The Wreck at the River Mouth
Sasa Mannik was down at the seashore. He was labouring over his
fishing tackle, which was only little less primitive than that of
his Eskimo fore-bears. His sturdy bluff-nosed, sea-going boat was
lying nearby on the shelving beach, awaiting the moment when she
would be run down into the racing waters waiting to receive it.
The man was a half-breed Eskimo, in whom White and Indian ran a
neck-and-neck race with the original stock from which he sprang.
Sasa was a characteristic creature. In build he was squat, and of
enormous physical strength. He had a beardless face that might
have belonged to almost any native race. His eyes were mere deeply
set slits; his mouth was large and loose; his nose was as flat and
broad as his cheekbones were high and prominent; while his lank
black hair suggested nothing so much as a horse’s mane. He was
certainly unprepossessing and even crafty to look at, but he was
by no means without many redeeming qualities. He was a fisherman
first and before everything, but he was a reasonably faithful
servant, too. His greatest weakness, however, was an addiction
to a picturesque and superstitious lying which Ivor McLagan, who
employed him, chose to condone for the sake of his otherwise useful
service. The engineer liked the man. Sasa made a curious appeal to
him. And so he paid him ten dollars a month, and permitted him
to cook, and wash, and look after the log shanty, which, like an
eyrie, he had set up on the high cliffs overlooking the mouth of
the Alsek River.
It was a no less bleak and desolate inlet than a hundred others
which serrated the southern coast line of Alaska. Attacked from
sea and land, a way had been driven through the granite cliffs so
that river and sea merged in an iron-bound bay, sea-bird haunted
and without a vestige of softening from its barren austerity. Its
waters were set with numberless upstanding granite fangs, and the
swirl of its turbulent tide revealed submerged traps in almost any
direction. The bay possessed two definite, comparatively free and
wide channels. One travelled southwards while the other hugged
tightly to the northern shore. But even in these the racing tide
looked ready to crash the adventurous navigator upon unguessed
disasters.
Sasa Mannik stood up from his labours and his narrowed eyes gazed
contemplatively out over the racing waters. He, like his employer,
saw none of the natural terrors with which their high-perched home
was surrounded. Ivor McLagan had no business with the hauntings and
dread which Nature strives to inspire in her harsher moments. His
was the hard, practical, hungry mind of one of the earth’s seekers.
His only care was for the lure of the business which was his. His
home had been pitched in the heart of this natural wilderness,
that, in his brief moments of rest from the labours of his
enterprise farther up the river, he might look out on the wide-open
sea. Whatever the storms that howled about his staunch homestead
there were always hope, and health, and sunlight in the breath of
the restless ocean.
Sasa was quite without any concern in the matter of where his
existence was set, provided the sea was within his reach. If his
boss chose to live like some foolish sea-fowl, perched on the
summit of barren cliffs, that was his affair. For himself he
would undoubtedly have chosen some sheltered bluff on the river
where the worst storm would be powerless to fan the flame of his
camp-fire. But then he was not a white man and foolish. So he
contented himself with things as they were, and fished, and traded
his catch at his leisure, and carefully pouched the money he so
earned. And meanwhile he ate and drank well at his boss’s expense,
and fulfilled as much of his side of the contract between them as
suited him.
The man’s eyes looked to be almost tight shut as he searched the
swirl of waters sweeping by, and the cloud-flecked sky above them.
All his experience was in full play at the back of his mind. It was
a fresh spring day, and the waters were smiling as much as they
ever permitted themselves to smile, and the restless gulls were
winging in every direction accompanying their efforts with mournful
cries of joy. A light breeze was coming out of the northwest.
In Sasa’s mind the indications were not all that he might have
desired. The northwest wind was always something that could leap
suddenly into a howling gale. But then, on the other hand, it was
good for the salmon shoals, which at no time of the year he had any
scruple about attacking. Yes. On the whole the day was too good
to miss. Besides, the risk of a sudden gale added spice to his
labours. His boat was stout. It was ready. So was his gear. Then,
too, there were many shelters on that broken coast he knew of in
case of need.
He turned his dark face to windwards, where a sharp and lofty
headland shut out something of his view. His movement possessed no
real inspiration. It was the mechanical result of his thought. This
way lay the northern channel which surged round the rugged beach
at the foot of the headland. He had no thought of passing out that
way. It would be simple madness to make the attempt. Besides, it
would be impossible. No boat could face the torrential rush of the
current in that direction. He knew it as the “Channel of Death.”
Not even a crazy white man with his boat of iron and smoke could
face that channel and hope to reach the sea. But the current had
its uses for a real sailorman like himself. Oh, yes. A hundred
times he had sailed home to this beach upon it. And even to do
that was an adventure that stirred his native vanity and yielded
him vaunting satisfaction in his own skill. No. He would run down
on the southern channel. He would fish with the ebb till it was
nearing flat water, then he would beat up northward and sail home
down the northerly raceway with a free wind. That is, if no gale
arose to----
His train of thought suddenly broke off short. Something had
caught and held his whole attention out there somewhere beyond
the sharp-cut headland. And as he gazed, his eyes screwed up in
the brilliant sunshine, he drew a sharp breath which was his only
expression of astonished incredulity. Just for one brief moment he
stood thus. Then he suddenly set off at a run, making all speed for
the fierce beach where the ocean rollers roared impotently at the
foot of the headland.
* * * * *
More than a month had passed since the night of the Speedway’s
festival. It had been a time of intensive work for the head of the
Mountain Oil Corporation. The summer was short, all too short, for
the work he was engaged upon, and of necessity he was forced to
drive hard while the season permitted. Now he was at home drafting
an earlier survey of a territory which looked like revolutionizing
the work of his company.
In the midst of his labours he looked up as the door of his log
shanty was unceremoniously thrust open.
The table before which he was seated was a rough enough piece of
furniture, as were most of the fitments of this shelter he had set
up on the wind-swept cliffs. It was littered with the mechanical
drawings, and charts, and maps he was at work upon. There was a
queer assemblage, too, of the instruments of his profession lying
scattered over the completely untidy apartment.
Peter Loby stood regarding him with a smiling look of relief.
“I’m glad I took the chance, boss,” he said, with a laugh of
content. “Guess I was two minds about it. You see, I came down the
river because I wanted to save you the trip up--an’ to gain time.”
“Why? What’s doing, Peter?”
McLagan spoke quietly, but his eyes were sharply questioning.
Peter was a tall, lean creature whose whole horizon was bounded
by oil and the business of extracting it from the bosom of mother
earth. He was a practical expert to his finger tips. But he
possessed no knowledge beyond its sheerly technical side. He was
glad enough to serve under McLagan. He knew his chief’s worth as
a dogged, fighting, companionable creature who held his place as
the principal representative of the world’s greatest oil concern by
sheer ability. And he knew his own expertness would have full play
under McLagan’s control, and such reward on results would come his
way as rarely enough fall to the man in his position. Furthermore,
he liked the man, and desired nothing better than to serve as his
foreman of works.
“Why, I spent three weeks on that coal belt you located last fall.
An’ I’ve made a further rough map of the thing you guessed about it
but didn’t figger to chase up at the time. Here’s the map. Maybe
you best read it. I’ll talk after.”
He passed a large linen tracing across to the man behind the table,
and drew out a plug of chewing tobacco from the hip pocket of his
moleskin trousers. Then he propped himself against the doorcasing
and gazed out seaward, while his lean jaws masticated the chew he
had bitten off.
After awhile McLagan looked up from the carefully drawn chart.
“That belt passes right back into Canadian territory,” he said.
Peter turned.
“Sure, boss,” he replied, with a light of triumph in his keen eyes.
“But there’s more than that to it. A heap more. That’s why I got
around on the dead jump.”
He stood up from his leaning attitude and his hands were spread out
in an expressive gesture. The man was simply bursting with his news.
“It looks to me we’re in the heart of the world’s biggest coal
beds, an’ the signs are we’re surely right on the fringe of the
oil field that’s mixed up with it,” he went on. He came over and
rested his hands on the table, leaning forward the more surely to
impress the man behind it. “I tell you, boss, right here we’ve hit
the biggest cinch since the world began. We’re on oil now, and
drilling through hard black lime. That’s all right. But further
back is where the real stuff lies, an’ it’s right in the heart
of such a coal belt as I’ve only dreamed about. It’s a range of
coal mountains. It’s nothing less. And the valleys are the natural
drainways for the thick juicy oil we’re yearning to tap. It’s that
brought me along. I want to take you right up there to see the
thing it is. But I’m crazy for you to wire this report I’ve got
here, from Beacon to our folks down home. Here it is, boss,” he
went on urgently, as he drew a folded sheet from an inside pocket.
“I wanted you to get that, an’ send it from Beacon first, an’ then
come right along up where I can show you oil lying around where
ther’ ought to be only creeks of mountain water.”
The man was wellnigh beside himself with excitement. Oil was his
job. Oil was his whole life. And out of his experience and keen
practical knowledge, he knew he had jumped into the heart of such
an El Dorado as he had only found hitherto in his dreams.
But McLagan refused to be caught up by the infection of the man’s
excitement. It was not that he doubted. He never doubted when Peter
Loby gave his considered opinion on such a subject. But he knew
the amazing nature of the man’s assertion, and he knew that never
before had he experienced a moment when calm judgment was more
surely needed.
He read the written report. Then he looked up at the man who still
stood leaning over the table awaiting his decision. He nodded.
“If this is right, Peter, it’s--the biggest thing in the world,” he
said.
His eyes were shining.
“It’s right, boss. You’ll pass that on?”
McLagan shook his head.
“It’s too--big--as it is,” he said. “Too sweeping. I’ll rewrite it,
and let you see what I’ll send. I just daren’t send it all till
we’ve tried it out. I’m glad you came along down, Peter.”
He held out a hand and the oil man gripped it.
“Act the way you think, boss,” the man said, but with a shadow of
disappointment. “You know best. Say--it’s great.”
“It surely is. After this I guess you’ll be able to quit the game
and sit back--Hello!”
Sasa Mannik’s stocky body was filling up the open doorway. He stood
there breathlessly gesticulating.
“Boss! Boss! You come quick!” he cried. “It dam’ fool white man
with big ship, plenty much sail. Him come along by raceway tide.
Him break all up sure. All no good break up. You come quick. Crazy
white man. All dam’ fool. No good.”
* * * * *
The three men were standing outside the hut perched so perilously
near to the sharp-cut edge of the sheer cliff. They were standing
at an altitude of something over four hundred feet, gazing over
the wild scene of the bay. It was the highest point immediately
overlooking the mouth of the Alsek River.
Behind them, to the north and to the south, rose the great hills
which had remained snow-clad throughout the ages. But there the
iron cliffs of the coast line stretched out at something like
a uniform level. Far as the eye could see the smiling ocean lay
spread out, glittering under the keen spring sunshine, while below
them, marked clearly, sharply, lay the ugly ruins of torn rock
which the storms of centuries had hewn from the parent cliffs.
It was a scene these men knew by heart. All three were gazing out
seawards. Their eyes were fixed upon a vessel that looked to be
driving head on, under full sail, for the merciless rocks guarding
the entrance to the river mouth.
It was a sight that stirred the white men deeply. It was a sight
that filled them with a strangely oppressive feeling of complete
helplessness, and left them no longer concerned with those things
which a moment before had completely preoccupied them. Here, on a
calm Spring day, with a seemingly flat sea, a white man’s vessel
under full sail--no wreck, no derelict with broken masts and spars,
and with perhaps the steering-gear carried away--was heading
calmly, almost it seemed, happily, to become a total wreck on
perhaps the cruellest coast in the world. It was amazing! It was
staggering! The awesomeness of the spectacle left them without a
word.
Not so, however, the half-breed who had brought the news. Perhaps
he was less stirred by such a vision of coming disaster. Perhaps,
in his curious, savage mind, the life or death of a few crazy
white-folk was of no serious account. At any rate, he was under no
spell of silent awe.
“It all same lak I see this white man do all time,” he commented
for his companions’ benefit. “What you mak? I tell you this. White
man sailor see big bay. He see it all through much long glass. He
say, ‘Yes, it good. We mak him land.’ He not think nothing. He
not think ever. He white man. He do as he please. Yes. It same all
time. White man boss look for oil. He say, ‘We find him.’ So he
look where only hill, an’ forest, an’ river. He look for oil. Psha!
I see white man down the coast same lak this, too. He come down in
big canoe. He look, look all time for some thing. I not know. He
search much. He climb rock. He peek in cave. All time he look where
nothing is. That white man, sure. All time look where nothing is.
I know. This man sailor. He mak break up all bimeby. He look for
some thing. So he come. He sure find something bimeby. Plenty rock.
Plenty all break up. Plenty all go dead.”
“Oh, beat it!”
It was Peter who flung his impatience at the half-breed. His
chatter at such a moment was insufferable. Out there far beyond
the headland the vessel was steadily heading on its course. It was
racing down out of the northwest straight, almost as an arrow’s
flight, for the desperate entrance to the bay.
McLagan remained silent. He seemed oblivious to everything but the
amazing vision of the doomed ship. His narrowed eyes searched her
closely. She was smallish, as sea-going vessels went. He gathered
from her sails and masts she was some sort of full-rigged ship,
perhaps a coaster. Her sails were full in the fair wind. She was
yawing slightly, but not sufficiently to set her aback. But it was
sufficient to suggest some lack of control. Suddenly an inspiration
took hold of him. He turned to the now silent half-breed.
“You, Sasa,” he said sharply. “It was blowing yesterday an’ you
didn’t go out poaching the salmon. That poor devil of a ship’s
caught in your death current. She’s made a lee shore and got
caught in the current. She’ll pull up right on the beach of our
river, do you understand? He’s no fool skipper looking to make a
landing. He can’t darn well help himself. Don’t you see? Here,
Peter.” He turned to the oil man on the other side of him and his
tone was urgent and thrilling with the horror of the thing he
realised was about to happen. “You don’t know this coast like we
do. There’s a maelstrom current out there. The only crazy man in
the world who’d go near it is this feller, Sasa. Ther’ isn’t a
steamer in the world could beat its way out of it if it once got
caught up in it. As for a windjammer like that--psha!” he threw up
his hands expressively. “That’s it. He’s made a lee shore in the
gale. And now--God help him.”
He turned again to Sasa.
“Where’ll he beach?” he asked sharply.
The half-breed pointed down at the wide foreshore on the south side
of the river mouth.
“He mak that beach,” the man replied promptly. Then he pointed down
at the northern beach where his own boat was still lying. “I mak
him dis way. But I know. I sail him all time by the headland. So I
slip him current, an’ mak quick shelter by the headland. Big ship
not slip him current. Oh, no, he mak so.” He swung an outstretched
arm from right to left, indicating a great sweep across the bay.
“He full current. An’----”
“Sasa.”
“Yep, boss.”
“Can we signal from that headland?”
The half-breed’s eyes widened.
“Wo’ for we signal. It no good sure. Him crazy white man not
understand nothing. Him ship in the Death Current. He go on. Oh,
yes. Crazy white man break all up bimeby.” He shrugged. “It all
same all time. Same lak that other who look into caves an’ climb
rocks. I see him one time mak right out to sea in canoe only built
for river. Him current tak him. I get him with my boat. I tak him
back. He not say nothing but curse me for a black son-of-a-bitch.
Sure he all break up bimeby.”
The doomed vessel was crashing on at terrific speed. Already it
was looming large as it approached the headland. And now, as it
drew nearer, its yawing became more and more pronounced. For some
moments no one spoke while they contemplated the wretched vessel’s
impending fate. Then, as her high bows disappeared behind the
upstanding belt of the headland, McLagan turned on his contemptuous
servant.
“Who’s the feller you’re talking about? The feller who looks into
caves and climbs rocks?” he asked sharply.
The half-breed shrugged without withdrawing his gaze from where the
vessel was disappearing behind the headland.
“How, I say? I not know. He come down the river out of the hills.
What you call him? All white mans say him Li-as, yes? Indian man
say him Devil River. Oh, yes, he come this way. I see him one, two,
three time this man while I fish. He not see me, only one time.
Maybe he fish. I not know. Plenty fish by Devil River. Oh, yes.
Say, look, him come as I say. See? The Death Current take him. So.
See?”
He pointed. His narrow eyes were alight with something almost like
joy as the bows of the vessel cleared the headland and the doomed
ship raced on for the far beach.
“It much big tide. Oh, yes. He go right up to the big rocks.
Bimeby the tide fall. Then us go find plenty thing. Food, clothes,
blanket. All thing dead white man not need more. So. I----”
“Quit it, you darn thief!” McLagan’s eyes were furious as he turned
on his ghoulish henchman. “And you’ll stay right here and not move
a step till Mr. Loby and I get back. You’re nothing but a dirty
scum of a half-breed. And if I get you near that wreck without my
permission I’ll take you right in to Beacon and get you hanged.”
He turned to Peter.
“It’s no good, boy. I can’t stand it. We’ve got to do something.
Poor devils, they’re surely doomed! Come on. Maybe we can help
some. We’ll go right on down. We’ll get Sasa’s boat and ferry
across to where she’ll hit that beach. I----”
“I go too, boss.”
Sasa was no longer contemplating the wreck he had hoped to enjoy.
His attitude had suddenly become one of pleading.
“You not mak that crossing without me,” he urged. “I know. Him my
boat, an’ I sail him good plenty. You my good boss. You drown sure
you sail him, my boat. I come. Yes? I not tak white man’s blankets.
His food. His----”
McLagan raised a threatening hand.
“For God’s sake, shut up and come on!” he cried impatiently. “Come
on, Peter. Maybe ther’s women down there. We’ll do what we can.”
The engineer waited for no reply. The vessel was looming largely
half-way across the bay. Now, as she passed into the shelter of
the towering cliffs, her sails were flapping and booming in the
breeze. But she was racing on to her destruction on the tremendous
current, helpless yet almost magnificent in her white suiting over
her black hull. It seemed incredible that nothing could be done to
save her. A fresh, calm Spring day with a flat sea. And yet there
was no help for her.
Not a sound came up from her decks but the crashing of her great
sails. There was not a single human voice crying out its agony
of despair. Only there came the mournful shrieks of the circling
sea-fowl as the men raced down the rocky pathway to the beach
below.