CLAIM NUMBER NINE, ANVIL CREEK.
During the six weeks we had spent at Number Nine, many improvements had been made along the route and in Nome. Where before we had traveled seven miles we now walked only two, riding on the new narrow gauge railroad, spoken of there as Mr. Lane's, the remainder of the way.
At Discovery Claim, instead of a few straggling tents, there were eating houses, saloons, store-houses, a ticket and post-office, and the nucleus of a town. The cars we boarded were open, flat cars, with seats along the sides, to be sure, but they were crowded at one dollar per head to Nome. After waiting a little time for a start, the whistle blew shrilly, the conductor shouted "all aboard!" and we trundled along behind a smoky, sturdy engine in almost civilized style.
This was the first railroad in Alaska with the exception of the White Pass and Yukon road, and will eventually extend to the southern coast and Iliamna.
Next morning, after spending the night on the Sandspit with madam, I called, bright and early, upon my Swedish friends in their restaurant.
"Good morning, Mrs. Sullivan!" cried Mary in a hearty voice, as she stirred the steaming mush on the kitchen range.
"Good morning!" said Ricka more quietly, butwith a pleasant, welcoming smile. "Did you come from Number Nine?"
"Good morning!" from Alma, as she poured a cup of hot coffee for a waiting customer. "Do you want to help us? We have plenty of work."
"That's what I came for," said I, laying aside my hat and coat. "Will you lend me an apron till I get mine?" glancing toward the kitchen sink full of unwashed dishes, and the cupboard shelves quite demoralized.
"I'll lend you six if you will only help us. We are so busy serving meals we cannot take time to get settled," said Mary. "Yes, we moved from the tent last week," she said in reply to my question.
"We like this much better. The tent leaked during the hard rains, and flapped so much in the wind that we were afraid it would come down upon our heads. We have had this kitchen built on, and shall keep open till the last boats are gone for the winter. That will be two months longer, likely," and Mary talked on as she dished up the griddle cakes and the two others waited upon the tables.
I felt quite happy to have found work so soon, and that too among friends, and without any particular responsibility attached to the position. I would dignify my labor, doing it well and acceptably, carrying always a sunny face and pleasing mood. The work was of a kind despised by hundreds of women, who, after landing at Nome, had not found agreeable and genteel situations, and sohad gone back home, or, in some cases, done even worse.
To be sure, the pay was not large, the work tiresome, and I would be snubbed by many persons, but I had not come to Alaska for my health. That was excellent. Then I had good food in sufficient quantities, which was always a thing to be considered in that country. I had a purpose in view which I never lost. I would get some gold claims.
The Swedish people were brave and fearless, as well as patient and strong. I had many acquaintances among them already. I felt they were good people to stay with, and they were congenial. To be sure, a few spoke English with an accent, and there were no small, white hands among them; but if the hearts and lives were clean and true, and so far as I could judge they were so, I was satisfied.
The missionaries from Golovin, including the young lady who had come up on the "St. Paul," had, with my three friends here, called at Number Nine at different times during the six weeks of our stay there. Already a plan had been considerably discussed which would take a party of us to Golovin to winter, either in the Swedish mission or near it, and of all things in mind so far this prospect most pleased me.
We would then be fifty miles from the rich Council City mines on the Fish River Creeks, and only half that distance from the Topkok diggings, ofwhich we now heard considerable. Every creek within many miles around Nome was entirely staked, but in the vicinity of Golovin we might hope to secure claims, or, at least, be in a good position to learn of new gold strikes if any were made during the coming winter.
"But we will keep a roadhouse if we go there," said Alma, "and be making some money. I am sure there will be many people traveling through Golovin all winter, and we can make a few dollars that way as well as any one else. Then we will not forget how to cook," and the young woman, with eyes always open to the main chance for "making money," as she called it, laughed at the bare possibility of such a thing.
"We might do that and help in the mission, too, there are so many of us. I would like to work in the mission for a change, I think," said Ricka, who was very religiously inclined and quiet generally.
"What would you like to do, Mrs. Sullivan?" asked Mary. "You say so little, and we talk so much. I want to know what you think."
"Well, there are three of you to talk, and I am only one," said I, laughing, as I placed the cups and saucers, all clean and shining, on the cupboard shelves. "I should like the mission plan better than anything, for I have had some experience in mission work; but if they do not need us there, then I should like the roadhouse well enough, though I think if eight or ten of us, each havingenough supplies for himself for the winter, should form a club and live under one roof, we could do so more cheaply and comfortably than any other way, and have a real jolly, good time in the bargain. These young men, many of them, are intending to winter here somewhere, and all hate to cook for themselves, I know, while they would gladly get the wood, water, and shovel snow, if we did the cooking and housework. None need to work hard, and if a rich gold strike were reported, somebody might want to go and do some staking. In that way we might get some gold claims," I reasoned, while all three listened during a lull in the work.
"That's what we all came to Alaska for—gold claims. I want three," remarked Alma with complacency, "and besides, there is plenty of driftwood at Golovin on the beach which we could have for nothing, and save buying coal at three dollars a sack as we do here," glancing at the scuttle near the range reproachfully, as if the poor, inanimate thing was to blame for prices.
Little Alma was keen at a bargain. There was nothing slow about the grey matter in her cranium. If there was buying to do, or a commodity to sell, Alma was the one of the restaurant firm to do it, enjoying well the bargaining, where she was seldom outwitted.
So in the intervals between meals, or at night when the day's work was done, we discussed our plans outside the kitchen door next the sea beach,watching the shipping in the roadstead, admiring the lovely sky tints left by the setting sun, or gazing at the softly rolling breakers under a silver-bowed moon.
If we had plenty of hard work, with its not altogether desirable phases, we also enjoyed much beside the novelty. Some one we knew was always in from the creeks, principally Anvil, to bring latest news, as well as to collect the same, and the kitchen as well as the dining-room, was the constant rendezvous of friends of one or all of us. Those prospecting among the hills or on the beach at some distance from town came in often for supplies and to visit the post-office, giving the "Star" a call for hot coffee, if not a supper, before leaving. Jokes and stories flew about over the tables, and interesting incidents were always occurring. Good humor and good cheer flowed on every side along with the cordial greeting, and tea and coffee, though nothing stronger in the way of drinks was ever placed upon the tables.
In the kitchen we did not lack voluntary assistants when work pushed, or there was what we called "a rush." One young man would fill the water buckets at a neighboring hydrant, another would bring in coal, and some other would carry away refuse.
Happy, indeed, were the great numbers of dogs fed from the "Star" kitchen. No beggar was ever turned away. No homeless and discouraged soul,whether man or woman, sober or drunken, was allowed to leave as forlorn as he entered. Men often sat down at the tables, who, when filled with good food and hot drink, in a warm and comfortable room fell asleep from the effects of previous stimulants and sank to the floor. When this happened some strong and helpful arm assisted such a one with friendly advice, to the street.
The two sisters were now our nearest neighbors, the third and married one having gone with her husband to live in a new cottage of their own in another part of the town. The eldest of the two had kindly offered me lodging in the back part of their store building of which our restaurant rooms were a half, and from which we were only separated by a board partition. This was a temporary arrangement until I could find something that suited me close at hand, as I chose to be near my work on account of going to my room in the evening after my duties were done. The sisters themselves still lived in their large warehouse a few feet back from the store, and between it and the surf which rolled ceaselessly upon the sands.
I was now more comfortably lodged than since I had landed at Nome. My canvas cot, placed in the back of the store, vacant except for a few rolls of carpeting, matting and oil cloth on sale by the sisters, stood not far from the large coal heater in which fire was kept during the day, making the room warm and dry when I came in at night. Nearthe foot of my cot a good window admitted light and sunshine, and a door opened upon a flight of six stairs into a tiny square yard before one entered the warehouse, where lived the sisters. This latter building was made of corrugated iron, on piles, with windows and a door in the south end looking directly out upon the water only a few feet away, and was fitted cosily enough for the summer, but not intended for anything further except storage purposes. A second door in the north end, opposite the one in the store, and only separated from it by the little yard was the door generally used. At this time lodgings without fire were worth dollars a night in crowded Nome, and one's next neighbors might prove themselves anything but desirable.
Meanwhile we worked steadily. Many of the Anvil Creek mine owners and their men took meals at the "Star" whenever in town. Some of their office employees came regularly. Hundreds were "going outside" on boats, and all was bustle and excitement. At least twenty-five thousand people had landed at Nome during the summer, and fully one-half of them had gone home discouraged.
On Sunday, September second, there came up a most terrible storm, which, for the velocity of its gales, tremendous downfall of rain, terrific surf, accompanied by great loss of life, as well as length of duration, had not been equalled for over twentyyears. Never before was the property loss so great on the Behring Sea coast.
By nine o'clock Sunday morning the large steamers at anchor had put far out to sea for safety. The wind rose, the rain poured. The surf was growing more rough. At dinner time those who came in reported the dead bodies of nine men picked up on the beach. They had attempted to land from a steamer, and their small boat was swamped. One of the men drowned was the mate of the vessel. For days the storm lasted and our work increased. It was not long before the continuous rain had penetrated our little kitchen roof and walls, roughly built as they were of boards, and from that on we worked in rubber boots and short skirts tucked still higher. With the storm at its hardest, I donned a regular "sou'wester," or water proof hat, rather than stand with the rain dripping upon my head, and a cape of the same material covered my shoulders.
People living in tents when the storm began—and there were thousands—had been washed out, or been obliged to leave them, and could not get their own meals. The "Star" swarmed with hundreds who had never been there before, as well as those in the habit of coming. Ten days passed. Sometimes there would be a lull in the storm for a few hours and we hoped it was over, but the surf ran high and could not return before the wind again lashed it into fury.
One midnight, when I was sleeping soundly after an unusually hard day's duties in the kitchen, there came a hasty knock at my door.
"Let me in quick Mrs. Sullivan, the warehouse, we fear, is going. We must come in here. We will bring some more of our things," and little sister dropped the armful of clothing she carried and ran back for more.
Sure enough, as I looked, the water surged up under the warehouse to the foot of the steps. When she returned with another load I offered to dress and assist them, but she said they would only bring the clothing and bedding, and I better go back to bed.
Breathlessly the sisters worked for a time, until the tide prevented them from again entering the warehouse, and they made their bed near me on the floor. When, after watching the waters, they felt satisfied that they receded, they retired, weary and troubled, hoping that before another high tide the storm would have subsided and the danger would be past.
By September twelfth the surf was the worst we had ever seen it, and Snake River had overflowed its banks. Most of those on the Sandspit were obliged to flee for their lives. Hundreds were homeless on the streets. The town's whole water-front was washed away. Tents not only went down by hundreds, but buildings of every descriptionwere swept away and flung by the angry surf high up on the sands.
Anchored lighters and barges were loosened from their moorings and came ashore, as did schooners broken and disabled. Dead bodies were each day picked up on the beach, which was strewn with wreckage.
One dark night, when the rain had ceased for a time to give place to a fearful gale which tossed the maddened waters higher and higher, there appeared upon the horizon a dim, portentous shape. At first it was only a form, indistinct and uncertain. As we watched longer, it gradually assumed the semblance of a ship. Keen eyes soon discerned a huge, black hulk, of monstrous size when riding the crest of the breakers, smaller and partially lost to sight when buried at intervals in the trough of the sea.
A ship was drifting helplessly, entirely at the mercy of the elements, and must soon be cast upon the beach at our feet. Approaching swiftly as she was, in the heavy sea, as the violence of the wind bore her onward, lights appeared as signals of distress, telling of souls on board in fearful danger.
In dismay we watched the helpless, on-coming vessel. We were in direct line of her path as she was now drifting. If by chance the mountain of water should, by an awful upheaval, rear the wreck upon its crest at landing, we would be engulfed in a moment of time. No power could save the buildingswhich would be instantly shivered to heaps of floating debris.
Should we flee for our lives? Or would the wind, quickly, by some miracle, change its course, and thereby send the menacing vessel to one side of us or the other? Groups of patrolmen and soldiers everywhere watched with anxious eyes, and friends stood with us to encourage and assist if needed.
God alone could avert the awful, impending disaster. He could do so, and did.
When only a few hundred feet from shore, the huge black mass, rearing and tossing like a thing of life in the raging sea, swerved to the west by a sudden veer of the wind, and then, amid the roar of breakers angry to ferocity, she, with a boom as of cannon in battle, plunged into the sands of the beach only a hundred and fifty feet away.
The earth trembled. With one long, quivering motion, like some dumb brute in its death struggle, the ship settled, its great timbers parting as it did so, and the floods pouring clean over its decks. Then began the work of rescuing those on board, which was finally, after many hours, successfully accomplished.
"G
IRLS, O girls!" shouted Mary from the kitchen door in order to be heard above the waters, "Do come inside!" Then, as we answered her call and closed the door behind us, she said: "The danger is over now, and you can't help those poor people in the wreck. There are plenty of men to do that. See! it is nearly midnight, and we shall have another hard day's work tomorrow. Go to bed like good children, do."
"How about yourself, ma?" said Ricka, carrying out the farce of mother and children as we often did, Mary being the eldest of the four.
"I'm going too, as soon as I get this pancake batter made, for I'm dead tired. We will hear the particulars of the wreck at breakfast," replied Mary.
"Poor things! How I pity them. What an awful experience for women if there were any on board," said sympathetic Ricka, and I left them talking it over, to roll into my cot, weary from twelve hours of hard work and excitement.
No anxiety, and no thundering of the breakers could now keep me awake, and for hours I slept heavily.
Suddenly I was wide awake. No dream or unusual sound had roused me. Some new danger must be impending. My pulses throbbed. The clock at the head of my cot ticked regularly, and its hands pointed to four. The sisters slept peacefully side by side. The whole town seemed resting after the intense and continued anxiety caused by the storm, and I wondered why I had wakened.
However, something impelled me to get up, and, rising quietly from my cot in order not to arouse the others, I went to the south window and peered out.
My heart fairly stood still.
The waters were upon us! They had already covered the lower steps at the door not six feet from the cot on which I had slept. I stood motionless. If I knew that the waters were receding, I would go quietly to bed, allowing the others to sleep an hour longer; but if they were rising there was no time to lose. None could reckon on the tides now, for all previous records had been recently broken. I would wait and watch a few minutes, I decided, and I wrapped a blanket around me, for my teeth chattered, and I shivered.
How cruel the water looked as I watched it creep closer and closer. How quietly now it swept atflood tide up through the piles under the warehouse, covering the little back yard and the kitchen steps of the restaurant. With the cunning of a thief it was creeping upon us in the darkness when we were asleep and helpless.
Would the resistless waters persist in our destruction? Where should we go in the storm if obliged to fly for our lives?
Twenty minutes passed.
Another step was covered while I watched—the tide was rising.
Crossing the room now to where my friends lay sleeping, I touched little sister upon the shoulder.
"Wake up! Wake up! The tide is coming,—the water is almost at the door! I have been watching it for twenty minutes, and I'm sure we ought to be dressed," said I, trying to keep my voice steady so as neither to betray my fright nor startle them unnecessarily.
Springing from their bed they hurried to the window and looked out.
"I should say so!" exclaimed the younger lady in dismay.
"These treacherous waters will not give us up. They want us, and all we possess, and are literally pursuing us, I believe," groaned Miss S., the older sister, struggling to get hastily into her clothing. "But we must waken the girls," she said, rapping on the intervening wall, and calling loudlyfor the three other women who still slept soundly from fatigue.
With that, we all dressed, and began to pack our belongings; I putting my rubber blanket upon the floor and rolling my bedding in that. This I tied securely, and dragged to the street door, packing my bags and trunk quickly for removal if necessary.
In the restaurant none knew exactly what to do. The water had covered the back steps, and the spray was dashing against the kitchen door. Underneath, the little cellar, dug in the dry sand weeks before, and used as a storing place for tents, chairs, vegetables and coal sacks, was filled with water which now came within a foot of the floors. From sheer force of habit, Mary began building a fire in the range, and I to pack the spoons, knives and forks in a basket for removal. Ricka thought this a wise thing to do, but Alma remonstrated.
"The water will not come in. You need not be afraid. If it does, we will only run out into the street, leaving everything. Let us get breakfast now, the people are coming in to eat," and this very matter-of-fact young woman began laying the tables for the morning meal. It was six o'clock. The men soon began to pour into the dining room hungry, wet, and cold. Many had been out all night assisting in the rescue work or patrolling the beach, inspecting each heap of wreckage in search of dead bodies and valuables, for many among themissing were supposed to have perished in the storm.
Three men engaged in rescuing the survivors of the big wreck of the night previous, had been swept from the barge alongside, and gone down in the boiling surf. Searching parties were out trying to locate a number of men who had started two days before, during a lull in the storm, against the warnings of friends, for Topkok to the east. They were never again seen.
I had now to find other lodgings, for the sisters needed their room. Leaving my work for an hour in the forenoon I tramped about in the mud looking everywhere within two blocks of the "Star," for I did not wish to go further away.
After calling at a number of places, I was directed to a small hotel or lodging house across the street from the "Star," and about one and a half blocks further east. A man and his wife kept the house, which consisted of eating room and kitchen on the east side of the lower floor, and a big bar-room or saloon on the west side. The second floor was divided by a long narrow hall into two rows of small rooms for rent to lodgers. The woman showed me a little room with one window on the west side.
"I wish to rent by the week, as I am expecting to leave town before long," said I, after telling her my business, and where I was at work. "What rent do you charge?"
"Five dollars per week, unfurnished," said she.
I caught my breath. The room was about eight feet square, and as bare as my hand. Not even a shade hung at the window. It was ceiled with boards around and overhead. I asked if she would put up a window shade. She said she would when her husband returned, as she expected him in a few days from Norton Sound.
After talking with the little woman she seemed to wish me to take the room, assuring me that there were only quiet, decent people in the house, and the saloon below was closed each day at midnight. There was a billiard table and piano in the bar-room; but no window shades, shutters nor screens of any sort, she said. Her own room was next this one, and she was always there after nine o'clock in the evening, so I need not feel timid.
Upon reflection, I took the room, and paid the rent. My things could not stand in the street, and I must have a place in which to sleep at night. It was high and dry, and far enough away from the surf, so that I need not fear being washed out. I would not be in my room during the day, and it was only for a few weeks anyway. It suited my needs better than anything I could find elsewhere, and as for furnishings, I could do without.
I went back to my work, and had my baggage and cot sent to the room. I could settle things in a few minutes in the evening before retiring.
The surf still boomed upon the beach, and rainand mist continued all day, but without wind. For hours the waters kept close to our floors, but did not quite reach them. Floating wreckage washed up at our feet, and two lighters, loose from their moorings, lodged beside the warehouse at the mercy of the surf. We were in constant fear that they would shove the warehouse off the piles against our buildings, and that would be, without doubt, the finale.
In the meantime there was "a rush" indoors such as we never before had. Many carried hearts saddened by the loss of friends or property. Some had not slept for days. At the tables, at one time, sat two beggars, and a number of millionaires. Some who had reckoned themselves rich a few days previous were now beggared. The great wreck of the night before was going rapidly to pieces. With a mighty force, the still angry breakers dashed high over the decks of the ship. Masts and rigging went down hourly, and ropes dangled in mid-air, while men unloading coal and lumber worked like beavers at windlass and derrick, which creaked loudly above the noise of the waters.
More and more was the ship dismantled. When the storm cleared, and the sun came out next day, the scene was one of wondrous grandeur. Nothing more magnificent had I ever before beheld. Great masses of water, mountain high, rolled continually landward, their snowy crests surmounted by veils of mist and spray, delicate as the traceryon some frosted window pane. As the sun lifted his head above the horizon, throwing his beams widely over all, each mist-veil was instantly transformed into a thing of surpassing beauty. It could only be compared to strings of diamonds, rubies and pearls. With a fairy's witchery, or a magician's spell, the whole face of the waters was changed. Each wrecked craft along the shore, partially buried in sand, masts gone, keel broken, and anchor dragged, with the surf breaking over all, was transformed under the brilliant sunshine, until no painting could be more artistically beautiful. Under the fascination of it all we forgot the anxiety, the labor, and suspense of the last days and weeks, and every moment of interval between work we spent at our door next the beach, or after the falling of the tide, further out upon the sands.
Many wrecks lay strewn along the beach. Schooners, barges, and tugs lay broken and helpless. Untold quantities of debris, lumber, pieces of buildings, tents, boxes, and barrels, all testified to the sad and tremendous havoc made by this great storm.
In my little room I rested quietly when my day's work was done. The landlady had taken down an old black shawl I had pinned to the window, and hung a green cloth shade of ugly color, and too wide by several inches. It was better than no shade, and I said nothing. For a bed I had my own cot; for a washstand, a box. At the head ofmy cot stood two small boxes, one above the other, and upon these I placed my clock, matches, pincushion, brush and combs, while below were stowed away other little things. A few nails on the wall held my dresses, but my trunk remained packed. A candle, tin wash basin, and bucket completed my room furnishings, simple and homely enough to satisfy the asceticism of a cloistered nun or monk.
On September twenty-seventh there fell the first snow of the season. A little had for days been lying upon the hilltops of Anvil, but none nearer. The only fire in my room was an oil lamp upon which I heated water upon going home at night; but with plenty of blankets and wool clothing I was comfortable with the window open.
One evening while going to my room I heard some one singing in the bar-room. I hurried up the stairs on the outside of the building, which was the only way of entrance to the second floor, and entered my room. Depositing my lighted lantern upon the floor, I listened. The singing continued. It was a youthful woman's voice. I would see for myself. Going quietly out the door, and down part way to a window crossed by the stairs, I sat down upon a step and looked into the room below. It was the big bar-room. It was pleasant and warm, with lights and fire. Upon the bright green cloth of the billiard table lay a few gay balls, but no game was then in progress. The big piano waited open near by. The bartender stood behind thebar, backed by rows of bottles, shining glasses and trays. A mirror reflected the occupants of the room, some of whom were leaning against the counter in various attitudes, but the central figure stood facing them.
It was a beautiful young girl who was singing.
A few feet from, and directly in front of the girl, was her companion, a well dressed and good looking young man a little older. Both were intoxicated, and trying to dance a cake walk, accompanying themselves by singing, "I'd Leave my Happy Home for You."
She was singing in a tipsy, disconnected way the senseless ditty, swaying back and forth to the imaginary music. Beautiful as a dream, with dark hair, and great melting eyes, her skin was like lilies, and each cheek a luscious peach. Her tall, graceful figure, clad in long, sweeping black draperies, with white jeweled fingers daintily lifting her skirts while she stepped backward and forward, made a picture both fascinating and horrible.
I sat gazing like one petrified. The girl's laugh rang through the room. "I'd Leave my Happy Home for You, ou—ou," she was singing still, weaving and swaying now from side to side as if about to fall. Her companion approached and attempted to place his arm about her shoulders, but she gave him a playful push which sent him sprawling, at which she shouted in great glee, dropping her drapery and flinging her lovely arms above herhead. How the diamonds sparkled on her little hands I How the men in the bar-room clapped, swearing she was a good one, and must have another drink. Someone gave an order, and the bartender handed out a small tray upon which stood slender-necked amber-colored glasses filled to the brim.
As the girl quickly tossed off the liquor, I groaned aloud, awaked from my trance, and fled to my room, where I bolted the door, and fell upon my knees. God forgive her! What a sight! I wanted to rush into the bar-room, seize the young girl, and lead her away from the place and her companions, but I could not. I had barely enough room for myself. I had little money. What could I do for her? Absolutely nothing. If I went in and attempted to talk with her it would do no good, for she was drunk, and a drunken person cannot reason. The men would jeer at me, and I might be ejected from the place.
Finally I went to bed. At midnight the singing and shouting ceased, the people dispersed, the bartender put out the lights, and locked the doors.
For the first time since reaching Nome, my pillow was wet with tears, and I prayed for gold with which to help lift these, my sisters, from their awful degradation.
It was well towards midnight, and I had been asleep for some time. My subjective mind, ever on the alert as usual, and ready to share enjoymentas well as pain with my objective senses, began gradually to inform me that there was music in the air. Softly and sweetly, like rippling summer waters over mossy stones, the notes floated upward to my ears. The hands of an artist lay upon the keyboard of the instrument in the room beneath.
I listened drowsily.
With the singing of brooks, I heard the twitter of little birds, the rustle of leaves on the trees, and saw the maiden-hair nodding in the glen. I was a little child far away in the Badger State. Again I was rambling through green fields, and plucking the pretty wild flowers. How sweet and tender the blue skies above! How gentle the far-away voice of my mother as she called me!
They were singing softly now,—men's voices, well trained, and in sweetest harmony:
"I'm coming, I'm coming,My ear is bending low.I hear the angel's voices callingOld Black Joe."
"I'm coming, I'm coming,My ear is bending low.I hear the angel's voices callingOld Black Joe."
They sang the whole song through, and I was now wide awake.
Familiar songs and old ballads followed, the master hand at the keys accompanying.
"We are going outside on the Ohio tomorrow," said one in an interval of the music, "and then, ho! for home again, so I'm happy," and a momentary clog dance pounded the board floor.
"Have a drink on it, boys?" asked a generous bystander who had been enjoying the music.
"No, thanks, we never drink. Let's have a lively song now for variety," and the musician struck up a coon song, which they sang lustily. Then followed "America," "Auld Lang Syne," and "'Mid Pleasures and Palaces," the dear old "Home, Sweet Home" coming with intense sweetness and pathos to my listening ear. No sound disturbed the singers, and others filed quietly out when they had gone away. "God bless them, and give them a safe voyage home to their dear ones," I breathed, with tears slipping from under wet lashes, and a great lump in my throat.
"Thank God for those who are above temptation, even in far-away Alaska," and again I turned, and slept peacefully.
B
Y October twelfth the weather began to be quite wintry, with snow flurries, cold wind, and a freezing ground. All now felt their time short in which to prepare for winter, change residence, and get settled. After many days of planning, in which eight or ten persons were concerned, it was finally decided that we should go to Golovin Bay. The head missionary, and one or two of his assistants from that place, had been with us part of the time during the great storm, so we were quite well acquainted, and we would be near the Mission.
The "boys," as we called the young men for short, would build a cabin in which the funds of the women were also to be pooled. Three of the boys had gone, some weeks before, to Golovin to assist in the erection of a new Mission Home, twelve miles further down the coast; but as a shipload of mission supplies had been lost at sea, including building materials, their work was much hampered, and it was not expected that the new home would be completed, though sadly needed for the accommodationof the constantly increasing numbers of Eskimo children for which it was intended.
In this case, no new helpers could be added to the missionary force, though Miss L., a tall, intelligent young woman, was to be placed in the Home kitchen as cook, and would accompany us to Golovin. It was decided, then, that the restaurant be closed immediately before the last boat left Nome for Golovin, as it would be impossible to get there after the last steamer had gone until the ice was solid, and winter trails were good over the hills. Most of us did not care to remain so long where we were, and made ready to sail on the small coast steamer "Elk," scheduled to leave Nome October eighteenth.
On the evening of the sixteenth the doors of the "Star" were formally closed. We had had a rush up to the last moment, and all hands were completely tired out. It had been a long pull, and a steady pull, and the thought uppermost in the minds of us four women was to get to Golovin and rest. Even Alma sighed for a vacation from hard work, feeling that the roadhouse, if they opened one, must wait until she was rested.
Mary wished to remain at Nome for a while, and come later by dog-team when the trails were good. She would take a day after we had gone to finish storing away the "Star" outfit for the next summer, and make the rooms tidy, afterwards visiting acquaintances, and doing shopping.
For two days after closing the "Star" we were busy as bees, but at a change of occupation. We bought food supplies, coal-oil, and warm clothing, receiving parcels of the latter, including yarns for winter knitting, at the hands of the stewardess of the "St. Paul," who had kindly made our purchases in San Francisco at better prices (for us) than we found at Nome. Some bought furs, when they could find them, though these were scarce and costly, and each person carried his own bedding. Letters to the outside were written and posted, mails collected, freight and other bills paid, and tickets secured on the steamer.
For my own part, I now found some kindly helper with strong arms whenever I had a trunk, bag, or box to lift or transfer, and no remuneration for services thus rendered beyond a smiling, "thank you very much," was ever accepted.
What a strong, hearty, clean, and good-natured lot were these Swedes. How helpful, sympathetic, and jolly withal. It was easy for them to see the clear, bright side of everything, and to turn an innocent joke on themselves occasionally; for one told on another is never so effective and enjoyable as a joke on oneself; but there were often those with tears in their eyes, and a homesick feeling at their heart upon bidding farewell to friends who were leaving for the outside.
With the approach of a long, hard winter in the Arctic, so unknown and untried by many, witha distance of thousands of miles of ocean soon to roll between them, it was many times difficult to say a careless good-bye. For those remaining in Alaska, who could foresee the future? Was it to be a fortunate and happy one, or would it disclose only misfortune, with, perchance, sickness and death? Would these partings be followed by future happy meetings, or were they now final? Who could tell?
Among those constantly sailing for the outside were those who left regretfully, and those who left joyfully; there was the husband and father returning to his loved ones with "pokes," well filled with nuggets, and the wherewithal to make them more happy than ever before.
There were those returning to sweethearts who daily watched and waited longingly for their home-coming which would be more than joyful. There were those leaving who would come again when the long winter was over, to renew their search for gold already successfully begun; and they were satisfied.
There were many who left the gold fields with discouragement depicted upon their every feature. They had been entirely unable to adapt themselves to circumstances so different to any they had before known, and they had not possessed the foresight and judgment to decide affairs when the critical moments came. Perhaps a fondness for home, and dear ones, pulled too persistently uponthe heartstrings; nothing here looked good to them, and they went home disgusted with the whole world. Unless a man or woman can quickly adjust himself or herself to changed conditions, and has a willingness to turn his or her hand to any honorable labor, he would better remain at home, and allow others to go to Alaska.
If a man goes there with pockets already well lined, intending to operate in mining stocks, he still needs the adjustable spirit, because of the new, crude, and compulsory manners of living. He must be able to forget the luxury of silver spoons, delicate hands, soft beds, and steam heat; enjoying, or at least accommodating himself to the use of tin spoons, coarse food, no bed, and less heat, if his place and circumstances for a time demand such loss of memory.
A bountiful supply of hopefulness is also necessary, in order, at times, to make the darkness and discomfort of the present endurable, and this will wonderfully cheer and create patience. Thousands of persons who were ill qualified in these and other respects had journeyed to Alaska, only to return, homesick, penniless, and completely discouraged, who never should have left their home firesides.
Not so with the Swedish people. They are accustomed to a cold climate, hard work, and conditions needing patience and perseverance, without great luxuries in their homes, and being strongand hearty physically, they are well fitted, both by nature and practice, for life in the new gold fields of Alaska. There were more reasons than one for their success in the far Northwest, and a little study of cause and effect would disclose the truth, when it will be found that it was not all "luck" which made so many successful.
Our last day at Nome is a confused memory of trunks, boxes, bags, barrels, dog-teams, tickets, bills, lunches, tables, dishes, and numerous other things. Tramping hurriedly through busy, dirty streets, and heavy, sandy beach, with arms loaded with small baggage (we had neither parrots nor poodles) making inquiries at stores and offices, doing innumerable errands, saying good-byes, and having good-luck wishes called after us; and then, when the sun had disappeared for the day, and night was almost upon us, we turned our backs upon our summer camp, and hastened to our winter home.
At the water's edge small pieces of ice washed up and down with a clicking sound upon the sands, as if to give us notice of approaching winter, but the ocean was almost as smooth as a floor. No breath of wind disturbed the surface, and only a gentle swell came landward at intervals to remind us of its still mighty, though hidden, power.
Then we were all in readiness to leave. A little boat was drawn upon the sand. Into it all small baggage was tossed. It was then pushed outfarther by men in high rubber boots standing in the water.
"I cannot get into the boat," laughed Little Alma, "I will get my feet wet."
"Not if I can help it," answered a stalwart sailor, who immediately picked her up bodily and set her down in the boat, repeating the operation three times, in spite of the screams and laughter of Miss L., Ricka and myself. Ricka and I were only of medium height, but Miss L. was a good six-footer, and when we were safely in the boat, and she had been picked up in the sailor's strong arms, if she did not scream for herself, some of us did it for her, thinking she would certainly go head first into the water; but no, she was carefully placed, like the rest of us, in the boat.
After getting settled, and the final good-byes were waved, the men sprang in, those on shore pushed the boat off; we were again on the bosom of old Behring Sea. Smaller and fainter grew all forms upon the shore. Darker and deeper grew the waters beneath us. The lights of a few belated steamers, twinkled in the distance, their reflections, beautiful as jewels, quietly fixed upon the placid waters. Like a thing of sense, it seemed to me, the great ocean, full of turmoil, rage, and fury so recently, it would show us, before we left, how lamblike, upon occasions, it could be; and all old scores against it were then and there forgotten.
A dark form soon lay just before us. "Whereis the 'Elk,'" I asked of a sailor rowing, looking about in the gathering darkness which had rapidly fallen.