The Project Gutenberg EBook of In Search of El Dorado, by Alexander MacDonald This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: In Search of El Dorado A Wanderer's Experiences Author: Alexander MacDonald Release Date: December 1, 2012 [EBook #41530] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IN SEARCH OF EL DORADO *** Produced by Matthias Grammel, Greg Bergquist and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive) IN SEARCH OF EL DORADO THREE BOOKS OF TRAVEL AND DESCRIPTION Siberia. A Record of Travel, Climbing and Exploration. By Samuel Turner, F.R.G.S. With about 100 Illustrations and 2 Maps. Demy 8vo, cloth, 21s. net. Travels of a Naturalist in Northern Europe. By J. A. Harvie-Brown, F.R.S.E., F.Z.S., Author of "Fauna of the Moray Basin," "A Vertebrate Fauna of Orkney," &c.,&c. With 4 Maps and many Illustrations. 2 vols. Royal 8vo, cloth, £3 3s. net. Russia Under the Great Shadow. By Luigi Villari, Author of "Giovanni Segantini," "Italian Life in Town and Country," &c. With 85 Illustrations. Demy 8vo, cloth, 10s. 6d. net. LONDON: T. FISHER UNWIN. IN SEARCH OF EL DORADO A WANDERER'S EXPERIENCES BY ALEXANDER MACDONALD F.R.G.S. WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY ADMIRAL MORESBY ILLUSTRATED SECOND IMPRESSION LONDON: T. FISHER UNWIN 1, ADELPHI TERRACE. MCMVI First Edition 1905 Second Impression 1906 [All rights reserved] TO MY MOTHER [Pg i] [Pg ii] [Pg iii] [Pg iv] [Pg v] 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 hoard, 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 shine 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 Pass, 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 assorted 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 comradeship—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 washings, 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 circumstances in which there must be a subjected race alongside of our English proprietors, without putting the Government stamp on [Pg vi] [Pg vii] [Pg viii] [Pg ix] [Pg x] [Pg xi] 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 assure 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 assume 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 sextant than the pen. ALEXANDER MACDONALD. Elcho Park, Perth. March 1, 1905. Contents PAGE INTRODUCTION vii PREFACE xiii PART I THE FROZEN NORTH UNDER THE SHADOW OF THE WHITE PASS 3 SHOOTING THE WHITE HORSE RAPIDS 16 THE LAND OF THE THRON-DIUCKS 24 [Pg xi] [Pg xii] [Pg xiii] [Pg xiv] [Pg xv] THE FINDING OF "GOLD BOTTOM" CREEK 37 THE PERILS OF THE TRAIL 51 THE TENT AT CARIBOU CROSSING 60 ACROSS THE CHILCOOT PASS 70 PART II UNDER THE SOUTHERN CROSS THE FIVE-MILE RUSH 83 SINKING FOR GOLD 97 WE "STRIKE" GOLD 107 CAMP-FIRE REMINISCENCES 122 THE "SACRED" NUGGET 133 INTO THE "NEVER NEVER" LAND 146 EL DORADO! 159 WHERE THE PELICAN BUILDS ITS NEST 173 PART III PROMISCUOUS WANDERINGS IN THE AUSTRALIAN BACK-BLOCKS 199 ON THE OPAL FIELDS OF WHITE CLIFFS 220 PROSPECTING IN BRITISH NEW GUINEA 238 IN THE GUM-LAND OF WANGERI 256 WITH THE PEARLERS OF NORTH-WESTERN AUSTRALIA 271 List of Illustrations PORTRAIT OF THE AUTHOR Frontispiece A PARTY OF MINERS GOING IN BY THE SKAGWAY OR WHITE PASS TRAIL Facing p. 7 THE CHILCOOT PASS " 16 KLONDIKE-BOUND MINERS AND THEIR OUTFITS ON LAKE LINDERMAN " 22 AFTER THE RAPIDS " 22 PAN-WASHING IN SKOOKUM GULCH " 37 GOLD-BOTTOM CREEK " 47 DAWSON CITY " 54 ON THE SAFE SIDE OF THE PASS AGAIN—MAC, SELF, STEWART " 79 STEWART PREPARING OUR FIRST MEAL " 89 "DISCOVERY" SHAFT—ON GOLD " 99 STEWART FINDS THE GROUND HARD " 106 NO. 2 CLAIM—JUST STRUCK GOLD " 114 OUR SHAFT " 122 NUGGETY DICK AND SILENT TED " 127 HAPPY JACK AND DEAD-BROKE SAM " 132 READY FOR THE RUSH " 139 A BREAKDOWN IN THE RUSH " 145 OUR LAST VIEW OF THE 5-MILE WORKING " 150 TAKING OUR POSITION " 159 A NATIVE CAMP " 165 [Pg xvi] [Pg xvii] [Pg xvii] EL DORADO! " 172 AN EXTINCT VOLCANO WE CAMPED ON " 182 THE ONLY CREATURES THAT CAN EXIST IN THE N.W. INTERIOR " 195 AN EMU'S NEST " 200 "LEICHARDT'S TREE" The last trace found of the great explorer who attempted to cross the interior and was never heard of again. " 213 A FAMOUS MINE IN THE GULF COUNTRY " 219 BORING FOR OPAL INDICATIONS " 224 THE BELLE OF THE BUSH—A SALVATION ARMY CONVERT IN WHITE CLIFFS " 230 THE DINGOE OR NATIVE DOG " 237 CROCODILE JAWS " 243 THE GUM-DIGGERS' SWIMMING-POOL " 265 READY TO GO DOWN " 275 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 PASS 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 flourishing township, 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 Pass, and a good percentage of the population had to be content with huts built on piles within the tidal limit of the Lynn [Pg 1] [Pg 2] [Pg 3] Canal. 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 scum 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 ship, the Rosalie, carried a goodly number of passengers, but they were mainly of the ruffian "store and saloon-keeper" variety, and few, if any, of them ever got beyond the pass. 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 circumstances, 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 shores 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." He glared at me savagely for an instant, then broke out into a hearty laugh. "For a darned Englisher you are mighty pert," he said, "an' I won't slaughter you—just yet. Still, for your future benefit I may tell you that my handle is Soapy Sam, an' I've planted considerable men like you in my time. I'm a bad man, I is, but your ignorance saves ye." The conversation was being uncomfortably prolonged; yet I dared not make any movement. "What's the damage, Soapy?" I asked contritely. "I suppose you are collecting toll in your polite way?" He lowered his weapon and grinned. "Every tenderfoot as lands in this here city has to play poker with me or fight," he acknowledged smilingly. I realised my position at once. It was painfully clear to me that the "fight" would be all on one side, and could only end in one way so long as Soapy held the "drop," and it was also clear that the alternative was to submit to wholesale robbery. A loud shout at our back made us both turn with alacrity, and behold there stood Mac with his long Winchester repeater levelled fairly at Soapy Samuel's head. The wily individual had scented danger, and had made a détour expressly for my benefit. "Say when," he murmured calmly, from behind his artillery, "and I'll blow the deevil into vulgar fractions." I stepped out of range of fire without delay. Soapy's fingers twitched on the stock of his lowered revolver as his ferret- like eyes blinked down the muzzle of the deadly tube, which never wavered a hair's breadth. Then his weapon dropped from his nerveless hand, and slowly his arms were upraised towards the sky, and he smiled an exceedingly sickly smile. "You've got the pull on me this time, partner," he said. "I caves." At this moment a hoarse chorus of cheers rang out from the vicinity of the Skagit Hotel. The inmates had assembled on the upper deck to witness the discomfiture of their common enemy. "Shoot him!" they roared; "he killed old Smith." [Pg 4] [Pg 5] [Pg 6] But Mac was not disposed to make himself public executioner. "Ye'd better vanish, Soapy," he grunted. A Party of Miners going in by the Skagway or White Pass Trail. "Never mind the cannon ye dropped; it'll just suit me. Quick, fur I'm getting nervish." Soapy fled, slipping and stumbling through the snow in his intense haste. But when he had placed a good hundred yards between him and his conqueror, he turned and waved his hand cheerily. "I bear no ill-will, boys," he shouted; "I was clean bested. But," and he turned towards the Skagit, "I'll have it out with you afore long, and don't forgit it." A yell of derision greeted him in return. Apparently the Skagit dwellers meant to take all chances with a light heart. Mac grounded his rifle with a grunt of satisfaction. "This is the deevil's ain country we've struck," he grumbled. "It's a blessed thing I got insured afore I left auld Scotland." I agreed with him heartily, and together we sought the hospitable shelter of the stranded hotel, where we were welcomed effusively by the proprietor thereof, a merry-faced Irishman of the name of O'Connor. "We're chock full up, but we'll gladly make room for you, boys," he said. "It wouldn't be safe to allow you to go up among Soapy's gang." I expressed my gratitude for his tender solicitude, then made sundry inquiries as to the prospects of crossing the pass within the next day or so. "You want to cross the pass?" he echoed, in amazement. "Why, you won't be able to do that until next spring. The snows are on, and the trail is blocked with hundreds of dead horses anyhow." I had heard this statement so often of late that I was in nowise taken aback. "We certainly did not come here for the good of our health," I said. "We'll try the Chilcoot Pass if the Skagway route is impossible. Dyea is not very far from here, I think?" "Only about four miles round about," he replied. "It is at the head of the inlet you would see before your ship branched in here. A mighty miserable place it is, for the winds sweep right down from the sea almost constantly." "We didn't expect to find roses growing on the track," snorted Mac, impatiently. "We'll try and get round to Dyea in the morning." But now another difficulty arose. There were no boats to be had stout enough to withstand the heavy gales which, as we had just been told, blew ceaselessly up the funnel-like entrance to the Chilcoot Valley, and even if there had been, our outfit of flour and miscellaneous foodstuffs was rather an unwieldy factor to be considered. "It's a maist ungodly country," commented Mac gloomily. "There seems to be nae room for anybody but thieves an' murderers, and it' very funny that there's no' an honest gold-miner among the lot." Our fellow-passengers nearly all had found congenial quarters further back in the city, and one or two had erected their tents on the beach, forgetting in their haste to found a home that the tide would wash over their camp site about twelve o'clock that same night. Yet no one cared to inform them on the matter, and Mac watched their progress with undisguised joy, and howled with delight when one of his old enemies began to haul timber from the hillside for the purpose of building a substantial edifice on the sinking sands. "They might know that the old Skagit couldn't have walked up here," laughed our host. "But they'll find out their mistake soon enough, I reckon," and he chuckled, long and loudly. Having partaken of dinner, Mac and I sallied forth to visit the scattered array of huts and tents which constituted the town. "Look out for Soapy Sam," warned a swarthy-visaged man in picturesque attire. "He's a nasty sort of skunk to meet, even in the daytime, as you already know. If ye get into trouble just yell on me—Black Harry is my handle—and I'll be with you in a couple of shakes." I thanked the dusky warrior, who indeed looked as if he could give a very good account of himself when necessary, and with the butt of my revolver clutched tightly in my hand, I walked citywards with Mac, who gravely whistled selections from a hymn entitled, "There is a Happy Land." On our arrival in Klondike Avenue, as the main thoroughfare was elegantly styled, not a solitary individual was to be seen. The weather was bitterly cold, and the denizens of the camp, with commendable good sense, avoided all danger of frostbite by keeping within the shelter of their wigwams. The deserted avenue was therefore a most dreary spectacle, and the gathering shadows of night hanging over the grim pass in the background did not tend to enliven the gloom of the scene. "And to think that for the last fortnight I hae heard nothing but stories o' American grit, American hardiness, American —everything," soliloquised Mac, sarcastically; "yet every deevil o' them is frichtened o' catchin' cold—but hallo! what's this?" [Pg 7] [Pg 8] [Pg 9] He directed my gaze towards a flaring poster nailed to a tree. We approached, and read the rude notice. "In the Skagit Hall to-night. Grand concert. Miss Caprice, of New York, the world-famed variety actress, will hold the camp in thrall. Leave your guns at home, and come early to avoid the rush. N.B.—Poker tables have been fixed up for the convenience of the audience." The last clause gave the key to the whole concern. Miss Caprice—whoever that might be—was merely an extra attraction. Appended was a weird diagram purporting to be a sketch of the aforesaid Miss Caprice in the intricacies of one of her dance specialities. Mac shuddered and looked pained. "This is maist decidedly no place for a white man," he asserted, with a sigh. Then we turned and headed back for the Skagit, where in the later hours the world-famed artiste was billed to disport herself. As we passed by a large log structure set back among the trees, I was surprised to hear a husky voice call out to us, and while we hesitated the door of the hut swung open, and Soapy Sam appeared and beckoned mysteriously. He apparently had discarded his armoury, but I was not disposed to trust much to appearances, at which our old enemy looked considerably aggrieved. "I bear no grudge, boys," he said. "No man can say that Soapy Sam went back on his word. You downed me fair." "Then what is it?" I inquired suspiciously. "Ye must admit, Soapy, ma man," added Mac drily, "that your reputation even among yer ain folk is no' just rosy." But Soapy was evidently determined not to be offended by anything we might say. He approached with hands extended in token of good faith, and, noting this, we stayed our progress and waited wonderingly to hear what he wished to speak. He did not enlighten us much, however. "I say, boys," he whispered when he came near, "can you both swim?" Mac nodded. "But it wouldna be a pleasant diversion in this weather," he remarked, with a shudder. "Then don't go near the Skagit to-night," said Soapy impressively. "There's a storm rising, and I shouldn't wonder if the old barge bursts her moorings before morning." He was gone in an instant, and Mac and I gazed at each other in dismay. "What can he mean?" I said. "Heaven knows," growled Mac; "but we'll likely find out before very long. He's a gey slippery customer, is Soapy, an' no' easily understood, I'm thinkin'." We continued on our course meditating deeply, but, no solution of the mysterious warning presenting itself, it escaped our minds utterly in the noisy excitement that prevailed on our return to the Skagit. O'Connor, the proprietor, was all agog with the importance of his position as master of ceremonies; he was busily superintending the placing of a rickety old piano when we made our appearance, and he immediately seized on Mac for a song during the evening, a favour which was most promptly refused. "Miss Caprice an' me wouldna suit on the same programme," was the worthy diplomatist's excuse. "Get Black Harry an' Soapy Sam—" "Soapy Sam is barred this circus," sternly interrupted O'Connor. "I'm running a concert to-night, not a funeral undertaking establishment." Assuredly Soapy Sam's prowess was no mean factor to be considered. At 7 p.m. prompt—as advertised—the entertainment began. The room was crowded with truly all sorts and conditions of men, and the air reeked with tobacco smoke. The piano manipulator—a bewhiskered and groggy-looking personage in top-boots—took his place with stately grace as befitted the dignity of his office. He ran his fingers clumsily over the keys as if seeking for some lost chord or combination, which, however, he did not find, and then he rattled out an ear- shattering melody in which the audience, after a moment's pause, joined lustily. In the midst of the uproar thus let loose a gaudily-bedecked creature of the female persuasion, wearing a grin that almost obliterated her features, appeared on the raised stage at the end of the saloon, and joined in the pandemonium, her shrill voice screaming out the touching information that there would be "a hot time in the old town to-night," which coincided with the item on the programme. This was Miss Caprice—a type of the "noble 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 multitude 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 assume a by no means inviting aspect. Several times during the progress of events Mac and I endeavoured to make an unobtrusive exit, but all to no purpose. [Pg 10] [Pg 11] [Pg 12] [Pg 13] 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 cumbrously 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 passed. 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 assistance, 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 ashore 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 space 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 Pass. 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 shores of Lake Linderman en route for the frozen North. The Chilcoot Pass had presented an almost impassable 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 pass—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 passage 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. The Chilcoot Pass. [Pg 14] [Pg 15] [Pg 16] [Pg 17] At this time Linderman's shores 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 passed 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 inshore, 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 masses. A quarter of an hour passed, 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 passage with the oars. Nor could we return, for the ice-pack we had negotiated for miles was now seemingly welded together in one solid mass. 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 "shore," 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. [Pg 18] [Pg 19] [Pg 20] 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 passage." 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 passage 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 masses 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, bumping, grinding, and rocking against the detached fragments of ice that appeared everywhere. With a great effort we managed to slow our craft before coming into contact with a sharp jutting rock that reared high in the middle of the stream, and then we found that it required all our energies to evade the miniature icebergs that rushed alongside. These floating dangers looked harmless enough, yet they were fully six inches deep in the water, and contact with them would result in much damage to the planks of our dorie. Several times, indeed, we were almost overturned by colliding with unusually large floes. In another hour we had nearly navigated the extent of Miles's canyon, and only several hundred yards ahead I noticed Major Walsh's flotilla, buffetting the seething waters cumbrously, while the men at the oars strained every muscle to escape the perils that abounded in their course. "We're not far away from the White Horse, boys," I said to my sturdy henchmen, who were working away like galley slaves. They ceased their labours for a moment to look round, and at once our vessel swung about and drifted dangerously near the rocky river steeps. "We maun keep a way on her," said Stewart. "Let's ken when we're through," said Mac, and their oars cleft the water like the paddle floats of a fast river steamer. The current was flowing at the rate of ten miles an hour, and to keep a steering way on our unwieldy barge was, as may be understood, no easy matter. Frantically I swung my paddle and strove my utmost to avert the calamity that every moment seemed to threaten us. We were rapidly gaining on Major Walsh's outfit. He had four boats in all, three of them being clumsy barges laden entirely with provisions. These latter were manned by several members of the North-West Mounted Police, who worked their oars from difficult-looking perches among the flour sacks. The police boats, however, steered a very erratic course, sometimes being carried forward almost on their beam ends. I guessed that the heavily freighted craft had become unmanageable; certainly the steersmen seemed to have no control. Yet I had little time to notice those ahead, for our own "clipper" required every attention. "Keep her going, boys," I yelled, as I worked my steering paddle with a will, evading rocks, boulders, and ice floes in turn. Suddenly the white dashing surf of the Rapids came into view, the river narrowed to a fraction of its former width, and over the cataract a jagged sea of the dangerous floes crackled and roared into the abyss beyond. I saw the Major's first boat fly like an arrow from the bow into the heart of the boiling foam; it careened dangerously on taking the sweep, then righted itself and disappeared into the flying mists. "Steady, Mac!" I cried, as our craft entered the race. The dense spray almost obscured the great deflecting rock, and we rushed seemingly to destruction. Then, before my eyes, there appeared an awful spectacle. Faster than I can write the words—one, two, three—each of Major Walsh's three boats reared high in the sleety mist and overturned one after the other as they took the curve. "Let her go, boys," I bellowed. "Bend to it." The crucial moment had arrived; we were enveloped in foam, and were dashing straight towards the torrent-deflecting bluff. I leaned far back over the stern of our half-submerged boat, and with a mighty stroke of the paddle swung her head round, and we grazed death by barely half a dozen inches. After the Rapids. Klondike-Bound Miners and their Outfits on Lake Linderman. [Pg 21] [Pg 22] A moment more and we were floating in almost placid waters. Beside us bobbed three smashed boats. Major Walsh stood sorrowfully on shore assisting dripping men from the water. "It's all over, boys," I said to my crew; "you can ease off now," and I steered for the beach and lent my aid in the work of rescue. The half-drowned Canadians were dragged ashore gasping and almost senseless, and while we scanned the grim waters anxiously for a trace of one still missing, his body was tossed at our feet by the relentless waves. Soon after, the sand was littered with sacks of flour, and beans, and miscellaneous foodstuffs. Several camps were in evidence around this melancholy spot, erected by men who had lost their all in the rapids, and were only waiting a chance to return to civilisation. They eagerly accepted the Major's offer to purchase their scanty outfits, and without loss of time that intrepid old Indian fighter had embarked again for the north. To him it was a race with the elements, but the elements won after all, and compelled him to make his winter camp at Big Salmon River, forty miles further north, where we overtook him a few days later. "It's no use my lads, you can't do it!" he said, on my reiterating my intention of proceeding onwards. "Why, the river's frozen solid from here to St. Michael's." "Then we'll put skids under the old boat and make her into a sledge," quoth Mac, drily, and I hailed the suggestion with encouragement. We duly arrived at Dawson City after many days and weeks of ceaseless struggle with the elements on that long and terrible icy trail, and our coming was received with rejoicings by the few half-starved miners who at that time peopled the "City." We had proved the feasibility of an over-ice route to Dyea. THE LAND OF THE THRON-DIUCKS The Klondike Valley in that winter was the scene of many stirring incidents. Owing to the non-arrival of the Canadian Government Commissioner and his police no law or order prevailed. To make matters worse the utmost bitterness existed between the Canadian and American sections of the community, each of whom claimed the rich gold-bearing territory as being within their country's boundary. Quarrels more or less serious were consequently of every-day occurrence. However, the following incident involves no harrowing description of these fierce skirmishes—though it might have led to a most sanguinary encounter with the true owners of the land. Accompanied by "Cap." Campbell and "Alf" Mackay, two well-known miners, my party set out on a prospecting expedition into the mountains flanking the upper reaches of the Klondike River. We had one dog, a powerful mastiff, named Dave, which had proved an invaluable companion to me on our earlier prospecting journeys. Previous to this we had been very successful in our quest for the yellow metal, having located three creeks rich in the precious golden sand. But our eagerness seemed likely to cost us dear, for our store of foodstuffs had become wonderfully small, and we were many days' journey from our camp on Skookum Gulch, where were our headquarters. The return journey proved to be more difficult than we had anticipated; the weather had been very severe for the last few days, and the snow on the hillside was hard and dangerously slippery. "We'll try a short cut over the mountains, boys," said Mackay, as we strove vainly to reach the frozen river far beneath. The Klondike takes many twists in its erratic course, and it so happened that if we could cross a mountain spur we should strike the trail only a few miles from Eldorado Creek. "We'll make the attempt," I said, and Mac and Stewart concurred with emphatic ejaculations. One sleigh carried the possessions of the whole party, and it was tugged along by our combined efforts, including the assistance of Dave, who struggled in his harness in the leader's position. At last we surmounted the great glacier-capped ridge and gingerly made a trail through a narrow ice-bound gulch issuing from the crystal dome and marking a long line of gigantic ice boulders far into the wooded slopes beyond. We slid, and clambered, and buffeted with the snow wreaths and intervening ice fields for over an hour, and then the gully led us across a thickly-timbered flat well sheltered from the elements by the surrounding mountains. At this stage we were, to judge by the lay of the country, but a few miles from the main channel; but the afternoon was far advanced and darkness was quickly closing over the valley, so that further progress was rendered difficult. We were looking about for a suitable camping ground when Mac, who had been closely examining the landscape, gave a howl of delight. "Injuns!" he roared, "I see Injun hooses!" Sure enough there appeared, nestling among the drooping pines, a straggling array of Indian huts and several totem poles. Before I could restrain them, my henchmen dropped their sleigh ropes and rushed impetuously towards the supposed settlement, but their moccasined feet stuck deeply in the soft snow under the trees, and, using my snowshoes to good effect, I succeeded in rounding up the doughty pair before they had g...