THE MOUNTED POLICE
Who has not heard of the Royal North-West Mounted Police, that devoted
little band of men, about one thousand strong, who guard an empire? What
magic lies in the title! What visions rise before the mind of lonely
detachments, long, bleak trails, deeds of heroism, constant watchfulness,
unswerving devotion and loyalty to the Sovereign of the Realm!
We have seen in former chapters how helpful they were to the Bishop in
bringing in mails in the early days, and of their rescue of him and his
household from the flood at Forty Mile. It therefore seems right that
some account should be given here of these noble men, who patrol these
great Northern regions, and how they have aided not only the miners and
frontiersmen, but the missionaries as well.
There was a time in the history of Canada when the great North-West
Territory belonged to the Hudson’s Bay Company. At length the British
Government purchased the land from them for a large sum of money.
Settlers began to pour into the country. All kinds came, bad as well as
good, took up land, brought their families, and built homes, many of them
out in lonely places. Liquor-dealers, horse-thieves, and desperadoes
began to flock into the new country, thinking it a good place to carry on
their illegal business. The Indians, inflamed by whisky or hatred of the
new-comers, were always a source of trouble. It was never known at what
instant an uprising would take place, when thousands of dusky warriors
would sweep over the land, carrying destruction and death in their train.
[Illustration: BREAKING TRAIL: THE MOUNTED POLICE TAKING THE MAIL FROM
DAWSON TO FORT MCPHERSON
It is a most trying task breaking down the trail for the dogs to bring
along the sleds, loaded with provisions and camping outfit. The snow is
generally light, and even after the snow-shoes have crushed it down the
sleds draw hard, and the poor dogs make slow progress.]
It was at this critical time, 1873, that a little body of men, known
as the North-West Mounted Police, entered the country to preserve law
and order. What could a mere handful of men do in such a vast country,
against such a host of redskins and evil white men? It was like the
stripling David going forth to meet the giant Goliath. But as David
had right on his side, and a mighty Power behind him, so had these few
dauntless men who took up their gigantic task. Every man, as he went
forth to make an arrest or settle some dispute, knew that he had the
power of a great Empire behind his back. The renegade white men knew it,
and the Indians soon knew it, too. They were well aware that if they shot
down one of these prairie riders, thrust a sword through his breast, or
injured him in any way, they would have to face the wrath of the whole
British Empire.
Going, therefore, to his work clad with such an authority, one man, even
a stripling, was a match for a horde. The lifting of his gauntleted hand
was sufficient to quell a mob; the appearance of a red coat in a drinking
and gambling house, where six-shooters were lying all around, was as if
an army had appeared at the door; and a mere speck on the prairie caused
the lone frontiersman and his wife to breathe more freely, for they knew
a rider of the plains was on his long patrol of watchfulness.
They became the sleuth-hounds of the trails, and the watch-dogs of life
and property. Woe to the man who had committed any crime! there was no
region or country which could free him from the grip of the alert Reds.
There was only one door of escape, and that was death. On snow-shoes and
with dog-teams, through vast forests, over sweeping prairies, across
barren grounds, they would track their man until they found him, either
dead or alive.
No more thrilling instance is given of their coolness and courage than
during the building of the Canadian-Pacific Railway right across Canada
from the Atlantic to the Pacific. It was in 1883 that out on the prairies
the work of construction was being rushed ahead. At one place a wily
Indian chief, Pie-a-pot by name, and his numerous tribe had pitched their
tents, and refused to allow the work to go on. Pie-a-pot had hundreds
of well-armed braves, anxious for a fight, and only waiting for an
opportunity to begin their deadly work. Here at last was the time, and
their hearts beat high at the thought of sweeping away the pale-faces who
had invaded their country.
The Mounted Police never considered numbers. When word reached them of
what the Indians were doing, two smart members of the force, a sergeant
and a constable, rode into Pie-a-pot’s camp. Just think of it—two against
so many! It seemed like the sheerest piece of madness. The sergeant at
once ordered the Indians to leave. This command was received with shouts
of laughter. The braves gave vent to savage threats, and the women
made the air resound with their shouts of derision. Then the sergeant
calmly pulled out his watch, and told Pie-a-pot he would give him just
one-quarter of an hour to obey his order and strike camp. At this the
excitement became more intense. The braves jeered, discharged their
rifles under the horses’ noses, and jostled the riders; but the two
policemen remained as calm as if nothing unusual was going on.
[Illustration: THE ROYAL NORTH-WEST MOUNTED POLICE
When a strike is made in a new region, and the prospectors and miners
rush to the place, the Mounted Police at once pitch their tents there. If
the strike prove of importance, and the camp is likely to be permanent,
the Police erect good log-houses for themselves.
_From a photograph by Muirhead._]
At the end of the fifteen minutes the sergeant placed the watch in his
pocket, threw the reins to his companion, and walked deliberately over
to Pie-a-pot’s tent. The coverings of the tent are spread over a number
of poles, tied together near the top. These poles are so arranged that
the removal of a particular one, called the “key-pole,” brings the whole
structure down.
The sergeant did not say a word, but very quietly, so as to impress the
Indians, kicked out the key-pole of Pie-a-pot’s tent, and brought the
whole affair down upon the old man’s head. Howls of rage went up at this
insult to the chief, and all rushed for their arms.
It was a critical moment. The least sign of weakness on the policemen’s
part, or a motion from Pie-a-pot, would have been fatal to the two brave
men; but they were as cool as ever. The sergeant then walked around, and
kicked out all the key-poles of the other tents.
“Pie-a-pot,” says W. A. Fraser, the Canadian author, writing about this,
“had either got to kill the sergeant—stick his knife into the whole
British nation by the murder of this unruffled soldier—or give up and
move away. He chose the latter course, for Pie-a-pot had brains.”
At this time the Mounted Police had not advanced into the Yukon
territory; but as the miners began to arrive, Bishop Bompas longed for
some authority to protect his dusky flock, and to quell the disturbances
which sometimes took place. It was partly due to him that at last a body
of these men were sent to Forty Mile. Just across the little Forty Mile
River they built their post, at a place known as Cudahy. From here they
patrolled the creeks, and settled any turbulent spirits who were bent on
making trouble.
One night a man and a woman came to the Bishop’s house and asked him to
marry them. This he at once did, never suspecting anything wrong. Just
at the conclusion of the service a knock sounded upon the outer door.
There the Bishop found a policeman, who at once asked to see the man he
believed to be in the house.
“But he is engaged,” remarked the Bishop, “and cannot very well see you
just now.” When, however, he heard that he was needed for some mischief
he had been doing, the good missionary became very uneasy. He took the
policeman into his study, where the newly-married man was standing with
his back to the door. The policeman noticed that a revolver was sticking
out of the man’s hip-pocket, and knew he would have to act without delay.
Quickly crossing the room to where the man was standing, he seized the
murderous weapon in one hand, and clapping the other on his shoulder,
told him that he was a prisoner.
This sudden arrest surprised him, and he turned angrily upon the Bishop,
thinking he had informed upon him. But the policeman soon explained
everything, and that the woman standing there was the wife of another man
living at Forty Mile. “In that case,” said the Bishop, sternly looking
toward the prisoner, “the marriage I have just celebrated is null and
void.” Then the humour of the situation seemed to strike him, and he
added, with a merry twinkle in his eye, “And I have got the fees!”
The policeman then took the prisoner away, and driving a log into the
ground in the centre of the largest of the shacks, handcuffed the man,
and fastened him to the log with a trace-chain. They gave him several
blankets, in which he rolled himself up and went to sleep. Finally,
the man was expelled from Forty Mile. He was packed into a boat in the
middle of the next night, given a piece of bacon, and pushed out into
the current, with strict orders never to return. He was never heard of
again—or the woman he had married—or the fees!
[Illustration: THE MOUNTED POLICE COOKING A MEAL
On the trail the mid-day meal is eaten in the open, in some sheltered
place if possible, where there is sufficient fuel for a fire. The dogs
remain in harness, and are not fed until their day’s work is done. It is
a very trying experience to light a fire and prepare a meal on a cold
day.]
When, several years later, so much gold was found on the Klondyke River,
and thousands of men poured into the country, many more men of the
Mounted Police were sent to the Yukon. If you were to go to-day to a
little place called Tagish, on the head-waters of this great Northern
river, you would see a number of tumble-down log-buildings; and going
farther still down that stream, other deserted houses in lonely places
would be seen. These ruins once throbbed with life and energy. The Yukon
River was the great highway of traffic, and as the living stream moved
by, summer and winter, ever-watchful eyes from some detachment noted the
procession; willing hands were ready to uphold some weary wayfarer, and
chafe his poor, numb body; active feet were always in readiness to track
the miscreant to earth and bring him to justice. Only on the final day
of account will it be known how many lives were saved, how many bands of
lawless men held in check, and how much good done by that little body of
men.
That was several years ago, and since then changes have taken place.
Now there are two great nerve-centres, Dawson and Whitehorse. As the
telegraph operator feels the beat of a city’s pulse many miles away, so
the commanding officer knows what is taking place in the most remote
portion of his huge district. Now, all along the trail which leads from
Whitehorse to Dawson, a distance of 320 miles, policemen are stationed
at regular intervals. A hold-up is an unknown event, and one travels as
safely as along some quiet village in Eastern Canada.
If you go to the barracks at Whitehorse, you will see a pile of old
registers, with thousands of names recorded there. Every man who goes
down the river in an open boat must give his name, and have his boat
registered. Sometimes three or four men go together. Then, upon reaching
Dawson, if any are missing, the police at once begin to inquire. They
know who were in the boat, and they at once ask what has happened to the
others. In this way criminals have been found out and punished. Many are
the stories those old registers could tell of the early, stirring days.
The writer has travelled 1,000 miles by dog-team in the Yukon, and
everywhere he went he met members of the force, no matter how desolate
the region. One Saturday night he and his Indian arrived, cold and tired,
at a police post. Here they were kindly sheltered and fed. The next day
being Sunday, the police-team was harnessed to a sled, and a drive made
to a road house some distance away. Here service was held. No one could
sing, but a big gramophone served instead, and rolled off several old,
familiar tunes.
Everywhere the missionary goes he is sure to find a hearty welcome and
assistance from these men. Living in the shadow of the big log barracks
for about five years, the writer has seen much of these men. Many of
them are from England, Ireland, and Scotland. They are, as a rule, a
gentlemanly class of fellows, some having been bred in homes of comfort
and luxury. Here they are all equal, unless they obtain the much-coveted
stripes on the sleeves which lift them to the rank of corporal or
staff-sergeant. Their scarlet uniforms, with the well-polished buttons,
are often seen on the streets. They have their own skating-rink, near
the barracks, toboggan-slide, and a fine library and recreation room. It
is certainly pleasant to hear all through the day the sweet bugle-calls,
summoning the men to their various duties. The present bugler, who is the
son of an English clergyman, has kindly supplied the notes and words of
some of the bugle-calls.
[Music: MEN’S MEAL: SECOND CALL.
Pick, pick ’em up, pick ’em up, hot po-ta-toes,
hot po-ta-toes; pick ’em up, pick ’em up, hot po-ta-toes, oh!]
[Music: STABLES CALL.
Oh, come to the sta-ble, all ye that are a-ble, and
Wa-ter your hor-ses, and feed them some corn;
Wa-ter your hor-ses, and give them some corn;
Wa-ter your hor-ses, and feed them some corn.
Oh, come to the sta-ble, all ye that are a-ble, and
Wa-ter your hor-ses, and feed them some corn.]
[Music: LIGHTS OUT.
Lights out! lights out!]
[Music: REGIMENTAL CALL (R.N.-W.M.P.).]
It was mentioned in another chapter how the police carried the mails
along the river with dog-teams before the stage-road was built from
Dawson to Whitehorse. They still do much work in this line, carrying
mails to lonely outlying creeks. But the great task is that of carrying
the mail over the Rocky Mountains to Fort McPherson, 475 miles from
Dawson. Away up there in that desolate region, at Herschel Island and
other places, are Hudson’s Bay Company’s men, as well as missionaries,
hunters, and trappers, eagerly longing for news from the outside world.
About Christmas-time a patrol starts from Dawson to carry the mail to
these people afar off.
[Illustration: THE DAWSON—FORT MCPHERSON MAIL ROUTE
The dogs used by the Mounted Police, in harness and on the trail, are the
best that can be obtained, and even then some of them give out beneath
the fearful hardships of the trail.]
It is a Herculean task to break trail through a desolate wilderness and
over the wind-swept Rocky Mountains. Only the hardiest men and dogs are
chosen for this task. Usually there are about four policemen and two
Indian guides, with five dog-teams and toboggans. If you look into a
police report, you will read there the events which happen day after
day, for it takes about three months to make the round trip of 950 miles
in all. How careful is the man in charge not to tell too much about
what that march means! But anyone who has been on the trail can easily
read between the lines, and he sees hardships endured and difficulties
overcome of which Arctic explorers might well be proud.
Suppose we pick out a few of these matter-of-fact entries of the trip of
1905:
“_January 1, 1906._—Roads very heavy. Distance travelled, twenty miles.
Snowing all day. Thirty-five degrees below zero.”
“_January 8._—Followed McQuesten Lake to the end, and then followed the
edge of the hills for about seven miles. Weather, 48 below. Strong wind
all day.”
“_January 9._—Four men went ahead to break trail.”
“_January 10._—Weather very windy, and 61 below.”
“_January 16._—Snow very deep, with water on ice. Weather 18 below in
a.m., and 38 below in p.m.”
“_January 18._—Had a very hard day on the dogs, and they just played out.
Braine Creek is nearly all glacier. Nearly all of the party got wet, and
we had a narrow escape from freezing. Distance travelled, eighteen miles.
Weather, 54 below.”
“_January 26._—Left camp at 8 a.m., with a blizzard blowing.”
“_January 27._—Dog John had to be turned loose on account of frozen feet.”
“_February 1._—Had to turn dog Ping loose, and neither he nor John turned
up at night.”
“_February 2._—Dogs did not turn up, and I reckon their feet are too bad
for them to travel.”
“_February 8._—The mountain we crossed is a very bald one, and we could
not see much of it on account of storm.”
“_February 14._—Left camp at 7.30 a.m., and followed the portage two
miles to Peel River, and then seventeen miles down the Peel to a native
cabin, and camped there at 8 p.m. We had eaten the last bite of food for
breakfast, but fortunately came to an Indian camp, where we obtained
twenty-four rabbits, and gave the dogs each half a rabbit. Distance
travelled, nineteen miles. Weather, 52 below.”
“_February 15._—Followed the Peel River down to Fort McPherson, where
we arrived at 4.30 p.m. On our arrival all of our dogs were just about
played out; in fact, one of them, Sandy, dropped about a mile above the
fort.”
And so His Majesty’s mail was carried over that desolate waste. The
bare words, “dog’s feet frozen,” “broke trail,” “52 below zero,” “wind
blowing,” “snow very deep,” and such-like—what pictures rise before the
mind as we read these laconic words! They are typical of the North, where
men shrink from enlarging on their hardships, lest they should seem like
boasters. It was the same with Bishop Bompas. Read the accounts of his
journeys, and you will find them, as a rule, long, dry statements of his
many journeys.
These pictures of the carrying of the mail from Dawson to Fort McPherson
will prove interesting. They were given to the writer last summer by one
of the men who made the long journey. As far as is known, they have never
yet been given to the public.
And so far up in this Northern region these noble men carry on their
great work. Well it was that King Edward lately bestowed upon them the
additional regal name, and now they are known as the Royal North-West
Mounted Police. Their motto is, _Maintien le droit_. And well do they
follow it out. One more closing incident is typical of them all:
A young man was sent to hunt up some horses that had strayed. It was
winter, and a blizzard struck him. He never returned, but the next
spring, in a cut-off _coulée_, an officer on patrol found a uniform by
the side of a skeleton. A piece of paper arrested his attention. Picking
it up, he read the pathetic words which had been scrawled there by the
young man, on a leaf torn from a pocket-diary, the winter before: “_Lost.
Horse dead. Am trying to push ahead. Have done my best._”