In Search of El Dorado Part 2

This was Miss Caprice--a type of the "n.o.ble and enduring" women whom recent "Klondike" novelists have portrayed so tenderly in their "realistic" romances. Heaven forbid that the respectable British public should be thus deceived. There was no woman with any claim to the name on the long trail in these days.

It would be impossible to describe the course of that memorable "concert." It continued in spasms--or turns, which I believe is the correct term to use--far into the night, with occasional interruptions in the shape of fights and wordy altercations among the poker players, diversions which lent pleasurable variety to the entertainment, though now and again it seemed as if a funeral or two would surely result therefrom. But all smoothed off harmoniously under the influence of Miss Caprice's moving melodies, which always were turned on at opportune moments. Mac said that her voice was like unto the buzzing of a steam saw in cross-grained wood, but perhaps he was prejudiced, or his artistic senses a trifle too fine. Anyhow, she pleased the mult.i.tude mightily, and they roared out their appreciation boisterously at the conclusion of each of her vocal exercises, and implored her to continue her soothing ditties unendingly. The too free use of the flowing bowl was probably accountable for the warmth of their approval; but Miss Caprice, having indulged in equal degree with her admirers, was getting less and less able to trill forth sweet sounds for their edification, and matters were fast beginning to a.s.sume a by no means inviting aspect.

Several times during the progress of events Mac and I endeavoured to make an un.o.btrusive exit, but all to no purpose.

Slowly the time dragged on its weary course, then suddenly I became aware that the old _Skagit_ was rising with the incoming tide. She swayed c.u.mbrously once or twice, and her rotten timbers creaked and groaned dismally under the strain, but no one seemed to consider these indications worthy of attention, and the roystering chorus went on without interruption. At intervals I could hear vague voices calling excitedly without, and I guessed that the men who had built their homes in the sand were having a bad time.

Another half-hour pa.s.sed. By this time the taste of the audience had reached the sentimental stage, and they loudly clamoured for a song suited to their altered temperament. The accompanist, however, persisted in playing the "hot time" tune to everything, so he was discharged with ignominy by the scornful prima donna, who announced in broken accents that she would give a rendering of "Ashtore" without musical a.s.sistance, which was most unwise on her part. Still, she persisted at her task, and got to the end of the first verse without mishap; but as she screamed out the last wailing notes of the chorus the old _Skagit_ gave a sudden lurch, and sent her reeling head foremost into the centre of the room.

"What's the matter with the darned barge?" howled several indignant voices among the crowd, but no answer was forthcoming. The _Skagit_ at that moment was seized with convulsions, and rolled and pitched in a most unaccountable manner.

"Howlin' blazes!" yelled Black Harry. "The happy home must have broken loose."

The rush that followed is beyond description. Mac and I, being less affected by the motion of the hulk than the majority, reached the deck first. Away far back to the right the lights of Skagway shimmered out over the smooth waters of Skagway Bay. To the left the faint illuminations of Healy's Store at Dyea shone at the head of the Chilcoot Inlet, along which great seas were rolling in from the main channel. We had drifted out with the ebbing tide, and we were now being borne onwards by the uninterrupted ocean gales. If we escaped being dashed to pieces against the rocky bluffs of the peninsula, we might be driven ash.o.r.e on the mud banks at Dyea; but it was certain that the _Skagit_ could not return to her wonted anchorage that night.

Loud and deep were the curses that now arose from all on board.

"It's Soapy Sam's work," howled O'Connor. "He must have cut the moorings. He said he would do it."

Then I remembered Soapy's warning, but held my peace, and while the men raved, and threatened, and prayed in turn, the old _Skagit_ dashed on her new course, buffeted by the great seething rollers crowding in from the sea, and spinning like a top in the swirling waters. Crash! At last we had struck, and the surging waves swept over the deck in a copious flood, and the night was filled with the shrieks of the frenzied band, who feared the worst; but it was only a sand bar after all, the first of a series of similar obstacles that bar the Dyea Channel at high water.

"We could never have got round here ourselves," muttered Mac, as we stood watching the slowly-receding waves. "It is a fact that it's a gey ill wind that blaws naebody good."

In a short s.p.a.ce the _Skagit_ lay high and dry where she had been deposited, and for the first time we learned that the Dyea Bar stretches out three miles from the village. But I was satisfied. As Mac had implied, the _Skagit_ had unconsciously done us a service of no mean order in transporting our outfit nearer the Chilcoot Pa.s.s. With calm contentment he and I sought peaceful slumber in the humble quarters allotted to us earlier in the day, while the rest of the ship's company--including Miss Caprice--started to climb the dividing mountain ridge to Skagway on the trail of the elusive Soapy.

SHOOTING THE WHITE HORSE RAPIDS

It was a month later when we reached the sh.o.r.es of Lake Linderman _en route_ for the frozen North. The Chilcoot Pa.s.s had presented an almost impa.s.sable barrier to our advance; a light film of snow clung to the bare rocks and filled the numberless crevices of the "Summit"--that last grim climb, where the Dyea trail mounts all but perpendicularly upwards to the blizzard-swept glacier cap of the pa.s.s--and no room for foothold could be traced. It would be impossible to describe that frightful climb. When we reached the top and saw far below the twisting line of Indian "packers," who seemed to stick like flies to the white wall, we could not understand how the ascent had been accomplished.

Crater Lake, on the "other" side, was covered with a broad sheet of ice which was not sufficiently strong to bear our sleighs, or weak enough to allow of a pa.s.sage being broken for our portable canvas boat. Here we were delayed many days, laboriously dragging our outfit to a less lofty and more congenial climate.

Long Lake, Deep Lake, and Mud Lake were successfully negotiated in turn; their waters glistened cold and cheerless, surrounded by the great snowy peaks that were rapidly opening out into the magnificent Yukon valley.

Far down in the hollow, seemingly in a sunnier and well-timbered spot, nestled Lake Linderman, and beyond, the Yukon channel could be traced between the ever-widening mountain ranges. We had packed sleighs in our outfit, not expecting to use them until we reached the Klondike river, and how successful they might prove should it be necessary to force a trail across the frozen waters was a matter for conjecture.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE CHILCOOT Pa.s.s.]

At this time Linderman's sh.o.r.es were the scene of much bustle; many intending voyagers were building their boats in feverish haste, for they knew that the elements must soon lay firm grip on the waters, and render their work useless.

Major Walsh, the Canadian Administrator of the Yukon Territory, had just made his appearance from over the Skagway trail, and he was all eagerness to proceed. He immediately bought--at fabulous prices--the boats that were built, and, without a day's delay, set sail northwards with his staff.

Two days after the Major's departure, I succeeded in purchasing a twenty-feet "Dorie" from a disheartened miner who had decided to return to Dyea, and wait for the ensuing spring.

I need not detail our journeyings for the next few days. Linderman was sailed over within two hours, then the half-mile porterage between it and Lake Bennet was accomplished after much labour. This latter lake is twenty-eight miles in length, its northern extremity narrowing down to a deep and swift-flowing channel, which extends but a few hundred yards before expanding into a broad, shallow lake or lagoon, colloquially known as "Caribou Crossing." The current here is sluggish, and the water abounds in shoals and sandbanks, which at that time were a sore trial to the adventuresome navigator with his precious freight of flour and other necessaries.

Tagash Lake forms the next link in the great lake chain of the Yukon, and it stretches full twenty-nine miles, then contracting to a fierce-flowing stream by which the Canadian Customs Offices are now stationed.

Beyond this is Marsh Lake, and here it was that our troubles began.

Not a breath of wind stirred the waters of the lake, and our crudely-built dorie, containing 1,000 pounds of flour and 1,000 pounds of miscellaneous foodstuffs, ploughed slowly through the wide expanse to the accompaniment of much wheezing and groaning of oars, and an endless string of forcible expletives that burst from the lips of my stalwart companions, who provided the motive power of the ungainly craft. The favouring wind had died away, and, unaided by the sails, we could make but little headway over the still water. The weather had become strangely cold considering the earliness of the season, and I was almost benumbed as I sat in the steersman's perch, directing the course by sundry sweeps of a great-bladed Indian paddle, which I wielded with both hands.

"Keep it up, boys," I encouraged. "We are more than half-way through the lake."

"Twa miles an 'oor," grunted Mac between his efforts. "This is the worst boat I ever pulled."

Stewart, his companion, another brawny Scot who had joined me at Dyea, rested his oar for a moment to breathe a sympathetic swear word of much intensity; then together they bent to their labours, and the rasp of the oars, and the brief swish of the eddying pools created, alone broke the deadly quiet.

Towards nightfall I was surprised to notice here and there large sheets of ice on the lake surface, and occasionally our heavily-laden boat would grind against these obstacles, shouldering them off with much effort: then my oarsmen's long sweeps would rend and split them as they pa.s.sed alongside.

It was very plain that the Yukon headwaters were fast freezing over.

"We'll have to keep going all night, boys," I said, "for we'll be ice jammed if we camp anywhere around here."

The fierce torrent issuing from the end of the lake and rushing towards the dread White Horse Rapids would in all probability be free from ice--if we could reach that far.

Strenuously my companions pulled at their oars. The gloom deepened, then the stars came out, and by their feeble light I could distinguish far ahead a scintillating field of ice.

The sight caused me almost to despair--we had been sailing since early morning, and were tired and very hungry.

Before I could get the head of our boat turned insh.o.r.e, it had crashed through several flaking sheets, and immediately after I realised that we were hopelessly in an ice maze from which there seemed no exit.

"We'll gang straight on," said Mac, with determination, and he levered powerfully with his oar against the frosted ma.s.ses.

A quarter of an hour pa.s.sed, then the up-turning stem of the dorie went thud against an immovable barrier, and I knew that we were indeed ice-jammed beyond the possibility of forcing a pa.s.sage with the oars.

Nor could we return, for the ice-pack we had negotiated for miles was now seemingly welded together in one solid ma.s.s.

Cautiously Mac put his moccasined foot over the prow and bore heavily on the glittering ice; it neither strained nor yielded.

With a fervent malediction he jumped on "sh.o.r.e," and felt the edge of the sheet.

"It's mair than twa inches," he said sorrowfully. "Hoo can we get through this?"

Very sadly we got out of our boat, and, taking the cooking utensils, the tent, and some flour and coffee, sought a sheltered spot among the dense timber on the lake side. Soon we had almost forgotten our woes, and were regaling ourselves with copious draughts of coffee and much hard damper.

From our tent door we could see our boat stuck fast amid the ice. How we were to get it free I could not well imagine. In the morning, however, we awoke with renewed energy and more hopeful hearts.

"We cannot have far to go, boys," I said. "We'll cut down a couple of trees and use them to break a pa.s.sage."

After breakfast we lost no time in making the effort. Armed with the heavy logs, we re-embarked, and soon the ponderous hammers had begun their work and a pa.s.sage was slowly made towards the Yukon. With great reluctance our boat moved ahead, leaving a trail of glittering ice boulders. Mac leaned over the bow and opened the channel, while Stewart and I belaboured the ma.s.ses that closed in on either side.

About midday we neared the end of the lake, and the channel beyond appeared a rippling, crackling flood of jagged ice-floes.

We felt the suction of the current long before we had reached the limit of the ice-field. The sheets became thinner and broke away readily, so that the oars came again into play, and we crashed onward impetuously on the bosom of an irresistible stream.

At last we were free, and our boat dashed madly into the narrow egress, b.u.mping, grinding, and rocking against the detached fragments of ice that appeared everywhere.