CHAPTER XIII.
Now, quickly, the weather changed and the spring advanced. We had some days almost mild, sometimes it rained instead of snowed, often a warm wind blew. At any rate it felt warm to us. Anywhere else, I suppose, we should have called it winter, but, after our experience, we thought this prime, for we knew that spring was at hand.
The creek, the Klondyke even, were becoming quite free of ice, water lay about in pools: certainly every night all was frozen again, but whenever the sun burst through the mists and murk they thawed, and it was a teaser to get about. To travel down them, either by water or by trail, was simply impossible.
White-eye and Coney, who had been very boastful of the way in which they intended to go "right off" to Dawson to register their claim, had to give it up.
We had many interesting discussions during this time about the future means of travel in that region. Supposing these gold discoveries were as great and as extensive as we had reason to expect they would be, we wondered what would be arranged for easier entrance and exit. Should large crowds of people rush in, which we quite expected, how were they to be fed? How were stores to be brought?
Bain, a long-headed Scotsman, pronounced dead against the St Michael's route. The idea of journeying 1800 miles up the Yukon, after the long and dangerous voyage of 2750 miles by ocean steamers across the Gulf of Alaska into Behring Sea, was absurd, he thought, especially as he averred that the river is only open for about three months, from July to October, and was then so full of bars, sandbanks, and shallows, snags and currents, that it is a most hazardous stream to navigate.
When they came up, they were several times nearly being wrecked, and they passed half-a-dozen boats and scows fast on sandbanks, where they most probably still remained.
I had fully described the way Meade and I, with our two Indians, had reached the Klondyke. A road over the White Pass I knew could be made with comparative ease, and from what we had heard of the Chilcoot Pass, that, too, might be made available for traffic.
Skagway, the landing-place for the White Pass, was on tidal water, open always; it was easy to land people and goods there. Then the distance across the pass being only about forty-three miles to the head waters of the Yukon, say Lake Bennet, it did appear that must be the best road in. As for the Miles Cañon and the White Horse Rapids—the only serious obstacles on the way thence to Dawson—we considered that with very little engineering skill, and but small outlay, they would be overcome, either by tramways or short canals. Seeing that the distance from Victoria, on Vancouver Island, to Dawson viâ St Michael's is altogether about 4500 miles, and viâ Skagway and the White Pass is but 1600, this did seem common-sense.
We had amongst our acquaintances on this diggings one or two Canadians who had been about this region for years. They were always talking about a route "all Canadian." All these landing-places I have mentioned are in American territory. We dispute that certainly. However, the Yankees are in possession, and it is quite possible that they will continue to be so.
But it seemed to Bain—and I certainly agreed with him—that the Canadian route they talked of had very little advantage, if any, over the White or even the Chilcoot Pass. Their idea was to make Telegraph Creek, which is in Canada, 150 miles up the Stickeen river from Fort Wrangel, the port for this country. They said that it had been already long used for traffic with the Cassiar gold mines, and asserted that there is a trail from it to Teslin Lake, down which there is good navigation to the Hootalinqua river, and so to the Yukon and Dawson. The distance from Victoria they supposed to be about 1500 miles.
But here, it seemed to us, were exactly the same difficulties, if not greater ones, than on the other routes.
Bain, who appeared to have studied the geography of this region before they entered it, having had the opportunity of examining the best maps available in Victoria, was strong in the opinion that the Canadian Government should, and would ultimately, build, or cause to be built, a railway from a really undoubted Canadian port, all through Canadian territory, to Dawson.
If this goldfield proved to be what we expected, it would have to be done some day. His idea was that there should be a railway from Fort Simpson, in Canada, where there is open water all the year round for ocean ships, to Teslin Lake, about 400 miles in. Indeed, he went so far as to maintain that this railway should be continued right down to Dawson, for only by this means could the country be properly developed.
No roads for teams could ever be satisfactory. The forage for cattle having all to be imported would alone cause this to be so. On the long journey animals could do little more than haul their own food.
Certainly, if easy roads were made across the passes, if steamers were put upon the lakes, if ways were made for getting past the cañons and rapids, large quantities of stores could be taken in during three or four months of open water. But he stuck to it, that only a railway will do all that must be done, if this Canadian Yukon country is to be exploited as it deserved to be. Quartz reefs rich in gold were already known to exist. Copper had been found too—there appeared to be immense deposits of it. Coal existed also, and it is recognised that the supply of wood fuel for mining and domestic purposes will soon run short—a most important consideration, perhaps the most important of all. These reefs and copper and coal mines cannot be worked without heavy machinery, which cannot be handled or conveyed in by waggon or sleigh, neither can the products of these mines. A railway, and only a railway, could solve the problem.
Whether one will "pay" or not is quite another matter.
In California, Australia, and those parts of Canada in which gold has hitherto been found abundantly, causing a large influx of people, the result has been that many who have made much or little have remained there, settling on the land or going into business, and so permanently developing the country.
In the Yukon this can never be. Gold especially, and copper, and probably some other metals, are alone the product of the country. Land being absolutely unproductive, and the climate terrible, no one will make a permanent home there.
With such discussions, and much beside of purely local interest—such as how Bill the Butcher's claim was looking, and if Tom the Tinker had found any coarse gold in the hole he had last sunk, or what the chances were of Mississippi Sam and his partner the Baltimore Oriole finding good gold up at the creek-head where they had gone prospecting, when they may be expected back, and so forth,—with such topics of interest, I say, as these the time passed quickly.
The increased heat of the sun was perceptibly lessening the snow on the ranges, the creeks were rising, the ice had disappeared, or was piled on the banks, where it was thawing rapidly. There was a great change perceptible—a change which was a source of constant interest to all of us; and to May and me it was a very great relief to see the road gradually opening for us to get away.
During this time we had become pretty intimate with "Coney." I learnt his proper name, found him a very genial companion—one very like my poor lost Meade—and I liked him; so did we all.
He had been unfortunate, and had not found a payable claim until now; and even now, the one he and White-eyed Williams had marked above us, though it promised well, had yet to be proved. However, his hopes were high, and I could not help giving him every encouragement. Knowing I was going home to England, he was most anxious that I should take letters from him to his people—nay, that I should visit them; and I, arguing that if not all right, he would hardly have done this, concluded that he was a reliable man. Bain thought as I did, and it resulted that I, with May's entire accord, put all the affairs connected with our claims into their joint-hands—i.e., Bain's and Coney's—to manage for us.
Late in May there were many more evidences of spring. The nigger-grass had sprouted: I well remember May's delight with the first green blades I took her. A few days after, on bare patches amongst the snow, I found a few lovely flowers; we had no idea of their names, but spring had come, and we were charmed.
There was plenty of water now to wash with; there was plenty to wash the heaps of wash-dirt, and the results were good. I, being handy with tools, made them a cradle, or rocker, and some sluice-boxes.
There was much movement at the diggings: every one was busy on top, and the change from the drear monotony of the terrible winter was giving place to cheery looks and hopeful faces. One could tell that the arrival of running water had been made much use of in another way; for we hardly recognised some of our acquaintances, since they had been able to wash their faces successfully and put on clean clothing.
That May had the knowledge of what was in my mind respecting her, I believed; but she carefully avoided giving me the opportunity of telling her about it. Why, she cannot even now explain, but so it was.
Towards the end of May the sun had much power: no snow was lying in the open, but the land was in a terrible condition; the deep grass and moss, saturated with water, was a perfect morass, all but impossible to get through on foot. The trails between the shanties and to the diggings were mere ditches. Those who had not good rubber or waterproof boots, or, better still, muclucs—which is the native name for mud moccasins, the soles of which are made waterproof with seal oil—were in a bad plight; for the water was icy cold, and we believed that there would soon be much sickness amongst these unfortunates. We noticed, however, that the miners were very good to each other. If one was known to be badly off for foot-gear, food, or clothing, those who were better supplied shared with and helped them.
So far as we could judge, they were all a very decent, friendly crowd of men. We heard of no quarrels or rows amongst them, and saw none of that roughness and dissipation with which such gatherings are generally credited.
It is true there was no whisky there at all; all hands were by force teetotallers. Tea, strong and often, was drunk in gallons by every one.
We were impatient. The days passed very slowly with me and May, for we were longing to be off; but every one assured us that, even if we were then at Dawson, we should not be at all advanced, as we must wait there till the middle of June at least. No boat would yet start to descend the Yukon. Many who were said to know all about it declared it was often July before one could get away with safety.
But on the 1st of June we determined to wait no longer; and, after much discussion, we stowed our gold and what furs and gear we wished to bring home in our boat, which we had recaulked and repaired, and, accompanied by Frank and Coney, we embarked.
It was with mingled feelings we did so. Undoubtedly we were glad enough to be really on our way to England. But to leave the Bains was not pleasant: we regarded them, and they still are, amongst our truest and best of friends. Besides them, there were several other good fellows to whom we had become attached. Naturally, all were down to the water's edge to see the last of us, and to give us good wishes for our journey; nearly every man of them from the old country gave us letters and messages for their friends at home. We had a big bundle of the former, which we were pledged to deliver personally.
We brought Patch with us. May would not hear of parting with the dear dog until it was absolutely necessary.
We started at daybreak. The current was swift, and the river was clear of ice; but along its margin much was still piled up, besides logs and rubbish. By noon the water had risen considerably, and was floating this stuff off, making it unsafe to travel; so on a sort of knoll or island in the stream we camped.
At night, in the mountains, and at the heads of streams, frost holds sway, then the flow of water is arrested. But when the sun's heat melts the snow and ice up there, the body of water is increased and the current accelerated.
We met several parties coming up the river—very hard work they had. The rush had begun already there. On the fourth day we reached the Yukon and Dawson City.
As we neared the main river we had still more evidence of the rush. A very different state of things existed to that when we came up, and we met large numbers pushing up the Klondyke. We passed numerous camps, and heard from some of them wonderful accounts of what was being done up the tributaries of that river.
The topic was gold, naturally; but we also heard much about "grub," which appeared to be with many quite as important a subject. There was a scarcity of it, all declared, and there would be until the St Michael's boats arrived.
Small heed was paid to us: a few remarks were made about May, wonder was expressed at her being up there; but all were so absorbed in their own affairs that they took little interest in us, which was precisely what we preferred.
Dawson was all alive too. The river front was still encumbered with ice, but we were assured that it was dissolving rapidly. In places men were building boats or repairing them, in others they were stowing outfits into them: there were no idlers.
We landed just below the last shanty, and camped. Then Coney and I marched into the town. I was anxious to discover the store where I had found that nice Englishwoman when I went there before to buy the canoe. I had planned to speak to her about obtaining decent quarters for May.
I soon found the place, and had little difficulty; for after I had told this lady a portion of my darling's history and a few of her adventures, she begged me to bring her in and let her see her, any way. This I did at once; and they had hardly met before I was informed that May was to stop there until the boat sailed, which, we had ascertained, would be a week from the day we arrived.
Reports from down river, from Cudahy, had been received in some way, and were favourable.
There was only one steamboat at Dawson preparing to go down; very few were going in her. The captain was anxious to make a rapid passage, as he knew there were crowds of people at St Michael's, ready to pay big prices to get up. This just suited us, and I quickly secured our berths.
The Government official at Dawson—some called him governor, some colonel, others inspector, or commissioner—we found to be an exceedingly affable and kindly gentleman. Although he appeared to be overwhelmed with work, he gave me and Frank and Coney an hour of his time, during which he put all the business connected with our claims in order, and advised us what to do about the gold we had with us. Thus in two days after we got to Dawson City everything was settled, and we only had to pass the time as best we could until our noble ship should begin her journey out.
We had brought a canoe down with us for my companions to return in, as it would have been impossible for them to get our heavy boat up against that powerful current. We sold her to a party who had just come in from Lake Teslin: they had been camped there all winter. We obtained 150 dollars for her!
May being comfortably placed at the store with a very kind and hospitable hostess, we three men did Dawson—that is, we visited various stores, and examined their stocks and prices. There were plenty of fancy things—queer ornaments, toys, and such-like—which one wondered should have been brought up, whilst of real necessities there did not appear to be a very great supply. The prices were enormous: we made very few purchases. We looked in at some of the saloons, saw what was called "life," and, being disgusted with it, concluded that up on the mines was far better for comfort and for pocket.
On the third day Frank and Coney, having had quite enough of it, started up the Klondyke for home. They took Patch with them: we could not take him down with us, and to have brought him home to England would really have been cruel—he would soon have died here. It was grievous saying farewell to that true and trusty friend.
Our parting with all of them was quite affecting. With these three, dog and men, was severed all connection with the horrors we had both experienced on the Klondyke and the Stewart.
With tear-dimmed eyes dear May turned her face from the Yukon, rushed down to the sea, and murmured—
"Now a new life begins for you and me, Bertie, my friend; but oh! how impatient I am to be off to England and my mother! How slow everything moves—everything but that great river!"
"A new life indeed," I responded, "and, please God, a happy one." And I wondered if part of hers would be passed with me. I wondered, and I hoped, and longed to ask her what she thought about it.
Dawson City was at that time merely a couple of strings of rough shacks and shanties, interspersed with all manner of tents and temporary shelters. One row of buildings ran parallel with the Yukon, and was called Front Street; the other, some distance behind, had no name then. All this part was on a low alluvial flat, said to hold gold enough to pay for working. The so-called streets were mere lines of rubbish-heaps and bog-holes. It was bad enough then; later, in the great heat of summer, pestilence would be sure to come, all said, for there was no attempt at sanitary arrangements. There were several large stores. Some had substantial warehouses attached to them: here everything was supposed to be supplied. All were of wood, naturally; some had iron roofs, some canvas, and some were covered with turf.
Every other building was a saloon, a restaurant, or a hotel. These latter had the grandest, gaudiest names. There was the Métropole and Grand, the Queen's, the Victoria, the Rossin House, and the Windsor.
The others, especially the saloons, were very fancifully christened. There was the Nugget, Woodbine, Mascotte, the Holborn Restaurant, the Elephant and Castle, and Delmonico's!
All were of logs, or sods, or slabs; many were built of old meat-tins, covered with sacking or even tarred paper!
There were a few women about. Many of these places were "run" by women. The less said about many of them who were famous then the better.
Naturally everything for sale was fearfully expensive, and gold-dust was the only currency. Every one carried gold about in a little buckskin bag called a sack: you see it sounded big to speak of a "sack of gold." On making a purchase, one handed one's sack to the storekeeper; he weighed out the amount, on the basis, then, of $17 per ounce. It was considered "bad form"—rather mean—to watch him too closely. What were a few grains of gold in those flush, glorious times?
Fortunately, we did not need to make many purchases. Our clothing was rough enough, truly, and terribly dilapidated, but every one was in the same condition: to have dressed better would have made us remarkable, and we desired to avoid notice. We could replenish our wardrobes in Victoria.
The headquarters of the mounted police in Dawson were very complete and substantial log buildings. They were kept in such perfect order that they were an amazing contrast to the rest of the town. The good old British flag flew over them constantly, too.
Having arranged with the captain of the steamer that I could occupy my cabin on board after my friends had left, I found myself in clover. I took my meals ashore, as I had discovered a decent place where a fairly good meal could be had—fair, that is, for the Klondyke—for one dollar. It was usually a plate of pork and beans, with a piece of pie made of dried apples or peaches, washed down with a basin of what was called coffee. Sometimes salmon was to be had, and once I struck bear meat, and once stewed cariboo venison.
I saw May every day. We rarely went out together. There was really nothing she cared to see, and as all the roads and trails about this frontier town were simply impassable with mud, and slush, and knee-deep water-holes, there was no pleasure in a walk. Another reason was that women—ladies—being so rare there, her appearance on the street was the cause of some excitement: people would waylay us simply, I knew, to gaze with admiration on her sweet face. May disliked this so much, and of course I did, therefore she hardly went outside her quarters during the week we were in the town.
With the help of Frank and Coney I had carried our gold on board the boat, and had stowed it amongst our furs and blankets. By the advice of the commissioner I had informed the captain about it—he knew him to be a trusty fellow. We had kept the actual amount of it secret, which he and many others were anxious enough to know. The result of this was, of course, that we were credited with possessing as many millions as we had thousands: that mattered little, for if we had had nothing, every one would have reported us to be a mass of coarse gold and nuggets.
Robberies of anything but food, and those very seldom, were never heard of. All seemed to have perfect confidence in the honesty of the crowd. We Britishers and Canadians believed that it was in consequence of the presence of the splendid body of mounted police. No doubt they had much to do with it, but the Canadians are a law-abiding people, and the bulk of the foreigners had evidently great respect and confidence in the British flag and British law. The diggers, however, would have risen to a man to repel and punish any one found pilfering or gold-stealing. A species of lynch law had prevailed in that region for years, and the effect on the whole had made for good.
It was on the twelfth day of June that the steam whistle howled at daybreak, and our boat's bell clanged ceaselessly for an hour—how they do love noise over there!—and I brought May and her bundles on board.
The entire population of Dawson City came to the water's edge to see us off, and yell their good wishes to us.
Then as the red sun arose across the yellow river, the stern-wheel began to beat the turbid stream, the ropes were cast off, and we were away.
May and I were at last started for England and home!