Читать книгу A Claim on Klondyke - Edward Roper - Страница 4

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During the winter of 1895–96, I was staying at Bella Rocca, a boarding-house in Victoria, Vancouver Island, British Columbia. I had come to that charming city, on that beautiful island, to discover, if possible, an opening for the investment of my modest capital in a manner which would give me a more congenial way of making a livelihood than I had found in Eastern Canada, where I had resided for some few years.

When I first arrived in the Dominion, I settled in the backwoods of Ontario. Later, I had passed some years on the prairies, and later still, I had spent some time in the Rocky Mountains, the Selkirks, and on the Fraser river.

I had led a life of toil, I was well up in bush work and ways, but I did not like the life; so, having saved a little money, and having heard so much of the Pacific coast, I came to Victoria, as I have said.

At Bella Rocca a man was staying with whom I became very friendly: he was an Englishman, about my age, and had many tastes congenial to me. He was idle, appeared to have plenty of money, and seemingly had no wish to do any work or business.

He was my frequent companion in my walks around Victoria: there being few idle people there, and I having much time unoccupied, this friendship was mutually agreeable.

I was puzzled for a while about him. He was very reticent about himself—I could not even tell if he had been long in Canada, although occasionally a few words fell from him which made me believe he knew it well.

It was towards March; I had found nothing to suit me; I had often told this friend what I was looking for, and had been quite open about my past, my present desires, and my experience in the country, when one day, as he and I were sitting on Beacon Hill, enjoying the soft spring weather, gazing with delight at the glorious Olympic range across the Straits of San Juan de Fuca, "Ah!" said my companion—his name was Percy Meade—"ah! it's not long now before I'll be outside there," and he pointed north to Cape Flattery and the Pacific Ocean.

"You are going across, then—to China or Australia?" I asked.

"Neither," replied he, with a smile; "I am going north by the first ship that sails."

"North!" I remarked. I was not greatly interested. "Well, I've never had the wish to go up the coast. What is to be done up there?"

He did not reply at once; but after a bit said he, "I wonder you have never tried gold-mining in this country; don't you think it's worth considering?"

I replied that I had heard so much about it in the mountains, and had read about the old days on the Fraser and the Cariboo, that I believed it to be a poor business, and supposed that every ounce of gold found cost two in labour and expense, and said many things that most men do who have not taken the gold-fever.

Meade said little more that day, but shortly after he asked me what I would do if I were told of a spot, by some one I could trust, where gold existed in large quantities, where any one who had the courage to go could pick it up, or at any rate obtain it, with comparatively little labour.

I replied that, no doubt, if such a chance were offered me I should accept it—that I was as keen to make a pile as any one. "Only," I added, laughing, "I doubt if there are such places left, and still more that if any person knew of one he would tell me."

Meade was silent for some time, then, "Look here," he said, very seriously, "we've been together a few months; I can see the sort of fellow you are; you know what rough life is, I'm sure you can stand it better than most; so now, listen—I know of such a place, and I'll tell you about it on condition, naturally, that you'll keep it to yourself."

I smiled. "How do you know?" I asked, "and why do you tell me?"

To this he answered slowly and earnestly, "I was up north all last season—on the Yukon. I found a place on our side that is full of gold; you would hardly believe it if you saw it, but it is so. It is on a creek up a river that joins the Yukon in British territory, about seventy-five miles from the boundary, not far from the ruins of Fort Reliance.

"I went from Seattle last spring up the coast round the Alaskan peninsula, into Behring Sea, and so to Fort St. Michael, where I landed. Then I proceeded up the Yukon in a stern-wheel steamer to a place they call Fort Cudahy, or the Forty Mile, in British territory. It was a terribly long journey—four thousand three hundred and fifty miles from here. It took eight weeks, and cost a big sum. There was a little mining going on up the river, but different from any I had seen, and I have been to Australia. I did not like the look of it. The diggers were scattered about, getting what they called flour-gold, and not so very much of that.

"The season during which washing can be done is very short—four months at most; but then it is broad daylight always, no night at all; men work ceaselessly—ay, and women too.

"I tried a little here and there, I 'prospected' about, and in time I got up the big river some long way indeed, until I came to a collection of shacks and shanties, with a store or two, that they call Dawson City. I was short of everything then but money, of which I still had a moderate supply; so I obtained some stores and a decent outfit, and after a few days of misery in the wretched place, I loaded all into a canoe which I bought, and pushed on, quite alone, up a river which joined the Yukon there. It was the THRON-DUICK—the Klondyke as it is called now. Paddling slowly up this stream, I landed frequently, seldom finding gold, and I always tried the soil as I went along. Occasionally I found the colour, once or twice enough to pay, I fancied, with good machinery. There was a fascination about this life. I believed that any moment some pan of gravel that I washed might be rich and give me all I wanted—a golden claim.

"I kept on thus until I must have been at least forty miles up this river. I passed several branches, for to me the main stream looked most promising, until I came to one, much narrower: it joined in with a rush and roar, and I liked the look of it. I landed, walked up it, and liked it so that I determined to ascend it if possible. I could not get my laden canoe up the steep water—I must therefore 'portage.' I set to work; I carried my stuff past the rapid. It was a tough job getting my canoe up, but by good luck I did. Then I went on again, trying here and there as usual.

"When I was too tired to keep on, I put up my little tent ashore and slept. When rested, on I went again.

"I had quite lost reckoning; I had no idea of the day of the week or month, but the sun indicated that the summer was going. It would not do to be caught up there as unprovided as I was. I thought I had come far enough, so, reluctantly, I made up my mind that I would after another day or two retrace my steps.

"That very day I found what I had looked for. I hit upon a bar on this creek, where gold was so thick that I was bewildered.

"I suppose you know how gold is washed? Well, I had no need to wash—I picked out of that heap of gravel in three days over seventy-five pounds' weight of it!"

"Seventy-five pounds of gold! Why, that was worth £3000!" I cried.

"Yes, quite that," said Meade; "but I got £2500 for it here, and have a decent little bag of nuggets still unsold. I'll show them to you at the bank some day if you like."

I smiled. I'm afraid I did not altogether believe him. I had an idea that he was romancing. "How did you get down and bring all that gold with you?" I asked, half laughing.

"It's too long a yarn to tell now," he replied. "I got back all right to Dawson in my canoe, sold it, and managed to keep my find secret. I fortunately procured a passage in the stern-wheeler, P. B. Weare, the last boat for St. Michael's that season. From there I easily got here, and no one knew that I had struck gold—no one does know it yet but the manager of the bank, and now you."

It was a most interesting story, certainly; I was glad to have heard it, but there was "no such luck for me," I observed, at which Meade laughed, but added, "See here, I've told you this because I want you to share with me this season! What d'ye say?"

"What?" I exclaimed, "and get gold like that? Oh! of course I'll go; but are you in earnest? why should you favour me thus?"

He declared solemnly that he meant it; he averred that he had taken to me, that he knew I was strong, healthy, a good fellow, and used to working in rough country, and as he was determined to go, and certainly would not do so again alone, he had made me his confidant and this offer in perfect good faith, and he ended thus, "Think it over, take time, keep what I've told you to yourself, but I hope you'll join me."

Later, he explained that we must leave Victoria soon, that we should come back at the end of September, and that he would be miserably surprised if we did not return with reasonable piles. "But we will not go the way I went," said he. "No, I met some men at Dawson who had come by a much shorter route—by the Lynn Canal and Skagway. We save thus nearly 3000 miles, and the trail is quite feasible. You've done some boating, some canoeing, I suppose?"

I said I had, both in England and Canada, which pleased him, and he assured me that we should do splendidly, and again he said he hoped I'd join him.

Naturally, I did think this over. I heard about his antecedents from the bank manager, found he was a member of a good old English family, and that he himself was of good repute. I heard from the same source that it was true about the gold he had brought down, I saw his bag of nuggets, and I liked him. I was looking for some employment, I counted the cost, and knowing that if, at the worst, I returned empty-handed, I should not even then be quite without funds, I consented to share with him in the adventure. He was to defray all expenses.

It was early in April that he and I started in a steamer bound for Sitka and other ports in Alaska. She came from Tacoma, in the State of Washington, and picked us up at Victoria on her way to the north.

Meade having all plans cut and dried, it did not take us long to lay in our stock of necessaries. We purchased provisions, tinned meats and vegetables, flour and bacon, with plenty of various preserved foods, enough to keep us going well for at least a year. We took ample supply of tobacco, with guns, ammunition, a sheet-iron Yukon stove, picks, shovels, washpans, and we did not forget our axes. All these goods were done up in parcels covered with waterproof canvas, each in weight suitable for "packing," that is for Indians to carry.

Leaving Victoria, we travelled up between Vancouver Island and the mainland to Naniamo. Here we took in coal, then headed up the coast.

How am I to describe to you this wonderful journey? Words fail me. From the very start it was delightful. True, we were at sea; but being amongst islands, we were so sheltered that it was like a placid river. We traversed the grandest scenery that can be imagined, the water clear and smooth as glass, with air as soft as velvet. We sighted Queen Charlotte's Islands, but voyaged through channels nearer the mainland, between grand timbered islets, past rocky bluffs and gorges, always in sight of mountains, many being snow-covered and glaciered. Then on between Prince of Wales' Island and the mainland, and so to Fort Wrangel, where we left the goodly steamer. We had come seven hundred miles in her, and had been four days on the way.

Wrangel was just a rough group of shanties, with some stores and many totem-poles, as most of the few inhabitants were Indians of the Stickeen tribe. The whites were traders, or miners and prospectors, en route to the Yukon country. Here we hired a canoe to carry us to Juneau. It was an immense one, beautifully fashioned out of one huge log of cedar—a dug-out—but in shape and seaworthiness most excellent. We engaged four Indians to man it. Most of the trip was made with paddles; but sometimes a square sail was hoisted on a pole forward. We camped each night upon the rocky shores.

It took three days to reach that town. It is the metropolis of Alaska, Sitka being the capital. But most of the business is done in Juneau. It is, naturally, a rough and ramshackle place, yet we found it possible to obtain fair accommodation at a queer hotel, and every article of provisions and gear needed in the upper country. It has a city hall and court-house, waterworks, banks, and electric light and wharves! We had to wait two days for one of the two small steamers which ply between Juneau and Skagway. The Rustler is the one we took, the fare then being only 10 dollars each—but we had to feed ourselves.

After leaving Juneau we steamed along a narrow strait between Douglas Island and the coast, and entered the famed Lynn Canal, which is an arm of the sea running almost due north. It averages ten miles in width, and is about one hundred in length, having very regular shores, straight and uniform; but for its dimensions, it might be taken indeed for an artificially made canal. On our left we skirted the great Davidson Glacier. The whole journey was grand, sublime, and in many places awful.

We arrived in Skagway Inlet on the second day. A few miles from the head of it we came to the Skagway river or creek, 120 miles from Juneau, and here, amongst a wilderness of trees, mountains, and mud flats, a mere foothold in the snow-clad granite coast-range, were a handful of Indian rancheries and a few log shanties and some tents. There is a great rise and fall in the tides at Skagway. We had to wait some time ere the one boat belonging to the Rustler could land us and our stuff on the rock-strewn muddy beach. No one from the shore lent a hand. There was a rough wharf, it is true, in course of construction. The men building it, we understood, had gone to their camp, for it was late when we arrived.

A number of Indians were about: their sole employment seemed to be to sit on stumps and logs, smoke and chew tobacco, and gaze stolidly at us. They were dressed just like the white men.

As for the few white men, they gathered round us, eyed us and our outfit, but said nothing. A more miserable, unhappy, low-spirited set of men I had never before come across.

Well, we were landed at Skagway, and questioned the inhabitants. It was not easy to obtain information. "Where is the trail to the White Pass? How could we get to it? What means of transport were there?" Those were the questions we made it plain that we desired to have answered.

One would have supposed that these people could have enlightened us; but no—their advice and information was so vague that we might have taken them for new arrivals, like ourselves. But that they were old hands was plain, for they argued amongst themselves, entered into long yarns about what this and that man had experienced, what Slim Jim thought, and Blear-eyed Scottie said—we could make nothing of them. Some advised us to go by canoe, which was chaff; and others declared that was ridiculous—by the trail was the only way. "What trail? Which is it?" we begged to be informed. "Oh! just up the river a piece," was all we could arrive at.

No doubt these men, regarding us as "tenderfeet," took pleasure, as usual, in mystifying us; and it was our policy not to undeceive them. I was the usual spokesman.

It must be quite clearly understood that the rush to the Klondyke had not begun then. It was known, undoubtedly, that there was much gold up country, and every white man there was after it, so that if it had been guessed that Meade had been up already, the fact of his returning with the ample outfit we possessed would have convinced them that he had been successful, and we should have been followed and our secret discovered.

It was ten o'clock at night then, but not really dark. We were perplexed. These loafers gradually dispersed, and only one man hung behind, who had been silent hitherto. When we were alone with him he became communicative. We knew, directly he spoke, that he was an Englishman of a better sort, and he recognised what we were.

Said he, "Let me advise you: get all your stuff piled up yonder; put up your tent and turn in; in the morning you'll find all easy. There's a man here who bosses everything—white folks and Indians; he's a Yankee, true enough, but a decent fellow; he keeps a sort of a boarding-house, and has a store; he's a fur-buyer, a trader, and a packer; he'll straighten things out for you."

Accordingly, in the morning, after we had fed, Indians and loafers gathered around again, and for a bit it looked as if the difficulty would continue; but shortly our English friend, who was working at the wharf building, and whose sobriquet, we found, was "Colney Hatch," usually shortened to "Coney" (he explained that he foolishly one day let it be known that that famous institution was near his home in England), well, this man came to us, and took us with him to Boss Parkinson's—the man he had mentioned.

We found the boss was certainly a "live" man: in five minutes he had cleared all up. He shook hands heartily, asked us if we had any money, where we proposed to go, with a few other questions.

Having satisfied him on these points, "Come on," said he; "guess we will soon fix things. Thar's but one way from here to Dawson City. You've got to have your gear packed to the Windy Arm, that's sure. It'll cost you 14 dollars for every hundred pounds. How much you got?"

We took him to our pile. He was surprised. "Land sakes!" he exclaimed. "Why, what'n tarnation! There ain't bin one party through yere yet fixed like you fellers; 'n say—guess you bin through before. No; wall some person's told you who has been—eh?"

We admitted we had had good advice. "Wall, so I jedge," he went on. "Why, darn me, if you hain't got every pack just right!" and he lifted one or two. "50 lb. each, I reck'n?"

We said that was so, and that each man could carry two; and as we had exactly 800 lb. of grub, and about 200 lb. weight of tent, blankets, and cooking gear and tools, we considered it would take just about twelve Indians to do what was required comfortably.

"Gee-rusalem!" cried our new acquaintance; "'n you're fixed to pay 140 dollars for this yere job?"

"Oh yes, we can," I replied; "but it seems these Indians around are idle—can't it be done for less?"

"Idle!—Great Scot!" he yelled with laughter. "Why, stranger, they're a restin'—you bet they need it. Hold on till you see the kind o' journey they've got to make—lor! and you too—you stop till you've felt fifty, 'n mebbe a hundred pounds o' pack on your backs, 'n then I guess you'll think them 140 dollars ain't so easy airned. These yere Si-washes ain't like them red fellers of the plains—nossir. These work, they do; m—m—I guess so. You pay me that 140 dollars, 'n I guess all will go slick."

A few dollars one way or the other were no particular consequence to us, and we thought it wiser to keep dark, so we agreed; at which the boss, calling to an Indian, took him aside.

Ten minutes after there was excitement in the camp. From listless, silent logs, the whole tribe woke up, and from that moment showed of what stuff they were made. We learnt from the boss what our route would be after reaching Lake Tagish. He told us about Miles Cañon and the White Horse Rapids, which he assured us were the only real difficulties we had to face. He advised us to hire an Indian to go with us who knew the way to the foot of the White Horse, anyway.

The Stick (Stickeen) Indians are an avaricious people, they are shrewd and tricky, a good match for whites at bargains, and will do anything for money, which they know the value of right well. They are fine strapping fellows, and are proud to tell you they are "aller same King George man"—i.e., Englishmen; but I believe they say to Yankees that they are "aller same Boston man," which means Americans. They are evidently pretty deep, have a great love for tobacco and all intoxicants, and every beverage that possesses a "tang." They are supposed to be diminishing in numbers rapidly—there were thought to be only about one thousand left of them then.

It was sixty-five miles from Skagway to the Windy Arm of Lake Tagish, we were told, and that if we averaged ten miles a-day we should do well.

Within an hour our march began—that is, our Indians loaded four canoes with our packs; then we paddled six miles up-stream, landed, and camped for the night.

Our men were cheery; some spoke the Chinook jargon—"the trade language of the Pacific coast,"—a few knew a little English. One who appeared to be their head man knew most, and he attached himself closely to us, cooked and helped us. It was our policy to appear "green," and this man, believing it was our first night in the bush, showed us how to manage. He called himself Jim Crow; this name had been given him by some facetious countryman of ours.

Starting at six the following morning, we soon understood what packing over the White Pass meant. There was a trail, sure enough; it consisted of a path winding through thick forest, up steep and rocky hills, some of them almost perpendicular; across swift running brooks, and beds of spongy moss—up to one's waist in places. There were clumps of coarse grass, thickets of brambles and the terrible devil's club thorn; so, before we had gone a couple of miles, we were satisfied that every cent we paid these Indian packers was well "airned" indeed.

For ourselves, it was all we could do to get on, carrying only our guns, and a small shoulder-bag with a little grub; whilst our boys plodded on, grunting but cheery, with their one hundred pounds apiece.

As we ascended gradually, we realised that it was becoming colder. We had not done three miles by noon when we came to snow. Jim Crow—Jim is what we called him of course—ordered a halt, and said they were well pleased—that it was probably snow in the pass; some of them would go ahead without burdens and investigate—if so, they would return for sledges, "sleds"; they were very happy at this prospect. Accordingly two men went on. We rested, boiled some tea, and ate. In a couple of hours they returned, and had a pow-wow, resulting in some of them starting back to Skagway, whilst our tent was erected, a huge camp-fire built, and we prepared to pass the night, as Jim told us it would be too late when they returned with sleds to push on. We were somewhat annoyed at what we thought delay, but he assured us this plan would shorten the journey greatly.

It was midnight when they returned. They brought five sleds. On these, next day—which was hot and the snow was melting—all our goods were lashed, and that evening, when the crust upon the snow was frozen, we were off.

Our route lay up a shelving mountain-side overlooking a deep cañon. Snow-capped ranges and many small glaciers were constantly in sight across the valley, and every depression, on our side, held a trickling rivulet, a roaring stream, or more frequently a morass, knee-deep in moss and sodden grasses. The snow was not deep, but it was soft and slushy—the travelling was terrible, yet in spite of all we made what Jim called "good time."

It was noon next day ere we reached the timber line, and all above this was open and rocky. The snow was heavier here; in the shade it was frozen solid; the sleds travelled over it easily. Meade and I had all we could do to keep up with them; indeed we had let them get some distance ahead at one time, and when we caught them they were camped beside a great rock with stunted trees about it, and Jim said that we were very near the summit.

We camped that night in considerable comfort—it was dry and cold, but having good blankets and plenty of fuel, Meade and I were cosy enough. Our Indians made shelters of sticks and brushwood and thin blankets, and built a huge fire. They played "poker"; their "chips" were beans.

An immense amount of snow falls on these coast ranges; luckily we had none during our crossing—neither did it rain, which was wonderful.

Now, as to this White Pass ever being made the highway to the Yukon, I must say a few words. The trail as it then existed was absolutely impracticable for horses—it was all that men could do to clamber up it, and we realised that with much traffic, even of human beings, it would quickly become impassable, and yet Meade and I felt confident that with comparatively little work and some engineering skill a road, and some day even a railroad, could be made across it. Most of the runs of water could be bridged easily, in the rough way which is the custom in the wilds. Many of the morasses, we could see, could be drained by a few gutters cut with a spade. There being such a slope it was easy to run water off, and where that was impossible log causeways—corduroys—could be built with no great trouble, for logs were plentiful for the cutting. It was possible to wind round most of the rocks, and a few pounds of dynamite or giant powder would quickly clear the impassable masses. Certainly when we crossed it was terrible enough; but yet we plainly saw that a good road, fairly easy to traverse by horses, even with loaded waggons, was certain ere long to exist there.

If it should be proved that gold was plentiful in the Yukon country—"Undoubtedly," we said, "before two years are past there will be a fine road here," and as to the gold—well, we had reason to be very sure about that.

From this camp the trail led up a narrow and precipitous defile until the actual summit was reached. We were then at least fifteen miles from Skagway, and near three thousand feet above tide-water.

From here there was a sheer descent of many feet to a lake—Summit Lake. It was frozen solid. The Indians assured us it was always frozen—that the snow never left its margin. At one point the ice overlapped the edge, forming a small glacier. A few yards below it was thawing. At some far distant day a great glacier had been there, for a cañon had been formed, and down it, beside the rushing stream of white water, our course lay. Mountains rose high around us, covered with ever-lasting snow.

Gradually the snow on our course disappeared and the sleds became useless, and Jim assured us that for the rest of the journey to Windy Arm packing must be resorted to. Therefore next morning the sleds were cached, and we started on our weary tramp.

Everything was frozen solid still, for it was not yet May. The travelling was exceedingly arduous—not that there were any mountains to traverse or swamps to push through; it was simply a rough rock-strewn country, sparsely covered with scraggy trees, mostly pines and spruces, with bushes which we thought were willows, and long coarse grass.

We had five days of this, and then we reached the Windy Arm, and the Indians' contract was completed. We had come about sixty-five miles from Skagway.

It was still winter here: there was no open water, the woods were full of snow, which had been long since driven by strong winds from the open; it was a bleak and dreary outlook. Around the lake most of the timber had been fired, gaunt grey sticks alone were standing, and the ground was covered with half-burned logs and branches. Of fuel there was no lack. We made camp in the only close clump of living trees about. We put our tent up securely, made ourselves comfortable, for we knew we must stay on there and by some means build a boat or raft, and wait for the ice to break up. Thus our object was gained in reaching that spot, and we were ready to avail ourselves instantly of the open water, and to pursue our journey.

The Indians had behaved so exceedingly well that I proposed, and Meade agreed, to give them each a dollar.

Through Jim we signified our intention: he made them clearly understand that this was "potlach"—that is, a present. It gave great satisfaction, and when we added a plug of tobacco to each man, there was rejoicing in the camp.

We had taken quite a liking to Jim. He was seemingly proud to be more noticed by us than the others. He was an exceedingly handy fellow, and so far as we could make out from his very peculiar English and Chinook, he knew all about the route we had to follow, and was an experienced boatman. He had "shot" the Grand Cañon twice, and knew the way to get past the White Horse Rapids. He was apparently about five-and-twenty, a tall, athletic fellow, and with us very bright and talkative, although with his fellows he was taciturn. Like them he was keen after money, yet did not appear to realise that we were going up to where we hoped it would be plentiful. It is difficult to understand an Indian's apathy on this matter—along the Fraser, at Cariboo, and even in Alaska, they will work at washing gold, and seem quite satisfied to make a dollar or two a-day; but to undertake any plan for making a big lot at once they have no notion. It is perhaps because the idea of accumulating anything is not an Indian's nature.

Meade formed the idea that it would be well to induce this fellow to go with us to Lake La Barge. With this intent we plied him with information about gold, assuring him that, if he went with us, he would get plenty, so that he could return to the coast a rich man. This prospect had no charms for him, yet he liked the idea of the trip, and said that if we would pay him "ikt dolla la sun"—that is, in plain English, one dollar a-day—he would go; but when he added that he must bring his klootchman, his wife, with him, I was taken aback. Meade, however, was in favour of it—he considered it would be an additional inducement for Jim to stay, that she would probably be useful, and no trouble to us.

He questioned the fellow closely as to her age, her abilities; and he made us understand that she was young, could cook and paddle well, speak English, and would "mamook elan wash pil chickamin," which meant that she would help wash for gold. Her name, he announced, was Fanny; and Meade confided to me that he had a particular liking for that name, so we were induced to enter into the arrangement.

About "muck a muck"—i.e., food—Jim said they would provide themselves; that he would go back to Skagway with the party and bring his wife out, and a load of all they needed, in six "la suns," six days. All that he stipulated for was that we should have nothing to do with Tagish Indians and that he should have "plenty 'bacca."

Of this we had a good supply; but thinking it would be no harm to have still more, we sent a little "chit" by him to Boss Parkinson, telling him how we had got on, and begging him to send out to us by Jim, if he discovered that they really meant to come with us, another dozen pounds of that fascinating weed.

The following day the band left us, and Meade and I were left alone in our glory.