Chapter 4
CHAPTER IV. THE RUSH Since the discovery of gold by George Carmack on Bonanza Creek in September 1896, the growth of this country has been phenomenal, more especially so to the one who has visited and is familiar with Dawson and the Klondike mining section. As to the entire yield of gold from the Klondike creeks, none can say except approximately. For the 10% royalty imposed by
the Canadian government has always met a phase of human nature which prompts to concealment and dishonesty, so that a truthful estimate cannot be made. The Canadian Dominion government is very oppressive. Mining laws are very arbitrary and strictly enforced. A person wishing to prospect for gold must first procure a miner's license, paying $10 for it. If anything is discovered and he wishes to locate a claim, he visits the recorder's office, states his business,
and is told to call again. In the meantime, men are sent to examine the locality, and if anything of value is found, the man wishing to record the claim is told that it is already located. The officials seize it. The man has no way of ascertaining if the land was properly located, and so has no redress. If the claim is thought to be poor, he can locate it by the payment of a $15 fee. One half of all mining land is reserved for the Crown, a quarter or more is gobbled by
corrupt officials, and a meager share left for the daring miners who, by braving hardship and death, develop the mines and open up the country. Anyone going into the country has no right to cut wood for any purpose or to kill any game or catch any fish without a license for which a fee of $10 must be paid. With such a license, it is unlawful to sell a stick of wood for any purpose or a pound of fish or game. The law is strictly enforced. To do anything, one must have a special permit,
and for every such permit he must pay roundly. The story is told of a miner in a hospital who was about to die. He requested that the Governor be sent for. Being asked what he wanted with a Governor, he replied, I haven't any permit, and if I should undertake to die without a permit, I should get myself arrested. It is a well-known fact that many claims on El Dorado, Hunker, and Bonanza Creeks have turned out hundreds of thousands of dollars.
One pan of gravel on El Dorado Creek yielded $2,100. Frank Dinsmore on Bonanza Creek took out 90 pounds of solid gold for $24,480 in a single day. On Alec McDonald's claim on El Dorado, one man shoveled in $20,000 in 12 hours. McDonald, in two years, dug from the frozen ground $2,207,893. $2,207,893. Charlie Anderson on El Dorado panned out $700 in three hours. T.S. Lippey is said to have paid the Canadian government $65,000 in royalties for the year 1898,
and Clarence Barry about the same. On Skookum Gulch, $30,000 were taken from two boxes of dirt. Frank Fiskator of Michigan, after a few months' work, brought home $100,000 in gold, selling one-third of his claim interest for $1,333,000 or at the rate of $5 million for the whole. When a man is compelled to pay $1,000 out of every $10,000 he digs from the ground, he will boast little of large cleanups, and for this reason it is hard to estimate the real
amount of gold extracted from the Klondike mines. Captain James Kennedy, an old pioneer and conservative mining man, estimates the output for the season of 1899 as $25 million, or 50 tons of dust and nuggets. The most commendable thing about the Canadian government is their strict enforcement of order. Stealing is an almost unheard-of thing, and petty thieving does not exist. Mounted police in their brown uniforms and soldiers in their red coats are everywhere,
seen in and around Dawson, and they practice methods which, to the uninitiated, make them very nearly omnipresent. While walking down street in Dawson one morning, about nine o'clock, I passed a group of men all wearing sober faces. "'They're done for now,' said a rough miner glancing in the direction of the barracks, where a black flag was fluttering at the top of a staff.
"'How so?' asked another just come up to the group. Three men hung over there an hour ago. They are going to bury them now.' And the speaker twitched his thumbs first toward the barracks, then farther east, where a rough stretch of ground lay unused. Here could be seen policemen and soldiers, evidently in the midst of some performance not on their daily routine. A number of prisoners wearing the regulation garb of convicts,
pantaloons of heavy mackinaw, one leg of yellow and the other of black, were carrying long, rough boxes, while others were digging shallow graves. Upon inquiry I found that what the miner had said was true. Three prisoners, two of them Indian murderers, with another man notoriously bad, had indeed been hung about eight o'clock that morning in the barracks courtyard. In less than two hours afterward they were interred, and in as many days they were forgotten.
By the middle of July 1899, the steamers leaving Dawson on their way down the Yukon to St. Michael and the new gold fields at Nome were well filled with those who were anxious to try their luck in Uncle Sam's territory, where they can breathe, dig, fish, hunt, or die without buying a license. By August the steamers coming from St. Michael brought such glowing accounts of the Nome gold fields that while few people came in, they carried as many out as they could accommodate.
By September the rush down the Yukon was tremendous, and of the 12,000 people in Dawson, many hundreds left for Nome. When, after six weeks spent in curiously studying conditions and things, not to say people, in the great mining camp it was decided that I should accompany my brother down the Yukon to Cape Nome, and so out home to San Francisco, I felt a very distinct sense of disappointment. The novelty of everything, the excitement which came each day in some form or
other, was as agreeable as the beautiful summer weather with the long, quiet evenings only settling into darkness at midnight. In September came the frost. Men living in tents moved their little Yukon stoves inside and brought fresh sawdust and shavings from the mills for their beds. Others packed their few possessions into small boats, hauled down their tents, whistled to their dogs, and rolling up their sleeves, pulled laboriously up the swift little Klondike to
their winter lays in the mines. Hundreds were also leaving for the outside. Steamers, both large and small, going to Whitehorse and Bennett, carried those who had joyfully packed their bags and smilingly said goodbye, for they were going home to the states. Now we strained our eyes from our cabin window or from the higher bank above to see the people on the decks of the outgoing boats, how the name of each tug and even freight carrier became a familiar household word,
and how many were the conjectures as to whether she would get through to Whitehorse Rapids in the low water before a freeze-up. One day our own steamer came. She was a magnificently equipped riverboat called the Hanna, belonging to the Alaska Commercial Company, and it cost $100,000. This was to be her last trip for the season, and with us it was home now or here all winter, and we made ready to leave. My codec had been emptied and filled again, calls on acquaintances
made, and goodbyes said. My battered and broken trunk, which at the hands of the English customs officials had suffered much, had now to be repaired and put to a good long test. This box was in a state of total collapse, rollers all gone, covering torn and bent, screws and nails lost, side split, bottom entirely dropped out, but it must go. So my big brother was wheedled into putting it into some kind of shape again, and it came out stronger than before. No lunches were
needed. The cuisine of the Hanna was said to be as perfect as could be in this faraway corner of the globe, and we trusted to that. On September 16th the Hanna sounded her whistle. All was hurry and bustle and such a sight. If hundreds had stood on the docks to welcome us as we entered the city, there were thousands now. It was pleasant. We felt flattered, especially as the band struck up our own national airs, giving us a medley of Yankee Doodle, America, Tramp, Tramp,
Tramp, and When Johnny Comes Marching Home. They felt constrained, however, to wind up with Sweet Marie and ragtime dances one old fellow in slouch had and with a few drinks too many, stepping the jigs off in lively and comical fashion. Our pride was perceptibly lessened afterward when we learned that we had on board a dance hall outfit and the band belonged to the Monte Carlo Saloon. We were now in the midst of a group, cosmopolitan beyond our wildest dreams.
Pushing their way through the crowd to the gangplank came men, women, and dogs, carrying grips, Kodaks, tin cash boxes, musical instruments, army sacks, fur robes, and rolls of blankets. Struggling under the weight of canvas tents, poles, Yukon stoves and sleds, as well as every conceivable thing, they climbed the stairway to the deck. Here and in the main saloon, all was deposited for the time being. There was a woman with a fine gray cat for which
she had been offered fifty dollars, wrapped in a warm shawl, much to pussy's disgust. A number of women had dogs and were weeping, probably at leaving other canines behind. Several persons carried little grips so heavy that they tugged along. Evidently chachaco, or paper money, was more scarce with them than dust and nuggets. As freight, there was a piano, many iron-bound boxes containing gold bullion, securely sealed and labeled, and tons of supplies
for the consumption of the passengers, of whom there were now five hundred. Then the whistle again sounded. The gangplank was hauled in. Hankerchiefs fluttered. The band struck up, home sweet home. We were headed down the Yukon River and toward the Arctic Circle. We had now a journey of seventeen hundred miles before us. We were to traverse a country almost unknown to man. We were two of a party of five hundred persons, the majority of whom, if not
actually desperados, were reckless and given over to the pursuit of gold regardless of the manner of its getting. There were loose characters of the town by hundreds. There were gamblers running a variety of games both day and night. There were dance house girls and musicians. There were drunks and tufts and one prize fighter. No firearms or knives were seen, though many, no doubt, had them. With the enormous amount of gold on board, for the steamer's safe was overflowing and the
purser's room well packed with the precious stuff. With the numbers of hard characters we carried and the now increasing remoteness from centers of government, there were dangers, we were forced to confess, but which we only admitted in whispers. Three hours after leaving Dawson, we were taking on wood at forty mile. This is the oldest camp on the Yukon River in the early home of Jack McQuestion. The riverbanks were lined with canoes. Many natives stood looking at us from the shore,
and while stevedores handled the wood, many passengers visited the town. It was not long before they came back with hands full of turnips, just pulled from the ground, which, had they been the most luscious fruit, could not have been eaten with more relish. I then tried to buy one of a young man, but he had evidently been long away from such luxuries, for he refused to sell. Afterward, his gallantry getting the better of him, he politely offered me one half of the vegetable,
which I took with thanks. As my brother peeled the precious turnip, I asked him how long since he had eaten one. Two years, he promptly replied. Knowing that he was especially fond of such things, I ate a small slice and gave him the remainder. It is needless to say he enjoyed it. To the right of the landing at Forty Mile, just across a small stream which runs into the Yukon, is Fort Cudahy, containing the stores and warehouses of one of the large companies,
as well as a post office. But we were soon off again, steaming along between hills yellow with fading poplar leaves and greens streaked with pines. Many rocky spurs towered grandly heavenward, with tops like silvered heads covered with newly fallen snow. The Yukon is here very crooked and narrow, and abrupt banks hedged our steamer in on all sides. Next morning early we arrived at Eagle City, Alaska. We were now in Uncle Sam's land and breathed more freely. We felt at home. We cheered
and waved our handkerchiefs to the blue uniformed soldiers on the riverbank who had come to see us. We went ashore and called upon Lieutenant L., lately from his home in Connecticut and campaigning in Cuba. Taking us into a log house nearby, he pointed out 40,000 rounds of ammunition and 115 Krag Jorgensen rifles of the latest pattern. Here were stationed 115 men, some of them at that time out moose hunting and fishing. Captain Ray, an old white-haired gentleman,
stood outside his cabin door. At Eagle we saw the new government barracks just being finished, the logs and shingles having been sawed at the government sawmill nearby, at the mouth of Mission Creek. We were particularly struck with the very youthful appearance of our soldiers and their wistful faces as they watched our preparations for departure. The lieutenant had said that life in Cuba, or in almost any old place, was preferable to that at
Eagle, with the long winter staring them in the face, and we could see that the poor fellow longed for home. We were quite touched, but tried to cheer him as best we could. Circle City, on a big bend of the river from which it derives its name, was reached the following evening. Here all hands crowded over the gangplank and into the stores. In less time than it takes to ride it, these places were filled with miners, each man pulling away at his strong old pipe, the companion of many
weary months perhaps. While over the counters they handed their gold dust in payment for the best plug cut, chewing gum, candy, or whatever else they saw that looked tempting. Here we bought two pairs of beaded moccasins for seven dollars. As a heavy fog settled down upon us, our captain thought best to tie up the steamer overnight and did so. Next morning by daylight we saw the offices of the United States Marshal. Both log cabins with dirt roofs, upon which bunches of tall weeds were
going to seed. We hoped this was not symbolical of the state of Uncle Sam's affairs in the interior, but feared it might be, as the places seemed deserted. Many of the one thousand cabins at Circle were now vacant, but it is the largest town next to Dawson on the Yukon River. During the whole of the next day, our pilots steered cautiously over the Yukon flats. This is a stretch of about four hundred miles of low swampy country, where the Yukon evidently
loses its courage to run swiftly, for it spreads out indolently in all directions between treacherous and shifting sandbars, fairly disheartening to all not familiar with its many peculiarities. We now learned for the first time that we were practically in the hands of three pilots, two of whom were Eskimos, one of them on a salary of five hundred dollars per month. This man was perfectly familiar with the entire river, being an expert pilot, as he proved during
this trip to the satisfaction of all. Owing to the near approach of winter, and the extremely low water at this point, the captain, crew, and many others wore anxious faces until the flats were well passed. Should our steamer stick fast on a sandbar or take fire, we might easily be landed. But to be left in such a bleak and barren place, with cold weather approaching, snow beginning to fall, no shelter, and only provisions for a few days, with traveling companions of the very worst
type, and no passing steamers to pick us up, we would indeed meet a hard fate, and one even the prospect of which was well calculated to make strong men shudder. End of chapter four.
