OFF FOR GOLOVIN BAY.
By October twelfth the weather began to be quite wintry, with snow
flurries, cold wind, and a freezing ground. All now felt their time
short in which to prepare for winter, change residence, and get settled.
After many days of planning, in which eight or ten persons were
concerned, it was finally decided that we should go to Golovin Bay. The
head missionary, and one or two of his assistants from that place, had
been with us part of the time during the great storm, so we were quite
well acquainted, and we would be near the Mission.
The "boys," as we called the young men for short, would build a cabin in
which the funds of the women were also to be pooled. Three of the boys
had gone, some weeks before, to Golovin to assist in the erection of a
new Mission Home, twelve miles further down the coast; but as a shipload
of mission supplies had been lost at sea, including building materials,
their work was much hampered, and it was not expected that the new home
would be completed, though sadly needed for the accommodation of the
constantly increasing numbers of Eskimo children for which it was
intended.
In this case, no new helpers could be added to the missionary force,
though Miss L., a tall, intelligent young woman, was to be placed in the
Home kitchen as cook, and would accompany us to Golovin. It was decided,
then, that the restaurant be closed immediately before the last boat
left Nome for Golovin, as it would be impossible to get there after the
last steamer had gone until the ice was solid, and winter trails were
good over the hills. Most of us did not care to remain so long where we
were, and made ready to sail on the small coast steamer "Elk," scheduled
to leave Nome October eighteenth.
On the evening of the sixteenth the doors of the "Star" were formally
closed. We had had a rush up to the last moment, and all hands were
completely tired out. It had been a long pull, and a steady pull, and
the thought uppermost in the minds of us four women was to get to
Golovin and rest. Even Alma sighed for a vacation from hard work,
feeling that the roadhouse, if they opened one, must wait until she was
rested.
Mary wished to remain at Nome for a while, and come later by dog-team
when the trails were good. She would take a day after we had gone to
finish storing away the "Star" outfit for the next summer, and make the
rooms tidy, afterwards visiting acquaintances, and doing shopping.
For two days after closing the "Star" we were busy as bees, but at a
change of occupation. We bought food supplies, coal-oil, and warm
clothing, receiving parcels of the latter, including yarns for winter
knitting, at the hands of the stewardess of the "St. Paul," who had
kindly made our purchases in San Francisco at better prices (for us)
than we found at Nome. Some bought furs, when they could find them,
though these were scarce and costly, and each person carried his own
bedding. Letters to the outside were written and posted, mails
collected, freight and other bills paid, and tickets secured on the
steamer.
For my own part, I now found some kindly helper with strong arms
whenever I had a trunk, bag, or box to lift or transfer, and no
remuneration for services thus rendered beyond a smiling, "thank you
very much," was ever accepted.
What a strong, hearty, clean, and good-natured lot were these Swedes.
How helpful, sympathetic, and jolly withal. It was easy for them to see
the clear, bright side of everything, and to turn an innocent joke on
themselves occasionally; for one told on another is never so effective
and enjoyable as a joke on oneself; but there were often those with
tears in their eyes, and a homesick feeling at their heart upon bidding
farewell to friends who were leaving for the outside.
With the approach of a long, hard winter in the Arctic, so unknown and
untried by many, with a distance of thousands of miles of ocean soon to
roll between them, it was many times difficult to say a careless
good-bye. For those remaining in Alaska, who could foresee the future?
Was it to be a fortunate and happy one, or would it disclose only
misfortune, with, perchance, sickness and death? Would these partings be
followed by future happy meetings, or were they now final? Who could
tell?
Among those constantly sailing for the outside were those who left
regretfully, and those who left joyfully; there was the husband and
father returning to his loved ones with "pokes," well filled with
nuggets, and the wherewithal to make them more happy than ever before.
There were those returning to sweethearts who daily watched and waited
longingly for their home-coming which would be more than joyful. There
were those leaving who would come again when the long winter was over,
to renew their search for gold already successfully begun; and they were
satisfied.
There were many who left the gold fields with discouragement depicted
upon their every feature. They had been entirely unable to adapt
themselves to circumstances so different to any they had before known,
and they had not possessed the foresight and judgment to decide affairs
when the critical moments came. Perhaps a fondness for home, and dear
ones, pulled too persistently upon the heartstrings; nothing here
looked good to them, and they went home disgusted with the whole world.
Unless a man or woman can quickly adjust himself or herself to changed
conditions, and has a willingness to turn his or her hand to any
honorable labor, he would better remain at home, and allow others to go
to Alaska.
If a man goes there with pockets already well lined, intending to
operate in mining stocks, he still needs the adjustable spirit, because
of the new, crude, and compulsory manners of living. He must be able to
forget the luxury of silver spoons, delicate hands, soft beds, and steam
heat; enjoying, or at least accommodating himself to the use of tin
spoons, coarse food, no bed, and less heat, if his place and
circumstances for a time demand such loss of memory.
A bountiful supply of hopefulness is also necessary, in order, at times,
to make the darkness and discomfort of the present endurable, and this
will wonderfully cheer and create patience. Thousands of persons who
were ill qualified in these and other respects had journeyed to Alaska,
only to return, homesick, penniless, and completely discouraged, who
never should have left their home firesides.
Not so with the Swedish people. They are accustomed to a cold climate,
hard work, and conditions needing patience and perseverance, without
great luxuries in their homes, and being strong and hearty physically,
they are well fitted, both by nature and practice, for life in the new
gold fields of Alaska. There were more reasons than one for their
success in the far Northwest, and a little study of cause and effect
would disclose the truth, when it will be found that it was not all
"luck" which made so many successful.
Our last day at Nome is a confused memory of trunks, boxes, bags,
barrels, dog-teams, tickets, bills, lunches, tables, dishes, and
numerous other things. Tramping hurriedly through busy, dirty streets,
and heavy, sandy beach, with arms loaded with small baggage (we had
neither parrots nor poodles) making inquiries at stores and offices,
doing innumerable errands, saying good-byes, and having good-luck wishes
called after us; and then, when the sun had disappeared for the day, and
night was almost upon us, we turned our backs upon our summer camp, and
hastened to our winter home.
At the water's edge small pieces of ice washed up and down with a
clicking sound upon the sands, as if to give us notice of approaching
winter, but the ocean was almost as smooth as a floor. No breath of wind
disturbed the surface, and only a gentle swell came landward at
intervals to remind us of its still mighty, though hidden, power.
Then we were all in readiness to leave. A little boat was drawn upon the
sand. Into it all small baggage was tossed. It was then pushed out
farther by men in high rubber boots standing in the water.
"I cannot get into the boat," laughed Little Alma, "I will get my feet
wet."
"Not if I can help it," answered a stalwart sailor, who immediately
picked her up bodily and set her down in the boat, repeating the
operation three times, in spite of the screams and laughter of Miss L.,
Ricka and myself. Ricka and I were only of medium height, but Miss L.
was a good six-footer, and when we were safely in the boat, and she had
been picked up in the sailor's strong arms, if she did not scream for
herself, some of us did it for her, thinking she would certainly go head
first into the water; but no, she was carefully placed, like the rest of
us, in the boat.
After getting settled, and the final good-byes were waved, the men
sprang in, those on shore pushed the boat off; we were again on the
bosom of old Behring Sea. Smaller and fainter grew all forms upon the
shore. Darker and deeper grew the waters beneath us. The lights of a few
belated steamers, twinkled in the distance, their reflections, beautiful
as jewels, quietly fixed upon the placid waters. Like a thing of sense,
it seemed to me, the great ocean, full of turmoil, rage, and fury so
recently, it would show us, before we left, how lamblike, upon
occasions, it could be; and all old scores against it were then and
there forgotten.
A dark form soon lay just before us. "Where is the 'Elk,'" I asked of
a sailor rowing, looking about in the gathering darkness which had
rapidly fallen.
[Illustration: CLAIM NUMBER FOUR, ANVIL CREEK, NOME.]
"There it is," pointing to a black hulk which lay sullenly, without a
spark of light visible, close to us.
"But do they not know we are coming? Have they no light on board? How
can we get upon deck?" we asked anxiously.
"O, they will bring a lantern, I guess," laughed the sailor, then
thinking to put us at our ease, he called lustily as he rested himself
at his oars. Not getting a reply, he shouted again.
Presently two men appeared with as many lanterns.
"Here, you fellows, get a move on, and help these ladies on board, will
you? Were you asleep, hey?"
"Wall, no, not 'zactly, sah, but I'se done been working hard today," it
was the colored cook replying, as he rubbed his sleepy eyes.
"Haul up alongside this dory," said the other man as he put his lantern
down, "and let the ladies get into that first, then we'll help 'em up
here."
With that we climbed out as we best could in the darkness, one after
another, the boys assisting, until we all stood laughing in the little
cabin, and counted noses.
"Are we all here?" asked Mr. G., who, as usual had a thoughtful care
over all.
"All here, I think, but the baggage. How about that?" said I.
"I'll see to that," and he was already on deck, while I continued
counting.
"Alma, Ricka, Miss L., Mr. G., Mr. L., Mr. B., and myself--the lucky
number of seven. How fortunate we are. We are sure to have good luck.
Too bad Mary is not here, but then we would not be seven," and we were
all laughing and talking at the same time.
In the cabin there was only one lamp, and that was swung over the table,
looking in all its smoky smelliness as if it had hung there for ages
without a scrubbing. The table was covered with dirty dishes scattered
upon an oilcloth spread. The room smelled of fish, tobacco, and
coal-oil, and we were obliged to go to the door now and then for fresh
air. There was no fire, nor heat, neither was there a place for any.
Rows of berths in two tiers lined each side of the cabin, but they were
supplied with mattresses only. Dark curtains hung on wires before the
berths, and these would furnish us with our only privacy on the trip.
Finally we selected our berths, assorted our luggage, and sat down to
rest. We were disappointed in the "Elk." She was not a "St. Paul," that
was certain. The colored cook soon entered. His apologies were profuse.
"Hope de ladies will 'scuze de state ob dis year room, but I'se done
been mighty busy today, and will hab tings fine tomorer."
"That's all right, Jim, if you only give us a good dinner tomorrow. Can
you do it?" asked Mr. L.
"Yas, sah, dis chile good cook when de tings are gibben him to cook, but
when dere's no taters, no fresh meat, no chicken, no fruit, den it's
mighty hard to set up fine meals. Dat's de truf!" and Jim nodded his
woolly head emphatically at the frequent undesirable state of his
larder.
"Prices high heah, sah, but dis old man almos' fru wid de business; de
las' trip ob de 'Elk' dis summah, an' I'se glad of it," and he
disappeared in the galley carrying his arms full of dishes.
When the table was cleared and Jim had spread an old and much rumpled
red cover over it, I took from my basket a small square clock, and
winding it up with its little key, started it going. It was a musical
clock I had purchased when in Nome, of a small boy about to leave for
the outside. It had been given him by a lady, and he had grown tired of
it, his mind being so much upon his contemplated long journey. He would
sell it for three dollars, he said, and I paid the money, needing a time
piece, and having none. So now the little music box ticked off its music
to the entertainment of all.
However, we were all tired and the place was cold, so after we had taken
our last look at the lights of Nome, scattered as they were along the
shore for miles in the darkness, we turned in for the night, all
dressed as we were, and drew the curtains around us. The long,
deep-toned whistle of the "Elk," had sounded some time before, and we
were headed east, making our way quietly over the smooth waters.
Another chapter of our lives had begun. What would the end be, I
wondered.
During the night I was awakened by men running and shouting on deck. The
steamer stopped. Somebody went out to inquire the cause. In a little
while he returned, saying that four men had been picked up, nearly
frozen, in an open boat which was leaking badly, and they were found
just in time. Dry clothes, with food and hot drinks, and they would be
all right again; so I turned over and tried to sleep, but the men
lounged about, smoking and talking with the captain a good share of the
night, so that sleep was almost out of the question.
How I wished for fresh air! How I hated the tobacco smoke! But we could
say nothing, for the men had no beds, no other place to sit, and it was
too cold on deck. We must be patient, and I was patient, feeling
thankful that the lives of the four men had been saved, if each one did
smoke like a volcano and come near choking us to death.
After a while there was another commotion. What now? Their five dogs had
been left in the leaking dory, which was trailing behind us, the boat
was swamping, and the animals were almost drowned. They were whining,
crying, and soaking wet; so the "Elk" was again stopped, the dogs taken
on board, along with some of the miners' outfits, and we again started
on our way.
The men said their dory had been blown ten miles out to sea by a wind
many hours before, and had then sprung a leak, wetting their food, and
threatening them with destruction, when the "Elk" appeared and took them
aboard in the night.
"Wall, yes, we had given ourselves up for lost, though none said much
about it," remarked one of the saved men next day, in speaking of their
experience. "Some one mentioned God Almighty, I believe, and I could
almost have spoken to Him myself, but it does look like He had done
something for us, don't it?" said the miner, laughing quietly, in a
pleased, relieved way as he finished.
We were exceedingly glad for their deliverance from a watery grave, but
we pitied ourselves for our discomforts, until we pictured ourselves in
their forlorn condition, far out from land, at night, in a leaky boat,
without food and freezing; then I found myself feeling really grateful
for the privilege of sailing on the "Elk," and not discontented as at
first. We would get fresh air enough this winter, no doubt, to drive
away all remembrances of the air in the little steamer's cabin, which
was cold as well as foul. There were no windows or ports that we could
see; there was doubtless a closed skylight somewhere, but to keep warm
even in our berths required management. In my hand luggage I carried a
bright woolen Indian blanket, a souvenir of St. Michael the year before,
in which I now rolled myself, already dressed in my warmest clothing and
heavy coat.
A light-weight grey blanket was loaned me by the cook, who had purloined
it from the pilot's bunk, he being on duty and not needing it that
night. This I was rather chary of using, for reasons of my own, but it
was that or nothing, only the mattress being underneath. On my head I
wore a pink crocheted affair, called sometimes a "fascinator," which was
now used simply and solely for service, I assured my friends, and not
from any lighter motive,--but my feet! How I should keep them
comfortable while on board was a question. With my feet cold I would be
perfectly miserable, and although I wore wool hose and high, stout laced
boots, I soon found on going aboard the "Elk" that to be comfortable I
must make a change.
I said nothing, but turned the situation well over in mind. At last I
found a solution. Going to my bags once more, on the aside I drew out my
new reindeer skin muckluks, or high fur boots, and looked at them. What
enormous footgear, to be sure. Could I wear those things? I had put five
good, hard-earned dollars into them, and they were said to be warm and
very comfortable when worn properly, with hay in the bottoms, and Arctic
socks over one's hose, but I had no hay and could not get any.
I had the socks in my trunk, but that was in the hold of the ship, or
somewhere out of my reach. I held the muckluks in my hands, and slowly
turned them round. Suddenly a bright thought came. I would pull them on
over my shoes. I did it. They went on easily. I drew the strings
attached at the back of the ankle forward over the instep, crossed them,
carried them back, crossed them a second time and tied them in front, in
order to use up the strings so they would not trip me in walking. Just
below the knees I pulled a woolen drawstring which was run into the
green flannel, inch-wide heading, and tied this loosely; then I studied
them. Shades of my buried ancestry! What a fright! My own mother would
never know me. I wanted to scream with laughter, but could not, for I
had performed the operation in a most surreptitious manner, behind
closed doors (bunk curtains), after the others had retired.
I had no compunctions of conscience as to putting my shoes upon the bed,
for the mattress was both sombre and lonely, and as for the muckluks,
they had never been worn by man (and were surely never made for woman).
The most that I could do was to lie back upon my bed, cram my fascinator
into my mouth, and struggle to suppress my risibles.
After a time I succeeded, and lay enjoying the new sensation of feet
and limbs warm and cozy as if in my mother's warm parlor at home; and
then I slept.
Next morning I kept my berth late. My sleep had been much broken, and
the place was cold. The bad air had taken my appetite, and there were
already too many in the small cabin for convenience. Four or five men
and three women besides our own party of seven, crowded in between the
dining table and the berths, filled the small cabin quite beyond
comfort.
The main question in my mind, however, was how to prevent the company
from seeing my feet. I would put off the evil hour as long as possible,
for they were sure to laugh heartily when they saw my muckluks, and to
take them off--I would not. Some one brought me a sandwich finally,
inquiring at the same time for my health, but I assured them it was
first class,--I was only resting. Watching my opportunity, toward noon I
slipped out of my berth quietly and made myself ready for dinner,
keeping my feet well out of sight, for cook Jim had promised a fine
spread for the two o'clock meal.
When it came I was ready. It is said that hunger is a good sauce, and I
believe this is true, for otherwise I could never have eaten the dinner
that day. Upon a soiled and rumpled white (?) cloth Jim placed his "big
spread," which consisted of whole jacketed boiled and baked potatoes,
meat stew (no questions allowed), dried prunes stewed, biscuits, and
fourth rate butter, with tea and coffee.
[Illustration: MAP OF ALASKA.]
[Illustration: MAP OF ALASKA.]
At only one camp was there a stop made. There were two or three
passengers on board for Bluff City, a new and prosperous mining camp,
composed chiefly, though so late in the season, of tents. Lumber and
supplies of different kinds had to be put off. As the entrance to the
hold of the ship where the stores were kept was in our cabin, we had
plenty of fresh air while the doors were all open, along with the
mustiness from below, for several hours. However, I managed to keep
pretty comfortable and snug in "fascinator" and muckluks, enveloped as I
was in my Indian blanket.
Hearing a bluff, hearty voice which sounded familiar, I looked around,
and in walked a man whom I had seen at St. Michael the fall before. He
had charge of the eating house there, where my brother and I had taken
our meals for two weeks. I had not forgotten his kindness in giving me
sore throat medicine when there had been nothing of the sort to buy, and
I was suffering.
This man remembered me well, and sat down to chat for a little while
with us. He was a miner now, and a successful one, he said, for he was
taking out "big money" from his lay on Daniels Creek, only five minutes'
walk from the beach. I had been informed of his good fortune before
meeting him, so was ready with congratulations.
He told me of his cabin building, his winter's stores and fuel, and
seemed in high spirits. Of course I could not ask him what he meant by
"big money," or what he had taken from his claim, although it would not
here, as in the Klondyke, be a breach of etiquette to inquire. After a
few minutes chat the man bade us good-bye, and descended to the small
boat alongside, which was to carry him and his freight ashore.
It was nearly dark by this time, and another night must be passed on
board. Some were complaining of the cold. Others were shuffling their
feet to get them warm.
"My feet are awfully cold," said Alma, moving them uneasily about.
"Aren't yours, Mrs. Sullivan?"
"Not at all," I replied, trying to look unconcerned, at the same time
putting my feet further under my skirts, which were not the very short
ones I had worn at Nome. "You know what having cold feet in this country
means, I suppose, Alma?"
"O, I am not in the least homesick, if that is what you mean. I am
perfectly happy; but--" (here she glanced down upon the floor in the
direction of my feet) "what have you over your shoes, any way, to keep
so warm, Mrs. Sullivan?"
There was no help for it, and the muckluks had to come to light, and
did. At sight of them they all shouted, and Alma laughed till the tears
ran down her cheeks.
"And you have had these on all day without our seeing them? Where have
you kept your feet, in your pocket?" she persisted.
"Well, no, not exactly, but of course, under the circumstances, you
could hardly expect me to hang a signboard out to call attention to
them, could you?" I laughed.
"I should say not. Will we all look like that in muckluks? Is there
nothing else we can wear this winter? They will make our feet look so
awfully large, you see?"
"That's the way we will all look, only a good deal worse, for some of us
have no skirts to cover them with, as you have," spoke up Mr. G. for the
first time.
"I thought the 'Elk' leaned to the land side more today than usual,"
said Mr. B. with a twinkle, "but now it is explained."
"Bad boy! My muckluks were on that side of the ship from the first, only
they were in my bag for a while. They are no heavier now than they were
then. You shall have no supper," said I, with mock severity.
So I kept the fur boots on, in spite of their jokes, wondering what they
would say when I arrived at Golovin and removed my fascinator (another
surprise I was keeping for them), and contented myself by thinking I had
the laugh on them, when they complained of cold feet, and my own were so
perfectly comfortable.
At last, on the morning of October twentieth, with the sun just rising
over the snowy hills surrounding the water, the cliffs on both sides of
the entrance standing out clear and sharp in the cold morning light, and
with one ship already there, we dropped anchor, being in Golovin Bay.
The settlement, a score of houses, a hotel, a flagstaff or two, and the
Mission.
I now waked the girls, who turned out of their bunks, dressed as they
had been since coming on board the "Elk," and we made ready to go
ashore. We were out in deep water, still some distance from the beach,
and must again get out into a small boat, probably for the last time
this year. Not all could get into the boat; we must take turns, but we
were bundled into it some way, and soon we were upon the sands, a dozen
feet from dry land. Again we were transferred by one man power, as at
Nome, to the sands, which were here frozen quite hard, and upon which I
had the sensation, at first, of walking with a gunboat attached to each
foot.
Some one conducted us to the Mission House, only a few hundred yards
from our landing place, while the boat went back to the "Elk" for the
others. Miss E., who had come up on the "St. Paul" with us, and now the
housekeeper here, came running out to welcome all cordially. By her we
were shown into the cozy little parlor, so tidy, bright and warm that we
immediately felt ourselves again in civilization. Soon Mr. H., the head
missionary, whom I had already met in Nome, came in with Miss J., the
teacher of the Mission children. She also had spent some days with us at
Nome. These all made us very welcome, and our party of seven was soon
sitting together before a good, smoking hot breakfast, to which we did
real justice.
When entering the house I had, upon first removing my wraps and
"fascinator," given my friends another surprise equal to the one of the
muckluks on the steamer. The day before leaving Nome I had
(surreptitiously again) made a visit to the hairdresser, and when I left
her room I appeared another woman. My head now, instead of being covered
with long, thin hair, done up hastily in a twist at the back, had short
hair and curled all over, a great improvement, they all voted, when the
first surprise was over.
My hair, all summer, had been like that of most women when first in
Alaska, falling out so rapidly that I feared total baldness if something
was not done to prevent. This was the only sure remedy for the trouble,
as I knew from former experience, and as I again proved, for it entirely
stopped coming out. Ricka soon followed my example, and we, with Miss
J., who had been relieved of her hair by fever the year before, made
almost a colony of short-haired women, much to the amusement of some of
our party.
After we had eaten our breakfasts, several of us set to work at writing
letters to send out to Nome by the "Elk," which would remain a few hours
unloading freight, as this might be our last opportunity for many weeks,
or until the winter mails were carried by dog-teams over the trails. We
fancied our friends on the outside would be glad to hear that we had
arrived safely at Golovin, and our pens flew rapidly over the paper.
These letters, finally collected, were placed in the hands of one of the
"Elk's" crew for mailing at Nome, and the steamer sailed away.
Not all, however, wrote letters. The business head of the "Star" firm
had not been idle, nor writing letters, and while I wrote Alma was
deeply engaged, well seconded by Ricka, in making arrangements with Mr.
H. by which we could remain in this Mission House all winter. Before
noon it was decided that we should stay, assisting the missionaries all
in our power until such time as they could move to their new station, as
soon as the ice was firm enough in the bay to travel upon and the Home
was far enough toward completion. It was impossible to finish the
building now, but so far as practicable it would be made habitable, and
all necessary and movable articles of furniture would be carried to the
Home, though many large pieces would be left for our use.
This arrangement included our party of seven, Mary at Nome, and the
three boys at work at this time on the new Home building, and would do
away with all necessity for building a cabin, lumber being expensive and
good logs scarce.
This intelligence came just in time for insertion in our home letters
sent away on the "Elk," and it was a day of rejoicing for at least seven
persons (Miss L. was to go to the Home, but Mary was to come to us from
Nome), who already considered themselves a "lucky number."