THE RUSH.
Since the discovery of gold by George Carmack on Bonanza Creek in
September, 1896, the growth of this country has been phenomenal, more
especially so to the one who has visited and is familiar with Dawson and
the Klondyke mining section.
As to the entire yield of gold from the Klondyke Creeks, none can say
except approximately; for the ten per cent. royalty imposed by the
Canadian government has always met a phase of human nature which prompts
to concealment and dishonesty, so that a truthful estimate cannot be
made.
The Canadian Dominion government is very oppressive. Mining laws are
very arbitrary and strictly enforced. A person wishing to prospect for
gold must first procure a miner's license, paying ten dollars for it. If
anything is discovered, and he wishes to locate a claim, he visits the
recorder's office, states his business, and is told to call again. In
the meantime, men are sent to examine the locality and if anything of
value is found, the man wishing to record the claim is told that it is
already located. The officials seize it. The man has no way of
ascertaining if the land was properly located, and so has no redress. If
the claim is thought to be poor, he can locate it by the payment of a
fifteen dollar fee.
One half of all mining land is reserved for the crown, a quarter or more
is gobbled by corrupt officials, and a meagre share left for the daring
miners who, by braving hardship and death, develop the mines and open up
the country.
"Any one going into the country has no right to cut wood for any
purpose, or to kill any game or catch any fish, without a license for
which a fee of ten dollars must be paid. With such a license it is
unlawful to sell a stick of wood for any purpose, or a pound of fish or
game." The law is strictly enforced. To do anything, one must have a
special permit, and for every such permit he must pay roundly.
The story is told of a miner in a hospital who was about to die. He
requested that the Governor be sent for. Being asked what he wanted with
the Governor, he replied: "I haven't any permit, and if I should
undertake to die without a permit, I should get myself arrested."
It is a well-known fact that many claims on Eldorado, Hunker and Bonanza
Creeks have turned out hundreds of thousands of dollars. One pan of
gravel on Eldorado Creek yielded $2100. Frank Dinsmore on Bonanza Creek
took out ninety pounds of solid gold or $24,480 in a single day. On
Aleck McDonald's claim on Eldorado, one man shoveled in $20,000 in
twelve hours. McDonald, in two years, dug from the frozen ground
$2,207,893. Charley Anderson, on Eldorado, panned out $700 in three
hours. T. S. Lippy is said to have paid the Canadian government $65,000
in royalties for the year 1898 and Clarence Berry about the same.
On Skukum Gulch $30,000 were taken from two boxes of dirt. Frank
Phiscator of Michigan, after a few months' work, brought home $100,000
in gold, selling one-third of his claim interests for $1,333,000, or at
the rate of $5,000,000 for the whole.
When a man is compelled to pay one thousand dollars out of every ten
thousand he digs from the ground, he will boast little of large
"clean-ups"; and for this reason it is hard to estimate the real amount
of gold extracted from the Klondyke mines.
Captain James Kennedy, an old pioneer and conservative mining man,
estimates the output for the season of 1899 as $25,000,000, or fifty
tons of dust and nuggets.
The most commendable thing about the Canadian Government is their strict
enforcement of order. Stealing is an almost unheard of thing, and petty
thieving does not exist. Mounted police in their brown uniforms and
soldiers in their red coats are everywhere seen in and around Dawson,
and they practice methods, which, to the uninitiated, make them very
nearly omnipresent.
While walking down street in Dawson one morning about nine o'clock, I
passed a group of men all wearing sober faces. "They're done for now,"
said a rough miner, glancing in the direction of the Barracks, where a
black flag was fluttering at the top of a staff.
"How so?" asked another, just come up to the group.
"Three men hung over there, an hour ago. They're goin' to bury 'em now,"
and the speaker twitched his thumbs first toward the Barracks, then
farther east, where a rough stretch of ground lay unused. Here could be
seen policemen and soldiers, evidently in the midst of some performance
not on their daily routine.
A number of prisoners wearing the regulation garb of
convicts,--pantaloons of heavy mackinaw, one leg of yellow and the other
of black,--were carrying long, rough boxes, while others were digging
shallow graves.
Upon inquiry I found that what the miner had said was true. Three
prisoners, two of them Indian murderers, with another man notoriously
bad, had indeed been hung about eight o'clock that morning in the
barracks courtyard. In less than two hours afterward they were interred,
and in as many days they were forgotten.
By the middle of July, 1899, the steamers leaving Dawson on their way
down the Yukon to St. Michael and the new gold fields at Nome, were well
filled with those who were anxious to try their luck in Uncle Sam's
territory where they can breathe, dig, fish, hunt, or die without buying
a license.
By August the steamers coming from St. Michael brought such glowing
accounts of the Nome gold fields, that while few people came in, they
carried as many out as they could accommodate.
By September the rush down the Yukon was tremendous, and of the twelve
thousand people in Dawson many hundreds left for Nome.
When, after six weeks spent in curiously studying conditions and
things,--not to say people,--in the great mining camp, it was decided
that I should accompany my brother down the Yukon to Cape Nome, and so
"out" home to San Francisco, I felt a very distinct sense of
disappointment. The novelty of everything, the excitement which came
each day in some form or other, was as agreeable as the beautiful summer
weather with the long, quiet evenings only settling into darkness at
midnight.
In September came the frosts. Men living in tents moved their little
Yukon stoves inside, and brought fresh sawdust and shavings from the
mills for their beds. Others packed their few possessions into small
boats, hauled down their tents, whistled to their dogs, and rolling up
their sleeves, pulled laboriously up the swift little Klondyke to their
winter "lays" in the mines.
Hundreds were also leaving for the outside. Steamers, both large and
small, going to White Horse and Bennett, carried those who had
joyfully packed their bags and smilingly said good-bye; for they were
going home to the "States." How we strained our eyes from our cabin
window or from the higher bank above, to see the people on the decks of
the out-going boats. How the name of each tug and even freight-carrier
became a familiar household word, and how many were the conjectures as
to whether "she" would get through to White Horse Rapids in the low
water before a freeze-up!
[Illustration: A KLONDYKE CLAIM.]
One day our own steamer came. She was a magnificently equipped river
boat called the "Hannah," belonging to the Alaska Commercial Company,
and had cost one hundred thousand dollars. This was to be her last trip
for the season, and with us it was "home now, or here all winter," and
we made ready to leave. My kodak had been emptied and filled again,
calls on acquaintances made, and good-byes said. My battered and broken
trunk, which, at the hands of the English customs officials had suffered
much, had now to be repaired and put to a good long test. This box was
in a state of total collapse; rollers all gone, covering torn and bent,
screws and nails lost, sides split, bottom entirely dropped out, but it
must go; so my big brother was wheedled into putting it into some kind
of shape again, and it came out stronger than before.
No lunches were needed. The cuisine of the Hannah was said to be as
perfect as could be in this far away corner of the globe, and we trusted
to that.
On September sixteenth the Hannah sounded her whistle--all was hurry and
bustle, and such a sight! If hundreds had stood on the docks to welcome
us as we entered the city, there were thousands now. It was pleasant. We
felt flattered, especially as the band struck up our own national airs,
giving us a medley of "Yankee Doodle," "America," "Tramp, Tramp, Tramp,"
and "When Johnny Comes Marching Home." They felt constrained, however,
to wind up with "Sweet Marie," and rag-time dances, one old fellow in
slouch hat and with a few drinks too many, stepping the jigs off in
lively and comical fashion.
Our pride was perceptibly lessened afterward, when we learned that we
had on board a dance hall outfit, and the band belonged to the Monte
Carlo saloon!
We were now in the midst of a group, cosmopolitan beyond our wildest
dreams. Pushing their way through the crowd to the gangplank came men,
women and dogs, carrying grips, kodaks, tin cash boxes, musical
instruments, army sacks, fur robes, and rolls of blankets. Struggling
under the weight of canvas tents, poles, Yukon stoves and sleds, as well
as every conceivable thing, they climbed the stairway to the deck. Here,
and in the main saloon, all was deposited for the time being.
There was a woman with a fine grey cat, for which she had been offered
fifty dollars, wrapped in a warm shawl, much to pussy's disgust. A
number of women had dogs and were weeping, probably at leaving other
canines behind. Several persons carried little grips so heavy that they
tugged along--evidently "Chechako," or paper money, was more scarce with
them than dust and nuggets.
As freight, there was a piano, many iron-bound boxes containing gold
bullion, securely sealed and labeled, and tons of supplies for the
consumption of the passengers, of whom there were now five hundred.
Then the whistle again sounded--the gangplank was hauled in,
handkerchiefs fluttered, the band struck up "Home Sweet Home"--we were
headed down the Yukon River and toward the Arctic Circle.
* * * * *
We had now a journey of seventeen hundred miles before us. We were to
traverse a country almost unknown to man. We were two of a party of five
hundred persons, the majority of whom, if not actually desperadoes, were
reckless and given over to the pursuit of gold regardless of the manner
of its getting. There were loose characters of the town by hundreds;
there were gamblers running a variety of games both day and night; there
were dance house girls and musicians; there were drunks and toughs, and
one prize fighter. No firearms or knives were seen, though many, no
doubt, had them.
With the enormous amount of gold on board (for the steamer's safe was
overflowing, and the purser's room well packed with the precious stuff),
with the numbers of hard characters we carried, and the now increasing
remoteness from centres of government, there were dangers, we were
forced to confess, but which we only admitted in whispers.
Three hours after leaving Dawson we were taking on wood at Forty Mile.
This is the oldest camp on the Yukon River, and the early home of Jack
McQuestion. The river banks were lined with canoes; many natives stood
looking at us from the shore, and while stevedores handled the wood,
many passengers visited the town. It was not long before they came back
with hands full of turnips, just pulled from the ground, which, had they
been the most luscious fruit, could not have been eaten with more
relish.
I then tried to buy one of a young man, but he had evidently been long
away from such luxuries, for he refused to sell; afterward, his
gallantry getting the better of him, he politely offered me one-half of
the vegetable, which I took with thanks.
As my brother peeled the precious turnip, I asked him how long since he
had eaten one. "Two years," he promptly replied. Knowing that he was
especially fond of such things, I ate a small slice, and gave him the
remainder. It is needless to say he enjoyed it.
To the right of the landing at Forty Mile, just across a small stream
which runs into the Yukon, is Fort Cudahy, containing the stores and
warehouses of one of the large companies, as well as a post-office.
[Illustration: EAGLE CITY, ON THE YUKON, IN 1899.]
But we were soon off again, steaming along between hills yellow with
fading poplar leaves and green streaked with pines. Many rocky spurs
towered grandly heavenward, with tops, like silvered heads, covered with
newly fallen snow. The Yukon is here very crooked and narrow, and abrupt
banks hedged our steamer in on all sides.
Next morning early we arrived at Eagle City, Alaska. We were now in
Uncle Sam's land, and breathed more freely. We felt at home. We cheered
and waved our handkerchiefs to the blue uniformed soldiers on the river
bank who had come to see us.
We went ashore and called upon lieutenant L., lately from his home in
Connecticut and campaigning in Cuba. Taking us into a log house near by,
he pointed out forty thousand rounds of ammunition and one hundred and
fifteen Krag-Jorgensen rifles of the latest pattern.
Here were stationed one hundred and fifteen men, some of them at that
time out moose hunting and fishing. Captain Ray, an old white-haired
gentleman, stood outside his cabin door. At Eagle we saw the new
government barracks just being finished, the logs and shingles having
been sawed at the government saw-mill near by, at the mouth of Mission
Creek.
We were particularly struck with the very youthful appearance of our
soldiers, and their wistful faces as they watched our preparations for
departure.
The lieutenant had said that life in Cuba, or in almost any old place
was preferable to that at Eagle, with the long winter staring them in
the face, and we could see that the poor fellow longed for home. We were
quite touched, but tried to cheer him as best we could.
Circle City, on a big bend of the river from which it derives its name,
was reached the following evening. Here all hands crowded over the
gangplank and into the stores. In less time than it takes to write it,
these places were filled with miners, each man pulling away at his
strong, old pipe, the companion of many weary months perhaps; while over
the counters they handed their gold dust in payment for the "best plug
cut," chewing gum, candy, or whatever else they saw that looked
tempting. Here we bought two pairs of beaded moccasins for seven
dollars.
As a heavy fog settled down upon us, our captain thought best to tie up
the steamer over night, and did so. Next morning by daylight we saw the
offices of the United States marshal; both log cabins with dirt roofs,
upon which bunches of tall weeds were going to seed. We hoped this was
not symbolical of the state of Uncle Sam's affairs in the interior, but
feared it might be, as the places seemed deserted.
Many of the one thousand cabins at Circle were now vacant, but it is the
largest town next to Dawson on the Yukon River.
During the whole of the next day our pilots steered cautiously over the
Yukon Flats.
This is a stretch of about four hundred miles of low, swampy country,
where the Yukon evidently loses its courage to run swiftly, for it
spreads out indolently in all directions between treacherous and
shifting sand-bars, fairly disheartening to all not familiar with its
many peculiarities.
We now learned for the first time that we were practically in the hands
of three pilots, two of whom were Eskimos, one of them on a salary of
five hundred dollars per month. This man was perfectly familiar with the
entire river, being an expert pilot, as he proved during this trip to
the satisfaction of all.
Owing to the near approach of winter, and the extremely low water at
this point, the captain, crew, and many others, wore anxious faces until
the Flats were well passed. Should our steamer stick fast on a sand-bar,
or take fire, we might easily be landed; but to be left in such a bleak
and barren place, with cold weather approaching, snow beginning to fall,
no shelter, and only provisions for a few days, with traveling
companions of the very worst type, and no passing steamers to pick us
up, we would indeed meet a hard fate, and one even the prospect of which
was well calculated to make strong men shudder.