In Search of El Dorado Part 1

In Search of El Dorado.

by Alexander MacDonald.

Introduction

"Good wine needs no bush," but because a man does not always himself see the full scope of what he has written, an introduction may have its uses for author and readers alike. And to me--the adventure of whose own career has reached the inexorable _Finis_--these true stories of gold and gem seeking have an interest beyond the mere record of peril and achievement, though, in the words of Sir Philip Sidney, it "stirs the heart like a trumpet-blast" when brave men come to grips with dangers which (like the treasure-guarding dragons of fairy-tales) yield not only their h.o.a.rd, but their own strength, as reward to the conqueror.

And these are true romances--no fiction with its _Deus ex machina_ at the psychological moment, but the unadorned risks, escapes, and failures of adventurers on the quest of those strange commodities, seemingly haunted by death and fear, from their secrecy in the recesses of the earth till they s.h.i.+ne with a sinister light in the crowns of kings or make rough, for better handling, the sword-grips of warriors.

The quest of "El Dorado" begins with the history of man, and in pursuit of the glittering phantom have "many souls of heroes gone down into Hades," only that others might step into their empty places in the ranks. For whatever is found, always just beyond reach flits what is not found--what never will be, be it the golden city of Manoa, with its palace of the Inca, "all the vessels of whose house and kitchen are of gold, and in his wardrobe statues of gold which seemed giants, and ropes, budgets, chests and troughs of gold," or the mysterious jewels of the wisdom of Solomon, or the genie-guarded gems of the Arabian Nights.

The instinct of delight in this adventure which has dazzled the mind of man from time immemorial is universal: it is a relish of youth which persists into the old age of the world; it warms the coldest blood; and our author, who has himself followed the mirage and felt the fascination so keenly, is able to transmit the magic of the search to his readers.

Whether toiling over the Chilcoot Pa.s.s, hunger-pinched, and desperate with cold and exhaustion, or thirst-tormented in the burning deserts of Central Australia, the indomitable desire that drives him forward with his comrades, drives us also on this modern Odyssey, where the Siren sings on beaches of dead men's bones, and perils as terrible as any man-devouring Cyclops lie in wait for the wanderers.

The author, leaving his book to the verdict of the public, is once more an explorer in the Australian deserts, collecting who knows what strange experiences for future use, so I may, in his absence, characterise him as a born leader of men, a very prudent Odysseus; for what lesser qualities could have held together so strangely a.s.sorted a band as the rough-hewn Mac and Stewart and the gentleman adventurer Phil Morris?

Reticence is perhaps unavoidable, but one would willingly see and hear more of the central figure than his own modesty allows him to give us.

Yet, as I said before, it is not only the adventure which gives a charm to these studies of wild life. They are little epics of comrades.h.i.+p--impressions of men to whom gold and jewels are much, but to whom loyalty is the one thing better. It is good to see the yellow gleam in the was.h.i.+ngs, and the milky fire of the Australian opal is worth the perils endured, but there is also the abiding knowledge that quite other and less elusive treasures reward the quest--courage, endurance, and above all--"the manly love of comrades."

And to me--to whom some of these studies recall in keenest remembrance scenes which I shall never behold again with my living eyes--there is another point of view and one of wider interest. Such men, in working out their own destiny, are evolving also the imperial destiny of the Mother-Country. They break the path, and other feet follow. There is the march of an army behind them, for they are the vanguard of civilisation--the first spray of the tide that, however slowly it flows, does not ebb. It is well, since the change must come, that these men, of good home-spun stuff, honest and kindly in thought and deed, should be among the forerunners of the race that will abide where it has set its feet. Scotland need not be ashamed of her sons as they stand before us in these true stories of daring and endurance, and speak with their enemies in the gate.

The inexhaustible mineral and gem deposits of New Guinea are only glanced at, but the description of those marvellous tropical forests, through whose deep ravines rush the gold-bearing torrents, from which "Mac" was able to wash out thirty pounds worth in one day, proves what possibilities England possesses in that great island, and sheds light on the policy of a time, now happily past, when I had hoisted the Flag, in 1872, and thus taken formal possession of Eastern New Guinea. I reported to my chief, and his reply has a curious interest in view of many later developments.

"Have we not enough tropical possessions, without requiring more? Enough issues to sap the strength of our Englishmen, without giving Government patronage to the infliction of new wounds on our body? Enough circ.u.mstances in which there must be a subjected race alongside of our English proprietors, without putting the Government stamp on a new scheme which will help to demoralise us, and weaken our moral sense as a nation?"

Such were the views of the Little Englanders thirty years ago. Such seem strangely out of date when explorers of the Alexander Macdonald type are tapping the remotest sources of commerce in the interests of the old country.

So I leave the little band to the reader--very human, compound of great generosities and small failings, travellers, like ourselves, on "the Great Trail" that leads to the Mountains of the Moon, and beyond, but always _men_, and knit together by so strong a bond that each might well say of the other, with Walt Whitman--

"Bold, cautious, true, and my loving comrade."

J. MORESBY.

Admiral Rtd.

BLACKBECK, _April 19, 1905_.

Preface

I desire to a.s.sure all readers of this book that the scenes here depicted, and the events described, may be taken as faithful representations from life. I would also add that the geographical descriptions throughout are accurate in detail; my knowledge is borne of long and varied experience in the countries of which I write.

A friendly critic, on reviewing my MSS., said that the book might be misunderstood because of its containing the remarks and conversations of my companions, which he considered could not very well have been remembered by the writer. On this point, however, I beg to differ, and I feel that I shall have the sympathy of my fellow-wanderers on my side.

When a man has travelled for many years with the same companions, and has shared danger and sorrow and gladness with them, surely it is not too much to a.s.sume that he must ultimately know their temperaments well, and would scarcely need to draw upon his imagination when recalling their various remarks on striking incidents.

At the conclusion of our Western Australian journey the outbreak of the South African war caused a temporary disbandment of my party, all of whose members served at the Front with the Australian Contingents during the campaign. As a result it will be observed that in the third part of this volume the narratives partake somewhat of a general nature, and are also more or less disconnected.

Finally let me say in extenuation of any brusqueness or crudity of expression which may be noticeable, that I write as a traveller whose hand has more often gripped the rifle and s.e.xtant than the pen.

ALEXANDER MACDONALD.

PART I

THE FROZEN NORTH

"And, as his strength Failed him at length, He met a pilgrim shadow-- 'Shadow,' said he, 'Where can it be This land of El Dorado?'

'Over the mountains Of the moon, Down in the valley of the Shadow, Ride, boldly ride,'

The Shade replied 'If you seek for El Dorado.'"

UNDER THE SHADOW OF THE WHITE Pa.s.s

I have stumbled upon a few "tough" corners of the globe during my wanderings beyond the outposts of civilisation, but I think the most outrageously lawless quarter I ever struck was Skagway in the days of its early infancy. Now, I am told, Skagway is a flouris.h.i.+ng towns.h.i.+p, boasting of the orthodox amount of "broad" streets and "palatial"

buildings for an American "boom" camp. This may be, though--unless the geographical features of the district have altered--I can hardly credit it. When I was there the embryo city balanced itself precariously along the lower slopes of the White Pa.s.s, and a good percentage of the population had to be content with huts built on piles within the tidal limit of the Lynn Ca.n.a.l. In short, there was no room to build anything, and Skagway existed simply because it marked the entry to the Yukon's frozen treasure. Its permanent residents were, for the most part, sharpers of the worst type; indeed, it seemed as if the sc.u.m of the earth had hastened here to fleece and rob, or, failing those gentle arts, to murder the unwary voyagers to or from the Golden North. There was no law whatsoever; might was right, the dead shot only was immune from danger.

It was late autumn in the year when the first news of Klondike riches burst upon the world, when I, with my companion Mac, arrived at the head of the Lynn inlet, _en route_ for the land of snows and nuggets. Our s.h.i.+p, the _Rosalie_, carried a goodly number of pa.s.sengers, but they were mainly of the ruffian "store and saloon-keeper" variety, and few, if any, of them ever got beyond the pa.s.s. The true gold-miner is proverbially poor, and as yet his kind had not been numerous on the trail. As for myself, I was enterprising if nothing else, and my companion made up for my deficiencies in other respects. He was a ferocious individual without a doubt, my worthy henchman; without him my early journeyings would have ended before they had well begun, but, being a hardened traveller, he knew how to adapt himself to circ.u.mstances, and how to come off best in a scrimmage, both of which traits were brought fully out before we had been long in the villainous little camp of Skagway. Our first twenty-four hours' experiences may be worth relating.

We were the only representatives of Old England in these uncouth parts at this period, a fact which had not made us any more beloved by the aggressively hostile Yankees on board the _Rosalie_. Times without number they told me how the "great American nation" could wipe the British Isles off the face of the earth at a moment's notice, and how a "free-born American" was equal to a dozen Britishers, and how we two would be swallowed alive by these same men should we dare say a word to the contrary. We bore a good deal of this sort of thing in silence, though occasionally throughout the protracted voyage my fiery aide-de-camp retaliated angrily, and did considerable damage among his tormentors, who proved to be warlike only in their speech. But this is a digression, and though I could write pages on that momentous cruise--we ran aground five times, and were practically wrecked twice--I must desist and continue my narrative.

The first man we saw after being dumped on the muddy sh.o.r.es of Skagway Bay was a short, red-headed individual, with ruddy countenance to match, who fairly bristled with weapons of the most bloodthirsty description.

He approached Mac and me as we stood hesitatingly by the water's edge looking around for some habitation wherein we might find refuge for the first night of our sojourn in a strange land.

"Hallo, stranger!" he saluted, affably, firing a huge revolver unpleasantly close to my ear in a most nonchalant manner.

"Hallo!" I said without enthusiasm, feeling cautiously in the rear of my nether garments to make sure that my own gun was where it ought to be.

He seemed somewhat hurt at the stiffness of my rejoinder, and toyed suggestively with his revolver for some moments without speaking.

Meanwhile Mac proceeded unconcernedly along the beach to where a huge hulk lay moored, whose broad beam bore the legend in giant letters--"Skagit Hotel. Recently of San Francisco. Finest accommodation in town."

I was preparing to follow in my comrade's footsteps, marvelling at the enterprise which had brought the old dismasted schooner so opportunely to such a region; but my friend with the gun was not to be put off.

"Say, stranger," he growled, stepping before me, "you don't know who I am, I reckon----"

"I don't," I interrupted, shortly, "and I am not over anxious to make your acquaintance either."