Lost Face

by Jack London

  TRUST

  All lines had been cast off, and the _Seattle No._ 4 was pulling slowlyout from the shore. Her decks were piled high with freight and baggage,and swarmed with a heterogeneous company of Indians, dogs, anddog-mushers, prospectors, traders, and homeward-bound gold-seekers. Agoodly portion of Dawson was lined up on the bank, saying good-bye. Asthe gang-plank came in and the steamer nosed into the stream, the clamourof farewell became deafening. Also, in that eleventh moment, everybodybegan to remember final farewell messages and to shout them back andforth across the widening stretch of water. Louis Bondell, curling hisyellow moustache with one hand and languidly waving the other hand to hisfriends on shore, suddenly remembered something and sprang to the rail.

  "Oh, Fred!" he bawled. "Oh, Fred!"

  The "Fred" desired thrust a strapping pair of shoulders through theforefront of the crowd on the bank and tried to catch Louis Bondell'smessage. The latter grew red in the face with vain vociferation. Stillthe water widened between steamboat and shore.

  "Hey, you, Captain Scott!" he yelled at the pilot-house. "Stop theboat!"

  The gongs clanged, and the big stern wheel reversed, then stopped. Allhands on steamboat and on bank took advantage of this respite to exchangefinal, new, and imperative farewells. More futile than ever was LouisBondell's effort to make himself heard. The _Seattle No._ 4 lost way anddrifted down-stream, and Captain Scott had to go ahead and reverse asecond time. His head disappeared inside the pilot-house, coming intoview a moment later behind a big megaphone.

  Now Captain Scott had a remarkable voice, and the "Shut up!" he launchedat the crowd on deck and on shore could have been heard at the top ofMoosehide Mountain and as far as Klondike City. This officialremonstrance from the pilot-house spread a film of silence over thetumult.

  "Now, what do you want to say?" Captain Scott demanded.

  "Tell Fred Churchill--he's on the bank there--tell him to go toMacdonald. It's in his safe--a small gripsack of mine. Tell him to getit and bring it out when he comes."

  In the silence Captain Scott bellowed the message ashore through themegaphone:--

  "You, Fred Churchill, go to Macdonald--in his safe--smallgripsack--belongs to Louis Bondell--important! Bring it out when youcome! Got it!"

  Churchill waved his hand in token that he had got it. In truth, hadMacdonald, half a mile away, opened his window, he'd have got it, too.The tumult of farewell rose again, the gongs clanged, and the _SeattleNo._ 4 went ahead, swung out into the stream, turned on her heel, andheaded down the Yukon, Bondell and Churchill waving farewell and mutualaffection to the last.

  That was in midsummer. In the fall of the year, the _W. H. Willis_started up the Yukon with two hundred homeward-bound pilgrims on board.Among them was Churchill. In his state-room, in the middle of aclothes-bag, was Louis Bondell's grip. It was a small, stout leatheraffair, and its weight of forty pounds always made Churchill nervous whenhe wandered too far from it. The man in the adjoining state-room had atreasure of gold-dust hidden similarly in a clothes-bag, and the pair ofthem ultimately arranged to stand watch and watch. While one went downto eat, the other kept an eye on the two state-room doors. WhenChurchill wanted to take a hand at whist, the other man mounted guard,and when the other man wanted to relax his soul, Churchill readfour-months' old newspapers on a camp stool between the two doors.

  There were signs of an early winter, and the question that was discussedfrom dawn till dark, and far into the dark, was whether they would getout before the freeze-up or be compelled to abandon the steamboat andtramp out over the ice. There were irritating delays. Twice the enginesbroke down and had to be tinkered up, and each time there were snowflurries to warn them of the imminence of winter. Nine times the _W. H.Willis_ essayed to ascend the Five-Finger Rapids with her impairedmachinery, and when she succeeded, she was four days behind her veryliberal schedule. The question that then arose was whether or not thesteamboat _Flora_ would wait for her above the Box Canon. The stretch ofwater between the head of the Box Canon and the foot of the White HorseRapids was unnavigable for steamboats, and passengers were transhipped atthat point, walking around the rapids from one steamboat to the other.There were no telephones in the country, hence no way of informing thewaiting _Flora_ that the _Willis_ was four days late, but coming.

  When the _W. H. Willis_ pulled into White Horse, it was learned that the_Flora_ had waited three days over the limit, and had departed only a fewhours before. Also, it was learned that she would tie up at Tagish Posttill nine o'clock, Sunday morning. It was then four o'clock, Saturdayafternoon. The pilgrims called a meeting. On board was a largePeterborough canoe, consigned to the police post at the head of LakeBennett. They agreed to be responsible for it and to deliver it. Next,they called for volunteers. Two men were needed to make a race for the_Flora_. A score of men volunteered on the instant. Among them wasChurchill, such being his nature that he volunteered before he thought ofBondell's gripsack. When this thought came to him, he began to hope thathe would not be selected; but a man who had made a name as captain of acollege football eleven, as a president of an athletic club, as adog-musher and a stampeder in the Yukon, and, moreover, who possessedsuch shoulders as he, had no right to avoid the honour. It was thrustupon him and upon a gigantic German, Nick Antonsen.

  While a crowd of the pilgrims, the canoe on their shoulders, started on atrot over the portage, Churchill ran to his state-room. He turned thecontents of the clothes-bag on the floor and caught up the grip, with theintention of entrusting it to the man next door. Then the thought smotehim that it was not his grip, and that he had no right to let it out ofhis possession. So he dashed ashore with it and ran up the portagechanging it often from one hand to the other, and wondering if it reallydid not weigh more than forty pounds.

  It was half-past four in the afternoon when the two men started. Thecurrent of the Thirty Mile River was so strong that rarely could they usethe paddles. It was out on one bank with a tow-line over the shoulders,stumbling over the rocks, forcing a way through the underbrush, slippingat times and falling into the water, wading often up to the knees andwaist; and then, when an insurmountable bluff was encountered, it wasinto the canoe, out paddles, and a wild and losing dash across thecurrent to the other bank, in paddles, over the side, and out tow-lineagain. It was exhausting work. Antonsen toiled like the giant he was,uncomplaining, persistent, but driven to his utmost by the powerful bodyand indomitable brain of Churchill. They never paused for rest. It wasgo, go, and keep on going. A crisp wind blew down the river, freezingtheir hands and making it imperative, from time to time, to beat theblood back into the numbed fingers.

  As night came on, they were compelled to trust to luck. They fellrepeatedly on the untravelled banks and tore their clothing to shreds inthe underbrush they could not see. Both men were badly scratched andbleeding. A dozen times, in their wild dashes from bank to bank, theystruck snags and were capsized. The first time this happened, Churchilldived and groped in three feet of water for the gripsack. He lost halfan hour in recovering it, and after that it was carried securely lashedto the canoe. As long as the canoe floated it was safe. Antonsen jeeredat the grip, and toward morning began to curse it; but Churchillvouchsafed no explanations.

  Their delays and mischances were endless. On one swift bend, aroundwhich poured a healthy young rapid, they lost two hours, making a scoreof attempts and capsizing twice. At this point, on both banks, wereprecipitous bluffs, rising out of deep water, and along which they couldneither tow nor pole, while they could not gain with the paddles againstthe current. At each attempt they strained to the utmost with thepaddles, and each time, with heads nigh to bursting from the effort, theywere played out and swept back. They succeeded finally by an accident.In the swiftest current, near the end of another failure, a freak of thecurrent sheered the canoe out of Churchill's control and flung it againstthe bluff. Churchill made a blind leap at the bluff and landed in acrevice. Holding on with one hand,
he held the swamped canoe with theother till Antonsen dragged himself out of the water. Then they pulledthe canoe out and rested. A fresh start at this crucial point took themby. They landed on the bank above and plunged immediately ashore andinto the brush with the tow-line.

  Daylight found them far below Tagish Post. At nine o'clock Sundaymorning they could hear the _Flora_ whistling her departure. And when,at ten o'clock, they dragged themselves in to the Post, they could barelysee the _Flora's_ smoke far to the southward. It was a pair of worn-outtatterdemalions that Captain Jones of the Mounted Police welcomed andfed, and he afterward averred that they possessed two of the mosttremendous appetites he had ever observed. They lay down and slept intheir wet rags by the stove. At the end of two hours Churchill got up,carried Bondell's grip, which he had used for a pillow, down to thecanoe, kicked Antonsen awake, and started in pursuit of the _Flora_.

  "There's no telling what might happen--machinery break down, orsomething," was his reply to Captain Jones's expostulations. "I'm goingto catch that steamer and send her back for the boys."

  Tagish Lake was white with a fall gale that blew in their teeth. Big,swinging seas rushed upon the canoe, compelling one man to bale andleaving one man to paddle. Headway could not be made. They ran alongthe shallow shore and went overboard, one man ahead on the tow-line, theother shoving on the canoe. They fought the gale up to their waists inthe icy water, often up to their necks, often over their heads and buriedby the big, crested waves. There was no rest, never a moment's pausefrom the cheerless, heart-breaking battle. That night, at the head ofTagish Lake, in the thick of a driving snow-squall, they overhauled the_Flora_. Antonsen fell on board, lay where he had fallen, and snored.Churchill looked like a wild man. His clothes barely clung to him. Hisface was iced up and swollen from the protracted effort of twenty-fourhours, while his hands were so swollen that he could not close thefingers. As for his feet, it was an agony to stand upon them.

  The captain of the _Flora_ was loth to go back to White Horse. Churchillwas persistent and imperative; the captain was stubborn. He pointed outfinally that nothing was to be gained by going back, because the onlyocean steamer at Dyea, the _Athenian_, was to sail on Tuesday morning,and that he could not make the back trip to White Horse and bring up thestranded pilgrims in time to make the connection.

  "What time does the _Athenian_ sail?" Churchill demanded.

  "Seven o'clock, Tuesday morning."

  "All right," Churchill said, at the same time kicking a tattoo on theribs of the snoring Antonsen. "You go back to White Home. We'll goahead and hold the _Athenian_."

  Antonsen, stupid with sleep, not yet clothed in his waking mind, wasbundled into the canoe, and did not realize what had happened till he wasdrenched with the icy spray of a big sea, and heard Churchill snarling athim through the darkness:--

  "Paddle, can't you! Do you want to be swamped?"

  Daylight found them at Caribou Crossing, the wind dying down, andAntonsen too far gone to dip a paddle. Churchill grounded the canoe on aquiet beach, where they slept. He took the precaution of twisting hisarm under the weight of his head. Every few minutes the pain of the pentcirculation aroused him, whereupon he would look at his watch and twistthe other arm under his head. At the end of two hours he fought withAntonsen to rouse him. Then they started. Lake Bennett, thirty miles inlength, was like a millpond; but, half way across, a gale from the southsmote them and turned the water white. Hour after hour they repeated thestruggle on Tagish, over the side, pulling and shoving on the canoe, upto their waists and necks, and over their heads, in the icy water; towardthe last the good-natured giant played completely out. Churchill drovehim mercilessly; but when he pitched forward and bade fair to drown inthree feet of water, the other dragged him into the canoe. After that,Churchill fought on alone, arriving at the police post at the head ofBennett in the early afternoon. He tried to help Antonsen out of thecanoe, but failed. He listened to the exhausted man's heavy breathing,and envied him when he thought of what he himself had yet to undergo.Antonsen could lie there and sleep; but he, behind time, must go on overmighty Chilcoot and down to the sea. The real struggle lay before him,and he almost regretted the strength that resided in his frame because ofthe torment it could inflict upon that frame.

  Churchill pulled the canoe up on the beach, seized Bondell's grip, andstarted on a limping dog-trot for the police post.

  "There's a canoe down there, consigned to you from Dawson," he hurled atthe officer who answered his knock. "And there's a man in it pretty neardead. Nothing serious; only played out. Take care of him. I've got torush. Good-bye. Want to catch the _Athenian_."

  A mile portage connected Lake Bennett and Lake Linderman, and his lastwords he flung back after him as he resumed the trot. It was a verypainful trot, but he clenched his teeth and kept on, forgetting his painmost of the time in the fervent heat with which he regarded the gripsack.It was a severe handicap. He swung it from one hand to the other, andback again. He tucked it under his arm. He threw one hand over theopposite shoulder, and the bag bumped and pounded on his back as he ranalong. He could scarcely hold it in his bruised and swollen fingers, andseveral times he dropped it. Once, in changing from one hand to theother, it escaped his clutch and fell in front of him, tripped him up,and threw him violently to the ground.

  At the far end of the portage he bought an old set of pack-straps for adollar, and in them he swung the grip. Also, he chartered a launch torun him the six miles to the upper end of Lake Linderman, where hearrived at four in the afternoon. The _Athenian_ was to sail from Dyeanext morning at seven. Dyea was twenty-eight miles away, and betweentowered Chilcoot. He sat down to adjust his foot-gear for the longclimb, and woke up. He had dozed the instant he sat down, though he hadnot slept thirty seconds. He was afraid his next doze might be longer,so he finished fixing his foot-gear standing up. Even then he wasoverpowered for a fleeting moment. He experienced the flash ofunconsciousness; becoming aware of it, in mid-air, as his relaxed bodywas sinking to the ground and as he caught himself together, he stiffenedhis muscles with a spasmodic wrench, and escaped the fall. The suddenjerk back to consciousness left him sick and trembling. He beat his headwith the heel of his hand, knocking wakefulness into the numbed brain.

  Jack Burns's pack-train was starting back light for Crater Lake, andChurchill was invited to a mule. Burns wanted to put the gripsack onanother animal, but Churchill held on to it, carrying it on hissaddle-pommel. But he dozed, and the grip persisted in dropping off thepommel, one side or the other, each time wakening him with a sickeningstart. Then, in the early darkness, Churchill's mule brushed him againsta projecting branch that laid his cheek open. To cap it, the muleblundered off the trail and fell, throwing rider and gripsack out uponthe rocks. After that, Churchill walked, or stumbled rather, over theapology for a trail, leading the mule. Stray and awful odours, driftingfrom each side of the trail, told of the horses that had died in the rushfor gold. But he did not mind. He was too sleepy. By the time LongLake was reached, however, he had recovered from his sleepiness; and atDeep Lake he resigned the gripsack to Burns. But thereafter, by thelight of the dim stars, he kept his eyes on Burns. There were not goingto be any accidents with that bag.

  At Crater Lake, the pack-train went into camp, and Churchill, slingingthe grip on his back, started the steep climb for the summit. For thefirst time, on that precipitous wall, he realized how tired he was. Hecrept and crawled like a crab, burdened by the weight of his limbs. Adistinct and painful effort of will was required each time he lifted afoot. An hallucination came to him that he was shod with lead, like adeep-sea diver, and it was all he could do to resist the desire to reachdown and feel the lead. As for Bondell's gripsack, it was inconceivablethat forty pounds could weigh so much. It pressed him down like amountain, and he looked back with unbelief to the year before, when hehad climbed that same pass with a hundred and fifty pounds on his back.If those loads had weighed a hundred and
fifty pounds, then Bondell'sgrip weighed five hundred.

  The first rise of the divide from Crater Lake was across a small glacier.Here was a well-defined trail. But above the glacier, which was alsoabove timber-line, was naught but a chaos of naked rock and enormousboulders. There was no way of seeing the trail in the darkness, and heblundered on, paying thrice the ordinary exertion for all that heaccomplished. He won the summit in the thick of howling wind and drivingsnow, providentially stumbling upon a small, deserted tent, into which hecrawled. There he found and bolted some ancient fried potatoes and halfa dozen raw eggs.

  When the snow ceased and the wind eased down, he began the almostimpossible descent. There was no trail, and he stumbled and blundered,often finding himself, at the last moment, on the edge of rocky walls andsteep slopes the depth of which he had no way of judging. Part way down,the stars clouded over again, and in the consequent obscurity he slippedand rolled and slid for a hundred feet, landing bruised and bleeding onthe bottom of a large shallow hole. From all about him arose the stenchof dead horses. The hole was handy to the trail, and the packers hadmade a practice of tumbling into it their broken and dying animals. Thestench overpowered him, making him deadly sick, and as in a nightmare hescrambled out. Half-way up, he recollected Bondell's gripsack. It hadfallen into the hole with him; the pack-strap had evidently broken, andhe had forgotten it. Back he went into the pestilential charnel-pit,where he crawled around on hands and knees and groped for half an hour.Altogether he encountered and counted seventeen dead horses (and onehorse still alive that he shot with his revolver) before he foundBondell's grip. Looking back upon a life that had not been withoutvalour and achievement, he unhesitatingly declared to himself that thisreturn after the grip was the most heroic act he had ever performed. Soheroic was it that he was twice on the verge of fainting before hecrawled out of the hole.

  By the time he had descended to the Scales, the steep pitch of Chilcootwas past, and the way became easier. Not that it was an easy way,however, in the best of places; but it became a really possible trail,along which he could have made good time if he had not been worn out, ifhe had had light with which to pick his steps, and if it had not been forBondell's gripsack. To him, in his exhausted condition, it was the laststraw. Having barely strength to carry himself along, the additionalweight of the grip was sufficient to throw him nearly every time hetripped or stumbled. And when he escaped tripping, branches reached outin the darkness, hooked the grip between his shoulders, and held himback.

  His mind was made up that if he missed the _Athenian_ it would be thefault of the gripsack. In fact, only two things remained in hisconsciousness--Bondell's grip and the steamer. He knew only those twothings, and they became identified, in a way, with some stern missionupon which he had journeyed and toiled for centuries. He walked andstruggled on as in a dream. As part of the dream was his arrival atSheep Camp. He stumbled into a saloon, slid his shoulders out of thestraps, and started to deposit the grip at his feet. But it slipped fromhis fingers and struck the floor with a heavy thud that was not unnoticedby two men who were just leaving. Churchill drank a glass of whisky,told the barkeeper to call him in ten minutes, and sat down, his feet onthe grip, his head on his knees.

  So badly did his misused body stiffen, that when he was called itrequired another ten minutes and a second glass of whisky to unbend hisjoints and limber up the muscles.

  "Hey not that way!" the barkeeper shouted, and then went after him andstarted him through the darkness toward Canyon City. Some little husk ofinner consciousness told Churchill that the direction was right, and,still as in a dream, he took the canon trail. He did not know whatwarned him, but after what seemed several centuries of travelling, hesensed danger and drew his revolver. Still in the dream, he saw two menstep out and heard them halt him. His revolver went off four times, andhe saw the flashes and heard the explosions of their revolvers. Also, hewas aware that he had been hit in the thigh. He saw one man go down,and, as the other came for him, he smashed him a straight blow with theheavy revolver full in the face. Then he turned and ran. He came fromthe dream shortly afterward, to find himself plunging down the trail at alimping lope. His first thought was for the gripsack. It was still onhis back. He was convinced that what had happened was a dream till hefelt for his revolver and found it gone. Next he became aware of a sharpstinging of his thigh, and after investigating, he found his hand warmwith blood. It was a superficial wound, but it was incontestable. Hebecame wider awake, and kept up the lumbering run to Canyon City.

  He found a man, with a team of horses and a wagon, who got out of bed andharnessed up for twenty dollars. Churchill crawled in on the wagon-bedand slept, the gripsack still on his back. It was a rough ride, overwater-washed boulders down the Dyea Valley; but he roused only when thewagon hit the highest places. Any altitude of his body above thewagon-bed of less than a foot did not faze him. The last mile was smoothgoing, and he slept soundly.

  He came to in the grey dawn, the driver shaking him savagely and howlinginto his ear that the _Athenian_ was gone. Churchill looked blankly atthe deserted harbour.

  "There's a smoke over at Skaguay," the man said.

  Churchill's eyes were too swollen to see that far, but he said: "It'sshe. Get me a boat."

  The driver was obliging and found a skiff, and a man to row it for tendollars, payment in advance. Churchill paid, and was helped into theskiff. It was beyond him to get in by himself. It was six miles toSkaguay, and he had a blissful thought of sleeping those six miles. Butthe man did not know how to row, and Churchill took the oars and toiledfor a few more centuries. He never knew six longer and more excruciatingmiles. A snappy little breeze blew up the inlet and held him back. Hehad a gone feeling at the pit of the stomach, and suffered from faintnessand numbness. At his command, the man took the baler and threw saltwater into his face.

  The _Athenian's_ anchor was up-and-down when they came alongside, andChurchill was at the end of his last remnant of strength.

  "Stop her! Stop her!" he shouted hoarsely.

  "Important message! Stop her!"

  Then he dropped his chin on his chest and slept. When half a dozen menstarted to carry him up the gang-plank, he awoke, reached for the grip,and clung to it like a drowning man.

  On deck he became a centre of horror and curiosity. The clothing inwhich he had left White Horse was represented by a few rags, and he wasas frayed as his clothing. He had travelled for fifty-five hours at thetop notch of endurance. He had slept six hours in that time, and he wastwenty pounds lighter than when he started. Face and hands and body werescratched and bruised, and he could scarcely see. He tried to stand up,but failed, sprawling out on the deck, hanging on to the gripsack, anddelivering his message.

  "Now, put me to bed," he finished; "I'll eat when I wake up."

  They did him honour, carrying him down in his rags and dirt anddepositing him and Bondell's grip in the bridal chamber, which was thebiggest and most luxurious state-room in the ship. Twice he slept theclock around, and he had bathed and shaved and eaten and was leaning overthe rail smoking a cigar when the two hundred pilgrims from White Horsecame alongside.

  By the time the _Athenian_ arrived in Seattle, Churchill had fullyrecuperated, and he went ashore with Bondell's grip in his hand. He feltproud of that grip. To him it stood for achievement and integrity andtrust. "I've delivered the goods," was the way he expressed thesevarious high terms to himself. It was early in the evening, and he wentstraight to Bondell's home. Louis Bondell was glad to see him, shakinghands with both hands at the same time and dragging him into the house.

  "Oh, thanks, old man; it was good of you to bring it out," Bondell saidwhen he received the gripsack.

  He tossed it carelessly upon a couch, and Churchill noted with anappreciative eye the rebound of its weight from the springs. Bondell wasvolleying him with questions.

  "How did you make out? How're the boys? What became of Bill Smithers?Is D
el Bishop still with Pierce? Did he sell my dogs? How did SulphurBottom show up? You're looking fine. What steamer did you come out on?"

  To all of which Churchill gave answer, till half an hour had gone by andthe first lull in the conversation had arrived.

  "Hadn't you better take a look at it?" he suggested, nodding his head atthe gripsack.

  "Oh, it's all right," Bondell answered. "Did Mitchell's dump turn out asmuch as he expected?"

  "I think you'd better look at it," Churchill insisted. "When I deliver athing, I want to be satisfied that it's all right. There's always thechance that somebody might have got into it when I was asleep, orsomething."

  "It's nothing important, old man," Bondell answered, with a laugh.

  "Nothing important," Churchill echoed in a faint, small voice. Then hespoke with decision: "Louis, what's in that bag? I want to know."

  Louis looked at him curiously, then left the room and returned with abunch of keys. He inserted his hand and drew out a heavy Colt'srevolver. Next came out a few boxes of ammunition for the revolver andseveral boxes of Winchester cartridges.

  Churchill took the gripsack and looked into it. Then he turned it upsidedown and shook it gently.

  "The gun's all rusted," Bondell said. "Must have been out in the rain."

  "Yes," Churchill answered. "Too bad it got wet. I guess I was a bitcareless."

  He got up and went outside. Ten minutes later Louis Bondell went out andfound him on the steps, sitting down, elbows on knees and chin on hands,gazing steadfastly out into the darkness.