A Claim on Klondyke Part 12

I tried hard to pull myself together, to make some sort of programme for future action, but I could do very little--the power of consecutive thought seemed to have left me. I pa.s.sed the time eating, smoking, sleeping--it was to me like some dreadful dream, and I often, often caught myself wondering when I should awake, and the misery would be over.

I suppose it was then the end of November, and I knew there would be no real spring, no open water, till June; seven months of this desolation and loneliness to look forward to! for I had come to the resolve that, in any event, so long as provisions held out, even for months, or years, I would not abandon the gold.

I had calculated, and I knew perfectly well, that Patch and I together could not haul it out on a sled, with what we must take of gear and food. No; we must stay there till spring, and what I could, or would, do then I did not settle: I only had a vague idea that I would pack everything on the all but finished raft, and somehow float it down to Dawson.

I had plenty of time to plan all this, I knew. At intervals my memory dwelt on what now seemed to me to have been the real comfort, the real content, which Meade and I had experienced in that miserable dug-out before his accident. My mind reverted to the pleasant evenings he and I had pa.s.sed with books and pipes, antic.i.p.ating the joys that were in store for us when we had got out, and had once more set foot upon dear English soil. How we used to talk, and plan, and prophesy! Alas! all was ended, his career had been cut short, as we have seen, and mine--well, I did not think about mine very much, the present was what troubled me: the awful loneliness, the misery of it, was what occupied me.

I was forced to go into the den occasionally for necessaries. I had not removed the covering from my friend's face, but I had grown a little bit familiar with that melancholy heap of bedding, and the fact that he lay there, frozen, did not now so greatly agitate me.

The storm raged ceaselessly for quite a week, then suddenly there was perfect silence outside. I went forth to investigate; whether it was day or night I could not tell, for there was but little sunrise really then--the stars were gleaming in a cloudless sky. It was absolutely calm, so the cold was bearable, yet I knew it was more intense than I had ever before felt it.

The moon was rising, and a wonderful scene it was that her beams shone on; beautiful, I have no doubt, but to me then, and always, it was most awful desolation.

Everything--our workings, the raft, the creek--was covered deeply with snow; I could barely make out the door of the dug-out. I looked at it very sorrowfully, and I wished--I was almost ashamed of that wish, I thought it desecration--that I dare go in and live there, even with the companionship of all that remained of my dear friend.

I brought the shovel, removed the snow, and as I was doing so it came to my mind that if I were only able to bury Meade's body I could return to the den and pa.s.s the winter there.

But where could I bury it? How could I dig a grave? Everything, I knew, was frozen hard as steel; should I clear away the frozen n.i.g.g.e.r gra.s.s and moss, and light a fire on the earth in some quiet nook, thaw it thus, and dig a grave, as miners sink their holes in winter?

I returned to my fire in the tunnel to think this out. How terrible it all appeared in there; how I longed to make the change! I sat pondering on this for some little time, and then I had an idea.

I grasped a pick and drove it into the wall of the drive behind the fire, and found that I could excavate the earth easily. I went to work, for I had determined what to do.

Soon I had cut a niche quite large enough to hold the body. I smoothed it nicely, procured some fresh pine twigs which I strewed in it; then going to the shanty, I forced myself to draw the dear fellow's remains, upon the same bear-skin he had pa.s.sed away on, to the sepulchre that I had hewed.

The body was frozen, of course, and was as easily handled as if it had been a log of wood. I took everything from his pockets, then I rolled it into its resting-place--a temporary one I regarded it. I strewed spruce branches over it, and covered it reverently with the earth I had removed, and soon no one but I could have told that a brave young Englishman, a loved friend, a dear companion, was sleeping his last sleep in there. I smoothed the opening over, but I knew right well the spot where Percy Meade, my lost friend, was lying entombed.

It was done at last, the mournful task was ended; having the Prayer-book with me, I read with tear-dimmed eyes some pa.s.sages aloud from it--good Patch sitting by as quiet and sedate as if he understood it all.

There was no hurry, no need for haste, and yet as soon as this sad business was finished I left the tunnel gladly, and entered the shanty with the lamp.

It was awfully cold in there--it was an ice-house; but I soon had a fire blazing in the corner. I piled on logs, and on them heaped the withered pine brush and rubbish with which the floor had been strewed.

Then I cut fresh stuff, brought in the bear and deer-skins, the rugs and blankets I had been using in the tunnel, heaped them before the fire to dry, and in a few hours I was, so far as bodily requirements went, in comfort.

As I gazed around me then, I was very sad. On the rough shelves we had constructed were lying the few books and papers we possessed, and there were some odds and ends which poor Meade had greatly valued. There was his pipe and tobacco-box, his plate and knife and fork, which he had been so fastidious about--two or three photographs of home scenes and a portrait or two were pinned to the logs about the dismal shanty.

All these had been the texts of many a long yarn, many an interesting conversation--it was very sad. But I did not remove them; there seemed to me a sacredness about them, a melancholy sort of interest which was my only comfort in that dismal cave. They brought back to me many and many an incident, and were to some extent a kind of companionship to me in my loneliness. However, I was very weary with all this unaccustomed grievous labour. I made tea, cooked some food, then putting a huge log on the fire, which I knew would last for hours, I fell asleep and dreamt. I thought that I was far away from all these horrors, back in my dear old home, with loving faces round me, my troubles over, my long agony past, and all forgotten. Oh, blessed, thrice blessed sleep!--thank G.o.d for sleep!

It was a long time since either of us had written a word in our diary.

I was not at all certain of the day, much less of the hour, when Meade had died. I spent some time trying to puzzle this out, endeavouring to account for the time that had elapsed since Meade left me, and, so far as I could guess, for day and night were very much the same then, and had been for weeks, it was ten days--but I had nothing to guide me with certainty. However, I a.s.sumed that it was on the 8th November that he died, and I determined to start my watch again, and during every twenty-four hours that pa.s.sed henceforth to make some entry in our book, and this I am glad now that I adhered to.

Our gold was buried in a corner of the den; I had lost interest in it.

Occasionally the thought came to me that it was there all right; but as to looking at it, or adding to it, that never crossed my mind. All my thoughts then were how to get away from the dreadful place. I had come to the opinion that if I left that gold behind me it would be secure enough, for I imagined that I was alone in an entirely unknown country, and that if I left it, it would remain unknown for many a year.

So I thought and thought continually on this one subject--how to get out. I read a little, ate more, smoked much, slept half my time, and thus the hours went slowly by until I fancied it was Christmas Day, and still I had arranged no definite plan.

I had got into an exceedingly low, stupid, almost imbecile condition.

I had no heart, no energy for anything; I seemed to have no "go" left in me. I suppose the continual darkness, the utter loneliness, was telling on me. I look back now and wonder at my state: I, who had always been hitherto full of vigour, resourceful, hardly ever despondent, and hating to be idle for a moment, was leading a purely animal life, just eating and sleeping, with very little power, seemingly, of even thinking of the future.

It was then, as I supposed, Christmas Day; anyway, it was a very calm and quiet day. The northern lights were brilliant, and Patch and I were outside: I was gathering fuel and cutting some logs for the fire, he was rolling in the dry dust-like snow, and sniffing at the meat and salmon which hung frozen in the trees around us. I looked about at the brilliant scene, I gazed aloft in adoration at the wonderful display.

I felt awed and solemnised at what I saw, and the question came to me, seemed to hit me almost like a blow--"Was I doing wisely, manfully? was I doing my duty to myself, or carrying out faithfully the promises I had made to Meade?" Again in fancy I saw his mother and his other dear ones in some quiet, rural, English home, such as he had described to me, longing for news of him and his fortunes; perhaps suffering for the want of the money he had promised them so surely, that money which was now lying useless in the corner of the shanty.

Could I not do something even then? I asked myself. Must six more melancholy months drag their slow length along? Must I wait for the opening of the water in June? Could I not take even a few pounds'

weight of gold, food, furs, and blankets on a sled, and somehow get down to Dawson, where I knew that there were people, and where I could but fancy there must be some means of communicating with the outer world?

Such thoughts as these crowded through my brain. I seemed suddenly to awaken to my responsibilities.

I knew it was but a hundred miles at most to Dawson City; so surely Patch and I could manage to do that--and as anything was better than going on as I had been of late, I determined to adventure.

I had not been twenty yards from the hut or tunnel for weeks; but then, I at once waded out to the middle of the creek. It was more than wading. The light snow was up to my waist, and I plainly saw that I could not make headway through it, and that it would be utterly impossible to draw a loaded sleigh over it. The dryness of the atmosphere and the intense cold had not allowed the snow to pack.

If I had snow-shoes, I wondered if I could manage to move about. But I had none. However I had a few flour-barrel hoops of ash. I bent a couple somewhat into the shape of snow-shoes, roughly netted some cord across them, and essayed to use them, and found they answered the purpose sufficiently to encourage me first of all to make as good a pair as possible.

I set eagerly to work. I bound hoops together closely and braced them; I cut bearskin into strips, well twisted them, laced them across and across as well as I could remember they were laced in proper ones; I used some wire we had to strengthen them; and in the course of some days' close labour I had constructed a pair of very rough but, as I soon proved, serviceable snow-shoes.

With these I practised walking. Most days Patch and I took tramps up and down the creek, and I very soon became dexterous in their use: besides, I knew it was necessary for me to take plenty of exercise to knit myself together, to train for my contemplated expedition.

Now I turned my attention to the construction of a sled--a sledge. The one I had begun I had not seen for weeks,--it was buried under many a foot of snow. I searched, and at last dug it out; it was, I could see, unsuitable. I realised that I must make a sort of toboggan--something to lie flat upon the snow, that would not cut into it as sled-runners would.

No wood suitable for this purpose grew about there. I pa.s.sed many hours in the bright moonlight, searching the immediate neighbourhood; but they were all rough trees, and would not answer. I was perplexed, puzzled, till I thought of the sluice-boxes, and on one of them I set to work, and with the few tools I had I managed to make what I felt sure would do. But every day or night Patch and I took marches up and down the creek; sometimes these trips extended for miles.

I knew too that I must carry with me some sort of arrangement for sleeping in, and contrive a portable shelter, as I had torn up the little tent for bandages for Meade. The former--the sleeping-bag--I made of what remained of the bear-skins, to which I joined deer-skins, and I lined it with fox, silver-grey and black, of which I had quite a number. The tent I made up of what remained, with some blankets and such materials. I had already contrived additional warm clothing of fur and blankets, with a hood or capote.

With all this business the days pa.s.sed quickly and, may I say, hopefully.

Just then a great need a.s.sailed me. I had run out of lamp oil, and the candles had long since been used up. I tried to work by firelight, but that was very difficult. Then I bethought me of the lumps of bear fat hanging in the trees, and I brought some in, and with an empty meat tin and a piece of rag I made a very successful lamp, and that difficulty was surmounted.

My sled, or toboggan, was ready. My snow-shoes answered well. I had made alterations and improvements in them as I had gained experience, and I was now able to get about on them with speed and comfort.

It was towards the end of January, according to my calculations, and I began to reckon eagerly of making a start.

The wretchedness, the inexpressible loneliness of this time, was really awful. At times I was half beside myself with horror, and I suppose I acted like a half-crazed being often. I used to talk to Patch, to address him as if he were a human being, and the dear old dog would put his head on one side, p.r.i.c.k up his ears and listen to me, and I do believe he tried his best to understand what I said to him. What I should have done without that dear old fellow I cannot imagine.

One day--or night, was it?--Patch and I were up the creek some miles.

I had my gun with me, for I had the day before noticed traces of what I thought were wolves, and I did not care to be confronted with them unprepared.

I was standing in an open s.p.a.ce, clear of trees, on the surface of the frozen stream indeed, when I was more than usually struck with the sublime, the awful spectacle which the heavens exhibited.

These magnificent displays of the aurora borealis always affected me; but this night they were particularly grand, and I stood some time, as there was not a breath of wind stirring, admiring them, and wondering.

Streamers, tongues of rose-tinted lurid fire, slowly crept up from the mysterious north. Sometimes they stopped, hesitated, then darting on again, covered the entire heavens. Often they resembled huge flames of crimson fire; they flickered and seemed often to be enshrouded in dense, yet transparent, smoke. Frequently they whirled and twirled as if they had been spindles.

Now these appearances were here, now there. They never remained stationary; the whole firmament was in motion always.

The snow and all the earth and trees were blood-coloured, my breath and the dog's was red too, and awful. There was a certain feeling of suffocation in the atmosphere, or so I imagined. The cold was indescribable; inhaling felt like drawing into one's throat the fumes of cayenne pepper. My heart beat violently, I breathed in gasps, and I knew that if a wind arose I should be shrivelled up as feathers would be in a fire.

But I also knew that Providence had decreed that when cold has become so intense, as it was then, wind shall not blow; therefore, I dismissed this dread.

At times the heavens were suffused with deepest crimson, then bars of glowing scarlet would undulate across them; or it would be checkered with different tints of orange purple and deep green.