A Woman who went to Alaska Part 2

An hour afterward the drunken officials had been coaxed into going ash.o.r.e; the furnace in the engine room was crammed with wood; the partially sobered pilot resumed his place at the wheel; the captain had pulled himself together as best he could under the threats of the lawyer from Seattle, and the steamer moved away from the bank, going with the current swiftly towards Dawson. Nothing of further importance occurred until next morning when our steamer pulled up alongside the dock at Dawson. It was Monday morning, the thirtieth of July, 1899, and the weather was beautifully clear. I had been fourteen days coming from Seattle. Hundreds of people waited upon the dock to see us land, and to get a glimpse of a new lot of "Chechakos," as all newcomers are called.

Soon after landing I met upon the street an old Seattle friend of my parents, who knew me instantly and directed me to my father. This man's kind offer to look up my baggage was accepted, and I trudged down through the town towards the Klond.y.k.e River, where my father and brother lived. I had no difficulty in finding father, and after the first surprise and our luncheon were over we proceeded to find my brother at his work. His astonishment was as great as my father's, and I cannot truthfully state that either of them were overcome with joy at seeing me in Dawson. At any other time or place they undoubtedly would have been delighted, but they were too well acquainted with conditions to wish another member of their family there in what was probably then the largest and roughest mining camp in the world. The situation that presented itself was this. Instead of finding my relatives comfortably settled in a large and commodious log cabin of their own on the banks of the Klond.y.k.e River, as they had written they were, I found them in the act of moving all their belongings into a big covered scow or barge drawn close to the river bank and securely fastened. Cooking utensils, boxes, bags of provisions consisting of flour, beans and meal, as well as canned goods of every description, along with firewood and numerous other things, were dumped in one big heap upon the banks of the Klond.y.k.e River near the barge.

The small sheet iron box with door and lid, called a Yukon stove, had been set up close in one corner of the living room, which in size was about eight by ten feet. Two bunks, one above the other in the opposite corner, had been lately constructed by father, who at the moment of my arrival was busy s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g a small drop leaf to the wall to be used as a dining table when supported by a couple of rather uncertain adjustable legs underneath.

The meaning of all this commotion was not long to find. Father and brother had, along with many more as peaceable and law-abiding citizens, been ordered out of their log cabins, built at a great out-lay of time, money and strength, so that their homes should be pulled down in accordance with an order given by the Governor. This land, as the city had grown, had increased in value and was coveted by those high in authority. No redress was made the settlers, no money was paid them, nothing for them but insulting commands and black looks from the Canadian police enforcing the order of the governor.

"Never again," said my father repeatedly, "will I build or own a home in the Klond.y.k.e. This scow will shelter me until I make what money I want, and then good-bye to such a country and its oppressive officials."

Other men cursed and swore, and mutterings of a serious nature were heard; but there was nothing to be done, and the row of comfortable, completed log cabins was torn down, and we settled ourselves elsewhere by degrees. A bunk with calico curtains hung around it was made for me, and I was const.i.tuted cook of the camp. Then such a scouring of tins, kettles and pails as I had! Shelves were nailed in place for all such utensils, and a spot was found for almost everything, after which the struggle was begun to keep these things in their places. Then I baked and boiled and stewed and patched and mended, between times writing in my note book, sending letters to friends or taking kodak pictures.

I was now living in a new world! Nothing like the town of Dawson had I ever seen. Crooked, rough and dirty streets; rude, narrow board walks or none at all; dog-teams hauling all manner of loads on small carts, and donkeys or "burros" bowing beneath great loads of supplies starting out on the trail for the gold mines.

"Don't do that!" shouted a man to me one day, as I attempted to "snap-shot" his pack train of twenty horses and mules as they pa.s.sed us.

Two of the animals had grown tired and attempted to lie down, thus causing the flour sacks with which they were loaded to burst open and the flour to fly in clouds around them. "Don't do that," he entreated, "for we are having too much trouble!"

Some of the drivers were las.h.i.+ng the mules to make them rise, and this spread a panic through most of the train, so that one horse, evidently new to the business and not of a serious turn of mind, ran swiftly away, kicking up his heels in the dust behind him. There were also hams and sides of bacon dangling in greasy yellow covers over the backs of the pack animals, along with "grub" boxes and bags of canned goods of every description. Pick axes, shovels, gold pans and Yukon stoves with bundles of stove pipe tied together with ropes, rolls of blankets, bedding, rubber boots, canvas tents, ad infinitum.

There was one method used by "packers," as the drivers of these pack trains were called, which worked well in some instances. If the animals of his train were all sober and given to honestly doing their work, then the halter or rope around the neck of a mule could be tied to the tail of the one preceding him, and so on again until they were all really hitched together tandem. But woe unto the poor brute who was followed by a balky fellow or a s.h.i.+rk! The consequences were, at times, under certain circ.u.mstances, almost too serious to be recounted in this story, at least this can be said of the emphatic language used by the packers in such predicament.

One warm, bright day soon after my arrival in Dawson, and when order had been brought out of chaos in the scow--our home--I went to call upon an old friend, formerly of Seattle. Carrie N. was three or four years younger than myself, had been a nurse for a time after the death of her husband, but grew tired of that work, and decided in the winter of 1897 and 1898 to go into the Klond.y.k.e. A party of forty men and women going to Dawson was made up in Seattle, and she joined them. For weeks they were busily engaged in making their preparations. Living near me, as she did at the time, I was often with Carrie N. and was much interested in her movements and accompanied her to the Alaska steamer the day she sailed. It was the little s.h.i.+p "Alki" upon which she went away, and it was crowded with pa.s.sengers and loaded heavily with freight for the trip to Dyea, as Skagway and the dreaded White Pa.s.s had been voted out of the plans of the Seattle party of forty.

[Ill.u.s.tration: GOING TO DAWSON IN WINTER.]

Now in Dawson I called upon Carrie N. eighteen months later, and heard her tell the story of her trip to the Klond.y.k.e. They had landed, she said, at Dyea from the "Alki" with their many tons of provisions and supplies, all of which had to be dumped upon the beach where no dock or wharf had ever been constructed. Here with dog-teams and sleds, a few horses and men "packers," their supplies were hauled up the mountain as far as "Sheep Camp," some ten miles up the mountain side. It was early springtime and the snow lay deep upon the mountains and in the gorges, which, in the vicinity of Chilkoot Pa.s.s at the summit of the mountain are frightfully high and precipitous.

The weather was not cold, and the moving of this large party of forty persons with their entire outfit was progressing as favorably as could be expected. A camp had been made at Dyea as the base of operations; another was made at Sheep Camp. At each place the women of the party did the cooking in tents while men gathered wood, built fires, and brought water. Other men worked steadily at the hauling, and most of their supplies had already been transported to the upper camp; when there occurred a tragedy so frightful as to make itself a part of never-to-be-forgotten Alaskan history.

It was on Sunday, and a snow storm was raging, but the weather was warm.

Hundreds of people thronged the trails both going up and coming down the mountain in their effort to quickly transport their outfits over to the other side, and thus make the best possible time in reaching the gold fields. Here a difference of opinion arose among the people of our Seattle party, for some, more daring than the others, wished to push on over the summit regardless of the storm; while the more cautious ones demurred and held back, thinking it the part of discretion to wait for better weather. A few venturesome ones kept to their purpose and started on ahead, promising to meet the laggards at Lake Bennett with boats of their own making in which to journey down the river and lakes to Dawson.

Their promises were never fulfilled.

While they, in company with hundreds of others as venturesome, trudged heavily up the narrow trail, a roar as of an earthquake suddenly sounded their death-knell. Swiftly down the mountain side above them tore the terrible avalanche, a monster formation of ice, snow and rock, the latter loosened and ground off the face of old Chilkoot by the rus.h.i.+ng force of the moving snowslide urged on by a mighty wind. In an instant's time a hundred men and women were brushed, like flies from a ceiling, off the face of the mountain into their death below, leaving a s.p.a.ce cleared of all to the bare earth where only a few seconds before had stood the patient toilers on the trail.

Only one thing remained for the living to do, and that was to drop all else and rescue, if possible, the dying and engulfed ones. This they did. When the wind had died away the snow in the air cleared, and hundreds of men threw themselves into the rescue work. Many were injured but lived. Some were buried in snow but found their way to light again.

One man was entirely covered except one arm which he used energetically to inform those above him of his whereabouts. He was taken out unharmed, and lived to welcome the writer of this to Dawson, where he carted and delivered her trunk faithfully.

But Carrie N. had remained at Sheep Camp and was safe. Then her experience in nursing stood her in good stead; and while men brought the dead to camp, she, with others, for hours performed the services which made the bodies ready for burial. It was a heart-rending undertaking and required a cool head and steady hand, both of which Carrie N. possessed.

Two men of her party thus lost their lives, and it was not until days afterward that the last of the poor unfortunates were found. Nearly one hundred lives were lost in this terrible disaster, but there were undoubtedly those whose bodies were never found, and whose death still remains a mystery.

CHAPTER IV.

THE RUSH.

Since the discovery of gold by George Carmack on Bonanza Creek in September, 1896, the growth of this country has been phenomenal, more especially so to the one who has visited and is familiar with Dawson and the Klond.y.k.e mining section.

As to the entire yield of gold from the Klond.y.k.e Creeks, none can say except approximately; for the ten per cent. royalty imposed by the Canadian government has always met a phase of human nature which prompts to concealment and dishonesty, so that a truthful estimate cannot be made.

The Canadian Dominion government is very oppressive. Mining laws are very arbitrary and strictly enforced. A person wis.h.i.+ng to prospect for gold must first procure a miner's license, paying ten dollars for it. If anything is discovered, and he wishes to locate a claim, he visits the recorder's office, states his business, and is told to call again. In the meantime, men are sent to examine the locality and if anything of value is found, the man wis.h.i.+ng to record the claim is told that it is already located. The officials seize it. The man has no way of ascertaining if the land was properly located, and so has no redress. If the claim is thought to be poor, he can locate it by the payment of a fifteen dollar fee.

One half of all mining land is reserved for the crown, a quarter or more is gobbled by corrupt officials, and a meagre share left for the daring miners who, by braving hards.h.i.+p and death, develop the mines and open up the country.

"Any one going into the country has no right to cut wood for any purpose, or to kill any game or catch any fish, without a license for which a fee of ten dollars must be paid. With such a license it is unlawful to sell a stick of wood for any purpose, or a pound of fish or game." The law is strictly enforced. To do anything, one must have a special permit, and for every such permit he must pay roundly.

The story is told of a miner in a hospital who was about to die. He requested that the Governor be sent for. Being asked what he wanted with the Governor, he replied: "I haven't any permit, and if I should undertake to die without a permit, I should get myself arrested."

It is a well-known fact that many claims on Eldorado, Hunker and Bonanza Creeks have turned out hundreds of thousands of dollars. One pan of gravel on Eldorado Creek yielded $2100. Frank Dinsmore on Bonanza Creek took out ninety pounds of solid gold or $24,480 in a single day. On Aleck McDonald's claim on Eldorado, one man shoveled in $20,000 in twelve hours. McDonald, in two years, dug from the frozen ground $2,207,893. Charley Anderson, on Eldorado, panned out $700 in three hours. T. S. Lippy is said to have paid the Canadian government $65,000 in royalties for the year 1898 and Clarence Berry about the same.

On Skuk.u.m Gulch $30,000 were taken from two boxes of dirt. Frank Phiscator of Michigan, after a few months' work, brought home $100,000 in gold, selling one-third of his claim interests for $1,333,000, or at the rate of $5,000,000 for the whole.

When a man is compelled to pay one thousand dollars out of every ten thousand he digs from the ground, he will boast little of large "clean-ups"; and for this reason it is hard to estimate the real amount of gold extracted from the Klond.y.k.e mines.

Captain James Kennedy, an old pioneer and conservative mining man, estimates the output for the season of 1899 as $25,000,000, or fifty tons of dust and nuggets.

The most commendable thing about the Canadian Government is their strict enforcement of order. Stealing is an almost unheard of thing, and petty thieving does not exist. Mounted police in their brown uniforms and soldiers in their red coats are everywhere seen in and around Dawson, and they practice methods, which, to the uninitiated, make them very nearly omnipresent.

While walking down street in Dawson one morning about nine o'clock, I pa.s.sed a group of men all wearing sober faces. "They're done for now,"

said a rough miner, glancing in the direction of the Barracks, where a black flag was fluttering at the top of a staff.

"How so?" asked another, just come up to the group.

"Three men hung over there, an hour ago. They're goin' to bury 'em now,"

and the speaker twitched his thumbs first toward the Barracks, then farther east, where a rough stretch of ground lay unused. Here could be seen policemen and soldiers, evidently in the midst of some performance not on their daily routine.

A number of prisoners wearing the regulation garb of convicts,--pantaloons of heavy mackinaw, one leg of yellow and the other of black,--were carrying long, rough boxes, while others were digging shallow graves.

Upon inquiry I found that what the miner had said was true. Three prisoners, two of them Indian murderers, with another man notoriously bad, had indeed been hung about eight o'clock that morning in the barracks courtyard. In less than two hours afterward they were interred, and in as many days they were forgotten.

By the middle of July, 1899, the steamers leaving Dawson on their way down the Yukon to St. Michael and the new gold fields at Nome, were well filled with those who were anxious to try their luck in Uncle Sam's territory where they can breathe, dig, fish, hunt, or die without buying a license.

By August the steamers coming from St. Michael brought such glowing accounts of the Nome gold fields, that while few people came in, they carried as many out as they could accommodate.

By September the rush down the Yukon was tremendous, and of the twelve thousand people in Dawson many hundreds left for Nome.

When, after six weeks spent in curiously studying conditions and things,--not to say people,--in the great mining camp, it was decided that I should accompany my brother down the Yukon to Cape Nome, and so "out" home to San Francisco, I felt a very distinct sense of disappointment. The novelty of everything, the excitement which came each day in some form or other, was as agreeable as the beautiful summer weather with the long, quiet evenings only settling into darkness at midnight.

In September came the frosts. Men living in tents moved their little Yukon stoves inside, and brought fresh sawdust and shavings from the mills for their beds. Others packed their few possessions into small boats, hauled down their tents, whistled to their dogs, and rolling up their sleeves, pulled laboriously up the swift little Klond.y.k.e to their winter "lays" in the mines.

Hundreds were also leaving for the outside. Steamers, both large and small, going to White Horse and Bennett, carried those who had joyfully packed their bags and smilingly said good-bye; for they were going home to the "States." How we strained our eyes from our cabin window or from the higher bank above, to see the people on the decks of the out-going boats. How the name of each tug and even freight-carrier became a familiar household word, and how many were the conjectures as to whether "she" would get through to White Horse Rapids in the low water before a freeze-up!

[Ill.u.s.tration: A KLONd.y.k.e CLAIM.]

One day our own steamer came. She was a magnificently equipped river boat called the "Hannah," belonging to the Alaska Commercial Company, and had cost one hundred thousand dollars. This was to be her last trip for the season, and with us it was "home now, or here all winter," and we made ready to leave. My kodak had been emptied and filled again, calls on acquaintances made, and good-byes said. My battered and broken trunk, which, at the hands of the English customs officials had suffered much, had now to be repaired and put to a good long test. This box was in a state of total collapse; rollers all gone, covering torn and bent, screws and nails lost, sides split, bottom entirely dropped out, but it must go; so my big brother was wheedled into putting it into some kind of shape again, and it came out stronger than before.