Our vessel was a curious affair. The hull was a long, square-ended
barge. In this was the engine which worked the huge wheel astern. On
the deck a large cargo could be carried; over that were cabins, ranged
along both sides, with the dining-room between. A railed passage--a
balcony--surrounded the vessel on this deck outside the sleeping-rooms,
and above all was the hurricane deck, where the passengers mostly
passed their time.
The cabins were remarkably clean and comfortable: a Chinaman looked
after them. Our food was excellent--considering.
The boat being "light," we were expected to make a record passage
down--twelve days, the captain said; but it all depended on the state
of the ice in the lower river.
There were only a dozen passengers besides ourselves--some of them were
returning "sick," others because they were "sorry" they had come. Four
or five were reputed to have made their piles. These were very silent
men: they spent their time smoking, expectorating, and playing poker.
There was an American and his wife--Californians--who were very genial
and superior: they were excellent company. There were also a young
Englishman and an elderly Scotsman. The Americans were bound to San
Francisco to buy goods: they had wintered in Dawson, and were returning
later with their stock, and were going into storekeeping in Dawson in
an extensive way. The Englishman and the Scot had done very well on
Bonanza Creek: they owned they had made enough to live in Britain as
they pleased.
We did not stop at Fort Reliance; it is all but abandoned, and has been
so for years. That is where the first whites settled in that region,
and it is from this point that most of the places have been
named,--Forty, Sixty, Twelve Mile Posts were supposed to be these
distances from Reliance. The Yukon is here five hundred yards in
width; there are but few islands, and the current is regular.
At Forty Mile Post our boat was tied up for a few hours. This place is
a small repetition of Dawson, although, I believe, a much older
settlement: it is on the south side of Forty Mile river, which here
joins the Yukon. It has several restaurants, billiard-halls, and
bakeries, a blacksmith, and an opera-house!
On the north side of the river lies Cudahy, a smaller collection of
stores and shanties. It has no opera-house, and would, in consequence,
be unhappy but for Fort Constantine, which was established in 1895. It
is a station of the mounted police, who have several fine log
buildings, so well cared for that they lend an air of civilisation to
the place.
From here to the boundary line between Canada and the United
States--the 141st parallel of west longitude--there is nothing worth
noticing. The Yukon there is about the same width as at Reliance, but
soon after entering American territory--_i.e._, Alaska--it widens
considerably. It continues thus for about one hundred miles, the banks
on either hand being high and steep, with fine mountains inland. This
portion is known as the Upper Ramparts.
Circle City we touched at. It had been a village of importance before
Dawson existed. The Klondyke rush had taken away most of the
inhabitants. We found it all but deserted. Here we took in wood for
fuel, and heard with pleasure that the ice had left the river for a
long distance down.
After this there are 150 miles of very much wider river, but it is a
network of channels amongst small islands. Huge piles of ice were
still to be seen on many shallows.
At Fort Yukon, which lies north of the Arctic Circle, we found hard
winter reigned; but the river was free of ice. It is 380 miles below
Dawson. The stream is said to be seven miles wide here. The
navigation is most perplexing, as the channel shifts continually.
On the fifth day we came to floating ice, which extended from shore to
shore. We moved slowly after it. It was drifting down at the rate of
five miles an hour. During the short nights we tied up to the bank.
At daylight, no ice being visible, we went on full speed until we
overtook it. This continued till we were ten days out; then we came to
a solid mass of ice, which was not moving.
Our captain, a bit of a philosopher, reckoned he had foreseen this
delay and made light of it, but it was annoying to us.
There were no dwellings, no signs of human or any other life here,
nothing but the dismal pine-clad river banks, where, being so far
north, it was still deep winter.
We were stuck here four days. We were not a very lively party. Cards
kept a few employed, and there were a few books on board. There were
also a number of newspapers of the previous September. These were full
of interest to some of us.
On the fourth day, suddenly, with an awful roar and turmoil, the ice
broke up and started. We soon had clear water and went ahead again.
No further stoppages occurred, we pushed on, and eighteen days from
Dawson we reached the delta of the Yukon.
Here, the land being low and flat, and indeed then completely
overflowed, we appeared to be on the open sea. We had to go eighty
miles north through this to reach Fort St Michael, where our voyage in
the stern-wheeler ended.
The few miserable settlements, trading-posts, and Indian rancheries
which we had passed, or stopped at for firing, were all so perfectly
uninteresting and monotonous that it is useless to even name them. The
few inhabitants were generally busy in some way about the salmon. That
fish was the all-absorbing topic here, as gold had been farther up.
We met but one vessel going in. She had been fast in the ice all
winter, since the previous September! She was slowly pounding up
against the strong current with so much of her cargo that was
unconsumed during their long detention. What she had left was
principally household furniture and whisky!--which would not feed the
hungry.
Near St Michael's the mosquitoes discovered us, for it had now become
intensely hot. Those pests stuck to us persistently until we were well
out to sea.
May and I during this tedious time had become very friendly with our
American fellow-passengers, Mr and Mrs Parker. May was so constantly
with that lady that I had few opportunities of even a word with her,
which made me quite unhappy. I fancied, foolishly, that May's past
affectionately friendly way with me had ended, that she had changed,
and that now that we were with others, and my help not so necessary,
she was gradually forsaking me.
We were always in company, that is true, but she was never alone. It
was rare now for her to call me Bertie, and I observed a look on her
sweet face when I called her May which caused me to think she did not
like it.
Yes, I was very miserable. I was jealous of her close association with
Mrs Parker, I was jealous of the kindly way in which she spoke to that
lady's husband. I was very absurd, I know. I was poor company then
for myself, or for any one.
May had really changed very little in appearance, although she seemed
to me to grow in beauty daily. With more civilised appliances, a few
improvements in her dress, she became, in my eyes, the picture of all a
girl should be. I longed to tell her this. I was annoyed, impatient,
irritated at the obstacles which prevented me.
May always had a sad expression. Could one wonder at it? She was, I
knew, still grieving over her lost father, and was anxious, filled with
apprehension about her mother when she had heard the sad story she must
tell her. I longed to help, to sympathise with her, indeed to be all
in all to her, as I fancied I had been during that awful time up
country.
It was very foolish, very preposterous of me, I am aware. I should
have realised that such companionship could never be again, unless she
became my wife. Really I knew it, and that is why I was so unhappy,
and, as I see now, so stupid, for I then feared that she never could be
that.
This state of matters continued until towards the end of this portion
of our journey. It had grown so unbearable that I had become somewhat
reckless. I really felt that I must put an end to it in some way. It
actually came into my mind that I had better, on arriving at St
Michael's, put her safely on board a ship bound for Victoria and return
to Dawson and our claims up the Klondyke.
I said so to May one afternoon in the presence of Mr and Mrs Parker. I
spoke as if I had all but determined to do so. She turned pale, then
red. She did not speak, but she looked at me so eagerly, so
imploringly, so frightened, that I was puzzled.
I was so abominably stupid that I attributed her expression of alarm to
her fear of losing my help and guardianship. That she should be
grieved at the mere prospect of parting with me, never entered my thick
head that afternoon.
I said that I believed I should be better employed in looking after our
interests up the Yukon than in going home in ease and luxury. "I'm
sure you'll do very well and comfortably without me now, Miss Bell," I
declared.
At this nasty speech the dear girl looked at me so surprised, so very
sorrowfully, that I half regretted what I had said. She kept silence
for a little. "Have you forgotten your promise to your friend Meade?
and to my poor father?" she asked me.
I replied, with difficulty, I admit, I was so dreadfully down-hearted
and distressed, "Oh! you will do all there is to be done for Meade, I'm
sure, as well, nay, better than I can, and so that I know all will be
carried out as he wished, that promise will be kept; and your father's
desire will be carried out too if I see you off safely from this
country--and that I will do, most certainly."
"Are you in earnest, Bertie?" She seemed to be amazed.
I assured her that was how I felt then,--that I thought it would be
much better so.
May was silent again. Shortly she arose and walked slowly to her
cabin. I fancied I observed a tear trickling down her cheek as she
left us. "She is thinking about the past," I said to myself.
That same evening, later,--indeed it was getting towards midnight--the
sun had long set, but its brilliance was still in the sky--it did not
leave it the whole night through at that season,--I was on deck, as I
supposed alone, the steamer was pressing onward to the ocean down the
rapidly flowing river, here quite broad. The distant mountains in the
west and north towered up, violet, from a bank of rose-tinted mist,
soft as carded wool. Here and there ice-clad peaks were still gilded
by the sun, which was far down behind them, whilst the moon was riding
full behind me. I was in deep distress, broken-hearted, yet I have a
clear remembrance of the scene on which I gazed that night.
As I leant upon the rail and pondered upon what I and May had said
earlier in the day, what our adventures together had been in the past,
and what I had been foolish enough, as I at that moment considered, to
imagine might be possible in the future, I was down-hearted and
exceeding sad. My heart went out to May, I dwelt long and fondly on
thoughts of her, but I could see no ray of hope, and could think of no
reason why she should ever regard me as more than a friend; whilst I
was longing, yearning, beside myself with love of her. "Yes, oh! yes,"
I muttered to myself, "it is far better that I part with her,--far
better, indeed, that I return to my work away back in the north."
There was much vibration in the vessel. These craft are at best very
fragile, very shaky. The beating paddle-wheel astern made so much
noise that perfect quiet could not be attained anywhere on board.
I was somewhere amidships, the stillest spot that I could find, yet I
heard no footsteps, and had no idea that any one was near me. Lifting
up my eyes to heaven, I ejaculated something--I don't know what--some
exclamation of despondency at the prospect of the life that I was
contemplating in the Upper Yukon; but I do remember that I ended with
the words, "And no May there!"
As I uttered them a hand was laid softly on my arm. I turned round
hastily, and there my darling stood, gazing at me steadily, with
tear-filled eyes. "Bertie!" she exclaimed, "Bertie, what do you mean?
What ails you? Are you unwell? Are you in some new grief? What do
you mean by crying out 'and no May there'? Tell me, my friend, my very
dear friend, what is amiss, what you mean?"
I was speechless for a little while. What could I say? I only stared
at her distraught, I was overwhelmed with emotion, and I could not
prevent my looks showing what I felt. "Oh! May, May!" I murmured at
last, "do you not understand? Do you not comprehend the misery that I
am suffering?"
She was silent. She leant on the rail beside me, fixing her gaze upon
the crimson glow beyond the mountain range. She was perfectly still
and speechless.
My agitation was very great--she and I were at last alone. I knew that
the time had come when I must speak out. It was, I felt, now or never,
yet my tongue refused to form a sentence; the thoughts that were
whirling through my brain refused to be turned to words. For several
minutes we two looked straight before us, seeing nothing, and were dumb.
But in course of time I was able to speak; it was slowly and in broken
sentences. "May," I began, "my dear friend May--my dearest friend--you
are going home--shortly we must part. I am broken-hearted about it.
You were such sweet company to me up in that fearful north; we have
been through such awful scenes together. To me, though, they were the
happiest times that I have ever known, or ever expect to know. I would
willingly go back there, and end my days there, if you could be with
me; but that being impossible, I have really, and truly, and seriously
thought of late that it would be better for me to go back there alone,
for I believe I should be happier in the scenes where you and I have
dwelt together, where the memory of your dear presence will for ever
cling, than at home in England separated from you." Then I was silent
again.
Shortly after this outburst May asked me why we must be separated; why,
if her companionship was so necessary to my happiness, I could not have
it easier and better in England than in Alaska?
What was I to reply to this? I muttered something, and she went
on--"Have we not laid our plans and schemes for our future lives? Are
we not going to carry them out? We are well off now as regards money.
We believe we can do all we wish, thank God. What, then, is troubling
you? Why this sadness, this unhappiness? Why do you speak of parting
company and ending it all, and adding a greater--yes, I will admit it,
a greater grief to me than any I have to bear, by talking thus of
putting an end to the life together which we have contemplated with so
much delight?"
"Why--why do I do this, May?" I cried excitedly. "Why? because I love
you--love you. Do you understand why, now? Don't you know that you
are all the world to me, and more? Don't you comprehend that the
entire future is dark and dreadful to me, because I love you, yearn for
you, and have no hope of winning your dear love in return? That is the
reason, May. Now you know this secret of my heart."
Again my dearest was speechless for some time: I saw the tears
dropping, dropping from her sweet eyes; fain would I have clasped her
to my heart and dried them, but I dared not.
"Bertie," she said then, softly. "Yes; now I know your secret. But
why? oh, why are you so sure that you cannot win my love?"
I glanced at her bewildered. She turned to me, and I saw in her dear
eyes a look I cannot describe, but I understood it. I was overcome
with the joy of it, enchanted at the knowledge that suddenly flashed
through my intelligence. I did not, could not, stop to analyse, but I
knew she loved me. I knew that all my fears were follies, and that all
my greatest desires, my fondest hopes, were granted, and that May was
mine!
What I said or did then I have no clear recollection; only this, that I
seized my beloved's hands and drew her to me as she laid her head
confidingly on my shoulder and whispered softly in my ear, "Dearest,
don't you know I love you?"
We remained on deck together for a long while. For my part I was in
the seventh heaven of delight and thankfulness. I could not find words
to make my darling understand how great my joy was. I could but kiss
her and draw her to my heart, whilst she murmured again and again to me
the joyful words, "Bertie, my dearest, best of friends, I love you."
We parted only when the sun was about to rise above the north-eastern
ranges. I went below, a gloriously happy man. I went to my berth
rejoicing that never-to-be-forgotten morning on the Lower Yukon in
Alaska.
To our fellow-passengers we believed that there could be no apparent
change in us when we all met; but to me and to May how different all
things seemed to be. When I glanced at her across the breakfast table,
and saw the love-light in her eyes, I knew that she was, as I was,
filled with gladness unspeakable.
We hardly had three words together that morning, she was with Mrs
Parker all the time; the whole forenoon she kept away from me. I hung
around, smoked my pipe persistently, hoping every moment that she would
join me--my face, I'm sure, showing my discontent.
She came at last, saying, "Don't you understand, my love, that we
cannot be exhibiting to all these people what we are to each other? We
must not expose ourselves to their remarks. Be patient; my thoughts
are always with you."
"But why need you be with Mrs Parker always?" I enquired. "Surely no
one will be scandalised if you and I walk the deck together, or sit
beside each other. We used to do so three days ago; why cannot we do
so now?"
"True," answered my sweetheart with a loving smile; "but we were not so
self-conscious then. We know now what we are to one another; let us be
patient."
Of course I was so full of rapture, so intensely pleased, that every
syllable my dear one said to me had my immediate acquiescence. "Oh,
yes," said I, "I will be patient; but why should not people know? Why
don't you tell Mrs Parker of our happiness? She is a good woman, I
feel sure, and if she knew the state of matters she would advise and
help us. Don't you wish that you could tell the Bains and Sandy, eh?
How delighted they all would be."
May did not tell me then, but afterwards she did, that Mrs
Bain--woman-like--had discovered my darling's secret and mine also, and
had prophesied to her what would happen "some day."
Not long after this I perceived May and Mrs Parker side by side,
talking together intently, with so absorbed an aspect that I guessed
what was their subject easily.
After supper that evening Mrs Parker, catching me alone, congratulated
me, declaring that she had made up her mind about us before the boat
left Dawson; and felt honoured that May had, at last, confided in her.
She assured me that in all her travels, and amongst all her
acquaintances, she had never come across a sweeter girl than May Bell.
So, thereafter, May and I had many a sweet hour together, contrived by
this kind Yankee friend, who, having plenty of wit and common-sense,
arranged for us.
I fancy every person on board knew that we were lovers by the time we
landed at St Michael's.
This place is an irregularly built village on an island of the same
name. It consists of a few large warehouses--Russian buildings--a few
log and frame houses and stores, and, when we were there, many shacks
and temporary huts and camps.
It is perfectly treeless, but the grass-covered rolling downs were so
like the prairies of Manitoba that May and I were impatient to go
ashore and feel soft green sward beneath our feet again.
Several large sea-going ships and steamers were alongside the wharf or
anchored in the roadstead, and there were numerous river-boats loading
and preparing for their passage up to Dawson.
It was very evident, even before our boat touched land, that there was
considerable excitement here. We were the first people down that
season; this caused a crowd--all the inhabitants it seemed--to meet us,
eager for our report. They swarmed on board before we were made fast,
vehemently demanding information. "Was it true?" "Was gold being got
as they had heard?" "Was there any left?" This was the burden of
their interrogations.
There were wild-eyed fellows amongst them, who tackled every man of us
almost savagely. There were women, too, just as anxious to hear what
we could tell. Some of these latter got hold of May, and the captain
was surrounded by a clamouring mob. They hardly gave him the chance to
make his ship fast.
He referred them to the miners on board for information. He
particularly indicated me--then I was attacked with a vengeance.
Questions poured upon me.
The intelligence I gave sent most of the crowd half-cranky with
delight. At once they were for dragging me ashore and treating me with
all the grog and good things the place contained. They declared that
nothing was too good for me, for what I had told them satisfied them
that they were not too late, that all the gold was not yet extracted
from the Klondyke!
As for May, I saw her being haled ashore by her female admirers, and
she was looking quite alarmed. So soon as I could get my besiegers to
listen I begged them to let me go to her. They did so, but they all
accompanied me, and were then for both of us accepting unbounded
hospitality.
It seemed that our captain had let out that we had a lot of gold on
board. We could not, and did not, deny this, but when it came to
questions about the amount we answered mysteriously. That was enough;
they were certain that the captain had been right when he put our
treasure down as worth several millions!
It was some time before we could break away from these enthusiasts. Go
where we would they followed us, each wanting a private word or two.
It was an exciting time truly.
There was one fine steamship leaving for Victoria that very evening.
With difficulty I got on board, interviewed her commander, a first-rate
English sailor, and secured our passages. The Parkers did the same.
This ship, a well-known Victoria trader, had brought up a full to
overflowing complement of passengers. She was returning empty for
another lot.
We heard that Victoria, Vancouver, and all the inland towns of Canada,
all the American cities on Puget Sound, with San Francisco and all
California, were half-mad about these wonderful finds reported on the
Klondyke. The latest news from Eastern Canada and the States, from
Britain, and indeed from all the world, was that vast crowds were
coming.
We heard such stories, such wild, astounding stories about the doings
up where we had come from. Such exorbitant fortunes that had been
made, such heaps of gold-dust, such nuggets, buckets full of them!
flour-barrels full! kegs heaped up with them! We were told that in
some of the creeks the precious metal was so plentiful that men had
picked up piles in a few hours--that there was plenty for every one who
could but reach the Klondyke!
It was in vain that we assured them that we knew nothing of such
occurrences,--that we were sure it was mostly gross exaggeration. No
one would listen to this; they said we were trying to deceive them, to
hide the truth from them, for that it was well known we ourselves had
so much gold with us that we were multi-millionaires already, and were
hoping and scheming to make ourselves richer still. It was no use our
arguing, our disclaiming--they knew far better than we did.
We hardly heard a word about how the swarms, bound in, were to be fed.
They knew that every ship had reached the port with heavy cargoes of
food, they knew that the stores and warehouses here were full, but
scarcely any one appeared to have an idea of getting it up to where the
gold existed. They had very much to learn.
With some scheming we managed to get our gold transferred to this other
ship; then we sailed at midnight.
This was a _real_ steamship, flying the British ensign, manned and
served in proper British style. We had excellent quarters, a capital
table--my darling girl and I were in the lap of luxury.
I need not particularise much about this voyage. We had good weather,
bright, clear, and not so cold, for our 750 miles passage across
Behring Sea to Dutch Harbour on the island of Unalaska, the most
important of the Aleutian chain. Its mountains were capped with
eternal snow, but the greenness of the lower land was very charming.
Many vessels were lying here, as it is a supply station for the sealing
and whaling fleets.
Here we remained but a few hours. We then entered the Gulf of Alaska,
where a strong gale and a heavy sea was our fortune, as we steered
almost due east, for 2000 miles, to Victoria.
Arrived there, we found an excited crowd to meet us. Newspaper men
interviewed us, and the accounts they printed of what we had said and
done, and of the amount of bullion we had with us, astonished, thrilled
the world--_and us_!
We only remained two days in Victoria, at my old quarters at Bella
Rocca. During that time we had to give full particulars to the
authorities about Meade's and Mr Bell's deaths. We delivered our gold
to the Bank of British Columbia, feeling great relief when it was safe
at last. We replenished our wardrobes, and became again decent-looking
and civilised members of society.
May cabled to her mother from Victoria--she merely announced that she
was safe and well and on her way home. She also wrote to a relative,
begging her to break the awful news she had to tell to her mother, as
we both thought this would be better than May arriving and suddenly
telling her dreadful story.
During our voyage from St Michael's to Dutch Harbour, May and I had a
quiet time, and we endeavoured to plan our future movements. My desire
was that we should be married in Victoria. I believed it would save
much trouble and misunderstanding. But she would not agree to this.
She declared that only at her mother's home would she become my wife.
We went on board the Yosemite late one evening, and were in Vancouver
early the following morning, and about noon the same day left by the
C.P.R. for Montreal.
At Vancouver we parted with Mr and Mrs Parker, who were to take the
boat bound south for San Francisco.
There were many tourists on our train, old-country folk and Americans.
The conductors were genial and polite; the porters attentive and
kindly; the meals were excellent in the dining-car; the beds were
wonderfully comfortable. It was a truly enjoyable trip we had through
the Selkirks and the Rockies. We gazed with sad interest at the
scenery about Banff, then we bowled across the prairies past Broadview,
where the train, stopping for an hour or so, gave us the opportunity of
greeting a few old friends. After five days' travel we arrived at
Montreal, stayed at St Lawrence Hall for two days, then went on board
the Allan steamer Parmesian, and sailed for home.
It appeared that the good folk of Victoria must have told the people on
the Yosemite about us, and they must have passed the story on to the
officials of the C.P.R at Vancouver, for every one seemed to know where
May and I had been, and what our experiences were, also the amount of
gold we had brought out with us. Every one was attracted to us: we
were famous, and had to answer no end of questions, and repeat again
and again the story of our adventures.
We heard, and read subsequently, much about ourselves that was true
enough, much that we certainly did not recognise.
There was the same experience on board the Parmesian, old and young
seemed to be proud to hold a few minutes' conversation with either of
us; but my dear girl was undoubtedly the heroine.
May had become splendidly well. She was very cheerful, too. I did my
best to keep her from dwelling upon sorrowful memories.
When we reached England she was, as I was, thankful indeed; but now
that she would be so quickly with her mother, she became very
low-spirited and anxious. She dreaded, yet longed for, the sad
meeting. She feared the effect upon her of what she had to say.
I accompanied her south as far as Maidstone, where a cousin met her,
and she left me to hasten to her mother's arms.
* * * * * *
Since that day three months have elapsed. A week ago there was a
wedding at Chart Sutton, where Mrs Bell has been residing since her
husband and her daughter went to Canada.
On our wedding-day Mrs Bell had sufficiently recovered her health and
peace of mind to be present at the ceremony. My two brothers were with
me, and many of May's friends. Meade's mother and sister came, so did
Fanny Hume.
We have bought a little place near the sea, at Bexhill, in Sussex; that
is where our home is to be.
There is some talk of my going out to the Klondyke in 1898. I think it
is my duty. My wife is dead against it. She has made me promise, at
all events, to wait until reports can be received from Bain and Coney.
They are due in June.
* * * * * *
At the end of June 1898 a letter came to hand from Bain. It was
written in March, and was brought out by the "Yukon Kid," a famous
half-breed, on his dog-train, over the White Pass to Skagway.
Bain reported that soon after we left they sold their claim at a good
price; then they all moved up to Meade's Creek and built a comfortable
cabin. Sandy Bain went down as far as St Michael's, bought a good
outfit of stores, and was luckily able to get them up to Dawson by an
early boat.
May's partners returned. They came in over the Chilkoot Pass, also
bringing a good supply of food. They were grieved to hear of what Mr
Bell and his daughter had suffered, and of the sad events that had
ensued. They declared that they had made what they felt satisfied were
reliable arrangements for their relief and rescue as they passed
through Dawson the previous autumn. They approved of the way in which
May had left the claim, and recognised Bain's and Coney's right to
receive her share of the gold they obtained, which they promised to
hand over at the proper time. The claim was looking still most
prosperous.
Meade's Creek was staked out for miles above "discovery"--that is, our
claim, Meade's and mine--and for some distance below. So was the creek
upon which May's party's claim was situated. Trails had been cut, and
on each creek a store or two had been started. A log church had been
erected on Meade's Creek. Service was held by volunteers almost every
Sabbath.
About the gold, Bain had very good news to tell. The dump which we had
left had been washed. It was very rich. They had hired men to work
for us, who had already got out another heap that looked to be as full
of gold as ever. They had knocked away most of the hill in which we
had our dug-out and our tunnel.
Bain's own claim looked well. They had already secured such an amount
of gold, that he and his wife had serious thoughts of coming home the
following autumn, leaving Frank and Sandy to go on mining, or to sell
out when they got an offer good enough. He finished the business part
of his letter by suggesting that I should await further reports before
starting for the North-West again--that is, if I had any thought of
coming. There was also some information about the route in by Skagway,
on which he said great work was being done. A road for vehicles was
completed, bad places had been bridged, &c. A railroad was commenced
over the White Pass, and by the spring of 1899 it was confidently
expected that it would be completed to Lake Bennet, the head of the
navigation. Steamboats had been constructed to traverse the lakes and
rivers. Stores, bunk-houses, and shelters had been erected along the
trails. A tramway had been constructed round Miles Canyon and White
Horse Rapids, and vast quantities of stores had fortunately been
brought up from St Michael's, so that no great fear of starvation
existed.
An aerial wire-way, which he thought little of, had been erected over
the Chilkoot pass. It carried no passengers, only merchandise and
stores.
Thus it appeared that as in this short time such immense improvements
had been made in the way in to the Klondyke, we might expect in a year
or two to be able to go in and out with speed and comfort in summer and
autumn. But during the long and terrible winter there would be no easy
way until a railroad was established.
There was an enclosure from Mrs Bain to May. She sent her loving
messages, and hoped before her missive reached her she would be May
Singleton. Which is exactly what she is.
Patch was flourishing--every one's favourite.
So I end our story. We are waiting for the latest news from Meade's
Creek. But if no more gold is obtained from our claim on the Klondyke,
we have reason to be well content, and to be thankful to the Giver of
all good for His bounty to us.
THE END.
PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS.