bound.

But this exultation was only momentary, and no mariners ever needed a port worse than the few left on the St. Peter, with Bering deposed and the scurvy in command.

So deplorable was the condition of the men that the steersman was only able to reach the helm by being supported under the arms by such two of the crew as could

use their legs. Little canvas was spread, because there were not enough men strong enough to reef it in case of a storm, as well as because the sails were worn out and rotten, and the crew too feeble to bend new ones to their places. Vessel and crew were literally rotting to death while the long nights of the arctic winter were approaching.

In this condition the ship had been drifting for days, when the monotony of the misfortunes of those on board was broken by the discovery, at eight o'clock on the morning of November 4, of a speck of land on the horizon. It would seem from what followed as if the ship itself, foreknowing what was to come, became hopeless, and could bear the strain no longer, for, before daylight, the starboard rigging gave way; then, at the risk of the masts going by the board, the vessel was headed for the island.

When near the shore an anchor was thrown out, but the cable was rotten and broke, and the ship, after striking twice, passed over a great rock. A second anchor was cast out and lost. Then, as if the ocean pitied the weakness of the men, a great wave caught the St. Peter and lifted her over the reef into calm water. It was difficult to decide whether the change was for the better, for it was only a transfer from an angry sea to the craze-breeding silence of a snow-shrouded, shrubless, grassless island, with nothing better than floatwood for fires, and even that was buried deep under snow and ice.

No artist would care to paint the horrible things that came up that gloomy morning from the interior of the St. Peter. Not a well man appeared. Some died as soon as they came out into the light and breathed fresh air; the life of others passed away while being taken ashore in a small boat; others, still, died after the shore was reached, where, having no defenders, their warm bodies became food for ravenous foxes that, having no fear of the scurvy - stricken wretches of men, snapped at their heels as they staggered around.

Bering, who had been for some time totally disabled by disease, was brought ashore on a hand-barrow in a boat and placed in a sheltering hollow, where his

still faithful men-a mere handful-had cleared the snow from the sand. Even then he was dying. His great age and the hardships he had undergone on this voyage made his struggle for life hopeless.

His slow passing away was pathetic and pitiful. In effect, he partially buried himself alive. He lay under the shelter of a tent made from an old sail. Long suffering had made him childish and petulant. Each day and all day his weakening hands were constantly busied scraping down upon his body, beginning at his feet, the sand from the ridges on either side.

He would submit to no interference with this occupation, insisting that the sand warmed him. When he died, December 8, 1741, a month after the landing, his body was already half buried, and it needed but a little work on the part of his skeleton comrades to enclose this hero of the arctic regions in a coffin of frozen sand.

One who was with him to the last wrote that his speech and understanding were but little affected, that he bore himself as a Christian, and as one resigned to death.

Over his grave, on the desolate island that still bears his name, the few survivors of the unfortunate expedition erected a rude cross that served two purposes, to mark the last resting-place of the intrepid navigator, as well as a notice to the world that the island had become Russia's property.

Those of the party who were left were not able to depart until the 16th of August of the same year. Under the directions of one of the survivors, a Cossack (afterwards rewarded by a Siberian title of nobility), a boat was built from what was left of the St. Peter, and sailed for the coast of Kamchatka, which, as was afterwards discovered, was only thirty German miles distant from the island. But contrary winds were against them, and it was not until the 27th of the month that the castaways reached their port, and ended a voyage which has resulted in placing the obscure Russian sailor among the most famous men of any age and any country, both land and sea being used to perpetuate his name.

I

T was market-day in mid-April, and the whole town appeared to have emptied itself into the paved open space running for blocks between the long line of weather-beaten outside stalls.

"How much are your lilacs, Mis' Stone?"

"The purples is five, and the whites ten. Take a bunch?”

I

"Yes; give me three of the white. want them for the cemet'ry. I'm going this afternoon."

Mrs. Stone fingered busily among her fragrant blossoms. "I ain't got but two. Take a purple bunch to make up the three. They look beautiful together."

An old man came lumbering up from the other side of the stall. "There's a big bunch of whites in the back of the wagon, 'Liza. I'll go get them for you."

"They ain't to be sold," cried Mrs. Stone, sharply, and without looking at him. "They belong to Cornelia. I'm going to stop there going home."

"I'll take the purple," said the customer, holding out her hand. "Here's your money, Mis' Stone." She lingered, speaking in a lowered tone: "How long's your boy been dead now, Mis' Stone?"

"Eighteen year," said the old woman. She leaned across the mass of green things before her to say, solemnly: "And he's as alive to me now as he was before he dropped down that day in the road. I can't believe he's dead."

She was a small creature, with a face so sharp and fine that it seemed as if carved out of warm old ivory. Her eyes had the wistful outlook of a child's, but the mouth showed both spirit and temerity. There was an appealing catch in her high, keen voice.

"I want these for my mother's grave," said the customer; "it's her birthday. I guess it's David's, too, Mis' Stone."

"No, it comes in winter," said the old woman; "but I always take him something, if it's only a handful of everlast

ing. It's Cornelia's birthday, and I keep it instead of him."

The other woman shifted her basket from one arm to the other and waited. Mrs. Stone came around the side of the stall and laid a confidential hand upon her shoulder.

"Cornelia Hart was as good as engaged to my David, but he died, and she stayed single. He thought a good deal of Cornelia, and so, when her birthday comes round, I feel's if it 'd please him if I noticed it some, and I do what he'd do if he was alive, and then I go up to the cemet'ry."

The customer looked hesitatingly down upon the little figure.

"Yes, I know it's queer," said Mrs. Stone, in answer to that look. "It makes Nathan mad; he's raving inside just now on account of them white lilacs. But I don't care. I'd be ashamed to think of my dead the way some people do."

The other moved slowly away into the crowd, and Mrs. Stone returned to her old position behind the stand. She cast a quick and cursory glance upon the marketers, that, now singly, now in twos and threes, and again in a solid, pushing mass, passed and repassed between the farmers' wagons and the long, dark market-house. She heard with accustomed and unvexed ears the Hungarian crying his beaded slippers, the wavering call of the stroller with his hundred little crimson balloons fastened securely to a stout cord, the clang of the trolley-car in the street below. Once her husband's voice, in the thick of bargaining with a customer, came droning into her consciousness. Presently she became aware of something fine and white and odorous being borne swiftly and triumphantly before her. It passed, and a whiff of fragrance was all that was left to her. Like a flash she turned to her husband.

"Why did you sell them white lilacs, Nathan?"