by Rich Mole
“This is one of the richest strikes in the world,” the bar owner read aloud to the 75 silent men crowded around his bar. “I myself saw $150 panned out of one pan of dirt, and I think they are getting as high as $1,000.”
Perhaps not exactly $1,000, though. Ironically, the bald truth was so fantastic that few would have believed it. In the biggest settlement in this part of the frozen north, life went on as usual. Then, Circle City saloon operators received a letter from their distant partner in Fortymile—Bill McPhee. Like McPhee, the Circle City saloon operators were veteran “sourdoughs,” who shared years of prospecting experience and a healthy skepticism for tales of gold. Yet, what McPhee wrote was intriguing enough that they mushed more than 320 kilometres upriver to take a look. It was all true, they reported by mail. Interest increased.
Now, a month later, the latest batch of Klondike mail was delivered to another saloon in Circle City.
“Gimme some beef tea!” the cold, exhausted mail courier demanded. The saloon owner ignored him, pawing through the bag of letters. Men began to gather around. Just a few hours before, another courier had arrived from upriver, spreading the Klondike’s tale. Because the courier had no proof, the response was either laughter or anger. Letters might contain proof, and they had finally arrived. The saloon owner ripped one open. A few seconds of silence ensued as he devoured its contents.
“Boys, they’re right!” he shouted, vaulting over the bar. “Help yourself to the whole shooting match!” he told his stunned customers. “I’m off to the Klondike!”
The exhausted mail courier never did get his beef tea. After enduring a few minutes of the raucous free-for-all inside the saloon, he sought escape from the laughter and shouts, making his way toward a friend’s cabin for something to eat. A mob followed, pestering him with questions.
Within 48 hours of the saloon owner’s defection, Circle City was all but deserted. There would be no more waltzes at the dance hall, no more concerts at the opera house. The saloon operators were all gone, along with most of the prospectors. The prostitutes and the dance-hall girls would soon follow. At first, Jack McQuesten decided to stay, selling his supplies to those who remained. Soon, however—heedless of the NWMP’s customs duties—McQuesten left his waterfront store behind. He too was off to the Klondike, along with what seemed to be everyone else living up north. In reality, there were fewer than 1,500 prospectors at the Bonanza and Eldorado Creeks. The registered claims at the end of November numbered less than 350.
Bonanza and Eldorado Creeks, Yukon
Winter 1897
At a time of year when men stayed close to their stoves, there was a steady flow of traffic up the Yukon River. They trudged past the deserted cabins at Fortymile, through the doors of John Healy’s store at Fort Cudahy and into the tent city of Dawson. Only dreams of sudden wealth could rouse people to venture forth in air that was so cold it turned a man’s breath to icy crystals in front of his face.
On the creeks, shadowy figures muffled against the elements continued to burrow like moles. They dug below the snow-topped mounds of black earth that marked each claim. Day after day, below the surface, the lonely, monotonous burn-and-dig routine continued as prospectors built fires to thaw the frozen earth enough to shovel it into buckets. The buckets were then hauled to the snow-covered ground above.
Every now and then, someone would decide that enough was enough. It was easy to sell to a legion of latecomers such as Circle City resident Jack McQuesten. His purchase yielded $10,000 in gold. McQuesten’s two travelling companions purchased a half interest in another claim. Before they could do much more than lower themselves into the shaft, they accepted an offer of $20,000. The money quickly changed hands for an interest in yet another claim. They sold the first half interest for a $10,000 profit! There were quicker, easier and cleaner ways to make a fortune than prospecting.
Buyers often prospered at the expense of sellers. That winter, one prospector pocketed $3,000 for his claim, not knowing that he had practically given away one of the richest claims on the creek. Another man sold half of his claim for $800. Later, that land was valued at over $1 million.
The biggest buyer of all was Nova Scotian Alex McDonald. By mid-winter, the house of “claim” cards that McDonald had constructed with buy-and-sell tactics was as unstable as it was complex. “I’ve invested my whole fortune,” he admitted without shame. “I’ve run into debts of $150,000,” he said, adding confidently, “but I can dig out $150,000 any time I need it.”
By today’s standards, these amounts are still significant. More than a century ago, they were almost beyond imagining. Five thousand 1897 dollars had the same value as $100,000 today. And $5,000 was exactly what Alex McDonald needed to borrow. Ron Crawford, a former Seattle court clerk, was making money drawing up prospectors’ legal documents. McDonald decided to tap him for a loan. When Crawford asked what interest he was prepared to pay, McDonald shook his head.
“Interest is always working against you,” McDonald explained. “I can’t sleep at night when I think of that.” Instead, McDonald offered 30 metres of No. 6 below the Bonanza discovery, at 50 percent. As security, he then offered 35 percent of 11 metres of No. 27 Eldorado, along with a mortgage on No. 30 Eldorado.
The man adopted McDonald’s own maddening habit of making people wait for a decision. He told him he would think about the offer. Crawford did more than think. He raced off to persuade a saloon owner to part with $5,000 on a promise of a half interest in the mortgage on No. 30 Eldorado. After the loan was made, the former bank clerk flipped part of No. 27 Eldorado to a Dawson barber for $5,000. The barber put down his razor, picked up a shovel and dug up $40,000 worth of gold. And the outside still remained unaware of it all.
That winter, the enormous wealth that lay in the ground and in the dirt piled up on top of it was a secret known to a handful of individuals. By early spring, the secret had been leaked. The Vancouver Daily News Advertiser carried a story in February. Another appeared in a Chicago newspaper in March. Few noticed; even fewer cared. Thus the secret remained locked away until spring released winter’s icy grip on the rivers.
CHAPTER
7
The Treasure Ships
Two tiny steamers, the Alaska Commercial Company’s Alice and the NAT&T’s Portus B. Weare, chugged down the Yukon River toward the Bering Sea and the distant coastal city of St. Michael, Alaska. On board the vessels were Ethel and Clarence Berry, Salome and Thomas Lippy, Jack McQuesten, Joe Ladue, William Ogilvie and others. Passengers included former NWMP officers, clerks, lawyers, laundrymen, carpenters and cowboys. Their original homes had been in eastern Canada, a dozen US states, Scandinavia, the United Kingdom and continental Europe. For all their differences in background and language, they had much in common. It had been at least one year since they had seen civilization. For some, the time away from cities and towns had been even longer. None of the passengers were the same as they had been when they had first arrived in the North. And now, every one of them was going to the outside.
Each carried clothes and personal items, which had become relatively meaningless—for each carried another far more important item. It was packed inside the gangway in suitcases, blankets and bedrolls and also in boxes, belts and leather bags. It was awkward luggage, for collectively it weighed tons. It was gold. Individuals in this small, yet diverse group of travellers were now wealthy beyond their wildest dreams.
When they docked at St. Michael, Alaska, their wealth was momentarily forgotten. Here were real onions and turnips! Tins of pineapple and cherries! It had been a long, long time of little more than beans, bacon and flapjacks. The wealthy passengers were offered new choices about what kind of life to lead and how and where to live it. Life would never be the same for them. Still, once they reached their northern destination, life would never be the same for tens of thousands of other ordinary people, as well.
San Francisco, California
July 15, 1897
It was a typical day on th
e wharf near the foot of San Francisco’s Market Street. The regular work gangs were loading and unloading the ships. As always, passengers were waving down to little groups of well-wishers standing on the docks. Nobody paid much attention to the squat, grimy little vessel that edged toward the wharf. The Excelsior was just another weathered wooden coastal steamer docking after its nine-day voyage from Alaska.
A few minutes later, some people on the dock took interest in the grubby men walking down the Excelsior’s gangway. Shabby and bearded, prospectors were a strange bunch. This time, there were women in the group, as shabby-looking as the men. More passengers stumbled down the gangway. Salome and Thomas Lippy struggled to maintain their balance, a small suitcase swaying precariously between them. Workmen on the wharf paused and glanced at one other. It took two people to carry down a suitcase? Men reined in their horse teams and walked over to take a closer look. Soon, the small gathering of onlookers attracted others. Something was going on.
Mild curiosity quickly turned to jaw-dropping amazement. The bags and boxes were heavy because they were full of gold! Within minutes, the passengers were forced to elbow their weighty baggage through the growing crowd. One Excelsior passenger stepped in front of a four-horse team. Where was the mint? The mint was closed, someone replied. Where was the nearest smelter? Montgomery Street, someone shouted back. A driver was hired on the spot, and the group threw their gold and themselves into the wagon and off they went, the excited crowd hurrying to keep up. At the Selby Smelting Works, a spellbound audience watched as the precious contents of jars, bags and sacks were poured onto the counter “like a pile of yellow shelled corn,” according to one awestruck witness.
Newspaper reporters wanted specific figures. The gold in the Lippy’s suitcase weighed close to 91 kilograms. At $17 an ounce (about 31 grams), they had carried more than $54,000 down the gangway! Another passenger had carried $35,000, and a former Seattle laundryman, $15,000. His riches seem paltry compared to some others, yet at a time when $700 was a typical annual salary, the lowly laundryman was likely set for life. Turn-of-the-century economic realities made the hauls breathtaking.
Up in Calgary, the Calgary Herald chased down a NWMP sergeant who was happy to tell the reporter about former Mounties who had augmented their meagre pay in spectacular fashion. One Mountie had hiked up the creek from his post one Sunday, staked a claim and was back in time for Monday’s 7 a.m. roll call. He didn’t have to work the claim; he simply sold it, pocketing $40,000. It seemed that Superintendent Charles Constantine granted leave quite routinely on the assumption that a wealthy policeman was a happy policeman.
Joe Ladue towered above them all. Without ever swinging a pick or dipping a pan, he held paper worth $5 million.
Excelsior’s agents had to close their wickets. There were no more tickets to be had. The return trip to Alaska had quickly sold out. The desperate begged, pleaded and even waved money, but to no avail. Ticket holders foolish enough to brag or luckless enough to loiter about the agents’ office were tripped up, dragged into alleys and pummelled, their pockets searched and precious tickets stolen.
San Francisco telegraphers quickly tapped out the news to points east, south and north, as the Portland, with more than a ton of gold in the hold, beat its way past Vancouver Island to Seattle. When the steamer nudged the dock, the city was ready and waiting.
Seattle, Washington
July 1897
LATEST NEWS FROM THE KLONDIKE stated the large headline on the front page of the Seattle Post-Intelligencer. Then, just below it, the page blurted the words GOLD, GOLD, GOLD, GOLD! as if the newspaper was unable to hold back any longer and had succumbed to the peculiar malady that had already stricken thousands of its readers.
Even before the Portland sailed into view, the Seattle water- front was swarming with men and women suffering from symptoms of what would prove to be a highly contagious disease—fits of shrill laughter, wide-eyed babbling and irrational urges to abandon work, home and the city.
“Show us the gold!” some shouted to prospectors who lined the ship’s rail above the throng. The men happily obliged, waving caribou-hide pokes about. The crowd went mad. In that crowd was one prospector’s destitute wife, who watched her husband haul $112,500 worth of gold off the boat. Another wired his impoverished washerwoman wife and told her to stop scrubbing. He had brought down $50,000. Mere hours after the Berrys and more than 60 other prospectors stepped off the gangway, gold fever had become an epidemic.
Streetcars were jammed as conductors and operators came down with gold fever. Becoming quickly infected by the stories they wrote, most Seattle Times reporters left the newsroom forever. In downtown stores and offices, scores of clerks were overcome by the swift-moving virus. Fire halls and police stations were also hard hit. The contagion swept up the steps of city hall, reaching into the mayor’s office. Attending an unexpectedly timely San Francisco convention two days earlier, Seattle’s mayor became one of gold fever’s earliest victims. He simply wired his resignation. Buying a ticket north wasn’t good enough for him, either. He decided to buy an entire steamer to take him and paying passengers to the land of the midnight sun. The mayor was on to something. Within days, every regularly scheduled sailing was booked solid for the remainder of the year.
After the isolation of the North, many arrivals couldn’t stand the attention. Some fled as far as Chicago and New York. Few found peace anywhere. Given the circumstances, the Berrys’ choice of destination—San Francisco—was a questionable one, but at least the Lippys were there. Once settled in the Grand Hotel, the Berrys relented and began granting interviews.
“Two million dollars has been taken from the Klondike region in less than five months,” Clarence Berry told the San Francisco Chronicle reporter, calling the area, “the richest gold field in the world.” He offered proof: a collection of vials and bottles filled with gold, just a mere fraction of the $130,000 he had carried down from the Klondike.
Reporters were fascinated that ladies would venture into the Yukon. Salome Lippy and Ethel Berry sat down with reporters from the Chronicle, the Sutter Creek Record and other journals to answer questions. One author asked what they did for amusement so far from civilization. The women chuckled.
“We did not think of anything but sleep and rest,” Ethel explained. “That was the main reason we didn’t die of homesickness. We had no time to think!”
“Nobody bothered much about amusements,” Salome agreed. “Everyone was busy and kept busy all the time. I did my work!” she added, somewhat defensively. “Mining is genuine toil. When Mr. Lippy finished, he wanted to rest.”
Given the hard work and rugged, primitive conditions, puzzled reporters asked why the ladies had gone up to the Yukon in the first place.
“I went because my husband went, and I wanted to be with him,” Ethel replied simply.
What advice would Mrs. Berry give to those thinking of joining the stampede?
Ethel levelled a look at the reporter. “Why, stay away, of course! It’s no place for a woman.” Then she reconsidered. It was no place for a single woman, she clarified.
* * *
Studying the pandemonium raging around him, Soapy Smith smiled with satisfaction. As inured as he was to displays of uncontrolled emotion, it was all he could do to rein himself in. Many of the people passing on the street were so distracted that a man could lift their wallets from their pants and half of them wouldn’t notice. None of them wanted to be in Seattle. They all wanted to be in the Klondike. Where they went, Smith had already decided, he would follow. He wouldn’t go alone, either. He had carefully selected members of his Denver crew to assist him in taking full advantage of the situation. This time it was gold, not silver, that brought the gullible together, but the reason scarcely mattered.
Soapy Smith never sank a mine shaft or swirled gravel in a pan. He hadn’t dirtied his hands since he helped drive longhorns up the Chisholm Trail years before. When he’d been in Colorado, Smith used a deck of cards and
more creative schemes to part the gullible silver miners from their money. Once, dozens lay down $5 each, betting that a particular cake of shaving soap purchased from Smith hid an elusive $20 bill inside the wrapper. Of course, it did not. From then on, he was “Soapy” Smith.
His gambling house was really an educational institution, he once told a jury when two victims brought charges. He had even warned his customers they had no chance of winning against him. There it was, nicely scripted in Latin for all to see: “Let the Buyer Beware.” The two victims, he reasoned, would never gamble again.
By this time, Soapy Smith’s ambitions had long since exceeded his one-man con games. The lack of formal law and order made Colorado a bandit’s paradise. Soapy simply took over most of the towns in which he operated. He hired deceptively genteel accomplices to bring the suckers in and others to take their money, sometimes, when more subtle means failed, at gunpoint or after a few convincing blows from a sap. Smith was betting that the Klondike would be bigger and better than Colorado. As everyone knew, Soapy always won a bet.
Soapy Smith felt a tug on his coat sleeve, turned and looked into a face he hadn’t seen in ages—it was a policeman from his Colorado days. He knew Soapy Smith well enough not to be overly surprised to see him on the West Coast at this particular moment. The two men began to talk about what everyone else was talking about.
“I’m going to be the boss of Skagway,” Soapy Smith confided casually. The policeman nodded knowingly and folded his arms, waiting to hear more. “I know exactly how to do it,” Smith continued. Then he had a sudden thought. “If you come along, I’ll make you chief of police,” he offered magnanimously.
“A team of mules couldn’t drag me to Alaska!” replied the policeman, seemingly immune to the infection that was ravaging the entire coastline. Soapy Smith shared this immunity to gold fever but had decided to head for Alaska anyway. He suffered from a compulsion of a different sort.
