It wasn't long, once the scow was made water-tight, before we had it reloaded and were on our way again. After we passed the mouth of the Hootalinqua (Indian for "Home of the Moose") we had very little work to do. The river was so straight, broad, and full that our pilot simply kept mid-stream and had no trouble. Shooting Five Finger Rapids was exciting but not specially dangerous at high water if you knew the right channel. We swept through into smooth water in fine style. The men for'ard were soaked with spray but they soon dried out in the plentiful sunshine pouring down on us from a cloudless sky.
Before noon on the third day we came in sight of the white-scarred mountain-dome at the foot of which, unseen by us yet, was the famous Mecca of Gold-hunters, Dawson City. In an hour or two we were floating round the cliff in bad water where the Klondike river rushes into the Yukon. A few minutes of hard work to keep our course and not be carried away over to the far shore and then we were through and everyone was pulling to edge in close to the right bank where our journey was to end. Now we could lift our heads and pause to look ashore and see this mushroom city of cabins and tents, and the outlines of the hills and valleys behind it where fortunes were hidden for the lucky ones. At last we found a place to tie up about four scows out from land. There were dozens of scows and hundreds of boats and rafts of every shape and sort, and the whole place, waterfront and streets, stores and cabins, swarming with men night and day. We got in about noon, had our dinner and then wandered about in the crowds sight-seeing.
After supper we started to unload and worked all night at it. About midnight we knocked off for an hour, had a bite to eat, and then went over by the invitation of the owner of the cargo, a Dawson man, to have drink at one of the many waterfront saloons. I was young, inexperienced, and didn't want to go at all but "the bunch" wouldn't leave me behind. So I went. We all lined up at the bar and were asked in turn what we'd have. It was "whisky" all down the line till it came to my turn and I confess to a strong desire to be "one of the boys" and say the same. It was, I think, a "toss-up" what my decision would be, but somehow I managed to say in a timid, apologetic voice, "lemonade!" I had an idea that they would jeer at me, for my order had to my ears, in those circumstances, a very effeminate sound. I was surprised to hear one or two others after me follow my lead and I didn't feel so much "out of it."
Six months afterwards I received a letter from a fellow I'd got chummy with on the scows. His name was Dolan. He was young and fair-haired and I remember we nick-named him "The Yellow Kid." He had gone on down to Mastodon Gulch and had struck fair pay there. I quote from his letter, which I still have after these twenty years. "Some rich pay has been found here and the usual camp has sprung up with road-houses and 'red-lights'. All night it surely is 'hell let loose'. I've cut out the 'hootch'. It was getting me at White Horse. Your call for lemonade at Dawson that night we landed showed me that a fellow can be in with the boys and yet not drink." This sounds to some of you perhaps a little "fishy," or like a conventional Sunday School yarn. But, honest, that is just as it happened and Dolan hadn't the faintest resemblance to a "sissy." It simply showed me that the laws of influence work on the frontier the same as elsewhere and that a man doesn't need to haul down the flag of self-respect or principle to get into the right kind of good fellowship. I needed just that lesson to put backbone into me for the days of fierce temptation that were immediately before me.
We went back and finished our job as longshoremen, lined up for our fifteen dollars and parted with handshakes and sincere good wishes all round. I hunted up Dr. Grant's cabin and there got a right royal welcome. We breakfasted together and then I rolled in to one of his bunks for a sleep and heard nothing more until I was roused for dinner.
III.
A Klondike Christmas Dinner
All Canadian soldiers who got to France will remember what we called "the hospital" at St. Pierre in front of Lens. This "hospital" wasn't a hospital as we understand the word. It had been a pretentious Roman Catholic children's school. Now it was a massive ruin, a great heap of bricks, mortar, splintered beams and broken tiling, with parts of the stout walls here and there left standing. It became the customary battalion headquarters on that section of the Lens front. It was only 300 yards away from No Man's Land and so was convenient as a centre for directing operations. In the ruins a cellar-door had been discovered by which entrance was obtained to a vaulted brick tunnel running underground the whole length of the building crossed by another at right angles. Further exploration had found three small rooms above on the ground floor that could be used. They were covered by such a depth of rubble that they were practically secure from ordinary shell-fire. The O.C. and officers took up their quarters in these rooms while the men attached occupied the tunnels. It was dry there and warm, altho, dark and too low to permit one to stand erect. This last was of little importance for our usual attitude when off duty was a recumbent one! Altogether it was one of the most comfortable "forward" headquarters I have ever been in.
It happened that on Christmas Day, 1917 the 43rd and 116th were holding the line on the 9th Brigade front. The 116th had established its orderly-room in a cellar under a ruined brick house not far from the hospital. I chanced to drop in about noon. They made me stay for Christmas Dinner. The hospitality and good fellowship were perfect. The dinner was a feast. We had soup, roast turkey with all the fixings, vegetables, pie and pudding, tea and cake. We were crowded closely but there was room to work our "sword-arms." The turkey had been roasted and the whole dinner prepared in a corner of the cellar-stairs by one of the men. How he managed to serve such a delicious hot dinner is beyond me. These men that did the cooking in the line for the different groups of officers were most of them simply miracle-workers. They were continually doing impossible things with army rations, shaping up appetising and varied meals cooked under heart-breaking and back-breaking conditions on primus-stove or brazier in a three-foot corner of dug-out or pill-box. They did it regularly, kept their dishes clean, and their tempers sweet. I salute them.
After dinner officers and men all crowded in as well as they could, we sang a Christmas hymn and lifted our hearts in prayer to God. Then I read the story of the birth of Jesus. As I read the familiar words in those strange surroundings memories were stirred, and I think we were all picturing scenes in the land across the sea. Other days and the faces of loved ones came before us and we were back home again and it was Christmas time in dear old Canada. I gave a simple message in few words and then left. I spent the afternoon tramping around the trenches seeing all the men I could to give them Christmas greetings. The exercise was also almost a necessary preparation for our own headquarters officers' dinner at six. There we had two roast chickens and everything good to go with them, all cooked in his best style by our "chef," Pte. Buchanan.