he spring of 1901, unlike its immediate predecessor, did not bring forth general or even newspaper excitement about Nome and northwest Alaska, and the average observer of events, even in cities so closely in touch as San Francisco and Seattle, might have been warranted in concluding that the remarkable stories of gold in this latest El Dorado were but fairy tales, and that another bubble had burst. But this was very far from the truth. On the contrary, nearly as many vessels as the year before, and better ones, were scheduled to sail for Nome; more freight and horses were being shipped thither; and in the northward movement there was a confident and legitimate air which signified genuine belief in the country and ample capital to back it up.
The dreadful and discouraging reports spread during the preceding season by quickly-returned, faint-hearted fortune-hunters had served a useful purpose in very largely eliminating the riffraff and rabble which had, in great measure, contributed to make Nome in 1900 unsavory and unsafe. This year, as last, accommodations on the first sailings were purchased at a premium, or could not be had at all. Nearly every passenger had some tangible proposition in view, and, whether or not it proved successful, put himself on record as a firm believer in the wonderful hidden wealth of the country whither he was bound.
Sailing from San Francisco June 1, and stopping two days en route at Seattle, the St. Paul, after an uneventful and satisfactory voyage, on the 16th of the month halted on her long way at Unalaska. I was fortunate in sharing my narrow cabin accommodations with two good men—W——, a man of the world, with mining interests in Alaska and possessed of a lively sense of humor; the other, a very gentlemanly and well-educated "knight of the green table," who begged pardon whenever he had occasion to enter our common quarters. When I first visited the state-room, to appropriate, if possible, the best places for my belongings, a bouquet of fragrant sweet-peas thriving in the basin interrogated me as to whether I had not made a mistake. Later, W—— explained that one of his friends, in the bibulous enthusiasm of farewell amenities, on the way to the ship had purchased this beautiful but somewhat embarrassingly inappropriate gift, and had thrust it upon him. It soon adorned the saloon of the ship.
Of course, the St. Paul carried an assortment of curious and remarkable people—not so diversified a lot as inflicted the Lane a year ago; there was a much higher average of respectability. First of all, it was pleasant to know that members of the "nobility" were with us—it gave us a "tone," so to speak. They included a couple of very pronounced Englishmen, a Russian count, and a trio of Frenchmen, one of whom, an inoffensive little fellow, monocled and dressed to kill, was also a real live count. The combination lived in style and moderate hilarity in the owner's room, and were scheduled to investigate their large mining interests in Alaska. Then there was a great, strapping hulk of a man, who wore a beard, long black hair which curled down over his coat collar, and a benign smile; and who had a cheery word for every one—of the type Munyon. He was reported to be the president of a mining company also having "large interests in Alaska," but he was dubbed the "Divine Healer," and was cursed out generally. As a rule, it is a safe precaution to steer clear of individuals who talk about their "large mining interests in Alaska" or who are "representing capital in the East." A tall, spare man, who bore the marks of having been shot through the cheek, was pointed out to me as one of the veterans of Alaska, and the one who, in the palmy days of the Nome beach, with a simple hand-"rocker" and two assistants, in twelve hours' work had made the record, by taking from the ruby sands one hundred and twenty-seven ounces of gold, or something over a thousand dollars' worth. This I verified later. We had with us also "Blanche Lamonte," the actress, of Klondike fame, and several other "fairies" and minor stars who had decided to add luster to histrionic art at Nome. It was a series of "concerts" which brought out, as it were, the pièces de résistance. These delightful affairs—"to cheer us on our long voyage"—were due mainly to the efforts of a tall, angular woman with short gray hair, who hailed from New York, with a down-East twang, and who, representing some newspaper, wanted a little spice for her article. She possessed, it was said, some musical attainments, and had engineered a successful entertainment the year before in so critical a metropolis as Nome. At any rate, she was the self-appointed "ship's favorite," and she could manage to get a good deal of animation from a little box-organ. Though not a nightingale, this life of the ship would sing a few songs of her "own composition," and playfully insist that we "all join in the chorus"; and, on one occasion, apropos of nothing whatever, she announced that she was a mining broker and would be happy to market properties for the "boys."
I remember also two big, husky, good-looking miners, who used to interrogate me about getting up the streams to and above Council City. They had a grievance against their "disagreeable" cabin-mate. This was a Swedish missionary; and the complaint was made not because he was so "damned religious," but because he was unsociable—wouldn't enter into the spirit of things. For instance, when asked whether he was going to Nome, his only reply was that his ticket didn't read that way. Perhaps the missionary was canny in not allowing his room-mates too much leeway. And there were others.
As we approached the now familiar bold and bleak topography of Unalaska, it was apparent that the rumors of late ice in Bering Sea were well founded. The hills and slopes bore a good deal more snow than a year ago, and the atmosphere was more chill. There remained in the harbor but few vessels. The majority of the fleet had already forged into Bering Sea; but the Jeannie, a steam-whaler, specially fitted to "buck" the ice, was the only vessel known to have discharged its passengers and freight at Nome. This had been accomplished on the ice, during the latter part of May, two miles from the beach, the freight at great expense having been transferred ashore by dog-teams. We remained at Unalaska over Sunday, and that evening a goodly number of the ship's company attended song services at the Jesse Lee Home. This institution cares for and tries to make good men and women of the outcast and half-breed children who are gathered in from various Aleutian Islands. It is a good cause, well conducted. The poor little isolated waifs closed the exercises by singing "God be with You till We Meet Again," and it was a seriously appreciative crowd who listened and mentally echoed, "Amen."
Luck plays a very important part in getting through the ice-fields. The wind may take a sudden turn and so shift the ice as to leave an ample channel through which the ship, fog permitting, may safely pass on to its destination. But the St. Paul, setting out June 17 on the northward stretch, did not meet with these favorable conditions. She was soon literally "up against" the ice—not great towering bergs, but smaller ones fantastically shaped like floating islands, or swans, or whipped cream, for instance; very pretty to look at, but frequently only the frostings of large, slushy, and dangerous cakes that lurked beneath. Strange birds, somewhat smaller than penguins, sitting up stiffly and absurdly on their tails, marshaled themselves in military rows upon the ice, and occasionally a seal poked up its snaky and inquiring head from beneath the still waters. The sea was mirror-like. Sometimes, intensified by the fog and mist which hung about, the sun shone down hot, as the vessel crept slowly through the haze and maze of her uncanny surroundings. It was a strange, weird scene, recalling the "Rime of the Ancient Mariner," about the albatross, the fog, the mist, and the red-hot sun. Several times we lay to for half a day. There was now no night. On one occasion, when the ship slowly pushed into a cake of melting ice, the contact causing the red paint to gush to the surface, a bright Irishman in the steerage temporarily relieved the monotony by shouting out, "She bleeds at the nose."
And it was becoming very monotonous. It was then June 22, and with fair conditions we should have been at Nome two days earlier. Passengers became uneasy or disgusted, and many expressed themselves to the effect that our excellent captain didn't know his business,—that we were lost, and would likely have to remain thus a month more,—and they were for "butting right through" the ice anyhow. Some day there may be a great disaster in Bering Sea when an iron ship tries to force its way through the ice. There was a close call this season. Later in the day, however, icy and uninviting Nunivak Island appeared close at hand, some four hundred miles south of Nome, and we then knew where we were. Passing at half speed along it, at what seemed a safe distance, suddenly there was a bump, followed almost immediately by a reversal of the engines, a churning of mud and eighteen feet of water, and frantic efforts to get off a treacherous mud-flat. This seemed the last straw, but the quick action of our engineer saved the day and a very dismal prospect. It was near this same island that the Lane, our transport of last year, struck a reef on her way "down below" (Nome lingo for Washington, Oregon, or California) a month later. Her captain, imagining himself well out at sea, was booming along in the fog at full speed and with sails up, when the vessel struck with a mighty jar and became a total loss. The few passengers and the crew were all saved, as they needed only to step off upon the shore.
The St. Paul anchored that night in deeper water and a dense fog. During the night fog-horns were heard in the distance, and a series of exchanges followed in order that the approaching vessel might locate us. In the morning the Senator, a sister ship, loomed up out of the fog, not a hundred yards distant. The captains held a shouting conversation, and, instead of being a companion in misery, we learned that the Senator had already discharged passengers and freight at Nome, and was now on her way back for another load! So, indeed, had the entire fleet, with a few exceptions.