IN SEARCH OF EL DORADO
_THREE BOOKS OF_
_TRAVEL AND DESCRIPTION_
Siberia. A Record of Travel, Climbing and Exploration.
By SAMUEL TURNER, F.R.G.S. With about 100 Illustrations
and 2 Maps. Demy 8vo, cloth, =21s.= net.
Travels of a Naturalist in Northern Europe.
By J. A. HARVIE-BROWN, F.R.S.E., F.Z.S., Author of "Fauna of
the Moray Basin," "A Vertebrate Fauna of Orkney," &c.,&c.
With 4 Maps and many Illustrations. 2 vols. Royal 8vo,
cloth, =£3 3s.= net.
Russia Under the Great Shadow.
By LUIGI VILLARI, Author of "Giovanni Segantini," "Italian
Life in Town and Country," &c. With 85 Illustrations.
Demy 8vo, cloth, =10s. 6d.= net.
LONDON: T. FISHER UNWIN.
[Illustration: Yours Very Sincerely Alexander Macdonald.]
IN SEARCH OF EL DORADO
A WANDERER'S EXPERIENCES
BY
ALEXANDER MACDONALD
F.R.G.S.
WITH AN INTRODUCTION
BY ADMIRAL MORESBY
ILLUSTRATED
SECOND IMPRESSION
LONDON: T. FISHER UNWIN
1, ADELPHI TERRACE. MCMVI
FIRST EDITION 1905
SECOND IMPRESSION 1906
[_All rights reserved_]
TO
MY MOTHER
Introduction
"Good wine needs no bush," but because a man does not always himself see
the full scope of what he has written, an introduction may have its uses
for author and readers alike. And to me--the adventure of whose own
career has reached the inexorable _Finis_--these true stories of gold
and gem seeking have an interest beyond the mere record of peril and
achievement, though, in the words of Sir Philip Sidney, it "stirs the
heart like a trumpet-blast" when brave men come to grips with dangers
which (like the treasure-guarding dragons of fairy-tales) yield not only
their hoard, but their own strength, as reward to the conqueror.
And these are true romances--no fiction with its _Deus ex machina_ at
the psychological moment, but the unadorned risks, escapes, and failures
of adventurers on the quest of those strange commodities, seemingly
haunted by death and fear, from their secrecy in the recesses of the
earth till they shine with a sinister light in the crowns of kings or
make rough, for better handling, the sword-grips of warriors.
The quest of "El Dorado" begins with the history of man, and in pursuit
of the glittering phantom have "many souls of heroes gone down into
Hades," only that others might step into their empty places in the
ranks. For whatever is found, always just beyond reach flits what is not
found--what never will be, be it the golden city of Manoa, with its
palace of the Inca, "all the vessels of whose house and kitchen are of
gold, and in his wardrobe statues of gold which seemed giants, and
ropes, budgets, chests and troughs of gold," or the mysterious jewels of
the wisdom of Solomon, or the genie-guarded gems of the Arabian Nights.
The instinct of delight in this adventure which has dazzled the mind of
man from time immemorial is universal: it is a relish of youth which
persists into the old age of the world; it warms the coldest blood; and
our author, who has himself followed the mirage and felt the fascination
so keenly, is able to transmit the magic of the search to his readers.
Whether toiling over the Chilcoot Pass, hunger-pinched, and desperate
with cold and exhaustion, or thirst-tormented in the burning deserts of
Central Australia, the indomitable desire that drives him forward with
his comrades, drives us also on this modern Odyssey, where the Siren
sings on beaches of dead men's bones, and perils as terrible as any
man-devouring Cyclops lie in wait for the wanderers.
The author, leaving his book to the verdict of the public, is once more
an explorer in the Australian deserts, collecting who knows what strange
experiences for future use, so I may, in his absence, characterise him
as a born leader of men, a very prudent Odysseus; for what lesser
qualities could have held together so strangely assorted a band as the
rough-hewn Mac and Stewart and the gentleman adventurer Phil Morris?
Reticence is perhaps unavoidable, but one would willingly see and hear
more of the central figure than his own modesty allows him to give us.
Yet, as I said before, it is not only the adventure which gives a charm
to these studies of wild life. They are little epics of
comradeship--impressions of men to whom gold and jewels are much, but to
whom loyalty is the one thing better. It is good to see the yellow gleam
in the washings, and the milky fire of the Australian opal is worth the
perils endured, but there is also the abiding knowledge that quite other
and less elusive treasures reward the quest--courage, endurance, and
above all--"the manly love of comrades."
And to me--to whom some of these studies recall in keenest remembrance
scenes which I shall never behold again with my living eyes--there is
another point of view and one of wider interest. Such men, in working
out their own destiny, are evolving also the imperial destiny of the
Mother-Country. They break the path, and other feet follow. There is the
march of an army behind them, for they are the vanguard of
civilisation--the first spray of the tide that, however slowly it flows,
does not ebb. It is well, since the change must come, that these men, of
good home-spun stuff, honest and kindly in thought and deed, should be
among the forerunners of the race that will abide where it has set its
feet. Scotland need not be ashamed of her sons as they stand before us
in these true stories of daring and endurance, and speak with their
enemies in the gate.
The inexhaustible mineral and gem deposits of New Guinea are only
glanced at, but the description of those marvellous tropical forests,
through whose deep ravines rush the gold-bearing torrents, from which
"Mac" was able to wash out thirty pounds worth in one day, proves what
possibilities England possesses in that great island, and sheds light on
the policy of a time, now happily past, when I had hoisted the Flag, in
1872, and thus taken formal possession of Eastern New Guinea. I reported
to my chief, and his reply has a curious interest in view of many later
developments.
"Have we not enough tropical possessions, without requiring more? Enough
issues to sap the strength of our Englishmen, without giving Government
patronage to the infliction of new wounds on our body? Enough
circumstances in which there must be a subjected race alongside of our
English proprietors, without putting the Government stamp on a new
scheme which will help to demoralise us, and weaken our moral sense as
a nation?"
Such were the views of the Little Englanders thirty years ago. Such seem
strangely out of date when explorers of the Alexander Macdonald type are
tapping the remotest sources of commerce in the interests of the old
country.
So I leave the little band to the reader--very human, compound of great
generosities and small failings, travellers, like ourselves, on "the
Great Trail" that leads to the Mountains of the Moon, and beyond, but
always _men_, and knit together by so strong a bond that each might well
say of the other, with Walt Whitman--
"Bold, cautious, true, and my loving comrade."
J. MORESBY.
Admiral Rtd.
BLACKBECK,
_April 19, 1905_.
Preface
I desire to assure all readers of this book that the scenes here
depicted, and the events described, may be taken as faithful
representations from life. I would also add that the geographical
descriptions throughout are accurate in detail; my knowledge is borne of
long and varied experience in the countries of which I write.
A friendly critic, on reviewing my MSS., said that the book might be
misunderstood because of its containing the remarks and conversations of
my companions, which he considered could not very well have been
remembered by the writer. On this point, however, I beg to differ, and I
feel that I shall have the sympathy of my fellow-wanderers on my side.
When a man has travelled for many years with the same companions, and
has shared danger and sorrow and gladness with them, surely it is not
too much to assume that he must ultimately know their temperaments well,
and would scarcely need to draw upon his imagination when recalling
their various remarks on striking incidents.
At the conclusion of our Western Australian journey the outbreak of the
South African war caused a temporary disbandment of my party, all of
whose members served at the Front with the Australian Contingents
during the campaign. As a result it will be observed that in the third
part of this volume the narratives partake somewhat of a general nature,
and are also more or less disconnected.
Finally let me say in extenuation of any brusqueness or crudity of
expression which may be noticeable, that I write as a traveller whose
hand has more often gripped the rifle and sextant than the pen.
ALEXANDER MACDONALD.
ELCHO PARK, PERTH.
_March 1, 1905._
Contents
PAGE
INTRODUCTION vii
PREFACE xiii
PART I
THE FROZEN NORTH
UNDER THE SHADOW OF THE WHITE PASS 3
SHOOTING THE WHITE HORSE RAPIDS 16
THE LAND OF THE THRON-DIUCKS 24
THE FINDING OF "GOLD BOTTOM" CREEK 37
THE PERILS OF THE TRAIL 51
THE TENT AT CARIBOU CROSSING 60
ACROSS THE CHILCOOT PASS 70
PART II
UNDER THE SOUTHERN CROSS
THE FIVE-MILE RUSH 83
SINKING FOR GOLD 97
WE "STRIKE" GOLD 107
CAMP-FIRE REMINISCENCES 122
THE "SACRED" NUGGET 133
INTO THE "NEVER NEVER" LAND 146
EL DORADO! 159
WHERE THE PELICAN BUILDS ITS NEST 173
PART III
PROMISCUOUS WANDERINGS
IN THE AUSTRALIAN BACK-BLOCKS 199
ON THE OPAL FIELDS OF WHITE CLIFFS 220
PROSPECTING IN BRITISH NEW GUINEA 238
IN THE GUM-LAND OF WANGERI 256
WITH THE PEARLERS OF NORTH-WESTERN AUSTRALIA 271
List of Illustrations
PORTRAIT OF THE AUTHOR _Frontispiece_
A PARTY OF MINERS GOING IN BY THE SKAGWAY
OR WHITE PASS TRAIL _Facing p._ 7
THE CHILCOOT PASS " 16
KLONDIKE-BOUND MINERS AND THEIR OUTFITS
ON LAKE LINDERMAN " 22
AFTER THE RAPIDS " 22
PAN-WASHING IN SKOOKUM GULCH " 37
GOLD-BOTTOM CREEK " 47
DAWSON CITY " 54
ON THE SAFE SIDE OF THE PASS AGAIN--MAC,
SELF, STEWART " 79
STEWART PREPARING OUR FIRST MEAL " 89
"DISCOVERY" SHAFT--ON GOLD " 99
STEWART FINDS THE GROUND HARD " 106
NO. 2 CLAIM--JUST STRUCK GOLD " 114
OUR SHAFT " 122
NUGGETY DICK AND SILENT TED " 127
HAPPY JACK AND DEAD-BROKE SAM " 132
READY FOR THE RUSH " 139
A BREAKDOWN IN THE RUSH " 145
OUR LAST VIEW OF THE 5-MILE WORKING " 150
TAKING OUR POSITION " 159
A NATIVE CAMP " 165
EL DORADO! " 172
AN EXTINCT VOLCANO WE CAMPED ON " 182
THE ONLY CREATURES THAT CAN EXIST IN THE
N.W. INTERIOR " 195
AN EMU'S NEST " 200
"LEICHARDT'S TREE" " 213
The last trace found of the great explorer who
attempted to cross the interior and was never
heard of again.
A FAMOUS MINE IN THE GULF COUNTRY " 219
BORING FOR OPAL INDICATIONS " 224
THE BELLE OF THE BUSH--A SALVATION ARMY
CONVERT IN WHITE CLIFFS " 230
THE DINGOE OR NATIVE DOG " 237
CROCODILE JAWS " 243
THE GUM-DIGGERS' SWIMMING-POOL " 265
READY TO GO DOWN " 275
PART I
THE FROZEN NORTH
"And, as his strength
Failed him at length,
He met a pilgrim shadow--
'Shadow,' said he,
'Where can it be
This land of El Dorado?'
'Over the mountains
Of the moon,
Down in the valley of the Shadow,
Ride, boldly ride,'
The Shade replied
'If you seek for El Dorado.'"
UNDER THE SHADOW OF THE WHITE PASS
I have stumbled upon a few "tough" corners of the globe during my
wanderings beyond the outposts of civilisation, but I think the most
outrageously lawless quarter I ever struck was Skagway in the days of
its early infancy. Now, I am told, Skagway is a flourishing township,
boasting of the orthodox amount of "broad" streets and "palatial"
buildings for an American "boom" camp. This may be, though--unless the
geographical features of the district have altered--I can hardly credit
it. When I was there the embryo city balanced itself precariously along
the lower slopes of the White Pass, and a good percentage of the
population had to be content with huts built on piles within the tidal
limit of the Lynn Canal. In short, there was no room to build anything,
and Skagway existed simply because it marked the entry to the Yukon's
frozen treasure. Its permanent residents were, for the most part,
sharpers of the worst type; indeed, it seemed as if the scum of the
earth had hastened here to fleece and rob, or, failing those gentle
arts, to murder the unwary voyagers to or from the Golden North. There
was no law whatsoever; might was right, the dead shot only was immune
from danger.
It was late autumn in the year when the first news of Klondike riches
burst upon the world, when I, with my companion Mac, arrived at the head
of the Lynn inlet, _en route_ for the land of snows and nuggets. Our
ship, the _Rosalie_, carried a goodly number of passengers, but they
were mainly of the ruffian "store and saloon-keeper" variety, and few,
if any, of them ever got beyond the pass. The true gold-miner is
proverbially poor, and as yet his kind had not been numerous on the
trail. As for myself, I was enterprising if nothing else, and my
companion made up for my deficiencies in other respects. He was a
ferocious individual without a doubt, my worthy henchman; without him my
early journeyings would have ended before they had well begun, but,
being a hardened traveller, he knew how to adapt himself to
circumstances, and how to come off best in a scrimmage, both of which
traits were brought fully out before we had been long in the villainous
little camp of Skagway. Our first twenty-four hours' experiences may be
worth relating.
We were the only representatives of Old England in these uncouth parts
at this period, a fact which had not made us any more beloved by the
aggressively hostile Yankees on board the _Rosalie_. Times without
number they told me how the "great American nation" could wipe the
British Isles off the face of the earth at a moment's notice, and how a
"free-born American" was equal to a dozen Britishers, and how we two
would be swallowed alive by these same men should we dare say a word to
the contrary. We bore a good deal of this sort of thing in silence,
though occasionally throughout the protracted voyage my fiery
aide-de-camp retaliated angrily, and did considerable damage among his
tormentors, who proved to be warlike only in their speech. But this is a
digression, and though I could write pages on that momentous cruise--we
ran aground five times, and were practically wrecked twice--I must
desist and continue my narrative.
The first man we saw after being dumped on the muddy shores of Skagway
Bay was a short, red-headed individual, with ruddy countenance to match,
who fairly bristled with weapons of the most bloodthirsty description.
He approached Mac and me as we stood hesitatingly by the water's edge
looking around for some habitation wherein we might find refuge for the
first night of our sojourn in a strange land.
"Hallo, stranger!" he saluted, affably, firing a huge revolver
unpleasantly close to my ear in a most nonchalant manner.
"Hallo!" I said without enthusiasm, feeling cautiously in the rear of my
nether garments to make sure that my own gun was where it ought to be.
He seemed somewhat hurt at the stiffness of my rejoinder, and toyed
suggestively with his revolver for some moments without speaking.
Meanwhile Mac proceeded unconcernedly along the beach to where a huge
hulk lay moored, whose broad beam bore the legend in giant
letters--"Skagit Hotel. Recently of San Francisco. Finest accommodation
in town."
I was preparing to follow in my comrade's footsteps, marvelling at the
enterprise which had brought the old dismasted schooner so opportunely
to such a region; but my friend with the gun was not to be put off.
"Say, stranger," he growled, stepping before me, "you don't know who I
am, I reckon----"
"I don't," I interrupted, shortly, "and I am not over anxious to make
your acquaintance either."
He glared at me savagely for an instant, then broke out into a hearty
laugh. "For a darned Englisher you are mighty pert," he said, "an' I
won't slaughter you--just yet. Still, for your future benefit I may tell
you that my handle is Soapy Sam, an' I've planted considerable men like
you in my time. I'm a bad man, I is, but your ignorance saves ye."
The conversation was being uncomfortably prolonged; yet I dared not make
any movement. "What's the damage, Soapy?" I asked contritely. "I suppose
you are collecting toll in your polite way?"
He lowered his weapon and grinned. "Every tenderfoot as lands in this
here city has to play poker with me or fight," he acknowledged
smilingly.
I realised my position at once. It was painfully clear to me that the
"fight" would be all on one side, and could only end in one way so long
as Soapy held the "drop," and it was also clear that the alternative was
to submit to wholesale robbery. A loud shout at our back made us both
turn with alacrity, and behold there stood Mac with his long Winchester
repeater levelled fairly at Soapy Samuel's head. The wily individual had
scented danger, and had made a _détour_ expressly for my benefit.
"Say when," he murmured calmly, from behind his artillery, "and I'll
blow the deevil into vulgar fractions."
I stepped out of range of fire without delay. Soapy's fingers twitched
on the stock of his lowered revolver as his ferret-like eyes blinked
down the muzzle of the deadly tube, which never wavered a hair's
breadth. Then his weapon dropped from his nerveless hand, and slowly his
arms were upraised towards the sky, and he smiled an exceedingly sickly
smile.
"You've got the pull on me this time, partner," he said. "I caves."
At this moment a hoarse chorus of cheers rang out from the vicinity of
the Skagit Hotel. The inmates had assembled on the upper deck to witness
the discomfiture of their common enemy.
"Shoot him!" they roared; "he killed old Smith."
But Mac was not disposed to make himself public executioner. "Ye'd
better vanish, Soapy," he grunted.
[Illustration: A PARTY OF MINERS GOING IN BY THE SKAGWAY OR
WHITE PASS TRAIL.]
"Never mind the cannon ye dropped; it'll just suit me. Quick, fur I'm
getting nervish."
Soapy fled, slipping and stumbling through the snow in his intense
haste. But when he had placed a good hundred yards between him and his
conqueror, he turned and waved his hand cheerily.
"I bear no ill-will, boys," he shouted; "I was clean bested. But," and
he turned towards the _Skagit_, "I'll have it out with you afore long,
and don't forgit it."
A yell of derision greeted him in return. Apparently the _Skagit_
dwellers meant to take all chances with a light heart. Mac grounded his
rifle with a grunt of satisfaction.
"This is the deevil's ain country we've struck," he grumbled. "It's a
blessed thing I got insured afore I left auld Scotland." I agreed with
him heartily, and together we sought the hospitable shelter of the
stranded hotel, where we were welcomed effusively by the proprietor
thereof, a merry-faced Irishman of the name of O'Connor.
"We're chock full up, but we'll gladly make room for you, boys," he
said. "It wouldn't be safe to allow you to go up among Soapy's gang."
I expressed my gratitude for his tender solicitude, then made sundry
inquiries as to the prospects of crossing the pass within the next day
or so.
"You want to cross the pass?" he echoed, in amazement. "Why, you won't
be able to do that until next spring. The snows are on, and the trail is
blocked with hundreds of dead horses anyhow."
I had heard this statement so often of late that I was in nowise taken
aback. "We certainly did not come here for the good of our health," I
said. "We'll try the Chilcoot Pass if the Skagway route is impossible.
Dyea is not very far from here, I think?"
"Only about four miles round about," he replied. "It is at the head of
the inlet you would see before your ship branched in here. A mighty
miserable place it is, for the winds sweep right down from the sea
almost constantly."
"We didn't expect to find roses growing on the track," snorted Mac,
impatiently. "We'll try and get round to Dyea in the morning."
But now another difficulty arose. There were no boats to be had stout
enough to withstand the heavy gales which, as we had just been told,
blew ceaselessly up the funnel-like entrance to the Chilcoot Valley, and
even if there had been, our outfit of flour and miscellaneous foodstuffs
was rather an unwieldy factor to be considered.
"It's a maist ungodly country," commented Mac gloomily. "There seems to
be nae room for anybody but thieves an' murderers, and it' very funny
that there's no' an honest gold-miner among the lot."
Our fellow-passengers nearly all had found congenial quarters further
back in the city, and one or two had erected their tents on the beach,
forgetting in their haste to found a home that the tide would wash over
their camp site about twelve o'clock that same night. Yet no one cared
to inform them on the matter, and Mac watched their progress with
undisguised joy, and howled with delight when one of his old enemies
began to haul timber from the hillside for the purpose of building a
substantial edifice on the sinking sands.
"They might know that the old _Skagit_ couldn't have walked up here,"
laughed our host. "But they'll find out their mistake soon enough, I
reckon," and he chuckled, long and loudly.
Having partaken of dinner, Mac and I sallied forth to visit the
scattered array of huts and tents which constituted the town.
"Look out for Soapy Sam," warned a swarthy-visaged man in picturesque
attire. "He's a nasty sort of skunk to meet, even in the daytime, as you
already know. If ye get into trouble just yell on me--Black Harry is my
handle--and I'll be with you in a couple of shakes."
I thanked the dusky warrior, who indeed looked as if he could give a
very good account of himself when necessary, and with the butt of my
revolver clutched tightly in my hand, I walked citywards with Mac, who
gravely whistled selections from a hymn entitled, "There is a Happy
Land." On our arrival in Klondike Avenue, as the main thoroughfare was
elegantly styled, not a solitary individual was to be seen. The weather
was bitterly cold, and the denizens of the camp, with commendable good
sense, avoided all danger of frostbite by keeping within the shelter of
their wigwams. The deserted avenue was therefore a most dreary
spectacle, and the gathering shadows of night hanging over the grim pass
in the background did not tend to enliven the gloom of the scene.
"And to think that for the last fortnight I hae heard nothing but
stories o' American grit, American hardiness, American--everything,"
soliloquised Mac, sarcastically; "yet every deevil o' them is frichtened
o' catchin' cold--but hallo! what's this?"
He directed my gaze towards a flaring poster nailed to a tree. We
approached, and read the rude notice. "In the Skagit Hall to-night.
Grand concert. Miss Caprice, of New York, the world-famed variety
actress, will hold the camp in thrall. Leave your guns at home, and come
early to avoid the rush. N.B.--Poker tables have been fixed up for the
convenience of the audience."
The last clause gave the key to the whole concern. Miss Caprice--whoever
that might be--was merely an extra attraction. Appended was a weird
diagram purporting to be a sketch of the aforesaid Miss Caprice in
the intricacies of one of her dance specialities. Mac shuddered and
looked pained.
"This is maist decidedly no place for a white man," he asserted, with a
sigh. Then we turned and headed back for the _Skagit_, where in the
later hours the world-famed artiste was billed to disport herself. As we
passed by a large log structure set back among the trees, I was
surprised to hear a husky voice call out to us, and while we hesitated
the door of the hut swung open, and Soapy Sam appeared and beckoned
mysteriously. He apparently had discarded his armoury, but I was not
disposed to trust much to appearances, at which our old enemy looked
considerably aggrieved.
"I bear no grudge, boys," he said. "No man can say that Soapy Sam went
back on his word. You downed me fair."
"Then what is it?" I inquired suspiciously.
"Ye must admit, Soapy, ma man," added Mac drily, "that your reputation
even among yer ain folk is no' just rosy."
But Soapy was evidently determined not to be offended by anything we
might say. He approached with hands extended in token of good faith,
and, noting this, we stayed our progress and waited wonderingly to hear
what he wished to speak. He did not enlighten us much, however.
"I say, boys," he whispered when he came near, "can you both swim?"
Mac nodded. "But it wouldna be a pleasant diversion in this weather," he
remarked, with a shudder.
"Then don't go near the _Skagit_ to-night," said Soapy impressively.
"There's a storm rising, and I shouldn't wonder if the old barge bursts
her moorings before morning."
He was gone in an instant, and Mac and I gazed at each other in dismay.
"What can he mean?" I said.
"Heaven knows," growled Mac; "but we'll likely find out before very
long. He's a gey slippery customer, is Soapy, an' no' easily understood,
I'm thinkin'."
We continued on our course meditating deeply, but, no solution of the
mysterious warning presenting itself, it escaped our minds utterly in
the noisy excitement that prevailed on our return to the _Skagit_.
O'Connor, the proprietor, was all agog with the importance of his
position as master of ceremonies; he was busily superintending the
placing of a rickety old piano when we made our appearance, and he
immediately seized on Mac for a song during the evening, a favour which
was most promptly refused.
"Miss Caprice an' me wouldna suit on the same programme," was the worthy
diplomatist's excuse. "Get Black Harry an' Soapy Sam--"
"Soapy Sam is barred this circus," sternly interrupted O'Connor. "I'm
running a concert to-night, not a funeral undertaking establishment."
Assuredly Soapy Sam's prowess was no mean factor to be considered.
At 7 p.m. prompt--as advertised--the entertainment began. The room was
crowded with truly all sorts and conditions of men, and the air reeked
with tobacco smoke. The piano manipulator--a bewhiskered and
groggy-looking personage in top-boots--took his place with stately grace
as befitted the dignity of his office. He ran his fingers clumsily over
the keys as if seeking for some lost chord or combination, which,
however, he did not find, and then he rattled out an ear-shattering
melody in which the audience, after a moment's pause, joined lustily. In
the midst of the uproar thus let loose a gaudily-bedecked creature of
the female persuasion, wearing a grin that almost obliterated her
features, appeared on the raised stage at the end of the saloon, and
joined in the pandemonium, her shrill voice screaming out the touching
information that there would be "a hot time in the old town to-night,"
which coincided with the item on the programme.
This was Miss Caprice--a type of the "noble and enduring" women whom
recent "Klondike" novelists have portrayed so tenderly in their
"realistic" romances. Heaven forbid that the respectable British public
should be thus deceived. There was no woman with any claim to the name
on the long trail in these days.
It would be impossible to describe the course of that memorable
"concert." It continued in spasms--or turns, which I believe is the
correct term to use--far into the night, with occasional interruptions
in the shape of fights and wordy altercations among the poker players,
diversions which lent pleasurable variety to the entertainment, though
now and again it seemed as if a funeral or two would surely result
therefrom. But all smoothed off harmoniously under the influence of Miss
Caprice's moving melodies, which always were turned on at opportune
moments. Mac said that her voice was like unto the buzzing of a steam
saw in cross-grained wood, but perhaps he was prejudiced, or his
artistic senses a trifle too fine. Anyhow, she pleased the multitude
mightily, and they roared out their appreciation boisterously at the
conclusion of each of her vocal exercises, and implored her to continue
her soothing ditties unendingly. The too free use of the flowing bowl
was probably accountable for the warmth of their approval; but Miss
Caprice, having indulged in equal degree with her admirers, was getting
less and less able to trill forth sweet sounds for their edification,
and matters were fast beginning to assume a by no means inviting
aspect.
Several times during the progress of events Mac and I endeavoured to
make an unobtrusive exit, but all to no purpose.
Slowly the time dragged on its weary course, then suddenly I became
aware that the old _Skagit_ was rising with the incoming tide. She
swayed cumbrously once or twice, and her rotten timbers creaked and
groaned dismally under the strain, but no one seemed to consider these
indications worthy of attention, and the roystering chorus went on
without interruption. At intervals I could hear vague voices calling
excitedly without, and I guessed that the men who had built their homes
in the sand were having a bad time.
Another half-hour passed. By this time the taste of the audience had
reached the sentimental stage, and they loudly clamoured for a song
suited to their altered temperament. The accompanist, however, persisted
in playing the "hot time" tune to everything, so he was discharged with
ignominy by the scornful prima donna, who announced in broken accents
that she would give a rendering of "Ashtore" without musical assistance,
which was most unwise on her part. Still, she persisted at her task, and
got to the end of the first verse without mishap; but as she screamed
out the last wailing notes of the chorus the old _Skagit_ gave a sudden
lurch, and sent her reeling head foremost into the centre of the room.
"What's the matter with the darned barge?" howled several indignant
voices among the crowd, but no answer was forthcoming. The _Skagit_ at
that moment was seized with convulsions, and rolled and pitched in a
most unaccountable manner.
"Howlin' blazes!" yelled Black Harry. "The happy home must have broken
loose."
The rush that followed is beyond description. Mac and I, being less
affected by the motion of the hulk than the majority, reached the deck
first. Away far back to the right the lights of Skagway shimmered out
over the smooth waters of Skagway Bay. To the left the faint
illuminations of Healy's Store at Dyea shone at the head of the Chilcoot
Inlet, along which great seas were rolling in from the main channel. We
had drifted out with the ebbing tide, and we were now being borne
onwards by the uninterrupted ocean gales. If we escaped being dashed to
pieces against the rocky bluffs of the peninsula, we might be driven
ashore on the mud banks at Dyea; but it was certain that the _Skagit_
could not return to her wonted anchorage that night.
Loud and deep were the curses that now arose from all on board.
"It's Soapy Sam's work," howled O'Connor. "He must have cut the
moorings. He said he would do it."
Then I remembered Soapy's warning, but held my peace, and while the men
raved, and threatened, and prayed in turn, the old _Skagit_ dashed on
her new course, buffeted by the great seething rollers crowding in from
the sea, and spinning like a top in the swirling waters. Crash! At last
we had struck, and the surging waves swept over the deck in a copious
flood, and the night was filled with the shrieks of the frenzied band,
who feared the worst; but it was only a sand bar after all, the first of
a series of similar obstacles that bar the Dyea Channel at high water.
"We could never have got round here ourselves," muttered Mac, as we
stood watching the slowly-receding waves. "It is a fact that it's a gey
ill wind that blaws naebody good."
In a short space the _Skagit_ lay high and dry where she had been
deposited, and for the first time we learned that the Dyea Bar stretches
out three miles from the village. But I was satisfied. As Mac had
implied, the _Skagit_ had unconsciously done us a service of no mean
order in transporting our outfit nearer the Chilcoot Pass. With calm
contentment he and I sought peaceful slumber in the humble quarters
allotted to us earlier in the day, while the rest of the ship's
company--including Miss Caprice--started to climb the dividing mountain
ridge to Skagway on the trail of the elusive Soapy.
SHOOTING THE WHITE HORSE RAPIDS
It was a month later when we reached the shores of Lake Linderman _en
route_ for the frozen North. The Chilcoot Pass had presented an almost
impassable barrier to our advance; a light film of snow clung to the
bare rocks and filled the numberless crevices of the "Summit"--that last
grim climb, where the Dyea trail mounts all but perpendicularly upwards
to the blizzard-swept glacier cap of the pass--and no room for foothold
could be traced. It would be impossible to describe that frightful
climb. When we reached the top and saw far below the twisting line of
Indian "packers," who seemed to stick like flies to the white wall, we
could not understand how the ascent had been accomplished.
Crater Lake, on the "other" side, was covered with a broad sheet of ice
which was not sufficiently strong to bear our sleighs, or weak enough to
allow of a passage being broken for our portable canvas boat. Here we
were delayed many days, laboriously dragging our outfit to a less lofty
and more congenial climate.
Long Lake, Deep Lake, and Mud Lake were successfully negotiated in turn;
their waters glistened cold and cheerless, surrounded by the great snowy
peaks that were rapidly opening out into the magnificent Yukon valley.
Far down in the hollow, seemingly in a sunnier and well-timbered spot,
nestled Lake Linderman, and beyond, the Yukon channel could be traced
between the ever-widening mountain ranges. We had packed sleighs in
our outfit, not expecting to use them until we reached the Klondike
river, and how successful they might prove should it be necessary to
force a trail across the frozen waters was a matter for conjecture.
[Illustration: THE CHILCOOT PASS.]
At this time Linderman's shores were the scene of much bustle; many
intending voyagers were building their boats in feverish haste, for they
knew that the elements must soon lay firm grip on the waters, and render
their work useless.
Major Walsh, the Canadian Administrator of the Yukon Territory, had just
made his appearance from over the Skagway trail, and he was all
eagerness to proceed. He immediately bought--at fabulous prices--the
boats that were built, and, without a day's delay, set sail northwards
with his staff.
Two days after the Major's departure, I succeeded in purchasing a
twenty-feet "Dorie" from a disheartened miner who had decided to return
to Dyea, and wait for the ensuing spring.
I need not detail our journeyings for the next few days. Linderman was
sailed over within two hours, then the half-mile porterage between it
and Lake Bennet was accomplished after much labour. This latter lake is
twenty-eight miles in length, its northern extremity narrowing down to a
deep and swift-flowing channel, which extends but a few hundred yards
before expanding into a broad, shallow lake or lagoon, colloquially
known as "Caribou Crossing." The current here is sluggish, and the water
abounds in shoals and sandbanks, which at that time were a sore trial to
the adventuresome navigator with his precious freight of flour and other
necessaries.
Tagash Lake forms the next link in the great lake chain of the Yukon,
and it stretches full twenty-nine miles, then contracting to a
fierce-flowing stream by which the Canadian Customs Offices are now
stationed.
Beyond this is Marsh Lake, and here it was that our troubles began.
Not a breath of wind stirred the waters of the lake, and our
crudely-built dorie, containing 1,000 pounds of flour and 1,000 pounds
of miscellaneous foodstuffs, ploughed slowly through the wide expanse to
the accompaniment of much wheezing and groaning of oars, and an endless
string of forcible expletives that burst from the lips of my stalwart
companions, who provided the motive power of the ungainly craft. The
favouring wind had died away, and, unaided by the sails, we could make
but little headway over the still water. The weather had become
strangely cold considering the earliness of the season, and I was almost
benumbed as I sat in the steersman's perch, directing the course by
sundry sweeps of a great-bladed Indian paddle, which I wielded with both
hands.
"Keep it up, boys," I encouraged. "We are more than half-way through the
lake."
"Twa miles an 'oor," grunted Mac between his efforts. "This is the worst
boat I ever pulled."
Stewart, his companion, another brawny Scot who had joined me at Dyea,
rested his oar for a moment to breathe a sympathetic swear word of much
intensity; then together they bent to their labours, and the rasp of the
oars, and the brief swish of the eddying pools created, alone broke the
deadly quiet.
Towards nightfall I was surprised to notice here and there large sheets
of ice on the lake surface, and occasionally our heavily-laden boat
would grind against these obstacles, shouldering them off with much
effort: then my oarsmen's long sweeps would rend and split them as they
passed alongside.
It was very plain that the Yukon headwaters were fast freezing over.
"We'll have to keep going all night, boys," I said, "for we'll be ice
jammed if we camp anywhere around here."
The fierce torrent issuing from the end of the lake and rushing towards
the dread White Horse Rapids would in all probability be free from
ice--if we could reach that far.
Strenuously my companions pulled at their oars. The gloom deepened, then
the stars came out, and by their feeble light I could distinguish far
ahead a scintillating field of ice.
The sight caused me almost to despair--we had been sailing since early
morning, and were tired and very hungry.
Before I could get the head of our boat turned inshore, it had crashed
through several flaking sheets, and immediately after I realised that we
were hopelessly in an ice maze from which there seemed no exit.
"We'll gang straight on," said Mac, with determination, and he levered
powerfully with his oar against the frosted masses.
A quarter of an hour passed, then the up-turning stem of the dorie went
thud against an immovable barrier, and I knew that we were indeed
ice-jammed beyond the possibility of forcing a passage with the oars.
Nor could we return, for the ice-pack we had negotiated for miles was
now seemingly welded together in one solid mass.
Cautiously Mac put his moccasined foot over the prow and bore heavily on
the glittering ice; it neither strained nor yielded.
With a fervent malediction he jumped on "shore," and felt the edge of
the sheet.
"It's mair than twa inches," he said sorrowfully. "Hoo can we get
through this?"
Very sadly we got out of our boat, and, taking the cooking utensils, the
tent, and some flour and coffee, sought a sheltered spot among the dense
timber on the lake side. Soon we had almost forgotten our woes, and were
regaling ourselves with copious draughts of coffee and much hard damper.
From our tent door we could see our boat stuck fast amid the ice. How we
were to get it free I could not well imagine. In the morning, however,
we awoke with renewed energy and more hopeful hearts.
"We cannot have far to go, boys," I said. "We'll cut down a couple of
trees and use them to break a passage."
After breakfast we lost no time in making the effort. Armed with the
heavy logs, we re-embarked, and soon the ponderous hammers had begun
their work and a passage was slowly made towards the Yukon. With great
reluctance our boat moved ahead, leaving a trail of glittering ice
boulders. Mac leaned over the bow and opened the channel, while Stewart
and I belaboured the masses that closed in on either side.
About midday we neared the end of the lake, and the channel beyond
appeared a rippling, crackling flood of jagged ice-floes.
We felt the suction of the current long before we had reached the limit
of the ice-field. The sheets became thinner and broke away readily, so
that the oars came again into play, and we crashed onward impetuously on
the bosom of an irresistible stream.
At last we were free, and our boat dashed madly into the narrow egress,
bumping, grinding, and rocking against the detached fragments of ice
that appeared everywhere.
With a great effort we managed to slow our craft before coming into
contact with a sharp jutting rock that reared high in the middle of the
stream, and then we found that it required all our energies to evade the
miniature icebergs that rushed alongside. These floating dangers looked
harmless enough, yet they were fully six inches deep in the water, and
contact with them would result in much damage to the planks of our
dorie. Several times, indeed, we were almost overturned by colliding
with unusually large floes.
In another hour we had nearly navigated the extent of Miles's canyon,
and only several hundred yards ahead I noticed Major Walsh's flotilla,
buffetting the seething waters cumbrously, while the men at the oars
strained every muscle to escape the perils that abounded in their
course.
"We're not far away from the White Horse, boys," I said to my sturdy
henchmen, who were working away like galley slaves. They ceased their
labours for a moment to look round, and at once our vessel swung about
and drifted dangerously near the rocky river steeps.
"We maun keep a way on her," said Stewart.
"Let's ken when we're through," said Mac, and their oars cleft the water
like the paddle floats of a fast river steamer.
The current was flowing at the rate of ten miles an hour, and to keep a
steering way on our unwieldy barge was, as may be understood, no easy
matter.
Frantically I swung my paddle and strove my utmost to avert the calamity
that every moment seemed to threaten us.
We were rapidly gaining on Major Walsh's outfit. He had four boats in
all, three of them being clumsy barges laden entirely with provisions.
These latter were manned by several members of the North-West Mounted
Police, who worked their oars from difficult-looking perches among the
flour sacks.
The police boats, however, steered a very erratic course, sometimes
being carried forward almost on their beam ends. I guessed that the
heavily freighted craft had become unmanageable; certainly the steersmen
seemed to have no control. Yet I had little time to notice those ahead,
for our own "clipper" required every attention.
"Keep her going, boys," I yelled, as I worked my steering paddle with a
will, evading rocks, boulders, and ice floes in turn.
Suddenly the white dashing surf of the Rapids came into view, the river
narrowed to a fraction of its former width, and over the cataract a
jagged sea of the dangerous floes crackled and roared into the abyss
beyond.
I saw the Major's first boat fly like an arrow from the bow into the
heart of the boiling foam; it careened dangerously on taking the sweep,
then righted itself and disappeared into the flying mists.
"Steady, Mac!" I cried, as our craft entered the race. The dense spray
almost obscured the great deflecting rock, and we rushed seemingly to
destruction.
Then, before my eyes, there appeared an awful spectacle. Faster than I
can write the words--one, two, three--each of Major Walsh's three boats
reared high in the sleety mist and overturned one after the other as
they took the curve.
"Let her go, boys," I bellowed. "Bend to it." The crucial moment had
arrived; we were enveloped in foam, and were dashing straight towards
the torrent-deflecting bluff. I leaned far back over the stern of our
half-submerged boat, and with a mighty stroke of the paddle swung her
head round, and we grazed death by barely half a dozen inches.
[Illustration: AFTER THE RAPIDS.]
[Illustration: KLONDIKE-BOUND MINERS AND THEIR OUTFITS ON
LAKE LINDERMAN.]
A moment more and we were floating in almost placid waters. Beside us
bobbed three smashed boats. Major Walsh stood sorrowfully on shore
assisting dripping men from the water.
"It's all over, boys," I said to my crew; "you can ease off now," and I
steered for the beach and lent my aid in the work of rescue.
The half-drowned Canadians were dragged ashore gasping and almost
senseless, and while we scanned the grim waters anxiously for a trace of
one still missing, his body was tossed at our feet by the relentless
waves. Soon after, the sand was littered with sacks of flour, and beans,
and miscellaneous foodstuffs.
Several camps were in evidence around this melancholy spot, erected by
men who had lost their all in the rapids, and were only waiting a chance
to return to civilisation. They eagerly accepted the Major's offer to
purchase their scanty outfits, and without loss of time that intrepid
old Indian fighter had embarked again for the north. To him it was a
race with the elements, but the elements won after all, and compelled
him to make his winter camp at Big Salmon River, forty miles further
north, where we overtook him a few days later.
"It's no use my lads, you can't do it!" he said, on my reiterating my
intention of proceeding onwards. "Why, the river's frozen solid from
here to St. Michael's."
"Then we'll put skids under the old boat and make her into a sledge,"
quoth Mac, drily, and I hailed the suggestion with encouragement.
We duly arrived at Dawson City after many days and weeks of ceaseless
struggle with the elements on that long and terrible icy trail, and our
coming was received with rejoicings by the few half-starved miners who
at that time peopled the "City." We had proved the feasibility of an
over-ice route to Dyea.
THE LAND OF THE THRON-DIUCKS
The Klondike Valley in that winter was the scene of many stirring
incidents. Owing to the non-arrival of the Canadian Government
Commissioner and his police no law or order prevailed. To make matters
worse the utmost bitterness existed between the Canadian and American
sections of the community, each of whom claimed the rich gold-bearing
territory as being within their country's boundary. Quarrels more or
less serious were consequently of every-day occurrence. However, the
following incident involves no harrowing description of these fierce
skirmishes--though it might have led to a most sanguinary encounter with
the _true_ owners of the land.
Accompanied by "Cap." Campbell and "Alf" Mackay, two well-known miners,
my party set out on a prospecting expedition into the mountains flanking
the upper reaches of the Klondike River. We had one dog, a powerful
mastiff, named Dave, which had proved an invaluable companion to me on
our earlier prospecting journeys. Previous to this we had been very
successful in our quest for the yellow metal, having located three
creeks rich in the precious golden sand. But our eagerness seemed likely
to cost us dear, for our store of foodstuffs had become wonderfully
small, and we were many days' journey from our camp on Skookum Gulch,
where were our headquarters.
The return journey proved to be more difficult than we had anticipated;
the weather had been very severe for the last few days, and the snow on
the hillside was hard and dangerously slippery.
"We'll try a short cut over the mountains, boys," said Mackay, as we
strove vainly to reach the frozen river far beneath.
The Klondike takes many twists in its erratic course, and it so happened
that if we could cross a mountain spur we should strike the trail only a
few miles from Eldorado Creek.
"We'll make the attempt," I said, and Mac and Stewart concurred with
emphatic ejaculations. One sleigh carried the possessions of the whole
party, and it was tugged along by our combined efforts, including the
assistance of Dave, who struggled in his harness in the leader's
position. At last we surmounted the great glacier-capped ridge and
gingerly made a trail through a narrow ice-bound gulch issuing from the
crystal dome and marking a long line of gigantic ice boulders far into
the wooded slopes beyond.
We slid, and clambered, and buffeted with the snow wreaths and
intervening ice fields for over an hour, and then the gully led us
across a thickly-timbered flat well sheltered from the elements by the
surrounding mountains. At this stage we were, to judge by the lay of the
country, but a few miles from the main channel; but the afternoon was
far advanced and darkness was quickly closing over the valley, so that
further progress was rendered difficult. We were looking about for a
suitable camping ground when Mac, who had been closely examining the
landscape, gave a howl of delight. "Injuns!" he roared, "I see Injun
hooses!" Sure enough there appeared, nestling among the drooping pines,
a straggling array of Indian huts and several totem poles. Before I
could restrain them, my henchmen dropped their sleigh ropes and rushed
impetuously towards the supposed settlement, but their moccasined feet
stuck deeply in the soft snow under the trees, and, using my snowshoes
to good effect, I succeeded in rounding up the doughty pair before they
had gone far.
"It's an Indian village," I explained, "and not a circus."
"I ken weel what it is," indignantly howled Mac. "Hiv I no seen Injuns
afore? When I wis oot on the pampas o' Sooth America--"
But I listened no further, and Stewart condoled with his comrade in well
chosen words of sympathy.
"This is nae country for us, Mac," said he. "A lot o' Injun hooses,
wi'--wi' chunks o' caribou hangin' inside, an' we maunna touch them!" He
almost wept at the thought.
"Howlin' blazes, boys!" shouted the Captain, "them Injuns'd make ye into
mince pies at oncet; ye wur committin' sooicide!"
But Mackay smiled broadly and winked reassuringly at Mac, whereupon that
gentleman began to chuckle audibly.
"We've nae floor, an' nae bacon, an' nae beans--nae naething," he said
meaningly. "If you have no 'jeckshuns,'" added Mackay, addressing me
with much deliberation, "we'll camp a leetle furrer down."
I had no objections whatever. If I had, it might not have mattered much,
for my warlike retainers seemed on the verge of mutiny. So we proceeded
on our way, cautiously and silently, keeping in the densest shadows, and
as far distant from the village as we could conveniently get.
Ten minutes later our tent was fixed and our camp fire blazing brightly;
and Stewart, with a lugubrious countenance, busied himself preparing the
last of our hoarded stores. Our fare was certainly meagre and
unsatisfying, and unfortunately the keen air had given us extremely
healthy appetites. I am inclined to think, when I recall the matter,
that my share, as doled out by Stewart, with many a sigh at its
diminutive proportions, was unnecessarily meagre, and purposely served
so by that wily individual in order to destroy any conscientious
scruples I might have. If that was his purpose it succeeded admirably,
for when my humble repast was finished I felt hungrier than ever, and
had not the ghost of a scruple left.
"Talkin' about Injun villages," began Mackay, when the cooking utensils
had been cleared away, "I've niver seen wan yet that hadn't a winter
storehouse of dried salmon and cariboo somewheres handy."
"Ye're a man efter ma ain heart," beamingly interrupted Mac, and Stewart
murmured: "Dried cariboo!" and smacked his lips.
"As I was discoursin'," continued Mackay, "them Injuns hiv always got
rations hid away in their wigwams."
"Likewise a few tommy-hawks an' an assortment o' clubs," grimly edged in
the Captain.
No one seemed anxious to say anything in a direct sort of way, although
the general meaning was plain enough.
"To cut it short, boys," I ventured to remark, "you are in favour of
visiting the village to-night?"
"Fur reasons which it ain't necessary to shout out loud--precisely,"
answered Mackay.
After that further speech was superfluous, and we made hurried
preparations for our marauding journey. The Indians at this time were
very hostile towards the white invaders of their country, and there was
little reason to hope that they would either barter or sell any of their
stores to us. There is a proverb which states that "necessity knows no
law," and as we were in rather a sad plight we agreed with it to the
letter; there may have been room for some slight condonation of our
errors of reason at such a time. About eight o'clock that night we
sallied out, leaving Mac with the dog in charge of the sleigh, with
instructions to clear out lively should he hear a revolver shot. The
worthy Mac was much disgusted with his lot, and gave vent to his
annoyance in no stinted terms.
"It wis ma idee at first," he grumbled, "an' it's gey hard fur a man tae
be sacrifeeced tae wait here a' the time."
"You've got the healthiest job, my friend," said the Captain, "an' you
ought to be durned well pleased."
The moon shone brilliantly, illuminating the open snow patches and
shooting down through the heavy foliage myriad rays of dancing light. I
remember well how we had hoped for darkness, and how nervously we crept
along seeking the shelter of the deepest shadows. A death-like stillness
reigned; the thermometer in camp had registered 37 degrees below zero,
and we knew that the mercury would keep falling till midnight. Our faces
were quickly framed in icicles, and a thin dazzling frost draped us from
head to foot. We presented truly ghost-like figures, but we were too
much engrossed with other matters to notice our strange appearance. Soon
we arrived within sight of the village, and stealthily we manoeuvred
from tree to tree until we were but a few yards distant from the largest
logged structure. And still not a sound was heard; the frosted edifices
showed no sign of life within.
"Seems to me we're in luck," chuckled Mackay, gazing on the desolate
scene with evident enjoyment. "The population has evidently gone out
huntin' bear or moose deer, or some sich quodroo-ped, and thar shid
therefore be no call fur any skirmish. Put up your guns, boys," he
added, "there's nary soul in the village."
We were all greatly relieved at this, yet it was with a feeling of deep
humiliation that I approached the most imposing of the houses and began
to investigate the best and surest means of forcing an entry. I had seen
a few Indian buildings in my travels, but this one was unlike any design
I had ever witnessed. There appeared to be two heavily-barricaded wooden
windows in the usual places, but search as we might, no door could be
found.
"We'll try another," said Mackay, loath to acknowledge that the peculiar
structure was beyond his comprehension. We examined each one--there were
six in all--but they were alike in every particular, save that the one
which had first received our attention was larger than the others, and
had a very imposing totem pole in its foreground.
"The first was the most likely, boys," I said, "we'll go back to it."
And back we went.
Stewart was now working up something approaching a righteous wrath
against the "heathen sort o' buildin's." "I'll shin mak' a door," he
said, with emphasis, bracing his shoulders; then something caught his
eye on the rough planking walls, and he beckoned to me mysteriously
before applying his energy towards their demolition.
"What is it?" asked Mackay impatiently.
"Come and hold a match," I said. He did so, while I laboriously spelled
out a series of Chinook characters which had evidently been cut deep
into the wood through the agency of some sharp instrument, most probably
a tomahawk. The result was rather mystifying, for, translating into
English, I read twelve names ending with the words, "_Chief of the
Thron-Diucks_." Eleven of the names were simply unpronounceable, but the
last entry had a decidedly English appearance; it required no
translation, and read: "_King James the First, Chief of the
Thron-Diucks_."
"We've struck the King's house," said Mackay with a laugh. "The old
skunk and I hev niver agreed, so I hope he doesn't come along now."
"I thought he called himself 'James the Second,'" said the Captain
slowly.
But Stewart would wait no longer. "Staun clear, a'm comin'!" he cried,
and his voice rang with shivering distinctness through the air. With a
short rush he threw himself against the wooden barrier; the stout
timbers bent and quivered, but resisted the shock, and from within came
a harsh, tearing sound, terminating in a muffled crash, as of something
falling heavily. Again and again Stewart acted as a battering ram, but
only vague echoes rewarded his efforts; the logs were evidently
unusually firmly founded. The noises created by these various
onslaughts--and ultimately we had simultaneously applied all our
energies without avail--had a most demoralising effect upon us, and
after each attack we waited breathlessly until the echoes had died away.
Assuredly, if the Indians were within several miles of us, they could
not fail to hear the diabolical din we were creating.
We had been over an hour at our depredating labours, and I was beginning
to wish I had never sanctioned the expedition; then the indefatigable
Stewart made a discovery. We had hitherto neglected to examine the
barricaded holes which seemingly served as windows, deeming them too
securely fastened for our nefarious purpose; they were closed from the
inside, and were too high in any case to be within reach of Stewart's
impetuous shoulder, but now our strong man had but lightly pressed the
window-guard, and behold! it swung open. His hearty "hurroo" drew my
attention.
"For heaven's sake shut up!" I whispered angrily. But Mackay made even
more noise by exploding into a loud laugh, which resounded weirdly over
the tree-tops.
"Good fur you, Stewart!" he cried; "now we're right."
The Captain, like myself, was not very enthusiastic over our night's
exploit. "Let's get it over quickly, boys," he said. "Give me a lift-up,
Stewart." But Stewart had reserved to himself the honour of first entry,
and was even then dangling midway through the aperture, and squirming
his way forward vigorously. The opening was very small, not more than
two feet square, and as I watched my companion scrambling in, I thought
that if the level of the floor was lower than the surface without, which
is usually the case with Indian huts, considerable difficulty might be
experienced in making an exit! Stewart, however, was apparently troubled
by no unpleasant anticipations, and soon a crash, followed by an
ejaculation of much fervour, heralded his arrival on the other side of
the stoutly-timbered wall.
"Are you there?" cried Mackay, preparing to follow.
"Whaur did ye think a wis?" came the somewhat surly reply, and the
doughty warrior's voice sounded almost sepulchral as it floated out of
the darkness. Then he added enticingly, "Come in, ma man, come in, an'
bring a licht wi' ye, fur it's pitch dark, an' an' awfu' smelliferous."
To me the insinuating tone of my comrade's voice sounded suspicious, but
neither Mackay nor the Captain noticed anything unusual.
"I'll be with you in a jiff, Stewart, old man," said the former
gentleman, vainly striving to get his head and shoulders through the
aperture. But his body was somewhat rotund and made rather a tight fit
in the narrow entrance. "Push, ye beggars!" he gasped, and the Captain
and I went to his assistance, only to see him jerk suddenly forward and
disappear with a clatter inside, while Stewart's voice spluttered out in
firm protest, "Come awa' in, ma man, an' dinna block up the ventilator."
For some minutes longer I waited in suspense, while Mackay struck match
after match and spoke never a word, and Stewart kept up a continual flow
of mysterious grunts and sundry forcible expletives. I had a small piece
of candle in my pocket, and this I lit; then, with the Captain's aid, I
thrust my head through the window and surveyed the interior. Mackay
quickly seized the piece of tallow from my hand, and held it aloft, and
then I saw what had baffled the usually fluent descriptive powers of the
worthy Stewart and his fiery companion. The room was bare save for the
presence of several shelves roughly built up in the centre of the floor
and reaching almost to the roof, and on each of these shelves a massive
oblong box rested, the sides of which were heavily inlaid with silver or
some similar metal. The whole structure presented an appearance not
unlike a Chinese pagoda in miniature; the meaning of the arrangement was
more than I could understand. The noises which we had at first heard had
evidently been occasioned by the uppermost cases falling from their
resting-places, for Stewart was examining with much interest one of
several of the strange receptacles which were lying on the
heavily-logged floorway. As I gazed in mute wonder on the extraordinary
scene, I was quickly made aware that a wonderfully-powerful odour
pervaded the room. It assailed my nostrils and my eyes, causing me to
choke and blink, and finally withdraw my head into the pure air.
"It's the thickest perfume I've iver struck," groaned Mackay, and he
staggered against the weird-looking pagoda.
I heard a shuffling rattle, and looking in a second time, saw the
spidery monument sway, then fall with a dull hollow crash, scattering
its curious freight in all directions. At the same time a yell from
Stewart all but shattered my little remaining nerve, and he came leaping
wildly across the fallen boxes towards the narrow egress.
"A'm comin' oot!" he bellowed; then Mackay, forcing up behind, and
making strenuous endeavours to preserve his usual _sangfroid_, said
weakly, "I guess I need a breath of air also, boys."
To make matters worse, the Captain, who had been warily prospecting
around, now came rushing back, gesticulating energetically. "The whole
tribe is quite close, and comin' fur us!" he announced in a loud whisper
when he came near. Here was a predicament. The two eager individuals
whose heads were thrust appealingly out of the window, groaned in
anguish, for they could not get out without assistance, struggle as they
might.
"You had better stay right where you are, boys, and we'll come in too,"
I said to them hurriedly, for the shuffling of many snowshoes now
reached my ears, and there was no time to effect a rescue.
"Heaven knows what's goin' to be the end o' this," muttered the Captain
as he swung his lank frame through the opening. It took some time for
him to wriggle inside, and then I attempted the acrobatic performance
necessary to make an entry. I was just a little late, for, looking
around before making the final duck inwards I saw a number of
wild-looking figures approaching quickly over the snow. The moon then
encountered a belt of dense, fleecy clouds, and a welcome darkness
enveloped the landscape just as Stewart, with a grunt of satisfaction,
tugged me ingloriously into the odoriferous realms from which he had
been so desperately anxious to escape, and shut the heavy barricade. A
few minutes passed, during which time we were all but stifled by the
pungent air; then our miseries were forgotten in the danger
that threatened. Snowshoes hissed and skidded around our shelter, and
deep, guttural exclamations in the Chinook tongue sounded on every
side. And as I pieced together the various monosyllabic utterances, I
refrained from translating them to my companions, although I had a dim
idea that both Stewart and Mackay had fully decided that, whatever it
might be, the strange structure in which they were was certainly no
storehouse for dried caribou or salmon.
We had been barely five minutes in the dismal room, yet the time seemed
an age. The Indians contented themselves with circling round each house
in turn, keeping several yards distant from them, for a reason which was
now painfully apparent to me. I could stand it no longer. "Boys," I
said, "we've got to get out of this, lively, for the Indians will
probably patrol about till sunrise, and half an hour will just about
finish me."
"An' me," groaned Mackay.
The Captain, however, was not satisfied. "Look here, boys," he said, "I
don't hitch on to yer meaning a bit. Are the Injuns afraid to go into
their houses, or--I'm hanged if I can make out thish yer circus. Is this
an Injun village, or is it not?" he demanded.
There was no need to hide it from him further. "No, Captain," I replied,
"it's not."
"Then what place is this?" he asked slowly; and Stewart answered him in
dolorous tones--
"A graveyaird, Cap'n--an Injun graveyaird."
So it was. The cases contained but the dust of long-deceased warriors,
wrapped in blankets which were impregnated with a sickly-smelling scent
made by the Indians from the roots of certain plants. In the darkness I
could not see the Captain's face, and for some moments he said nothing,
then he spoke, musingly: "James the First" said he, "yes, I might have
known, for it is James the Second who is now Chief of the Thron-Diucks."
The swishing of snowshoes again sounded ominously near. We waited till
the Indians had passed; then Stewart, swinging open the barricade,
Mackay scrambled up, and was shot forward into the snow with our
combined effort. "Hurry up, boys," he cried, when he had recovered
himself; "they are at the end, and are just turning to come back."
Breathing heavily, Stewart was next propelled into the open; then came
my turn, the Captain being the tallest, waiting to the last; but tall as
he was he could only reach his head and a part of his shoulder through
the window, for the floorway was sunk considerably. No time was to be
lost. With a howl, Stewart gripped the outstretched arm, Mackay the
exposed shoulder, and both pulled as if for dear life. Despite the need
for silence, the Captain was but human.
"Howlin' tarnation, you're twistin' my neck off!" he yelled, as he was
yanked like a sportive fish on to the glistening snow.
"Run, ye deevils, run!" roared Stewart, himself setting the example.
There was much need. Scarcely twenty yards away fully a score of tall,
bemuffled warriors were speeding towards us, silent and grim, like a
raging Nemesis. On the impulse of the moment I discharged my revolver as
a signal to Mac to move ahead; then with a wholesome fear in our hearts
we set a course for the camp, where Dave, aroused by the revolver shot,
was baying loud and fiercely, and skipped over the intervening
snow-wreaths at an uncommonly lively rate.
Whether the Indians followed us, or whether they remained to make good
the work of our desecrating hands, we never learned, but I rather think
they waited to rebuild the tombs of their ancestors. They were certainly
not in evidence when we overtook Mac, and we gave a simultaneous shout
of relief.
"Whaur's the cariboo ye wis gaun tae fetch?" asked that gentleman in an
outburst of righteous indignation.
"Say nae mair, Mac. Say nae mair," eloquently pleaded Stewart, gripping
a rope and feverishly assisting the sleigh on its onward progress. "If
you had suffered what I hae suffered this nicht----" His voice failed
him, and Mac simmered down at once.
"Was it as bad's that?" said he commiseratingly.
"We'd better keep going all night, boys," Mackay hastily remarked, with
a furtive glance behind. "And to-morrow," he added, more cheerfully,
"we'll have a good blow-out at Skookum Gulch." And so it came to pass.
[Illustration: PAN-WASHING IN SKOOKUM GULCH.]
THE FINDING OF "GOLD BOTTOM" CREEK
As the season advanced the ground hardened so that with our primitive
fire-burning methods we could barely thaw more than eighteen inches of
gravel in the short day, and even this occasioned tedious labour. The
depth of bedrock was sixteen feet, and the frost had penetrated far
beyond this level, so that our tunnelling operations along the line of
the wash proceeded very slowly indeed. The miners around had begun to
flock into Dawson to frequent the saloons and gamble away their
hardly-earned gold, all declaring that it was too cold to work--the
thermometer registered 25 degrees below zero--and soon Skookum Gulch was
almost deserted. "Cap." Campbell and "Alf" Mackay alone remained to keep
us company.
My knowledge of the Chinook tongue had been of considerable service to
me, and the Indians inhabiting the upper Thron-Diuck valley occasionally
visited our camp, bringing many presents of dried salmon and caribou,
all of which Mac and Stewart accepted with voluble thanks. Then one day
"King James," the chief of the tribe, paid us the honour of a call.
"Why you dig, Mis'r Mac?" he interrogated, apparently much mystified to
see us excavating the ground.
"Fur GOLD, ye heathen," howled Stewart, popping his head above the
shaft.
King James did not understand the full significance of the remark, but
smiled indulgently when I translated it, and solemnly inclined his head
towards the speaker.
"You squaw," he said, "you squaw to Mis'r Mac." Which meant that he
considered Stewart somewhat presumptuous in addressing a chief of the
Thron-Diucks.
After much talk had been indulged in, King James appeared to realise
that we were really searching for gold, and had no idea of carrying away
or shifting the course of his river; and his dry old face spread out in
a broad grin when I explained that much gold, in our country, was
equivalent to many squaws. Suddenly he turned and strode solemnly
towards his sleigh, which was guarded by several richly-robed squaws and
half a dozen youthful warriors; and after groping among the bearskin
rugs for some time he came back to me, displaying in his greasy palm a
beautiful specimen of alluvial gold: it was large and flat, with smooth
surface and water-worn edges; it must have weighed at least three
ounces. I gazed in bewilderment; the Indians rarely looked for gold,
which to them was not even so valuable as silver, and the latter metal
they used only for making ornaments. Mac and Stewart were soon by my
side, and while we examined the specimen with undisguised interest, King
James lit his pipe--a former present from myself--and puffed leisurely,
eyeing me the while with a half-amused expression.
"What think o' that, Mis'r Mac?" he asked at length.
"It's good stuff, King James," I strove to answer in his language, and
with a sigh I offered it back. My surprise was great when he waved it
aside right royally, and placing his grimy hand on my shoulder in quite
a fatherly manner, he spoke out several sentences rapidly.
"Hold hard, King James," I cried. "I cannot follow you if you talk in
that fashion. Come into my tent and have some 'baccy."
He smiled benignly, and spoke a few words to the sleigh attendants, who
immediately unhitched the dogs and proceeded to build a fire near at
hand; then he followed me to my camp and ensconced himself by the stove.
I still carried the nugget in my hand, but obeying the old chief's
directions, I now placed it in a bottle with my other specimens and sat
down beside him. Stewart meanwhile turned his attention to culinary
matters, and while the billies boiled, King James and I conversed
earnestly on matters dear to the Indian heart.
He was no lover of the white men who had invaded his domain and driven
his people to seek the refuge of the mountain fastnesses, and he
intimated plainly enough that he should not be sorry to see Dawson City
speedily deserted by the white intruders. As for gold, the idea of grown
men seeking for the yellow metal aroused his keen amusement, and he was
very incredulous about my statements as to its value in the wigwams of
the white people. After the subject of his woes had been gone into at
great length, and our hearty sympathies enlisted, he remained silent for
a time as if absorbed in thought. Then his eyes surveyed the mining
implements and firearms in the tent, and finally rested upon my nugget
collection with a newly-awakened sparkle of interest.
"You come wi' me, Mis'r Mac," he said thoughtfully, after a long pause,
"Heap big bear on Thron-Diuck; you come wi' King James----"
I shook my head vigorously; we were not very anxious to shoot big game
at that time, but his hospitality would not be denied.
"Me show you whar big gold come from. Me show you Gold Bottom," he
hastened to add: "too much gold for white men in Dawson--me show _you_,
Mis'r Mac."
Stewart was so astounded at the old chief's last words, spoken in broken
English, that he nearly chopped his fingers with the axe instead of the
solidified flour he was preparing to bake.
"I'll gang," he bellowed.
"An' me," growled Mac, who, like his comrade, had only understood the
last sentence.
King James smoked stolidly for a few moments, then patted Stewart
patronisingly on the back. "You good squaw," he said, gazing at the
half-baked flour with much approval, "you come wi' me."
The appellation "squaw" by no means pleased the fiery Stewart, and he
would have burst out angrily had I not restrained him.
"Yes, I guess we'll go with you, King James," I replied. "I want to see
Gold Bottom Creek badly, and I don't anticipate any evil effects from
too much gold." And so the compact was made, and old "Leatherskin," as
Stewart promptly dubbed him, smiled softly when I explained to him the
workings of my big game rifle, and went into a transport of delight on
being presented with a serviceable Colt revolver and a box of
cartridges. Suddenly his face clouded, and he said anxiously--
"Only you come, Mis'r Mac; only you an' squaws."