CHAPTER XVI.
F
FEB. 8.—Mr. and Mrs. Samms left for the Mission yesterday. Harry Reynolds goes with them, and will either stay there or go down to the "Penelope." That lessens our number, but we will still have eleven in the house. C. C. talks of following them later. There will be no more prospecting done by this company this year, except by myself, and that for birds. I got a pair of muckluks in trade, and am now bartering for a pair of snowshoes. The snow is eighteen inches deep and very light and dry. I shot four redpolls near the house this morning. I would like to see it sixty-five degrees below zero just for the experience of it. I have already shot ptarmigan at forty-four degrees below, and could have stood it much colder without wind.
Feb. 11.—It must be admitted that life is getting a little humdrum. There is nothing in particular to write about unless one has a poetic turn. Poetry doesn't come to any of us any more. The poetry is wearing off from the L. B. & A. M. & T. Co.
If I were a Mark Twain, with humor to relate the doings of people about me, I could write a few pages of good reading. Resources are unlimited to the right person applying. The story of our "Fool's Errand" into this out-of-the-way country, if written by an expert, would be as rich a theme as one could desire. But alas! I am only a bird-hunter by nature, and a gold-hunter on the Kowak by grace of my father, and am unable to depict the fortunes of this crowd in an acceptable manner. There is unrest everywhere. All admit that they have been duped. Some are making the best of circumstances, but others are taking it to heart in a pitiful degree. Although for the most part good-natured, chagrin is the rule. There are many pathetic tales half hinted at. Men left families to live as best they might, in vain hope, in narrowed circumstances at home, selling or mortgaging all they possessed to outfit themselves, confidently expecting to return with quickly-acquired wealth. About twenty-five men have lost their lives so far from drowning, freezing or scurvy, several of whom we know to have dependent families at home. It is worse than war, for there is no pension. And then the ridiculousness of this mad rush! How a company of excited men followed an Eskimo three days across the tundras and over the mountains, only to beshown a little brook with yellow mica glistening in the sandy bed! How another party had a "sure thing," and several others got wind of it and followed, scarcely giving themselves time to sleep, until they all reached the same spot together in a mood to fight, but finally laughed at themselves as if provoked by a humorous ice demon. Several parties paid an old sailor at San Francisco forty dollars each for a "tip" as to the exact spot where gold had been dug out, "fifteen thousand dollars in two hours with a jack-knife"! They all met at the supposed place. We have had the laugh on them many times, though I fail to see the exact grounds. The ludicrous sometimes changes to the doleful even while I am laughing.
"We paid $600 apiece for our tip," someone says. Several have owned up that they followed the "Penelope" crowd into this country believing that we had "a sure thing;" and the missionaries told us that it has been rumored that nearly live hundred men came into the Sound last summer following our "scent." I cannot see anything "funny" about it, though some do.
Feb. 12.—This morning after breakfast I amused myself about an hour before service by paying strict attention to affairs about me in the cabin. It is astonishing how entertaining the meaningless, helter-skelter, careless conversation can be. And yet there are points. We are all doing something, if only yawning or looking out of the frosty window.
C. C. is clipping Cox's whiskers and makes inaudible remarks. Rivers is shaving, just like any Christian of a Sunday morning. Miller, Alec, Clyde, Casey, Brownie and the doctor are reading. I am writing at the table. Uncle Jimmy is standing by the stove with his hands in his pockets, facing the window and whistling. A pail of water is set into the top of the heating stove and sizzles in varying tones. All is quiet for a while, when positions are changed. Ablutions are going on behind closed canvas. Uncle Jimmy sits down on a bench and pulls his beard in a slow, rhythmical motion. He is abstracted. Cox tills a stew-pail with water, pieces of ice striking the sides with a tinkling sound, and puts it on the cook stove. Uncle Jimmy gets his Bible and sits down at the table, spending several moments in wiping his spectacles. He reads a verse and pushes his specs high up on his forehead, rests his head on his hand and dozes off. Casey and Cox exchange some words about a "shirt" that has shrunken in washing. Rivers takes the thermometer and goes outdoors. Returns, saying that it is "thirty below." and bids me put that in my diary. Clyde brings his camera outfit to the window and explains what the several pictures represent. Cox asks me to "blow out the lamp if I don't need it," which I do. Cox gets a book and sits down near the window. He lights his big corn-cob and, after putting several dense clouds of smoke, asks, "Will I disturb you smoking. Uncle Jimmy?" The latter says, "Oh, no; oh, no!" Rivers gets "Hamlet" and sits down to the table to read. C. C. is in his bed-room humming a tune. Ceases humming and whistles; is again humming; whistles; sings. The doctor gets up, saying. "Uncle Jimmy. I didn't know I took your Bible." Goes into bed-room and puts on hood and mittens. Says he is "going up to see Bentz." And the morning passes, while I see and hear much more of no greater importance than what I have recorded. Half-past eleven the natives and "cabloonas" begin to arrive for church. C. C. speaks, and as usual we all listen.
After Whitefish.
After Whitefish.
Is it monotonous, does one think who has not spent months in a cabin with the same faces and the same voices and the same routine of endless twilight? I marvel how some who have not inward resources can endure it.
I let "Cingato" have my shot-gun yesterday, and he brought me four ptarmigan, two of which were the rock ptarmigan, which I have not before taken. I wanted to skin them to-day, but Uncle Jimmy wouldn't let me. If I insisted Casey said I might, from Uncle Jimmy's threatening look, "precipitate a rough house." I put the birds away to freeze until to-morrow, so there is no further danger of a "rough house."
Last night we had the most beautiful aurora of the winter. The more brilliant display was south of the zenith, although there was scarcely a part of the sky which was not illuminated at some time. Broad curtains of pale blue light seemed suspended in the heavens. They were constantly changing in form and intensity, and waves slowly swept across them as if they were disturbed by a breeze. The lower edge was the brighter, and alternate light and shadow chased each other endlessly from west to east. The effect was like that of a stage with the curtain drawn, with a succession of persons passing in front of the footlights. And then there were ribbons of light sweeping slowly across the sky. These bands were often abruptly broken and continued at right angles with the other section. Little patches of light, like a fleecy cloud in a sunny sky, appeared for a few minutes, to gradually fade out again. There was no moon, and yet the landscape was illuminated as if by the brightest moonlight, but there were no shadows.
On a Journey.
On a Journey.
Feb. 17.—Alec, Miller and Casey started back up the river and Brownie went with them. The four "Agnes Boyd" boys who came down with C. C. also went up, and two of the Hanson boys with them. Yesterday Casey. Clyde and three of the Iowa people also left, and will catch up with the first party at Ambler City. Alec, Miller, Clyde and Brown will return in a month. The party had two sleds and four dogs. The cabin seems almost empty. We have had from eleven to eighteen sleeping and eating here for the past month or more, and now we are only six. The comparative quiet is a relief and I shall be able to do more studying. I want to read some more books as well. I expect we shall be few in numbers from now on. When Alec and Miller get back from the upper camp they, with C. C. and Rivers, are planning to go down to the vessel at Escholtz Bay. Casey, our engineer, will stick by the "Helen" until the river opens. I am going to stay here until the "Helen" picks me up on her way to the Sound. I can do more work in the spring collecting, with a warm cabin to dry specimens in, than chasing over the country prospecting, with a will-o'-the-wisp in view. The weather is very gloomy. The air is heavy with mist and full of a fine frost which falls constantly. The sun, although it shines for seven hours a day, doesn't get far enough above the horizon to get in its genial work. It was forty-five degrees below zero this morning and we stay in the cabin. Last week Rivers and I were relieved from culinary duties and Cox took our place. Coxie proves himself to be the best cook the Long Beach and Alaska Mining and Trading Company has produced. We feel our loss in not having discovered his talents in this line before. He has been too modest. His art shall no longer be in obscurity.
A Child in the Cabin.
A Child in the Cabin.
He sits straddle of the stove all day long concocting original dishes and improving upon old ones. He gives us a quarter of a pie apiece three times a day, and as much as we want between meals. His bread is perfect. We had the finest kind of fried eggs for breakfast—fish eggs. The only impediment to his cooking, to my mind, is his inability to make mush. It is too thin. We have made a fortunate deal with the Hanson Company, who have fifty tons of provisions in their storehouse here, to get all the extra grub we need until summer. Their steamer, the "Agnes Boyd," is nearlyburied in a "glacier creek," and it will probably fall to the "Helen" to ship their possessions down next summer. I was down to the San Jose cabin for dinner. We were served to an individual can apiece of sauerkraut and sausages steaming hot. I had been hunting across the tundra for several miles through the snow, and my appetite was as keen as C. C.'s razor after he has stropped it on a section of the belt which was made at home and fastened around his waist with the charge that on no account was it to be taken off unless he was found dead in the snow. It has his name on it for identification. Guy Solsbury has just come up with Dr. Coffin to stay with us for a few days' visit. We have plenty of room now, and are ready to receive in decent style.
Feb. 20. 12 o'clock noon.—Cox and Rivers and I are the only ones in the room. The rest are cutting wood. The sunshine is flooding the cabin with light, although the thermometer shows forty degrees below zero. One of our Eskimo neighbors, "Poth-luk," is visiting us, probably more for the benefit he derives from the stove than from a particularly friendly feeling. His little girl is with him, and is romping around the room like any white child. "Kop-puk" is the prettiest native child I have seen. She is "four snows old," so Poth-luk tells me. Her costume is typically Eskimo—a heavy deerskin parka with a big hood, lined with wolverine, strips of minkskin hanging from her shoulders and waist, and deerskin commuks. Her hood lies back from her head exposing her black hair, cut bang-wise in front. Her face is round and fat and her mouth really very pretty. She has shining dark brown eyes and perfectly white teeth. At this moment she is playing "peek-a-boo" with me from behind a chair. Her laughing face, surrounded by the broad fringe of wolverine fur, and her chubby figure, make a pretty picture. I would like to take her home with me. But what could I do with her? If taken from her native climate she would probably soon die.
Our Artist Snowed In.
Our Artist Snowed In.
We have a new lounge, which invites indigence in an already lazy crowd. I have read over and over the six letters I received in the New Year's mail. It will be six months yet before we get any more. We heard from an Indian that Harry K. and Samms had reached the Orphans' Home safely, though they have had hard traveling. Saturday night Brownie, Clyde, two of the Iowa boys and one Hansonite returned, having given up the trip. They only went fifteen miles up the river. The snow is so deep they had to carry the sled in some places, and those who are continuing with it have to double up with the loads; that is, go over the road twice in order to get the entire load up. They will have a rough time. Brownie came near freezing to death and had to return. This gave the other boys who came with him an excuse for returning. Brownie has been around home all winter, not exercising much, and was not sufficiently hardened for such a trip. The first day, after they had been out but a few hours, he sat down exhausted and said he would come on as soon as he had rested a few minutes (the old story). The boys had presence of mind to know what the real matter was and tried to get him to walk on, but he completely collapsed and became unconscious. They quickly unloaded the sled and several went on ahead to prepare the tent and get a fire going, while the rest got Brownie on thesled and hauled him to camp. He was finally restored, but a few minutes more and another would have been added to the Kowak silent ones. It was thirty-five degrees below zero, not so very cold, but his feet and face were frozen. The boys plied the art of thawing him out so well that he will lose nothing but some skin. He makes a pretty picture with a black nose. His toes are sore, too. Nothing will induce him to leave the cabin again. It is no use making light of it, it is dangerous traveling unless one is in the best physical condition and with proper clothes and outfit. The rest of the party are used to it, and we have no fear for their safety. So many together can take care of each other. Brownie says that when he sat down to rest he only felt tired and a little numb. This numbness crept on him with little pain until he gradually lost perception. He says he "felt good" and didn't like to be disturbed. He lost all power of movement and speech until he was warmed up and rubbed for two or three hours. Death by freezing must be very easy and pleasant. Perhaps it is easier to die almost any death than we suspect. I must have an argument with the doctor about that.
Saturday brought me a new experience—that of writing a sick man's will. B., who lives alone in a little cabin near the first Iowa Camp, is very sick and will probably die. He dictated his will to me, in the presence of Uncle Jimmy as witness. It apportions all his goods and possessions here, which are all he has in the world, among the residents of this community, naming in particular several who have waited upon him. Dr. Coffin is willed his dory. B. is a queer character. He is more or less insane, evidently from drink. The way he begs for hypodermic injections of cocaine and morphine indicates that he may have been a "dope fiend." He has been here since last summer. For some time previous his record was not sustaining, but his people thought he might be benefited by a change of climate. He says his folks are well off and he doesn't want any of his things sent home. The different camps are sharing in his care now, and he may live indefinitely. His legs are affected very much like the scurvy victim's, though the doctors do not call it that. Several of the people have frost-bitten cheeks, but otherwise this is a healthy neighborhood. What little sickness we have had tends to make the well ones kind and charitable and helpful. They chop wood for one another and in many ways give evidence of having sprung from a long line of Christian ancestors. I have heard that, this is the case always and everywhere at mining camps. And ours is a mining camp.