THE FOUR SISTERS.
It was during the first excitement of the gold discoveries in the
Klondyke that four sisters left their home in Chicago and started for
Dawson. They were young, hopeful, ambitious and handsome. They owned a
town lot in the city, but they had not the means with which to erect a
building upon it, and the money would never be forthcoming if they
remained where they were. The ordinary salary of a working woman in
office or store was not sufficient to allow them more than a trifle
above necessary living expenses, and they could see themselves old,
wrinkled and grey before they could hope to attain their desired object.
Reaching Dawson safely, as they did after weeks of peril and many novel
experiences, they set to work at what seemed to them at the moment the
most lucrative labor of which they were capable. They were fitted for
laundry work only by being well and strong physically, and by having a
willingness to do whatever they first found to do.
This proved to be work at the wash-tub. Here the four women labored
month after month with a will, with the result that at the end of a year
their bank account was not insignificant, they owned several gold
claims, and in all the mining camp there were none who did not respect
the four sisters.
Then came their first dark days. It was midsummer. Down among the grass
roots and between the rocks of the hillside back of the famous camp,
there trickled numerous fresh water springs, pure and cold when they
left their sequestered sources among the seams and fissures, but gaining
nothing of purity when spread out upon the little plain now thickly
dotted with cabins.
Here in the hurry and rush of the fast growing camp, when fortunes came
quickly, and men lived at a rapid pace, there was little time for
sanitary precautions, and so it presently happened that a shadow, like a
huge black bird of ill omen, suddenly hovered above the camp, sending a
shudder through its entire length. A tiny germ, so small as to pass
unnoticed and unheeded by, and yet withal so deadly as to be called a
plague, crept along, insinuating itself into the streamlets making their
way as best they could to their father, the Yukon; and the fever laid
low many victims.
Early and late had the sisters toiled, never in a half-hearted way, but
untiringly, day after day, until one of their number, being perhaps less
strong, or more weary from work to which she had been unaccustomed, and
more susceptible to disease, was stricken with fever, and after only a
few days' illness, whispered her loving good-byes.
This happened in the summer of 1899, and rumors of the great gold strike
at Nome now reached Dawson. One sister had been persuaded by a member of
the Dawson Bar to make for him a happy home during the remainder of his
life, and she was married.
Again their party numbered the original four, though there were now only
three sisters.
The excitement in Dawson regarding the new Nome gold fields daily
increased, and it was stated by reliable steamer men from St. Michael
that the new strike rivaled that of the Klondyke.
The little party of four decided to go to Nome. In a short time their
business was arranged, sales made, gold claims placed in charge of
agents, and everything made in readiness for their journey to Nome.
It was the middle of September. The last boats were leaving Dawson, both
for points on the Upper Yukon and for St. Michael. People leaving Dawson
by boat in the fall seldom linger beyond the third or fourth week in
September, for then the river may freeze at any time and they be
prisoners in the camp indefinitely.
The lower river steamer "Hannah" was about to push from the dock at
Dawson when a friend introduced me to the three sisters, and during the
following days on board an acquaintance sprung up which I much enjoyed.
Little did we know that this friendship would afterwards be renewed
nearly two thousand miles away, and under circumstances vastly different
from any with which we had before become familiar.
Landing safely from the "Hannah" at St. Michael, a few days were spent
by the sisters waiting for stormy weather to subside, and they then
sailed for Nome. Here they landed during the last days of September,
amid falling snow, bleak winds and boiling surf, upon the sands of the
most inhospitable beach in all that dreary Northland. No tree was to be
seen. Not a rock under whose friendly shelter one might hide from the
storms. There was almost no lumber in the camp with which to build
houses, and no incoming steamers expected. A few rude shacks, tents and
saloons, with two or three companies' buildings--of these was the town
composed. Many were rushing for the steamers in waiting, determined only
upon one thing--to get home to the States. Some carried heavy sacks of
gold, others went empty-handed. There was the summer's accumulation of
filth in the camp, too young as yet for cleanly conditions, and these
brought their sure accompaniment--the fever. Many suffered for weeks
with it, and then died.
Again came the dread plague to the sisters. Scarcely had they unpacked
their trunks or found shelter for the winter when the younger of the
sisters was stricken down. For days she raved in delirium, and all
feared she would die. Night and day they watched anxiously by her
bedside. Everything was done for her recovery and comfort that could be
done in a new and rough camp like the one at Nome; for all who knew the
beautiful little sister loved her well.
Then came the time when all the long and heavy yellow hair had to be cut
from the lovely head in obedience to the doctor's orders. But the little
sister lived. Their prayers were answered, the worst was over, the
danger past.
Then followed long and weary weeks of convalescing, while the winter
storms raged outside the little cabin, and the sun retreated farther
from the Arctic Circle and Nome, but the sisters thanked God, and again
took courage.
Months after came the welcome springtime. With the earliest fine weather
and revival of business in the camp the sisters erected a store building
and warehouse on the beach near by. Into the latter they moved
temporarily, hoping to rent the store to some of the numerous
"tenderfeet" sure to arrive on the first passenger steamers.
It was here I found the sisters on my arrival at Nome from San Francisco
in June, 1900. Little sister was well and strong again, growing a fresh
crop of roses and lilies on her cheeks, and a new head covering of
lovely, wavy yellow hair. On her lips she wore the same sweet, old
smiles, however, and I knew her well by these. Since her recovery from
the fever the hands of the sisters had not been idle, and they had
become expert at sewing furs. This had kept them busy as bees all
winter, and many were the caps, coats, mittens and capes made by their
industrious fingers, which brought them a good income, while their rooms
were always the rendezvous of friends than which a jollier lot could not
be discovered.
Of the good influence going out through the rough mining camp during the
long and dreary winter from the home of these sweet and Christian women,
no account has probably ever been kept, except by the recording angel,
who never forgets.
The day after we landed at Nome I secured work. Not, however, to begin
immediately, which pleased me well, as I should then have a little time
to look for father, inspect the camp, study conditions and take notes
and kodak views.
"Can you cook for a gang of men?" asked Mr. A. kindly smiling down at me
when I had stopped him on the street and asked for work in his camp for
the English girl and myself, as we wished to be together.
"Indeed, I can. I will do my very best, Mr. A., and I feel sure we can
please you. My friend is an extra good cook, as you will discover if you
give us work. Will you try us?"
"I will," he replied.
"At what wages, please?"
"Five dollars per day, each, with board," promptly answered the
gentleman whose two gold claims on famous Anvil Creek made him one of
the richest men in Alaska.
So it was settled. Claim number nine, Anvil, was about seven miles from
Nome, and one of the most noted claims in the district. Mr. A., a former
Swedish missionary at Golovin Bay, had, with his doctor brother, voyaged
to Nome on the "St. Paul" when we did, so we already had a slight
acquaintance with both gentlemen and were pleased to get the work.
Anvil Creek claims had been worked the summer before. Gold had first
been discovered in the fall of 1898 by Mr. Hultberg, a Swedish
missionary, who learned of the precious metal around Nome from the
Eskimos. His mission was stationed at Golovin Bay, and he notified the
Swedes, Brynteson, Hagalin, Lindbloom and Linderberg, who in turn saw G.
W. Price and induced him to go with them, as he was the only one there
experienced in mining. Price was on his way to Kodiak over the ice by
dog-team en route to California, as the representative of C. D. Lane,
the San Francisco mining man and millionaire.
The most of Anvil Creek was staked by this party before they returned to
the mines at Council City, fifty miles up Fish River from Golovin Bay.
"On July second, 1899, a second cleanup was made on number one above
Discovery Claim, Anvil Creek, the property of J. Linderberg. The result
of four men shovelling out of the creek bed from a cut five feet to
bedrock for twenty hours amounted to fourteen thousand dollars in gold
dust. The men shovelled all the gravel from the moss down to bedrock
into the sluice box as it was all pay gravel. The owner refused five
hundred thousand dollars for the property without considering the
offer."
Tierney is authority for the statement that this claim produced four
hundred thousand dollars that season.
From this time the discoverers were known by the sobriquet of the "Lucky
Swedes," for Anvil Creek was all good, there being no really "poor dirt"
in it, and number nine, above Discovery Claim, proved itself, the first
summer, also a banner winner.
It was here that we expected to work, as soon as supplies could be
hauled to the claim, the monotony of bread making and dish washing to be
varied by the new and strange sights on an enormously rich gold claim
not far from the Arctic Circle.
Everywhere around us were carpenter's hammers in operation, and tents
were rapidly going up. We found great difficulty in reserving ground
space enough for another tent, as others found the Sandspit as desirable
for tenting as we did, and elbowed us closely. Along the river's edge
and the beach near by many were digging and panning in the sands
searching for "colors." Dog-teams were hauling freight and baggage, with
their swearing and perspiring drivers at their heels, and while the big
black-snake whips flourished in air above the dogs or upon their
straining backs, the tongues of the faithful brutes hung from their
mouths, and their wide open eyes looked appealingly at bystanders. My
heart ached for the animals, but there were no humane societies in
Alaska.
About five o'clock on Sunday afternoon it began to snow. This was the
first June snowstorm I had ever seen. Our little tent leaked badly, as
it had been hastily pitched, and the snow melted as it fell. Small
rivers of water were soon dropping upon our heads. Rain coats, oil
cloth, and opened umbrellas were utilized to protect the clothing and
the bedding.
An hour of this experience would have been enough for one time, but
troubles seldom come singly, and so the wind began to blow. Donning her
rain coat and rubbers the English girl did her best to tighten ropes and
make the tent taut, for madam's son had not returned from town.
Presently, to our great joy, we saw him coming with a loaded dog-team of
freight, and best of all, with a man friend to assist him, whose strong
arms and broad shoulders were well fitted to tent pitching. Hastily the
cart was unloaded and the large canvas tent unrolled and laid upon the
sand. Stakes were driven, poles adjusted, ropes stretched with much
straining, as the wind whistled more vigorously, and snow still fell;
and the two men, both wet and cold, huddled into the little tent for a
cup of hot tea which was waiting.
Then strong hands opened more boxes and a large oil stove, carpets, rugs
and many other necessary things were hustled into the new tent, as well
as trunks, bedding, and the contents of the small tent, with the
exception of canned goods and such things as water would not injure. The
sands were clean but wet, and if we were thankful for a stout canvas
cover over our heads we would have also been glad of a dry place under
foot. However, carpets and rugs were spread down, stoves lighted, and
the tent door flap fastened as securely as possible.
As well as we could we arranged all for the night, but we expected to
sleep little, for the storm was now fearful. Rain, snow and hail, each
came down by turns, accompanied by a high wind which drove the surf in
roaring rage upon the beach. How thankful we were that we had chosen
this spot instead of one directly in reach of the great rollers with
their mist and spray; though we had the roar and boom of the surf in our
ears continually. Sometimes it seemed that the wind had lulled, and then
with increased violence it again screamed above our heads, threatening
us each moment with disaster.
At midnight a supper of hot macaroni, cocoa, bread, butter and cheese,
with canned meat and jam, was heartily eaten by all, including the
visiting friend from Sitka who had assisted. A low box was used for a
table and we all sat upon the mats, eating from tin cups and plates with
the keenest appetites.
The weather was now awful. The storm had increased until it seemed each
moment that the tent would be torn from its fastenings, and we be left
without any protection whatever. The ropes and stakes had frequently to
be looked after and made stronger. The snow had turned to rain, which
beat heavily upon the stout canvas resisting well the water without
leaking.
By one o'clock the wind showed signs of abating, and we were so much in
need of sleep, that, all dressed as we were, we rolled ourselves in our
blankets and dozed on the rugs close to the oil stoves. For an hour I
lay uneasily dreaming, or listening to the royal cannonading of the
heavy surf upon the beach. From my diary I quote the following extract:
"Monday, four in the morning, June eighteenth, 1900.--It is four in the
morning and we are sitting around the oil stoves in the middle of the
tent. We have just had hot cocoa and crackers. The surf still booms, but
it does not rain, and the wind has died down. We are better off than
many people. Tomorrow we will put up the other tent and get more
settled. We are thankful not to be on the sea beach, where so many are
camped. A. wishes herself home again. People around our tent all night
were talking, moving, afraid of the storm, but the big ships are still
here and they would put out to sea if it were necessary for their
safety. They say we have smallpox in town from the steamer 'Ohio,' and
yesterday Mrs. H., who came up on the 'St. Paul,' was reported to be
dying from pneumonia. The nurse, Mrs. Judge R.'s friend, is caring for
her. Judge R. and wife are still in Mrs. M.'s shack near the barracks.
It has been daylight all night. I hope to hear from father soon, and get
my freight. My friends here have all theirs. The two men are smoking and
talking while I write, and the Eskimo dogs not far away are howling in
their usual interesting nightly manner. I will now try to get a little
more sleep."
We had heard much of beach mining at Nome, but saw little of it. Stories
were told of men who, in the summer of 1899, had taken hundreds of
dollars in gold dust from the beach sands by the crudest methods, and
thousands of men were now flocking into the camp for the purpose of
doing beach mining. They were sadly disappointed. Not, however, because
there was no gold in the beach sands, but because it was so
infinitesimally tiny that they had no means of securing it. No hand
rocker, copper plate, nor amalgam had been used with success, neither
did any of the myriads of prospective miners bring anything with them
which promised better results. Great heaps of machinery called by
hopeful promoters "gold dredgers" were being daily dumped upon the beach
from the ships, signboards were covered with pictures of things similar,
while the papers continually bloomed with advertisements of machines,
which, if speedily secured by the miners, would, according to the
imaginative advertiser, soon cause all to literally roll in riches.
One flaming dodger ran in large letters thus: "Calling millions from the
vasty deep. A fortune in one hundred days. Our dredger will work three
thousand yards of sand in heavy surf at Cape Nome. It will take out
twenty-four thousand dollars in a day. You can make more money with us
than by taking flyers in wild-cat oil schemes, etc." The poster was
illustrated by a huge machine gotten up on the centipede plan; at least,
it resembled that hated insect from having attached to its frame two
sets of wheels of different sizes along the sides like the legs of a
centipede, but with a steam boiler for a head, and a big pipe for a
throat from which the salt water was disgorged to wash out this immense
amount of sand and give the gold to the miner. It did not save the gold.
Thousands of dollars of good, hard-earned money were dumped upon the
beach in the shape of heavy machines of different kinds, which were
worse than useless, and only brought bitter disappointment to their
owners. Men had stripped the beach the summer before of all coarse gold
which had, perhaps, been ages in washing up from the ocean's bed, or
down the creeks from the hills, and only the fine, or "flour gold," as
it was called, remained.
By the newcomers men were cursed for spreading abroad tales of beach
mining of the year before, but this was unjust, for conditions were not
the same. The waters bringing the gold to the beach could not, in one
season, replenish and leave the sands as rich as they had been after
long years, perhaps ages of action, and blame could not rightly be
attached to any one. Almost without exception, the men who did the
cursing were the men who had never been hard workers, and did not intend
to be, and so, after becoming satisfied that the nuggets were not there
to be simply picked up and pocketed, they turned, looked backward, and
went home. It was well for the new camp that they did.
There was also much trouble over real estate. Land was very high in
price. Some Swedes, who, the year before, had paid seven hundred dollars
for a town lot three hundred by fifty feet in size, now sold one-half of
it for ten thousand dollars. It is small wonder, then, where "possession
is nine points of the law" that men who rightfully claimed ground were
ready to fight to keep it, and those who were wrongfully in possession
many times stood guard with firearms.
In pitching our tents upon the sandy beach, especially after gaining
permission of the old captain who told us we would be in the street if
ever a street should be opened through on the Sandspit, but that was not
likely, and he had given us his full and free consent to our camping
temporarily there next his lots, we expected to have no trouble. Here we
miscalculated. Though the captain was kind and reasonable, he had a
partner who was just the reverse, and this person gave us infinite
trouble.
Scarcely had our first load of baggage been put upon the ground when he
began to tramp fussily about at all times of day and night. After our
stakes were driven he would come quietly in the night and pull them up,
so we would find our canvas flapping in the morning breeze when we
waked. Or, after we had retired for the night, he would come with some
other, stand within hearing distance, and threaten us if we did not move
away.
One morning, upon rising, we found that he had moved a long carpenter's
bench directly upon the spot next madam's tent, which I was trying to
reserve for my own tent as soon as I succeeded in getting my things from
the steamer. This disappointed me much, but I said nothing; and when my
tent finally came I pitched it on the other side, with my door directly
opposite hers and only six feet from her entrance.
As to appearance this old man was a jolly sight. He wore long and
tangled hair which had once been curly, but now hung in unkempt and
dirty shreds upon his shoulders, while his hat was an antiquated relic
of a former life in the States. A pair of old trousers generally hung by
one suspender over a colored shirt, which, the summer before, possibly,
had had a wash-tub experience, but not later; his footwear was
altogether unmentionable. He was called well-to-do, and there was no
necessity for him to cut such an abominable figure, so he soon became a
by-word, and was designated as "sour dough." At all events, he was sour
enough, and kept up a continual siege of torment until he received a
temporary quietus.
We three women were sitting in the tent one morning when there came a
voice at the door. Going forward to enquire what was wanted, a man said
gruffly, thrusting a piece of paper into my hand.
"A notice from the chief of police."
"For what?" I inquired.
"For you, to vacate these premises without delay."
"Indeed! Are they to open a street? Will the other campers about here
move also?" I asked.
"I don't know. My orders are that you shall move immediately. See that
you do it," said the man rudely.
While holding the paper in my hands I glanced over it hastily, and saw
the marks of a spurious document. It was poorly constructed, and bore
no official signs. I recognized it as a counterfeit.
"We have had permission from captain S., one of the aldermen, to put our
tents here, and we shall stay unless he orders us away," said I stoutly.
"You have permission from captain S.?" he asked in surprise.
"Yes, sir, from captain S. himself, and you can say to the chief of
police that we shall stay here until the captain orders us to leave,"
saying which I stepped back into the tent.
The man retreated, muttering to himself as he went, for he was utterly
routed, and never returned; neither did we hear any more for some time
about moving our tents. It was as I suspected. Mr. Sourdough had thought
to frighten us away, and the order from the chief of police was utterly
bogus.
Some time afterward, when madam attempted to put a floor into her tent,
"Sourdough" again put in an appearance. He threatened, but she held out,
when the obstinate and perverse old man trotted off down town and
secured an officer and four soldiers to come and put her off. The
officer looked the ground over, inquired if there was room for teams to
pass if necessary, and seeing her tent in line with many others, he
turned to the old man and said:
"This tent takes up no more of the street than the others. This lady has
as much right to be here as any one else. What is the matter with you?
Let the women alone," and he and his soldiers marched away.
Mr. Sourdough tore his hair. He was wild with anger. The floor of
madam's tent went down and stayed.
Each day I was in the habit of giving my Swedish friends a call, and
found them finally ready to set up their restaurant tent. A large floor
was laid on Second street near the post-office, the large canvas
stretched over the frame, tables and seats provided, a corner
partitioned off for a kitchen, dishes placed upon shelves, and they
began serving meals. At this juncture I happened in one day just before
noon and found them rushed with work and unable to fill their meal
orders for lack of help. Mary was peeling potatoes in haste, while
trying to do other things at the same time, and Ricka and Alma were
flying like bees.
"Let me peel those potatoes for you," said I, taking the knife from
Mary's hand; and when she demurred, I told her I really had nothing to
do, and would be glad to assist.
When the potatoes were peeled, dishes were heaped up to be cleaned, and
I quickly washed them, feeling that I was of some service, and not
heeding the surprised looks of a few acquaintances who chanced to catch
a glimpse of me at work in the kitchen through the door.
This I did each day, coming over after I had eaten my breakfast, and
rolling up my sleeves to my elbows, drove them deep into the dish pan
and hot water.
Many were the jolly times we now had. How the jokes flew past each other
over the puddings, and the crisp pies needed almost no other seasoning.
How cheerfully "the boys" brought wood and water and counted it reward
enough if they only received a smile from little Alma. Many a man was
glad enough, too, to render such service for a meal or lunch of hot
coffee and doughnuts, especially such good, big, motherly ones as Mary
made, and there was no lack of men helpers. How the coffee steamed, the
hot bread and meats smoked, and the soup odors tantalized the
olfactories of hundreds of "tenderfeet" with their lusty Alaska
appetites, which were increased by an open air life such as all in those
days were living.
When at last we were summoned to our work, on Number Nine, the Swedish
women pressed my hand cordially, leaving a good-sized bill in it at the
same time, saying: "When you get through on Number Nine come back to us;
we need you." I thanked them gratefully and said good-bye.
The English girl and myself were soon settled in our little tent with
its clean new floor on the hillside of claim Number Nine. No tree was to
be seen on the long, rolling hills, and only an occasional boulder on
some summit like Anvil Peak, perched as a sentinel above us. A few wild
flowers bloomed on the tundra, and the waters of the little stream
gurgled over the soft slate pebbles that strewed its course; but the
season so far was a dry one, and more water was needed before much could
be done at sluicing. Miners were not happy at the prospect of a dry
season, which meant a stoppage of all mining operations, and eagerly
scanned the heavens for rain indications. A small force of men were at
work night and day. On Thursday, July twelfth, eleven hundred dollars in
gold dust was taken from the sluice boxes in the creek, and two days
afterwards twelve thousand dollars, with which the owner of the claim
was much dissatisfied, calling them small clean-ups.
A few hundred feet up stream, on Number Ten, the machinery of C. D. Lane
whirred constantly. On the upper end of Number Nine a small new machine
called a separator was put in by some men from New York who had taken a
lay on the claim; but this scheme was not successful.
Seeing men at work prospecting along the "benches," as the banks of a
stream or hillsides are called by miners, and having a woman's
proverbial curiosity, after my work was done I climbed the hill to
investigate. The prospectors had left after digging a hole about six
feet deep and four square, evidently having satisfied themselves as to
what the ground contained. Into this hole I descended to feel of the
cold, wet earth and inspect the walls.
The miners had reached the frost line and gone, taking with them samples
of pretty white quartz rock, as much of the debris at the bottom of the
hole plainly showed, but whether it contained gold I knew not. As yet I
was a tenderfoot; but something satisfactory was without doubt found
here and in the vicinity, as quartz claims were staked over the placer
claims the whole length of Anvil Creek that summer.
While rambling about in search of flowers during our afternoon rests, we
found many interesting spots. To the northwest, over the high, bare
ridge, lay Snow Gulch, from which fabulous sums had the summer before
been taken, the blue and winding waters of famous Glacier Creek lying
just beyond. Walking through the dry, deep tundra over the hills was
warm, hard work, though we wore short skirts and high, stout boots, and
womanlike, we were always filled to the brim with questions and ready to
rest if we chanced to meet any one, which was not often.
Wherever we went, and whatever the hour, we met with no incivility. Hats
were lifted, and men rested a moment upon their shovels to look after us
as we passed, while frequently some rough miner swallowed the lump in
his throat or wiped a tear, as he thought of his wife, daughter or
sweetheart far away. We were the only women in the mines for miles
around, but felt no fear whatever, and indeed we were as safe there as
at home, and there was no occasion for anxiety.
Life was extremely interesting. Our work was not hard the first few
weeks; after that the force of men was increased. Rich pans of dirt (two
shovels full to a pan) were daily being brought to light. One pan
contained seventy-two dollars and seventy-five cents, one eighty-three
dollars and thirty-five cents. Big, fat nuggets already melted into
wondrous shapes, but iron rusted, as all Anvil Creek gold is, for some
reason, was discovered each day. One nugget tipped the scales at
thirty-nine dollars, one at twenty dollars, and one at fifty dollars,
with many others of like value.
Wednesday, August eighth, the following entry was made in my diary:
"Today has been the banner day for gold dust. The night's cleanup of
twelve hours' work was a big one--three pans full of gold. Later--Still
more yet. A cleanup of nine thousand dollars and three of the largest
nuggets I ever saw has just been made this evening. Two of the nuggets
were long and flat, as large as a tree-toad, and much the shape of one.
The men took the first load of gold dust to town--seventy-five
pounds--but the bank was closed before they could get the remainder
there. The foreman says they are prepared to keep it here safely over
night, however, and I believe they are, judging by the big protuberances
on their hip pockets."