A Claim on Klondyke Part 9

On the strength of this I gave Meade what he longed for, and it did him good. I made him oatmeal porridge; we had a bottle or two of bovril--I gave him some; and really that day he ate so well and was so wonderfully cheerful that I began to believe this would not be such a terribly serious business after all.

The following day, though, his other leg was exceedingly painful: it was sadly cut and bruised. With warm water I washed it. He wished me to apply cold water bandages, but I had, in Ontario, seen so much benefit from using pine gum--which is Venice turpentine, I suppose--for such hurts, that I persuaded him to let me put some on. The gum was oozing from every tree and stump about, wherever we had made a cut with an axe. In a few moments I collected plenty. It was surprising how quickly this stuff gave him relief, and how healing it was.

Meade was in better spirits that evening again. I read to him, we smoked and chatted--he pa.s.sed a most satisfactory night. Next day he complained much. He said that even the pressure of the blankets on his legs was dreadfully painful.

I easily remedied that: I made a frame of willow twigs to lie over him, to bear off the clothes, which answered well.

"What a kind chap you are, Bertie," said he, after I had done all I could think of for his comfort.

"Kind chap!" I answered smiling. "Suppose it had been my leg that had been broken, what would you have done?--let me lie? And if you had got me in here, you would have neglected me, I suppose, and let things go?

Not you; you would have done all you could for me, my friend. I know that right well, and so I'm doing the same for you, and intend to--so say no more."

As I have said, we were the best of friends, but the intimate a.s.sociation this accident occasioned brought us still closer together.

I rarely left his side, only for fuel and other necessaries. As for going on with gold-getting, somehow I could not even think of it. I endeavoured to keep a bright face in my friend's presence, but when alone, or at night when he was sleeping, I had many terrible fears and uncertainties to ponder about and to depress me.

If he did not soon mend! if he got worse! if he could not be moved!--these thoughts were always in my mind.

The winter would be upon us directly--it was then the end of September--and I knew that we should be frozen in and snowed up soon, and remain so till June of this year 1897. Much of the time would be pa.s.sed in darkness; in mid-winter there would be but a gleam of day at noon. These were dismal, unnerving forebodings. I tried to lift my heart to whence alone I could expect real help. I sought to repress all other thoughts, to just do the best I knew for my friend, and to trust our Heavenly Father for the rest.

To an extent I succeeded, and so many days went by in comparative peace.

We had a terrible gale during this time, I remember: heavy rain and hail accompanied it. The creek rose, it washed away a couple of our sluice-boxes, and seemed as if it would swamp our drive. This roused me to active measures: I piled up rocks and logs in such a way that I secured it against that misfortune.

Meade and I frequently congratulated ourselves about our safety in that dug-out: we knew that nothing short of an earthquake could upset our dwelling. No tents could stand against that heavy wind and downpour.

It was dark and dismal enough, surely, but often when we had a bright fire roaring in its corner, the lamp alight, the door tightly closed, and we were lying reading, with Patch curled up between us, we said to each other how thankful we ought to be, and were, I hope, for such comfort in that wild land.

It was during this enforced companionship that my friend opened his mind very freely to me. I don't know if he had any presentiment then of what the end would be--any premonition of still greater trouble ahead. It is impossible to be certain of this, but I have since thought that he had.

He had a very lovable disposition, even when he was well, and had had to fight with me against wilderness troubles which upset and spoil the temper of most men. When things went wrong ash.o.r.e or afloat, when our Indians were stupid, when the fates seemed to be dead against us and all appeared to be going wrong, I never remember him becoming really angry, using bad language, or showing anything but the most perfect amiability.

Many will think it is impossible to go through the rough countries of this world, especially such a wilderness as we had traversed, and were then in, or to subdue others' wills to ours, without showing a masterful, a domineering spirit. I thought so, and began, when he and I started on this expedition, to a.s.sert myself, believing that only thus would we be able to hold our own, or make headway.

Meade, on the contrary, from the first was amiable, friendly, and polite with all--red men and white. I thought this, for a while, unmanly, and feared I should thereby have my hands full of trouble, but I soon found I was much mistaken.

I noticed on board the steamer going up to Juneau, and at Skagway, that the people looked astonished, for a little, at the way in which my friend spoke, his gentleness and consideration to all--never shouting his desires or orders, but asking politely for what he required. Yes, they looked surprised at his uncommon style, for a bit, but were invariably impressed by it; and thinking that he must be a prince, or at least a duke (that was the usual idea), they treated him, as far as they knew, with the same consideration with which he treated them.

And I, as his mate, his friend, came in for the benefit of it.

So, mild and amiable as Meade had been all along, during this sad time he was, if possible, more so. He suffered intensely, I know it now, though at that time I scarcely understood it. Often he could hardly speak for pain and weakness, yet he never neglected to thank me for the slightest thing I did for him, and he never expressed impatience at his sad condition.

Well, that is hardly true; he did frequently bemoan his fate in having brought me to such a pa.s.s--that was a great trouble to him.

In vain I begged him not to let that grieve him. I a.s.sured him again and again that I had no one dependent on me in England, or anywhere; that my people were well off; that a month or two, or even a year or two, was of no great moment; that even if we had to winter there we should resume work in the spring, and go home with still larger piles in the summer.

He would listen to these remarks, patiently and calmly, but with a smile on his face apparently of unbelief.

Then he would talk gently to me about himself. How he had looked forward with such intense pleasure to going home that fall with plenty, to relieve his loved mother and sisters from all future money worries.

He told me a great deal about them, where they lived, and how.

He had been in Australia for two years, and had done some gold-digging there. He had been four years in Canada; like me, he had brought a little money with him, had taken up land in a.s.siniboia, had struggled there for a couple of years, living wretchedly and prospering not at all, then he had sold all he had, cattle and gear, and had come West.

He took service in the Rockies with the Canadian Pacific Railway at section work, which is, I believe, what is called "plate-laying" in Britain. From there he had gradually drifted to the coast, to Vancouver City, where he had obtained employment on a wharf. There his education helped him, he became a foreman, next he got the post of purser on one of the steamers trading between Puget Sound and the North.

The spring before I met him he was up at St. Michael's, in Behring Sea, where he fell in with a man who told him about the gold which was being got away up the Yukon. He had acted on this man's advice, with the result he had already related to me.

He sent his mother a large portion of what he found the year before, told her of his projected expedition with me, and promised that he would "come out" in September, he believed with what would be regarded as a fortune, even in England.

"And now," said he, with a sad sigh, "here I am, laid by the heels--and you too, my friend, on my account--not able even to let them know that I'm alive!"

I did my very best to comfort him. I begged him to have patience, that I hoped before many weeks--when the snow came--that we should get out, "and surely," I added, "from Dawson there is some way of communicating with civilisation."

You understand we really knew very little about the country. We had heard many yarns about the awful winter, and generally had the idea that it would be extremely dismal and melancholy. But we had also been told that with plenty of grub and light and fuel--which we had--people could exist with some little comfort. So we struck the middle opinion, and found it would be bad but bearable.

Well, it was bearable, certainly, or I should not be here; and yet I can aver that the horror of it has not been more than half told yet.

Thank G.o.d, we had plenty of food and firing, and as I said to my poor chum, "I'll bet there are many miserable beggars scattered about this Yukon country and Alaska who are worse off than we are by a long shot."

He smiled at my enthusiasm, and added, "But I hope there are no broken legs amongst them."

At which I felt rather subdued. But I had talked, and continued to do so thus, to cheer him if I could, and to make him think that I was quite happy and contented.

Really, at heart, I was neither. He did not seem to me to be improving. He told me of the pain he suffered in his leg. I suggested that it was caused by the bone growing together. I said I had heard that was usually the most painful time, and he hoped I was right. He was very pale and thin. I tried to believe that was only the effect of his lying so long and being in the dim light. His appet.i.te troubled me: he ate very little, and did not fancy anything we had.

One time he talked to me about the girl he loved at home. He showed me her portrait. Her name is f.a.n.n.y Hume. I thought she must be very pretty from her photo. He declared she was that--lovely. They had been engaged for four years. She was to have come out to him, if he had done well in the prairie country. They had experienced great disappointment at his failure there, but his good fortune up here the year before had altered matters. If he had got out this fall they were to have been married by Christmas.

He told me of the plans he had laid for his mother's comfort, and of the dreams he had about the home he would make for his bride with the good fortune that had come to him. "And now," said he in grievous tones, "all this is ended, all my plans frustrated. G.o.d knows how hard it is; it looks almost cruel, doesn't it?"

What could I say? I begged him not to lose hope. I besought him to remember that G.o.d did know--that for some mysterious reason He had allowed this terrible disaster to take place, that we must just put our trust in Him. We were a.s.sured, and, I hoped, believed, that He does all things well, and that we must just leave it so.

Oh! how I longed to have more power of comforting him. How impotent I felt, and was. I could only keep saying, "Look up, Meade! look up!

from there alone can come our help."

One day said he, "I'd give anything for a bit of fresh mutton. Just fancy a mutton chop at Pimm's, in the Strand, and a gla.s.s of their stout, eh!"

This pleased me. If he had such a longing for food I thought it a good sign, and said so.

But, alas! there was no mutton chop to be got there. There are mountain sheep---bighorns, moufflons--up in the hills. How could I leave him to stalk one? But I thought I might shoot him a grouse for a change. Salmon he was heartily sick of; the tinned things were very good for men in health, but not for an invalid. I had broiled him a bit of bear meat lately, which he enjoyed. I did so again and again, till he was tired of that.

So I took down my gun one day, said I would not be long away. I thought I would go up and kill a bird.

I went up the creek to a clump of thick spruce I knew of, feeling sure I should find some there, but instead out leapt a half-grown deer!

I brought him down, luckily. I could just manage to pack him home. I was back again within an hour. Meade smiled a welcome. "I heard you shoot," said he, "the rifle barrel. What did you get?"

I would not tell him. I said he must wait and see. The little buck was fat. I cut out a chop--it looked just like a mutton chop--I broiled it at a fire I lit outside, and brought it to him. He was delighted, he was charmed, and with tears in his eyes he thanked me again and again. And there were tears in my eyes too!

For several days he enjoyed what he called mutton. I had hung it outside to freeze, where everything was frozen. I varied his food--bear meat, deer meat, salmon; salmon, bear meat, deer meat--and in between I gave him some of the canned things that he fancied.