HOW THE BISHOP GOT HIS MAIL
A number of years ago Rudyard Kipling wrote in a most interesting way
about the foot-service mail to the hills in India. He drew a picture of
the land where the robber lurks, the tiger stalks unseen, and lonely
“exiles are waiting for letters from home.” The hero in this story is a
humble carrier of the overland mail, with bags tucked in his waist-belt,
fording swollen rivers, climbing steep cliffs, facing tempests, stopping
at nothing, ever moving on:
“From level to upland—from upland to crest,
Fly the soft sandalled feet, strains the brawny chest.”
But had Kipling turned his attention from India to the cold, desolate
region of North America, along the great Mackenzie and Yukon Rivers, what
subjects he might have had for his facile pen and vivid imagination!
Here are regions, portions of which lie girdled by the Arctic Circle,
ice-locked from seven to eight long dreary months. More than this, huge,
almost impassable, mountains lift their hoary heads as great barriers.
These peaks, snow-capped and majestic, glow with unrivalled splendour
when touched by the rising or setting sun, as if bidding defiance to any
bold enough to intrude into their domain.
Cooped up in this desolate place were a few exiles, thousands of miles
from home or any town; their companions the wild beasts of the forests,
straggling bands of uncouth Indians, and the faithful dogs.
During the brief summer months the mail and supplies were taken into
the country by open boats or small steamers, which plied on those great
Northern waterways; but in winter all these routes were closed, and for
eight months nothing happened to break the monotony or the silence which
reigned supreme. No stranger appeared with tidings of the world beyond;
no newspaper or magazine beguiled the weary hours, and no letters from
loved ones cheered the loneliness of the great darkness. They were like
men buried alive.
Bishop Bompas faced all this for thirty-five years, and only at the close
of his life did he have a railroad at his door and mails two or three
times a week.
When he first entered the country in 1865 he found it somewhat hard to
wait for things to reach him from England. Seldom did he speak about this
hardship, and then only because he was thinking of his dusky flock.
“You can have little idea,” he once wrote, “of the way in which we count
here by years what you would count by days. You would say, ‘I will get
it to-morrow.’ We say, ‘It has not come this year; perhaps it will come
next.’ Or, ‘I must order such a book from home. If no mishap occur, in
three or four years I may hope to see it.’ A bit of white chalk would,
I think, have been of more use to me the last twelve months than fifty
sovereigns; and I have often thought I would barter everything I brought
out, except the Bible, for one or two Sunday-school primers.... But I
hope I can say I am learning, in whatever state I am, therewith to be
content, and to rely on the promise that ‘my God shall supply all your
needs according to His riches in glory by Jesus Christ.’”
When Mrs. Bompas first went to the Mackenzie River as a bride, she had
to wait eight long, dreary months without receiving one letter from her
friends at home. Great was her joy when one day the Bishop came from a
trip and poured the long-looked-for letters into her lap.
[Illustration: TAKING THE MAIL INTO DAWSON IN SPRING WHEN THE STAGE
CANNOT RUN
Weeks after the ice in the Yukon River has gone out, Lake Le Berge,
about twenty-five miles below Whitehorse, holds firm. It is, therefore,
necessary to transport freight and mail over the ice to the steamers
which are waiting at the foot of the lake.]
People in a settled country, even though they live miles from towns or
cities, can usually get many little things they need by mail for a few
cents, but up here in the North it is different.
“There is no use,” says Mrs. Bompas, “in fretting and exclaiming that
you cannot possibly go without soap or candles, or pins and needles;
that your stationery department is at its lowest; that your knives
and forks are reduced to one blunt scalping-knife and two or three
one-pronged forks. To nearly such predicaments as these we have ourselves
been reduced. One year our mission-house at Slave Lake lacked putty to
fasten in our small window-panes. We tried flour-paste and several other
experiments, but the flour froze, and we had to resort to pins, which
my Indian babies used to delight in pulling out. One year I had hardly
any soap. To confess the honest truth, I believe _that_ was the only
privation I ever wept over like a child. We might have made some soap
without difficulty, but, alas! one of the necessary ingredients in soap
is salt, and salt had not come among that fall’s supplies. One year,
again, I lacked hair-pins. The Bishop, who is endless in his resources,
undertook to manufacture me a few out of some wire for netting which was
in our mission-store. The articles turned out capital to all intents and
purposes, albeit somewhat blunt at the point, lacking a file to sharpen
them.”
The bringing in of the mails in the winter-time was a Herculean task.
Bishop Stringer, who spent so many years in the North, relates some
thrilling stories of the difficulty of the undertaking.
“Our mails,” he says, “used to come to us twice a year. The winter post
had to be brought from Edmonton, 2,200 miles to the south, by sledge and
dogs. The year before we came away there was deep snow on the road, and
the mail was so delayed that the mail-men’s provisions gave out, and
all their dogs died except one. The two Indians who were in charge of
the mail unfastened the bundles, and discarded all the small packets,
thinking the larger ones must be of more value. With this lighter load
they struggled on. They found a moose-skin frozen, and kept life together
by boiling pieces of it and eating them. They took two or three weeks
to travel the last 250 miles. They came in completely worn out. One
man harnessed himself to the sledge in front of the solitary remaining
dog, and the other pushed behind. They travelled three days like that.
One of them had taken his baby boy with him, but, in spite of their own
privations, the men contrived to keep the child plump and well.”
Much delighted were the missionaries to see the couriers, and eagerly
they seized the precious mail, but, alas! nearly all the letters had been
left far behind in the smaller packages, and all they brought were a
few advertisements. Sadly disappointed, they had to wait several months
longer until the next mail-man arrived.
As a rule, the letters were much soiled and worn from frequent handling
at the various posts, and at times Bishop Bompas complained of the
thinness of the envelopes, which was not conducive to secrecy.
An amusing incident happened on one occasion, when the courier was
hurrying forward with the mail. In some manner he broke through the
ice, and dogs, man, and letters were thoroughly soaked. It was a cold
day, so, heading for the shore, the Indian made a good fire, dried his
clothes, and then gazed sadly upon the wet letters. At length a thought
occurred to him, and taking the soiled epistles out of the envelopes, he
stacked them around the fire, near enough to dry, but not to burn. When
this was completed to his satisfaction, he began to replace them. But,
alas! though well-versed in woodland lore, he had never acquired the
gentle art of reading, so that the letters went back helter-skelter.
Into envelopes addressed to the Bishop went important missives meant only
for the Company’s officers, or the tender sighings of some fair maiden
for a Northern lover, while the Bishop’s letters were disposed of in a
similar manner. Thinking he had accomplished a very clever feat, the
courier pushed on his way, and, reaching the Fort, was much astonished at
the exclamations and excitement of all. Not until the whole matter was
explained by the puzzled courier was its humorous side seen, and then a
good laugh ensued.
When Bishop Bompas crossed the mountains and lived along the Yukon River,
for a number of years, in winter he was more than ever cut off from the
outside world. There were no regular mail-carriers, and from the time
the river closed early in the fall until it opened late in the spring he
could not expect to receive one letter. So intolerable did such a life
become, that at last efforts were made to obtain one mail at least during
the winter.
The man who made this trip was an Indian of the great Thlinkit tribe, of
more than ordinary grit, endurance, and muscle. He was well known as a
famous traveller and courier, having made several wonderful trips through
the Cassiar country carrying mail and gold-dust. To him, therefore, was
entrusted the responsibility of conveying the mail to the waiting exiles
along the Yukon River. For the trip he was to receive $700, and a tax of
$1 on each letter, to be collected when delivered to the owner, these
missives being from five hundred to seven hundred in number.
Starting from Juneau (now the capital of Alaska) by canoe, with two
Indian youths, a dog-team, and supplies, Jackson reached the mouth of
the Stickeen River. Up this stream he paddled to the head of canoe
navigation, then through a dense forest for seventy-five miles to Atlin
Lake. Out upon this lake they moved, and were making good time, when a
storm, swift and sudden as the rush of doom, swept down upon them, snow
and hail, mingled with the on-rushing wind, blotting out everything from
view. The cold was intense, unbearable. The dogs added their pitiful
cries to the howling storm. The leader—noble animal that he was—bravely
faced the tempest, but the wheel-dog refused to move; he held back,
crouched, and then dropped in the snow. The keen, stinging lash had no
effect upon the fallen brute. Whipping out his knife, Jackson severed the
traces, pushed him aside, and pressed on with the remaining dogs. Not far
had they gone before another refused to work, and dropped in his tracks.
He too was abandoned to share the fate of his companion. With the team
thus reduced it was impossible to take forward the load of provisions,
which were therefore stacked on the ice, and a stick erected to mark the
spot. With little left to hinder their progress they sped on, and after
a terrible struggle reached some friendly trees. Without the storm raged
with fierce violence, covering the land and their scanty provisions upon
the lake deep with snow. The next day the tempest abated, and once more
Jackson and his companions continued their long journey.
Only one who has travelled in the winter along the Yukon River can
realize what it means. The ice does not form smooth and level, as in many
streams. It freezes at the bottom, and this, rising to the surface, fills
the river with a floating mass of crushing, surging blocks of ice. As
the current is swift and strong, this body moves along for miles, until
a sharp bend on one side and a projecting point on the other combine to
form a narrow channel, where the ice jams. The on-rushing mass, driven
against this, piles up in wild confusion, huge cakes at times being
lifted ten to fifteen feet, and held as in a mighty vice. For miles in
places the river is thus packed, and as far as the eye can view nothing
is to be seen but a grim, icy field wedged between steep banks, lined
with dense, scrubby trees.
[Illustration: PACK-HORSE SUPPLIES IN 1898
As the only way of travelling over the mountains was a trail, horses were
loaded with provisions, etc. These are called “packs,” and it is only a
skilled hand which can bind the load on the animal’s back, and tie what
is known as the “diamond hitch.” Pack-horses are still used in the Yukon,
where the trails are unfit for carts or waggons.]
Over this the traveller has to make his devious way. There is no other
course, and as the dogs creep on, many are the yells of agony which split
the stinging air. The sled becomes wedged, and the poor brutes strain in
vain to free the load. Or at times it topples upon them, burying their
bruised bodies in the snow. To add to the misery of cold and the cruel
lash, their feet become raw from the sharp ice, and drops of blood mark
every foot of the trail.
Such was the ordeal that Jackson and his dogs had to undergo at frequent
intervals in their long 800 miles from Atlin to Circle City. Day after
day they pressed on, down through the Golden Horn, across Marsh Lake,
by the dreaded Whitehorse Canyon and rapids, over the desolate and
wind-swept Lake La Berge, and along the Thirty Mile River, avoiding with
extreme caution the river’s fearful breathing-places, the watery grave of
many a poor musher.
To add to their difficulties, food at length ran low, and when thirty
miles from Fort Selkirk, only a handful of flour remained. With nothing
for the dogs, and only a mouthful for the Indians, and wearied to the
point of exhaustion, they reached the settlement. Here provisions were
obtained, and when a rest had been made, they pushed forward. After a
further hard struggle, with the thermometer from 50 to 60 degrees below
zero, their destination was reached and the mail delivered. Precious were
these letters to the lonely exiles, but how great had been the suffering
of Jackson and his little party in their long, terrible journey!
After a time, when thousands of people were flocking into the country,
a better winter mail service was established. This was by means of the
famous Mounted Police, of whom we shall hear more in another chapter.
From the White Pass Summit to Dawson, a distance of over five hundred
miles, men were stationed at twenty different posts. To them, therefore,
the post-offices and the carrying of the mail were entrusted. From point
to point the bags were carried by teams of strong, well-fed dogs, drawing
500 to 700 pounds of precious letters. They travelled almost with the
speed of fleet horses, at times day and night, accompanied generally by
two men.
Such trips, however, were not made without the spice of excitement. Many
are the stories told of those stirring days: the rivalry of dog-teams,
the betting, and the more serious incidents from the dangers of the
ever-uncertain river, which was always a menace to the traveller. No one
could tell when the ice beneath his feet would give way and engulf him in
a watery grave below.
A corporal and a dog-driver were hurrying the mail forward on the last
day of November, 1898. Splendid progress was made until eight miles from
the mouth of the Hootalinqua River. Suddenly the ice began to move,
breaking up at the same time into large and small blocks. Unable to gain
the shore, men and dogs were swept down the river. It was a serious
situation, with the vast field of ice heaving and grinding, bearing them
on to apparent destruction. Fortunately the block which was bearing them
surged for an instant near the shore, and passed beneath an overhanging
tree. With cat-like agility they sprang and caught a large limb, and thus
drew themselves up to a place of safety. Though every effort was made,
it was impossible to save the mail, and it was swept down the stream,
carrying, no doubt, the Bishop’s long-looked-for letters.
But steadily the mail service improved. This was due to the building
of the White Pass Railroad from Skagway to Whitehorse, a distance of
110 miles. From this latter place the mail was taken down-river by
steamers. But when the Yukon was locked in its winter sleep, much of
the old difficulty remained. To overcome this the famous stage-road
was constructed—320 miles—from Whitehorse to Dawson. For the service
splendidly equipped sleighs were provided, capable of holding passengers
as well. These, drawn by six, and at times eight, fleet horses, made the
journey in a few days in all kinds of weather.
Though this road winds its long way through a dreary wilderness, the
natural abode of highwaymen and robbers, yet never once has there been
a hold-up, or the mails intercepted. This is due in a large measure to
the magnificent service of the Royal North-West Mounted Police, who are
stationed at regular intervals along the trail during the winter months.
Ever alert, they strike terror into the hearts of desperadoes, who turn
to other fields.
The principal trouble with this service is in the opening and closing of
the river during spring and fall. When the stage cannot travel, and the
ice is floating in the river, the mail is run down by canoes, which are
hauled over any solid ice by dog-sleds.
The outbound couriers have the hardest time of all at such seasons.
During November, 1901, three men, with three teams of dogs each, left
Dawson for Whitehorse with about two thousand pounds of first-class mail.
The ice was running in the river, though solid in places along the shore.
At times they were wading to their waists in the ice-cold water, with the
thermometer degrees below zero, or creeping on hands and knees along some
slippery, shelving edge, when at any instant there was danger of being
hurled into the surging mass in the dark water below. In places even this
precarious trail was denied them, and they were compelled to force their
way through dense thickets of bushes and over tangled masses of dead
timber. The cold was intense, and fearful were their sufferings. Thus
for days these picked men of the Royal Mail Service fought their way up
that crooked river against almost insurmountable difficulties, but win
out they did, and at length reached Whitehorse, and delivered the mail in
perfect condition.
Little did people in city, town, or country realize, when they received
letters from friends in the far North, what a sacrifice had been made for
their sake by these stout-hearted heroes in the simple path of duty.
During the time the police carried the mail, there was always the period
in the spring, when the ice was bad, that the people at Dawson and other
places received no letters. Then, when the river did open, and the first
steamer arrived, with tons of all kinds of mail, great was the rush and
excitement. The police at Dawson had charge of the post-office, and they
had only a small building in which to serve those thousands of people
who were anxious to receive their letters. They did the best they could,
however, under the circumstances. People stood in a long black line
waiting their turn. Some of these would stand there all day and all
night, waiting for the precious letters. Men have even been known to
take their blankets, roll themselves up in these, and sleep right by the
door to be ready when the office opened the next day. Women were always
served first, and some of these did a thriving business, as men would pay
them so much to obtain their letters for them. Since then a great change
has taken place, and now at Dawson there is a fine post-office, with a
competent staff of workers to serve the people.
Thus an outline has been given of the way Bishop Bompas received his mail
as he wore out thirty-five years of his noble life there in the vast
wilderness.