AFTER THE CRISIS
Mankind in Dawson having muddled its affairs, the gods took a hand in
the game.
John Berwick, as he turned his face homewards early on the following
day, happened to take the route that would carry him by the Barracks,
notwithstanding that it would add a mile to the journey. As he climbed
the hog's-back to Lookout Point he saw the tall military figure of
Smoothbore in front of him. The Commandant, seeing him coming, awaited
him.
"Good-morning. The air is very good."
"It is, indeed."
After this there was a pause. Evidently Smoothbore desired to make no
reference to the interview of the preceding day. Possibly he judged the
cause of the reformers to be already lost. If so Berwick would give him
every opportunity of keeping the conversation from politics: so he
continued,
"How pure the Klondike is and clear, and how beautiful are the shades
across the Yukon!"
"'And only man is vile,'" quoted the Commandant.
Berwick realized that the Head of the Police was poking fun at him; and
not knowing Smoothbore very well, concluded that he must know of the new
stampede; in fact, he seemed to be watching the dark specks of moving
men streaming over the summit of the Dome.
"Do you often walk abroad so early?" John asked.
"Yes, it is becoming a habit. One requires but little sleep in this
climate; I shall soon return, and go to work."
"Are your labours heavy?"
"Oh, heavy enough; there are many details."
"You have a splendid force, sir."
"I have, and they are loyal to me and their country."
"Loyalty is among the chief of human virtues. But is loyalty in all
cases a virtue?"
"I consider it so."
"Your men must find many duties distasteful to them."
"Duty is often distasteful, but it is never to be mistaken. With me it
is very well defined. Are you also taking a morning constitutional?"
"I am going up to the Dome." It would not do for John to let the other
know the whereabouts of his abode or to divulge the fact that it was his
custom to sleep at night. It was a custom with many in that city of
perpetual light to sleep in the normal daytime and work at night.
"I'm going the same way. We'll walk together. I wish to spy out the land
a bit. We may decide to build a trail to Moosehide."
The two continued on the winding trail, which was now lined with human
habitations, set down without any idea of system. Some were cabins,
others tents, others still a combination of the two--such, indeed, as
was John's "home-ranch." Before many of them camp-fires were crackling
and burning, and meals were being prepared. The two who were or had been
the leaders of the opposing parties passed without attention being paid
to them.
"Ah! there's the danger signal, the result of the first frost, and a
sign that summer will soon pass away." John pointed to a willow whose
leaves had turned crimson and scarlet.
"Yes, we shall have winter soon; this weather won't last. But you are in
error in supposing that the bright tints in our foliage are due to
frost; the mistake is very common. The redness is mere ripeness."
They found many topics in common, and mutual interest made the stiff
effort less trying as they climbed and climbed.
As they approached a point on the trail, half way to the summit, a man
was seen coming down, dragging a log by a rope. They stepped aside from
the path, which here was on the side hill. Berwick, who was outside,
happened to place his foot on a loose lump of moss lying on a stone. It
moved; his foot slipped; he lost his balance. He struggled on the
shelving ground, grabbed at some grass, was tangled in some brush, tore
his hands, went down with a crash, being stopped by a sharpened stump of
a severed tree-trunk. The point grazed his arm and pierced the body
under the shoulder-blade. At once the Commandant and the woodman went to
his help, but the jar of attempting to raise him brought a cry of pain.
It was necessary to cut the tree-stump before he could be assisted to
his feet.
They had to carry him down the hill, his mind in a half-swoon punctuated
with throbs and stabs of pain, until he awoke to consciousness in the
St. George's Hospital.
It seemed more as the remembrance of a dream than of actual occurrence.
He was in England. Even the voice of Alice ...
A pungent odour was about him. He heard a buzzing rising rapidly in key,
higher--higher--yet higher; higher--higher still; then there was a
"click." As John Berwick's senses were stolen away by the blessed
influence of an anaesthetic his lips framed the word "Alice." She heard
the name, and was glad.
The first words John uttered as the drug left him were incoherent; but
gradually they took form.
"Who's afraid to die? I'm not afraid to die. What's the good of a man's
religion if he's afraid to die?"
"I know you're not afraid to die," said Alice.
The only reply she got was, "Oh, my head! my head!"
"What's the matter with your head?"
"Oh, my head! it's bursting."
"Water! water!" continued to be his cry; but Alice would feed him with
only a drop or two at a time. Gradually his ravings grew less
pronounced, less frequent.
"Who are you?" he asked, after gazing for some time with dazed eyes at
Alice. "You look very like Alice Peel. Alice is in England, and I
am--where am I?"
"I'm glad I look like Alice Peel," she said in reply.
"She's the only girl--in all the world," he murmured, before his mind
again wandered, and he muttered straggling fragments of verses.
"Alice, Alice!" he cried suddenly.
"Yes," said Alice, soothing his head with her cool hand.
He recognized her. "Alice!" he cried again.
She bent over and kissed him. "Go to sleep," she said.
John did as he was commanded. When he woke two hours later he called for
water, and Alice gave him some from a cup.
"Alice, I've been wounded; yes, I remember that--but how did you get
here?"
"I will tell you to-morrow when you are stronger. You must not excite
yourself now."
But at six o'clock that evening Surgeon-Major Peel, taking his
temperature and finding it normal, gave the necessary permission. So
Alice told their story.