Oh, the blessed sound! a friendly human voice—a Scotsman's voice!
"Nay," I answered; "I don't know where we're from exactly—up river somewhere: we've had a pretty hard time of it. What place is this?"
"This place," the kindly voice made answer; "indeed, we canna give it a name—it's just the banks o' the Klondyke river. But ye'll be prospecting, eh? Have ye had luck? We've had a wee bittie. But come—come in bye; ye'll be gled o' something hot, nae doot, and the mistress 'll soon get the kettle on the boil."
"Mistress! is there a woman here, then? Oh, that is grand! This lady here will be so glad of that," is about what I said.
"Ay, indeed, is there a woman! But who'd have thocht that one o' ye was ane," he laughed; and then shouted, "Hi, Maggie, lass, see here—here's a lady till ye;" but addressing us he went on, "But she isna fit tae' come out into this cold. Come ben the hoose; we'll soon mak' a' richt." With that he led us to the shanty, saying as he did so to the other men, "Let loose the dog, and see the others keep frae it. We'll hae to take these freends in, and see to them a while, nae doot."
We were delighted with all this friendliness. We entered the shanty; it seemed a palace to us. The door was thickly curtained inside; there was a rough wooden floor, an immense fire roaring in the chimney, a table, chairs, and standing expectant amongst them was a youngish, nice-looking woman, beaming with good-nature.
"Did I hear ye cry there was a lady here?" she asked the man. "But which ane is it?" she went on, looking from May to me. "Ye're baith sae rolled and smoothered up wi' claes and skins I canna tell."
Indeed it was no wonder the good soul was perplexed, for we were dressed pretty much alike, if dressing could be called the furs and blankets in which we were enveloped.
May's skirt of serge, reaching to her knees, was so torn and ragged, very much as my frieze wrapper was, which I think reached nearer to my ankles than hers did to hers. I wore a cap with ears, and round my neck some fox-skins were muffled. She had a hood, a capote, a part of her outer garment: it was then drawn so closely round her face that nothing but her sweet eyes were visible. We had taken off our snow goggles as we entered.
As our hostess spoke, we drew off our fur gauntlets; this gave her the clue. I suppose she knew at once by the hands which was the woman of us, for she immediately took May by the shoulder, crying, "Ay! come you in here, I'll tend ye; and Tam," to her husband, "you see till him. I'll no be lang awa'."
Then I threw off my wrappings and overalls, drew up to the fire, and gazed around me. I noted that I was in a good-sized shanty, rough, certainly, but it was light, for it had a large window by the side of the door, and there were pots and pans and crockery about, clean and brilliant, and to my unaccustomed eyes all looked luxuriant.
Our host was busily making up the fire, adjusting the tea-kettle, fetching in buckets of snow which he emptied into a huge iron pot hanging in the chimney, muttering as he did so, "She'll be wantin' water to wash her, my certie—for neither o' them looks to hae seen soap for a wee while."
I heard him and smiled. "You're right," said I; "it is some months since we saw soap, and weeks since we could wash even our hands properly—this is an awfully dirty country."
"Eh! but it is, man," he forcibly replied; "but I wonder at ye, takin 'a wife wi' ye prospectin'. Ye're tenderfeet, I daur wager—so are we for that maitter—but I wouldna tak' my wife into such wark, nay, nay. It's bad eneuch for her to stop here in this wee hoose, but to tak' a woman rampagin' through these woods and mountains is no' richt."
He spoke so vehemently, almost angrily, that I could not stop him, but when he halted for breath, "Hold on! Hold on!" I cried; "that is not my wife, nor have I taken her out prospecting. Hers is a sad strange story, so is mine. I found her away back. I'll tell you all about it by-and-by. I can only tell you this now, that Miss Bell—that's her name—Mary Bell—I must take to Dawson and to England as soon as possible. Can you help us?—will you?"
As I spoke my host gazed at me, amazed. "To Dawson! and hame to England! Noo?—the noo?" he cried. "Is the man daft? Gude sakes! d'ye no' ken that it's just impossible to win awa' frae here the noo? It's too late, or too airly, at this time."
"If money can induce you to aid us—we have some with us, and we'll pay you almost anything you like to get us to Dawson at least," said I; but before I was half through the sentence I knew I had made a mistake.
"It's gold, I suppose you mean," the man exclaimed,—rather angrily, I thought. "Gold! well, we've got a wee bit oorsels here, and a tidy claim up this burn. We'll hae a decent pickle washed out before long; sae, ye ken, we're no' in need o' yer gold. If ye'd said grub, now, that would been o' far mair value, but gold or grub it's a' one, ye'll no get awa' frae here, my man, till the water opens in June."
"Grub!" I cried; "we've got a bit in our sled outside there, and up stream there's quite a heap of it yet: if that's all that's needed, you'll find that right."
"Man, I'm glad to hear it, for grub's mair valuable than gold in these parts the noo; but I say again, grub or gold, you'll no' get off to Dawson for a wee!"
"But why can't we get on?" I demanded. "We've got here; why can't we get farther? My companion is just as good as a man; what I can stand, she can, I believe."
"Man, man, I wonner at ye!" he exclaimed, with lifted hands and eyes. "D'ye no ken that the river is breaking up fast at this present moment?—half a mile below here it's a' under water; in a wee while it'll be just a grindin' mass o' ice and slush, no breathin' thing can live in it, the strongest boat that's built 'd be groon to powther in a meenute—and there's nae trail beside the stream. In the deep o' winter it's a' richt—ye can pull yer sleds along the ice well eneuch; and in summer, when the water's open, ye can get along fine; but just the noo! nay, it's no' possible."
"This is bad hearing," I said; "I don't know what Miss Bell will think. We did so reckon of being able to reach Dawson, to be in time for the first boat going down the Yukon: when will that be? D'ye know, sir?"
"Dawson! Dawson! what for d'ye want to take your lady freend to Dawson? D'ye no understan' that it's no' place for decent folk at a'—let alane a woman. But be easy, man, ye're weel aff here, and ye'll get awa' doon to Dawson lang before the first boat gangs doon, for ye ken the ice breaks up in these small streams lang before it does in the big river. I doot if there'll be a boat leave Dawson till the end o' June, and some say the middle o' the month o' July! Be easy then, and bide a wee; ye're well aff here, and if ye'll let us hae the grub ye spoke o' the noo, ye'll be far better aff, ay, very far better than in Dawson waitin'. But let's see what the mistress and the young leddy says."
Just then the mistress came in to us for hot water. As she lifted a tin of it from the pot she said to me, "Maister Singleton, yer freend in bye has tell't me o' some o' yer doings and what ye want to do. Just bide a wee while; we'll tak' time to settle a'. Ye're a' richt here; and as for me, I'm pleased eneuch and thankful tae to hae sae braw a lassie's company, I warrant ye."
"Ay, ay," said Tam, her husband; "that's what I'm sayin'. Bide a wee."
Patch was at the door, howling for admission. Said my host, "Well hae him in, the mistress 'll no' mind," for I had told him a little about the dog, and the good fellow bounded to me and was happy.
When May returned how changed she was! Soap and water, comb and brush, a few simple feminine touches, a fresh handkerchief round her neck, and behold a figure that fairly dazzled me.
As for me, I gazed at my hands and dress with shame and horror. Mr Bain, as I found his name was, saw my discomfiture. "Come awa' ben, then!" he laughingly exclaimed; "we'll tak' some hot watter inby, and see what we can mak' o' you, my freend!"
Part of the shanty was divided off by a screen of blankets, behind it was their sleeping-place, and here I obtained what I needed very sadly—a wash. The sorting of my locks, though, as Bain called it, was a business: they hung down to my shoulders, and a comb had not been through them for many days. Bain lent me a change of clothes, and I returned to the living-room shortly, to be struck still more at my love's sweet looks, my darling's loving presence. Quite a spread of good things was on the table. We had of late lived well, thanks to my stores, but we were hungry now, and our hostess heaped our plates—earthenware plates, how nice they felt—with all the good things she had. There did not seem to be much lack either.
We were joined now by two other men, decent fellows. One was a Scotchman, Bain's brother; the other a Canadian from Peterborough, Ontario.
After this, as we sat around the fire smoking, I told our story. I did not say much about the gold; I admitted that we had got some, but made light of the quantity. May here and there put in a word or two of explanation when I came to her entry on the scene, and was not silent, though I tried to make her so, in praise of me.
It was late, quite late, when I had finished. May was to have a bed by the fire; I was to accompany the two young fellows to their shanty and turn in with them. "And, d'ye mind," said Mr Bain, as we parted, "ye'll no be turnin' oot sae verra early the morn's morning. Yon lassie 'll tak a lang rest, ye ken, sae sleep sae lang's ye're able, Mr Singleton, and sae gude nicht."
Patch accompanied me to my quarters, and thereafter made them his.
"Hae ye ony gold on yer sledge ootby, Mr Singleton?" asked Bain, next morning; "because, if ye hae," he continued, "I'm thinkin' ye'd better bring it ben the hoose. My brither, here, and the other fellow's a' richt; but ye ken there's a wheen queer characters here aboot, and there's nae tellin'."
"What! are there more people near?" I asked, surprised, for I had not noticed other habitations; but I went on, replying to his question about the gold, and told him that we had some, about fifty pounds' weight of it, but that May had it with her in her pack.
"Ech!" he exclaimed; "I thocht it was a heavy kin' o' bundle when I carried it in till her yestreen. But, man, fifty pounds' wecht! why, that's worth more than twa thoosan' punds. Ye have been on to't rich; we've no got to that here yet. (I wondered what he would say if he knew all.) Ye're askin' are there mony people hereaboot; indeed, then, there's a good number on the creek—there's twenty camps and more—maybe fifty men o' a' kinds workin' on their claims; mostly decent folk eneuch—mony like oorsels, frae the auld country; but there's a wheen suspicious bodies. But come awa' in; the lassie's a' richt, and we'll hae oor parritch."
May was lovely; she and Mrs Bain were evidently the best of friends already, but she was so greatly changed in appearance that I hardly dared to address her familiarly. I don't know that I thought her any prettier; my admiration of her beauty had been so intense whilst she was alone with me in rags and squalor, that it could not be very much increased; but I certainly now regarded her with some awe, and it was with difficulty I called her May.
I, too, no doubt, was presenting an improved appearance. Soap is indeed a great civiliser, and Sandy Bain had shorn off some of my rough thatch that morning, and May looked at me, smiled, and called out, "Why, what have you been doing, Bertie? you are looking different!"
"Not so much changed as you are, May," I replied with a laugh. "You look just splendid."
She blushed as she said, "Well, come, come to breakfast."
We sat long over our food, talking and planning.
We made out that Bain, his wife, and the other two came up to Dawson by way of St Michael's. They had lived a while previously in Ontario, farming. They reached Dawson early in the season; their idea being for Mr and Mrs Bain to start storekeeping there, whilst the other two were to work at mining, for they had heard that gold was being found in Alaska, and although the rush had not set in, they had somehow learned that large finds were very probable, and they had planned to be amongst the first to profit by the expected excitement. But a few weeks in that queer town satisfied them that they were not suited for that business or life, and when Bain's brother, Sandy, and the Canadian, Frank Fuller, who had been up the river looking into the mining, returned in August, reporting that they had found and secured a claim which they believed would pay, and described the life up there as much quieter and easier than in Dawson, they all determined to go and live together on this claim, and so came up in boats, bringing a good outfit with them, and some furniture.
They built a couple of shanties apart from the other miners, rigged themselves up in some degree of comfort, and here they were, doing pretty well, they believed, but anxious for the waters to open, so that they could wash their heap of pay-dirt and know exactly what it was worth.
These were very good people, May and I were sure,—quite trustworthy, and of the friendliest description; their welcome had been so extremely warm, and we were indeed thankful that our first encounter with our fellows had been so fortunate.
Mrs Bain was evidently delighted to have a companion of her own sex: she told us that, hard as the life was, her greatest trouble had been that she had no woman near her, and she said things which showed us that she was quite sure we had come to stay.
Perceiving this to be the case, I knew I had better explain. "But we must be moving on, my friend and I," I began. "We are indeed grateful for your kind welcome, but we must get on to Dawson, then to England—we must, indeed. I know all that you have said, Bain—I believe that you are correct; still we cannot stay on here. We must get on to Dawson; surely there's a hotel, or boarding-house, or something of the kind there, where we can stay till the river opens."
They held up their hands in amazement. "Why, what kin' o' daft folk are ye? Hoot, toot!" cried Bain; "gae doon to Dawson! gae hame to England! it's just no' possible, as I've already tell't ye, Mr Singleton. It's no' possible for a man to do it; and for a bairn like you," turning to May, who certainly just then did not look much like battling through that wilderness, "it'd be clear shuicide—that's what it would be. Nay, nay; ye'll just bide here wi' us till the waters open."
"But, Mr Bain," quoth May, "I must get home to my mother. I am strong and able; surely, surely we can move on."
"It's impossible; no possible, my lassie," he answered her. "No; you'll just hae to bide here, as I say, whether ye're willin' or no', until ye can gae doon stream in boats."
"And when will that be?" she asked, and I replied, for I had heard all about it before from Bain, and was pretty sure that he was right. "It will not be till the end of May, perhaps not till June," I told her. "Indeed, I hear that often the Yukon is not open to traffic till the middle of July."
"What a country! what an awful country!" exclaimed May, distressfully. She looked to me for corroboration of what had been stated, or to contradict it, but I could only say I feared that our friends were right. I added, "However, our intention was to go down to Dawson and wait for a boat to leave. From all we hear we are far better off with these good friends than we should be there, and as they assure us we can easily get down long before a boat can possibly navigate the Yukon, I really think we must rest content—nay," I went on, "more than content; thankful for the good quarters we have come to. The only thing is, how can we thus inconvenience these friends? We must come to some arrangement about paying them at least, or else you and I, May, really will start on and camp beside the river for the few weeks that we must pass up here. What d'ye think?"
The dear girl looked at me, sadly dismayed; but our host and hostess declared that I was right, and wise in all that I had said—as to "pay," however, that was a business question which we would now discuss. Mrs Bain would not hear of any discomfort or trouble being caused by May—she should stay with her as her guest and friend, she declared; and Bain said he was more than agreeable. "But, my woman," said he to his wife; "it's no' want o' wull, it's just want o' means, ye ken. We can buy naething here—there's just food enough to last you and me and Sandy and Frank till we expect the river will open. How can we promise to feed these freends? It's just that, and only that, which fashes me."
Here I could simplify matters. "See here," said I; "on our sled is food enough for we two for several weeks, and up at our dug-out, that I've told you of, we have quite a food-supply, enough for a dozen people for several months. I will make an effort and go up there and fetch a load of it. Will that do?"
"Do? why, of course it will," they replied; "fine that. In a couple of weeks or so the upper waters will be free from ice, then twa o' ye can gang up quite easy and bring your boat down, laden. So, it's a' settled. You, Miss Bell, will stay in this hoose wi' me and my wifie here; and you, Mr Singleton, will chum up wi' Frank and Sandy; but, of coorse, oor meals will a' be thegither eaten here."
Thus it was arranged; and after the day's discussion—for we took all day coming to this decision—May and I, having a moment's privacy, satisfied each other that it was wisely settled.
Of course I was not idle. I went to work next day with the men. The diggings were about a quarter of a mile from Bain's shanties, on a little creek running into the Klondyke. From a couple of hundred yards above the junction, claims were pegged out for half a mile or more, and tents and rough cabins were set up along its margin. It was not thickly timbered there, and what trees there were they were cutting down for mining purposes and fuel. It was very quiet, as most of the miners were working underground, and had shelters over their shafts and windlasses—so little was visible.
Heaps of gravel were being piled upon each claim, but it would not be till summer, when they were washing, that any real excitement would be seen. Most of these heaps were reported to be very rich.
The Bains' claim was some distance up the creek. They had traced the pay-streak in from a bar on it. They had not sunk a shaft, but were removing the entire alluvium down to bed rock. They had four feet of pay-dirt, and only about the same quantity of moss, muck, and gravel from the surface down to it.
They worked in the usual way through the solidly frozen ground, with fires. I, being well used to axe-work, went in for cutting the fuel for the purpose.
The claim-owners were paying as much as ten dollars a-day, gladly, to any one who would work for them. There were very few who would do so for wages, though; so, as I did not reckon to take any pay from our friends, I felt that May and I were not under so great obligation to them. Moreover, the stores we had brought, and the supply we possessed up-stream, was of the utmost value.
It was a comfortable life we passed now—at least it seemed so to me after my experience; and May assured me that she was not dissatisfied—except, naturally, at the delay in getting homewards. But as that certainly could not be helped, we were both making ourselves contented.
I met May at every meal, and passed the evenings in her company, but never alone. Mrs Bain never went outside the shanty. But occasionally, rarely, when it was what we called fine, May muffled up and came out, when she and I were able to compare notes, and plan.
One very great perplexity we had, was about our gold cached up the creek. As yet we had only admitted to our friends that we had the fifty pounds' weight of it. We had spoken of our claims, certainly, and had said how sure we were that they would pay; but they had no idea of their richness.
May and I talked whenever we had a chance together about this matter: she was all for telling these new friends and getting their advice. She was certain that they were perfectly true and trusty. So was I, and yet I advised caution. We could not easily decide.
Mrs Bain was about eight-and-twenty,—a well-read, clever Scotswoman, and very religious. She had in Scotland considerable lung trouble. Ontario had helped her, and now, strange as it may appear, in the intense cold and dreariness of this Yukon country she had lost all signs of weakness, and considered herself a strong woman. Still, her husband objected to her putting her head outside the place. "My woman," he was often saying, "you see to a' things ben the hoose; we'll see that ye get all ye want—wood, and snow for watter and a' things; and noo that ye hae this bonnie lassie for company, ye'll do fine."
The weather was quite calm for two weeks after we arrived—cold, of course, except at midday for an hour or so. But we could see signs of spring coming. The snow was packing; there were bare patches on the hills and on the creek; the slush beneath the upper layer of snow was deeper and softer. I had the curiosity to go out on to the Klondyke, and I found it very much worse than when May and I were on it. In places the ice was burst up, and I realised that it would have been impossible for us to move along it if we had been unwise enough to start. We would surely have had to camp somewhere on the way, and live in misery, perhaps many miles from any help. We were very far better off than that.
A couple of miles up the Klondyke the ice was at this time broken up, and by the strong current was being piled up on the bars and banks. Every day made a change, and we saw that we could soon bring our boat down as was planned. Therefore the time had arrived when we must make our journey up to my place, and so it became absolutely necessary that we two should settle what should be done about the gold.
I fortunately got May outside, and had a talk with her about it. "Shall I leave it where it is?" I asked, "and trust all will be well; or shall I try to bring some down secretly?"
She was all for telling the truth to the Bains and Frank, and bespeaking their help. I was as certain as she was of their honesty and integrity, but I knew what a fascination gold has, and I thought it just possible that the knowledge of our riches might affect them, and cause them to do something unpleasant, and complicate affairs in some way. But May would not hear of this. "No, no!" she exclaimed; "they are good, true people. I say tell them all, and get their help."
We talked this over for some time, and the result was that when we were gathered round the fire that evening, I made a clean breast of it. I told them what Meade and I had found, and what May and her father had, and that, besides the stock of food which I had told about, there was this immense quantity of gold, and that the fifty pounds we had with us then was merely a sample of it.
Our story staggered them, especially our coming away and leaving it unprotected. We had, May and I, to go over again and again the history of our find, and the statement of the actual quantity we had obtained. We were obliged to explain about the lay of the gravel in which we had found it, and to give all the information we could about the likelihood of there being more about both places.
As to this latter point we assured them that we believed the whole district was very rich. We told them what we had discovered even inside my dug-out, and before we separated that night they all became so excited that I foolishly began to dread they would do something troublesome.
Such is the effect of gold. I suppose nothing else could have made me suspicious of such worthy people.
The following morning there was more discussion and more enthusiasm. In the end it was settled that Sandy, Frank, and I should go up, taking two sleds, with Patch and their two dogs, who were trained, to help in hauling them. As they knew the Canadian mining laws quite thoroughly, which we did not, they would help me to mark out our claim properly, then they would stake out one for themselves—for, as Bain said, "The moment it is known in Dawson what you have found up there, there'll be such a crowd o' folk rush up that it'll be better to hae freends alongside ye than strangers."
This being quite true, we were well pleased.
We also arranged to go on up to May's claim, and mark that out properly too. We laid some other plans, which will be explained later on.
The trail up the Klondyke,—which May and I had not used when we came down, because I fancied it was a bear-path,—it appeared, was the way by which all the miners went up the river in winter. It led up to the head, where for years a little mining had been going on. During the time we had been at Bain's several parties had come down it. Their reports had not been very favourable. I had questioned some of them closely, being anxious to discover if any of them had gone up what I called Meade's Creek; but so far as I could make out, no one had. They described some tracks they saw going up at one place though, which seemed to me to be ours, and they rather jeered at the idea of any one having been foolish enough to go there prospecting, as they declared, as all did then, that no gold, to pay grub even, was to be had, except clear up at the head of the main Thronda stream. How little they knew; and how differently they talk about it now!
We were off at once. The trail we found fairly good up to where our boat was cached. Hereabouts the ice was disappearing from the stream. We saw we could easily get her out and afloat, which was satisfactory. We camped there that night.
Turning up Meade's Creek in the morning, it was all but free of ice; we found the way very bad beside it. The snow was gone in some places, but having light loads, we pushed on slowly but surely.
We were, however, very much disgusted to notice the tracks of others having gone up rather recently. Had they followed May's and mine, we wondered? Had they come to our claim, and found our stores and gold? I was quite anxious, as you may guess.
Two persons had gone up: one wore moccasins, and drew a sled; the other wore boots—we saw the heel marks.
This brought to my mind instantly the two May and I had seen when we were coming down. I was sure they were the same men's tracks.
Sandy knew them, too. He said they were all right, and decent fellows—the moccasins were worn by an old miner he called White-eyed Williams, and the boots by an Englishman who had come up during winter, who foolishly, he thought, stuck to knee-high boots. His name, he said, was Coney.
Coney! why, that was the name, I remembered, of the young fellow who had showed us some attention, Meade and me, when we arrived at Skagway. I wondered if it could be the same.
We hurried on excitedly, full of anxiety, for if they had discovered we had found gold there rich, there was no telling what they might be doing.
With our light loads we got on very much faster than May and I did, in spite of the horrid state of the trail—half slushy snow, half morass; frozen every night, thawing every day.
On the fourth evening out, when we were camped a few miles only below our old den, as darkness fell we perceived a fire burning in the distance. On investigation we found it to be two men halted on their way down. Sandy hailed them. It was White-eyed Williams and Coney.
I at once recognised the latter; he did not remember me, or our former meeting.
We sat by their huge fire beside their one little tent, smoking and comparing notes. They informed us that they had tried here and there for many miles up the main river, as they called the Klondyke, and had had no luck. They had seen a trail (my trail and May's) coming down this creek as they passed the mouth of it on their outward journey. They supposed it was just a couple like themselves who had been prospecting, and were returning disgusted. But on their own way back, unsuccessful, when they noticed the traces again, they followed them up, just for curiosity, to ascertain what their makers had been doing up there.
This was intensely interesting to me, you may be sure.
Said Coney, "Not far up from here—we left this afternoon—we came to a dug-out; near it was the mouth of a big drive, a regular tunnel. A lot of work had been done there. The owners had only lately left—we made that out; and there was a notice stuck on the door of the shack, who it belonged to. We did not force our way into the crib, nor did we try their pile of pay-dirt, nor enter their tunnel, of course; but you bet we tried some stuff from the bankside along the creek, and, my word for it, friends, these fellows have hit on it good! White-eye and I washed out a few pans only—see, here's some of it," and he showed a handful of shining bits. "Then we marked out a claim, and are hurrying down to register it, and if you men are wise you'll do the same to-morrow, for, depend upon it, it is very rich along the creek up there."
I could hardly keep silent, I was in such an excited state on hearing this story. Sandy was staring at me, and Frank asked, "What were the names of the owners of this claim, then, which were stuck on the door?"
"It was Herbert Singleton and Percy Meade," said Coney.
"Well, I'm Herbert Singleton," I exclaimed; "it's my claim where you have been. We're on our way there now to bring away some grub, and to see that all is right."
"Well met!" Coney cried. "Well met! Now we shall hear all about it. We know it's all right up there, but tell us all about it. Honour bright, we'll keep it all as dark as possible."
So what could I do but admit that I had a good claim there. I was as reticent as I could be, though. I thanked them for not having disturbed anything, and begged them for their own sake and ours to say as little about the place as might be, either on the creek where the Bains were, or at Dawson, when they reached it. This they promised willingly enough.
We stopped with these fellows quite a time, talking things over, and arranging plans. We sent a message back to the Bains by them. I pencilled a few lines to May, and we left them full of jubilation.
When we were alone we did nothing but congratulate one another upon the good fortune of our secret being discovered by two men whom my companions were quite sure were honest fellows, though up to that time they had been unlucky in finding gold.
Coney, I perceived, was a well-bred Englishman; in conversation he had mentioned names and places at home which assured me he was that. But that country, like every out-of-the-way corner of the globe, holds many such, many reliable enough and honourable, but also many just "ne'er-do-weels," and failures of all sorts, who have become blacklegs and gamblers. It is never wise to trust any man, certainly not a fellow-countryman, until you know.
However, this one had said a few things which made me think well of him, so I did not regret that above our claim, where they had marked theirs out, we might hope to have decent neighbours; whilst below it, where, no doubt, Frank and Sandy Bain would stake out theirs, we should have friends.
We three were off by daybreak the following morning, soon reached our destination, and found all right and untouched by man or beast. The balance of the day we were occupied in examining the surroundings, pegging the claim out properly, testing the gravel about, and deciding just where my friends should take their claim. We passed the night in the dreary den where Meade and I had spent those terrible days, and where May and I had sojourned so long.
Little had I dreamed of ever returning to it again. Surely I had not imagined it possible to be there again so soon.
Having told my friends about Meade's death, and May's father's, and where I had deposited their bodies, we proceeded, first thing next morning, to carry out our plan. It was to dig a grave on a knoll near by and bury them decently therein.
To dig this grave it was necessary to proceed exactly as we did in mining. We lit a huge fire, when we had chosen the place, and left Frank to attend to it, whilst Sandy and I went up to May's claim, as we had all got to call it.
We arrived there late that evening. We only took our sleeping-bags and a bit of food with us; Patch hauled them on a sled. The good old dog knew the road well. I have not mentioned him lately—he was still May's pet and mine, as he was every one's.
Early next morning we marked out this claim, properly too, the size we knew six people were entitled to. We rectified the notices on the shanty door also, and, making no delay, hurried back to Frank.
We found that he had managed to get a grave sunk deep enough during our absence, and the following morning we reverently disinterred the bodies of my friends, took them up the hill, and laid them side by side in it. By May's desire I read the proper service from her own prayer-book, with which she had entrusted me for the purpose.
We covered them in, raised a cairn of heavy rocks and boulders over them, and on the summit erected, very securely, a big wooden cross that we had fashioned for the purpose down at Bain's, and had brought up with us. On it we had carved the names and so forth of those who were interred there.
There, surely, it will remain and be respected for many a day. Although, no doubt, all the ground about there will be turned up by miners, they will not disturb the spot made sacred by that grave.
That night we opened our cache, and took our gold from its hiding-place. My companions only then appeared able to comprehend that all was true that May and I had told them. How they gloated over it! How they marvelled at it! As for me, I was more and more thankful at our good fortune. For now I felt confident that if God spared our lives, we should get all safely out, and I had it impressed upon me more and more that May would learn to love me, and I was looking forward with hope, with confidence, to the time when she and I, in England, would enjoy it all together.
I have said little about the state of my mind on this subject. All I need say now is, that the more I saw of her, the more I loved her. My thoughts were ceaselessly of her, waking or sleeping. I longed eagerly for the time when I could tell her of my heart's desire, and beg from her one word of hope.
There had been no opportunity of late for private conferences, for love-making. Many a time I yearned to tell her all, for now that she had others about her, I felt I could with honour speak to her. It was quite different when we were living and journeying alone: then I felt constrained to be silent. Yet now that I felt free to tell all, there was no opportunity.
In that bitter climate, when we happened to be out together, it was as much as we could manage to discuss pure business affairs; to talk to her of love would have been impossible, and sadly out of place. Yet in spite of all these difficulties, now and again, I know, a word or look escaped me, against my will perhaps, which showed the dear girl what I was thinking of; whilst the words of warmest friendship and looks of love she gave me frequently, led me to believe that when the right time came I should win her. I was impatient, but very happy at the bright prospect before me.
With our two sleds heavily laden with gold and stores we hurried down. Well, we could not hurry much, for the trail was terrible; the snow was nearly all gone. In places it was all that we three and the dogs could do to move one sled. Once we had to unpack and portage. It took us three days' hard work to get down to our boat, but then we gladly saw that we could do the rest of the journey in her. And so we did, getting down stream in capital time, bringing her and her lading safely to the beach in front of Bain's shanty early one morning before they were out of bed.
I need not say we had a glorious welcome. I need not stay to tell all we did and said. My darling was the first to grasp my hand and joyfully greet me. Fain would I have clasped her to my heart and told her then and there how much I loved her, and how I yearned for the time to come when we should be in deed and in truth all the world to one another.
It was an exciting time. We spent all that day stowing away the gold safely, explaining about our journey, about the claims Sandy and Frank had marked. White-eyed Williams and Coney came in to supper; we turned out some of our eatables and had a glorious time.
And before we separated, Bain said he thought it would be very nice and proper if we were to render thanks to where we all knew thanks were due for all the mercies and good fortune that had been vouchsafed to us. So, having read an appropriate chapter or two from the good old Book, he prayed a prayer of praise and gratitude, and we all felt the better for this simple service.
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!