On the following day my worst anticipations were realised.  Late in the evening, as I was sitting in the house of one of the Russian peasants drinking tea, the cry was raised that “Anadyrski yaydoot”—­“Some one is coming from Anadyrsk”; and running hastily out of the house I met the long-haired Anadyrsk priest just as he stepped from his sledge in front of the door.  My first question of course was, “Where’s Bush?” But my heart sank as the priest replied:  “Bokh yevo znaiet”—­“God only knows.”  “But where did you see him last?—­Where did he spend the summer?” I inquired.  “I saw him last at the mouth of the Anadyr River, in July,” said the priest, “and since that time nothing has been heard from him.”  A few more questions brought out the whole dismal story.  Bush, Macrae, Harder, and Smith had gone down the Anadyr River in June with a large raft of station-houses, intended for erection along its banks.  After putting up these houses at necessary points, they had gone on in canoes to Anadyr Bay, to await the arrival of the Company’s vessels from San Francisco.  Here the priest had joined them and had lived with them several weeks; but late in July their scanty supply of provisions had given out, the expected ships had not come, and the priest returned to the settlement, leaving the unfortunate Americans in a half-starving condition at the mouth of the river.  Since that time nothing had been heard from them, and, as the priest mournfully said, “God only knew” where they were and what had happened to them.  This was bad news, but it was not the worst.  In consequence of the entire failure of the salmon fisheries of the Anadyr River that season, a terrible famine had broken out at Anadyrsk, part of the inhabitants and nearly all the dogs had died of starvation, and the village was almost deserted.  Everybody who had dogs enough to draw a sledge had gone in search of the Wandering Chukchis, with whom they could live until another summer; and the few people who were left in the settlement were eating their boots and scraps of reindeerskin to keep themselves alive.  Early in October a party of natives had gone in search of Bush and his comrades on dog-sledges, but more than a month had now elapsed since their departure and they had not yet returned.  In all probability they had starved to death on the great desolate plains of the lower Anadyr, as they had been compelled to start with only ten days’ provisions, and it was doubtful whether they would meet Wandering Chukchis who could supply them with more.

Such was the first news which I heard from the Northern District—­a famine at Anadyrsk, Bush and party absent since July, and eight natives and dog-sledges missing since the middle of October.  I did not see how the state of affairs could be any worse, and I spent a sleepless night in thinking over the situation and trying to decide upon some plan of operations.  Much as I dreaded another journey to the mouth of the Anadyr in midwinter, I saw no way of avoiding it.