A DANGEROUS BERTH OFF YUKON MOUTH
Eighty miles south of Redoubt St. Michaels, the one lonely
trading-station of that bleak northern coast, the mighty Yukon pours
forth its turbid flood, discoloring the waters of Bering Sea for one
hundred miles off shore. In point of size, as measured by length, the
Yukon ranks seventeenth among the rivers of the world and fifth among
those of the United States, but its volume of water is computed to be
equal to that of the Mississippi, while, like the Father of Waters,
it is constantly eating away its own banks and tearing them down,
acres at a time, along its entire length. Thus it has become a shoal
stream of immense width, crowded with islands and sand-bars, on all
of which are huge stacks of bleached driftwood piled up by springtime
floods. In the neighborhood of its fan-like, many-mouthed delta the
tawny giant has deposited its muddy sediment for so many ages that it
has created hundreds of square miles of low swamp lands, on which only
coarse grasses and stunted willows grow. In the early summer these vast
swamps afford safe breeding-places for millions of swans, ducks, and
geese. Here also are produced such incredible swarms of mosquitoes that
neither human beings nor animals dare penetrate their watery solitudes.
Nor are mosquitoes confined to the Yukon delta; but its entire valley
is so infested with them that summer is a season to be dreaded by
whites and natives alike. Even the wild animals of its forests
retreat to the snow-clad mountains, so that there is little or no game
to be procured between spring and autumn. The only compensation of the
season is that it brings the finest salmon of the world into the river
in such vast shoals that every dweller within one hundred miles of its
banks may from them lay in his year’s supply of food by the labor of a
single month.
[Illustration: ESKIMO HUT, MOUTH OF THE YUKON]
In the summer, too, the four or five trade-boats――all light-draught,
stern-wheeled steamers like the _Chimo_――that ply on the river make
their annual trips, with provisions, goods, and an eight months’
accumulation of mail, carrying joy to lonely mission-stations and
trading-posts, native villages, and distant mining-camps. On their
return in the fall they are freighted with gold-dust and the spoils of
the most prolific fur-producing district now left to the world.
These things formed the principal topics of conversation in the
pilot-house of the sturdy little _Chimo_ as, aided by a strong
north wind, she swept down the desolate coast of Norton Sound. The
six-by-seven-foot enclosure was occupied by Gerald Hamer, the stalwart
leader of the expedition, by Phil and Serge, and by an Eskimo pilot,
who had been obtained at St. Michaels. The two boys were in there for
warmth, for the season was late September, which in that latitude is
very close to the beginning of winter, and the brisk north wind held so
keen an edge that no one remained on deck unless forced to do so.
Gerald Hamer was there to watch his native pilot, in whom he had
little confidence. He was also uneasy concerning his boat, which had
been put together in the greatest haste on the beach, just beyond the
Redoubt, in the face of all possible annoyance from its inmates; they
being devoted to the cause of the already established company, were
determined that no other trader should gain a foothold in the country
if they could prevent it.
Being anxious to obtain the good-will of the natives from the outset,
Gerald Hamer had allowed a number of them who dwelt in the Yukon
delta, and were desirous of returning home, to take passage on the
_Chimo_, which towed their walrus-skin bidarrahs, or open boats, behind
her. These passengers――men, women, and children, fat, greasy, and
happy――made themselves perfectly at home on the lower or cargo deck of
the steamer, sprawling over her freight, peering inquisitively at her
engine, and revelling in the combined odors of steam and oil pervading
that part of the boat.
Before half the distance down the coast was covered, mysterious
accidents began to happen to the machinery. First it came to a stop,
and the engineer reported that something had so seriously gone wrong
that it would be necessary to anchor while he made an examination.
To the horror and dismay of all hands, a gunny sack was found to be
stuffed so far into the exhaust that the pipe had to be taken apart
before the obstruction could be reached and removed. Not long after
this danger was averted, one of the pumps refused to work. It was taken
to pieces, and was found to contain a large nail, which must have been
recently dropped into it. There was no doubt but that these things had
been done intentionally; and as suspicion naturally fell on the native
passengers, some of whom were known to be in the employ of the old
company, Gerald Hamer finally ordered them to leave the steamer.
Not understanding the cause of this peremptory order, and being loath
to exchange their present comfortable quarters for the open boats, the
natives obeyed so slowly and sulkily that it almost seemed as though
they were about to insist on remaining aboard. At length, however,
all were gone except one woman, who held a child in her arms, and who
refused to leave the warm corner of which she had taken possession.
Determined to get rid of her, and despairing of moving her by other
means, Gerald Hamer suddenly snatched the child from her arms, ran
to the open gangway, and dropped it gently into a bidarrah that
still waited alongside. In an instant the mother had followed, and
could be seen as the boat was shoved off hugging the infant to her
bosom, at the same time darting furious glances after the departing
steamer. A minute later, as though in compliance with her evident
though unexpressed wish, the _Chimo_ was run hard and fast aground on
one of the innumerable bars that so jealously guard Yukon mouth. Her
native steersman had been leaning from the pilot-house door watching
the dismissal of his compatriots, and especially that of his own wife
and baby, as the last two put off afterwards proved to be, instead of
attending to his duty.
Phil, who remained in the pilot-house, saw the bank just before the
boat struck, and snatched the wheel hard over, at the same time
signalling to stop and back at full speed. But it was all too late, and
ere she could be stopped the _Chimo_ had slid half her length into the
treacherous mud. In another minute the fleet of bidarrahs swept by, and
from them came mocking laughter mingled with derisive shouts. One of
them ran alongside, and ere any one on the steamer knew what was taking
place the native pilot had deserted his post, and was being borne away
in triumph by his fellows.
[Illustration: THE NATIVE PILOT DESERTS HIS POST]
“I only hope nothing worse will come of it,” said Phil, anxiously, when
Gerald Hamer finally rejoined him in the pilot-house.
“What do you mean?”
“Why, the pilot said something about that baby having the measles,
which I understand have been pretty bad on the river this summer, and
if that is the case some of us may have caught them.”
“Oh, I guess there’s no danger,” replied the captain, carelessly, his
mind at that moment being too fully occupied with the condition of his
vessel to allow of other thoughts.
It was too late to do anything that evening, for the short Northern
day was already merged in dusk, and the next morning, though anchors
were carried out astern, they came home through the soft mud as if it
were so much water the moment a strain was put on them. Sheer-poles
were rigged, and an attempt was made to pry the boat off by means of
them; but again the mud offered so little resistance that the effort
only resulted in failure. So, after working like beavers for hours, the
_Chimo’s_ crew resigned themselves to waiting as patiently as might be
for a change of wind and higher water.
In this enforced delay three precious days were spent, and nightfall
of the third found the _Chimo_ still outside Yukon mouth instead of
one hundred miles or more inland, as had been hoped. Still, with so
energetic a leader as Gerald Hamer, those three days were by no means
wasted. He overhauled and restowed the cargo hurriedly put on board at
St. Michaels, and with the engineer made a thorough examination of the
machinery. He reorganized his slender crew, appointing Phil and Serge
first and second mates, and giving each charge of a watch.
Besides the captain, the two mates, and the engineer, there were three
other persons in the crew. Two of them were millwrights, who were going
to Forty Mile to set up the saw-mill that formed part of the _Chimo’s_
cargo, but who now served as firemen. The third was a sullen-faced
fellow named Strengel, who had been engaged from the steamer
_Norsk_, which brought the expedition to St. Michaels, to act as
assistant engineer. Phil took a dislike to this fellow from the first,
and it was strengthened by the fact that he seemed to have contracted
an intimacy with some of the inmates of the Redoubt, who were avowed
enemies of the expedition.
Besides doing the things already mentioned, the captain and his two
young mates took a small boat and staked out about ten miles of the
channel that the _Chimo_ would follow as soon as she again floated.
On the evening of the third day the wind changed, and as the steamer
would probably float during the night the captain ordered steam to be
got up and everything made ready for a start at daylight. He turned
in early, complaining of great weariness and many pains, which he
attributed to the cold and the frequent drenchings that had accompanied
his sounding of the channel.
The following morning, when Phil went to report that the steamer
was afloat, and also to make a grave charge against Assistant
Engineer Strengel, he was horrified to find the captain raving in the
delirium of a high fever. Thus to his intense dismay the young mate
suddenly found himself burdened with the entire responsibility of the
expedition, with both a mutiny and a very sick man on his hands, in an
unfriendly country, and about to be confronted with the terrors of an
arctic winter.