Gold Fever

by Rich Mole

  Conditions in the North appeared a lot more primitive than at Fort Walsh, where, pennants flying, the white-gloved major had once led scarlet-clad horsemen against the Assiniboines. To Walsh, appearances reflected discipline and professionalism, and the appearance of Yukon policemen was, he wrote, “very disappointing, their costumes as veriegated [sic] of those of the packers on the Chilkoot Pass.” He accused the men under his charge of being “the laughing stock of people all along the trail.”

  Walsh seemed to ignore the effect harsh realities had on his underpaid, overworked Yukon policemen. Not surprisingly, the first contingent he met on the other side of the mountains did not meet his parade-square expectations. Inspector D’Arcy Strickland and his handful of sweaty, dirty tent dwellers had been working for weeks from dawn until dusk to hack the new Tagish River post out of the bush. The commissioner bluntly reprimanded Strickland for his “scruffy looking men.”

  A graduate of the Royal Military College at Kingston and fully cognizant of the commissioner’s sweeping powers, pragmatic Strickland likely replied, “Yes, sir!” and was not unduly upset over Walsh’s pompous arrogance. Strickland, who built Fort Constantine, the Yukon’s first NWMP post, understood conditions far better than Walsh. The commissioner would learn, and the lessons would come hard.

  Others were not so sanguine. At the newly constructed Dawson City post, where a growing number of prisoners awaited the judge who would preside over their trials, policemen might well have asked, “Where the dickens is Walsh, anyway?” The answer: snowed in at the tiny police post at Big Salmon, hundreds of kilometres south, where the commissioner scribbled diatribes about police inefficiencies. Walsh wouldn’t arrive at Dawson until the warmth of spring broke the ice on the Yukon River. Seemingly helpless in the face of the elements, Walsh appeared to personify his own police “inefficiencies.”

  Nevertheless, one member of Walsh’s party, prosecutor Frederick Wade, did manage to reach Dawson that winter and later claimed the commissioner could have done the same. The reason for Walsh’s delay, Wade told the secretary of the interior, was “sheer fear.” Walsh staff member J.D. McGregor put it even more bluntly. Walsh, he said, was “utterly devoid of courage.”

  What Wade and McGregor failed to note was that Walsh had started out for Dawson by dogsled in early February. However, he learned that in response to the threat of starvation, a US relief expedition accompanied by American troopers was poised to enter the Yukon. Walsh doubled back toward the White and Chilkoot passes to meet this intrusion into Canadian soil. In a move that saved countless lives, the commissioner issued an order that no one would be allowed to enter Canadian territory without at least one year’s provisions.

  Meanwhile, in Dawson, simmering discontent over alleged corruption in the gold commissioner’s office boiled over into outright rage. The frustration began with unpopular Canadian mining regulation royalties that rose to 20 percent when weekly earnings exceeded $500. When 3,000 angry miners met to protest, the gathering ended in fist fights. Chaos ruled as the government’s inadequate staff attempted to manage a deluge of mining claims. Gold Commissioner Thomas Fawcett became the focus of the anger. The Klondike Nugget was quick to lead the crusade, and publisher Gene Allan recalled that the newspaper “sold like hotcakes.”

  It wasn’t long before suspicions of corruption surfaced. The date previously announced by Fawcett for the opening of Dominion Creek claims was suddenly put ahead. However, a select few close to the gold commissioner’s office got advance word of the change and were already on the creek, poised to stake their claims. More outrage!

  “The administration . . . on Dominion creek has been a mess from start to finish and I am sick and tired of the whole business,” Walsh confessed to the Nugget.

  GOODBYE FAWCETT shouted the headline at the gold commissioner’s hasty departure for the outside. Soon the taint of corruption spread to the commissioner himself. Walsh’s former cook testified that in order to get his job, he was forced to sign over two-thirds of any mining claim he staked to either James Walsh or his brother, Philip. Even though results of a formal investigation headed by William Ogilvie were inconclusive, Walsh’s career in the Yukon was over, and he left under a shadow of suspicion.

  Months before, government officials in Ottawa realized that sending Walsh was not enough. The Yukon needed a single, stalwart individual with proven leadership and steadfastness in the face of crisis. Their thoughts turned to one particular Mountie, Superintendent Samuel Steele.

  Fort Macleod, Alberta

  January 1898

  Far from the chaos of the Klondike, Samuel Steele celebrated the new year in Alberta with his friends, wife and three small children. Amidst the toasts for peace, health and happiness, Steele was resigned to the probability that 1898 was likely to offer the same humdrum set of duties as the year before. Compared to the days of whisky traders, the battles of the North-West Rebellion, Native treaties, murder investigations and a CPR construction-camp riot, the day-to-day affairs of Fort Macleod seemed an anticlimactic finale to a distinguished police career that had begun with the NWMP’s famous March West. Steele might have stoically concluded his fate was simply “just desserts” for his intolerance of incompetence at any level, including at the very top.

  Steele had been passed over for promotion as commissioner, a position granted to William Herchmer, a civil servant with scant military experience. Before long, Steele ran afoul of the pompous and dictatorial Herchmer. The commissioner’s campaign of personal harassment against Steele escalated to spiteful accusations of misconduct. Steele stood his ground and Herchmer backed down. As a consequence, Steele lost another chance at promotion. The position of assistant commissioner went instead to Herchmer’s own brother. Steele soldiered on.

  The attitude of the new federal government was cause for concern. While in opposition, the Liberals had taken the Conservatives to task about the NWMP, claiming it was an expensive exercise in patronage. The prevailing opinion was that since the West had been tamed and the railroad finished, the days of the NWMP were over. The Liberals were now in power. The future did not look bright for Steele or the police force itself.

  On January 29, a telegram from Herchmer arrived at Fort Macleod. Superintendent Samuel Steele was stunned. He had been ordered to the Yukon. It seemed that the force’s day was not yet over. Nor, for that matter, was Samuel Steele’s career.

  Chilkoot and White Passes

  Winter 1897–98

  Through snow, wind and cold, hopefuls continued to labour up the Chilkoot and White passes, mounting the 1,200 icy stairs of the Chilkoot, or tramping up past grotesque heaps of grinning animal corpses on the White Pass. By late February, men hardy enough to make the summit found the NWMP waiting.

  Two wooden crates that had been secretly stashed at the rear of the police post at Lake Bennett two months before were dug out of the snow and pried open. Officers lifted out the very latest in turn-of-the-century weapons technology: two British-made Maxim machine guns. Constantine had pleaded for the guns as early as 1896, fearful his small force would be overrun by “toughs, gamblers, fast women, and criminals.”

  As if to underscore Constantine’s concerns, the force’s small Skagway office found itself in the center of a gunfight. The sound of gunfire was not all that unusual in Skagway that winter. On this occasion, however, all officers hit the floor when bullets began to ricochet through the office itself. It wouldn’t be the last time, nor were they the only ones to experience gunplay at close hand.

  “The shack I slept in had a bullet through it over my head,” reported one experienced traveller who had seen many frontier towns. Lawless Skagway made a lasting impression. “For the six nights I slept in Skagway there was a shooting on the streets every night. At least one man was killed that I knew of and probably others.”

  At last Ottawa responded, sending “equalizing” armament designed to put a tiny group of police on the same footing as hundreds of outsiders who might mount an armed uprising.
Ottawa also instructed officers to be posted at the summits. It wasn’t the fear of lawlessness that prompted the government to act; it was the potential problem of huge numbers of foreigners posing a threat to the nation’s sovereignty. At the time, journalist Tappan Adney reported as many as 90 percent of the miners in the Canadian territory of the Yukon were from anywhere but Canada.

  Upon reaching the Chilkoot’s Scales or the White Pass’ Summit Lake, no individual could proceed farther without proving they had a year’s food and supplies. James Walsh’s edict, soon to be backed up by Sam Steele, meant that every person on the trail was required to push, pull or carry approximately one ton of sacks and boxes filled with an astounding array of goods, including 23 kilograms of evaporated onions, 181 kilograms of flour, stoves, tents and even underwear. Millions of tons of goods were moved over the Chilkoot and White passes before the fall of 1898.

  Travellers hiked up and down the trails repeatedly to bring up their supplies. Later, for those with the means to pay, an aerial tramway made loads lighter and the ordeal shorter. At the summit, supplies were often obliterated by overnight snowfalls. The roof and the top third of the flagpoles were frequently the only visible reminders of the police post buried beneath.

  To facilitate the orderly travel of thousands of stampeders, American army officers in Skagway and the Canadian police on the other side of the mountains came to the amicable—and practical—agreement to set the international boundary at the summit of the passes. While the final boundary would be debated until 1903, for the time being, the fluttering Union Jack signified Canadian sovereignty over the territory and facilitated the collection of customs duties. By June 1899, the total duties collected exceeded $174,000. Earlier, the onerous collections were made worse by numbing winter weather. Said one frustrated officer, “No one with a spark of humanity would keep people waiting in those dreadful places, with the danger of perishing from cold, while their goods, exposed to the inclement weather and blowing snow, spoiled before their eyes.”

  Exercising common sense and good judgment, the policemen earned the respect of thousands of travellers and the admiration of their new commander, Superintendent Sam Steele. Steele reported, “The officers in charge of the summits displayed great ability, using great firmness and tact.” Men in the ranks were recognized too, for “the greatest fortitude and endurance amidst the terrific snowstorms.”

  One storm was so fierce that the policemen retreated temporarily from the summit on Chilkoot and set up camp below at Crater Lake. During the night, the water level rose, tents were flooded and everything was soaked.

  Keeping customs men warm at the summit meant cutting cords of wood. Firewood details did not dare chop down the nearby trees. Those were American trees, and nobody wanted to risk an international incident. So, frost-bitten men trudged kilometres up and down slopes, cutting and hauling wood from the Canadian side.

  Improvisation and snap decisions were the order of the day. Steele confiscated supplies and a revolver from a suspected American thief and sent him under guard down the trail. One observer was stunned by Steele’s audacity. “How can you do that?” he asked incredulously.

  “I can’t do it,” Steele admitted, “but I’m not going to have any of those thugs robbing and murdering on this side like they are doing down in Skagway.” He smiled slyly. “I’ve been waiting for just such a one over here to make an example of him.”

  Skagway was, Steele believed, “about the roughest place in the world. Robbery and murder were daily occurrences; many people came there with money, and next morning had not enough to get a meal, having been robbed or cheated out of their last cent . . . occasionally some poor fellow was found lying lifeless on his sled . . . powder marks on his back and his pockets inside out.”

  In Skagway, the man ultimately responsible for much of the murder and mayhem was Soapy Smith. That past August, Smith had decided chaotic, transient Skagway was his kind of town, and he quickly made it his own. The ranks of Soapy’s gang swelled to hundreds of vest-and-derby con artists, cloth-capped thugs, cold-hearted pimps and gaudy prostitutes. His arm’s-length associates included the deputy marshal, justice of the peace and a newspaper editor. Disguised as hopeful prospectors bent under heavy-looking packs, Soapy Smith’s armed bandits “struck it rich” at the expense and sometimes the lives of others. A keen eye, steely nerve and quick thinking were often the best ways to foil the gang.

  Skagway, Alaska

  May 1898

  William “Cap” Olive was the manager of the newly established Bennett Lake and Klondyke Navigation Company. He travelled to Skagway to cash a Bank of Montreal draft to pay freight handlers and the men who were building the company’s three steamboats at Lake Bennett. Once he entered town, Olive knew he was being followed. At the First Bank of Skagway, the overly loud replies of the suspicious-looking teller and manager seemed designed to be overheard by men loitering nearby. Olive wanted notes, not gold, for his journey. The manager asked Olive to return later that afternoon. When Olive left the bank to visit his agent, two of the men from the bank followed him. His agent spotted them through his office window.

  “Soapy’s lookout,” he told Olive. “For God’s sake be careful. They’re known as the Weasel and the Panther. Don’t take any risks when packing the money to Lake Bennett. They’ll get you as sure as the Lord made little apples.”

  Olive realized it made little difference whether he was in town or on the trail. “If I don’t pack it, they’ll still get me.” He had promised his workers their money without delay, so he decided to take the risk. Before leaving, Olive called in the deputy marshal and related his story. Olive suggested that bank personnel were in Soapy Smith’s pocket. The marshal was belligerent rather than sympathetic.

  “It’s a damned good thing I know you, Cap, or you couldn’t talk to me like that about the bank,” the marshal snorted. “You’re imagining things.”

  “Oh no, I’m not,” Olive replied, realizing at once which side of the law the marshal was on. “Watch your step, marshal,” he warned. Minutes later, Olive and his agent saw the marshal brazenly talking with one of the gang members.

  All that day, Olive could feel eyes watching him. That night, inside the hotel restaurant, he and his agent performed a loud charade for the benefit of gang members sitting nearby. “Here’s off for a sleep, Jack,” Olive announced, getting up from the table. “Wake me at 2 a.m. and we’ll be off on the White Pass Trail. Goodnight!” Instead, within the hour, Olive was being rowed toward Dyea, headed for the Chilkoot Pass.

  Once at Dyea, Olive knew that he was being followed again. Hugging his bag of bank notes and $1,000 in gold double eagles, Olive dashed for the Taiya River. The log bridge was out; he would have to cross on foot. Up to his knees in rushing water, Olive heard a gunshot behind him. He pulled out his revolver, whirled and fired in the direction of the muzzle flash. He heard a moan in return. As promised, Olive’s workers received their pay.

  Later that night in Skagway, a chance meeting with a NWMP officer resulted in the rescue of Olive’s agent. Minutes earlier, he had been apprehended at gunpoint by Soapy Smith’s thugs, eager to beat him senseless for losing Olive.

  * * *

  In June, customs collections amounting to $130,000 in gold and notes were sitting at the NWMP Lake Bennett detachment. Sam Steele, who had made the busy detachment his headquarters, asked Inspector Zachary Wood to make the trip down the trail, through Dyea to Skagway, to see the money safely on to Victoria.

  The policemen knew they needed a strategy to elude Soapy Smith’s mob. The men arranged to spread the word that Inspector Wood was being transferred to the Canadian prairies. The story made sense as Wood had recently closed up his Skagway office. Wood and two officers hit the trail.

  The men now carried a huge sum—$224,000—stuffed into two kit bags. At Dyea, they booked a hotel room and guarded the cargo in shifts. In spite of the cover story, word came that the officers were being watched. It was as though Soapy Smith could s
mell the money.

  Wood formulated a strategy. A telephone call confirmed that the Tartar had arrived in Skagway. They had to board it at that location. So, at the beach, Wood and his men uncovered a hidden rowboat, and within a few minutes they were safely aboard a rented tugboat, proceeding down the inlet to Skagway. But the ordeal wasn’t over yet.

  A rowboat full of Soapy Smith’s men bore down on the tug. The officers shouldered their carbines. Wood’s voice echoed out over the water, warning Soapy Smith’s men to keep their distance. The pursuers veered out of bullet range but continued to follow. Aboard the tug, the policemen could see the Tartar tied up at the wharf. The crew was at the hurricane rail, armed with rifles. Pushing and shoving, Soapy Smith’s men closed in on the policemen as they stepped up onto the wharf. Bags in hand, Wood found himself face to face with Soapy Smith.

  Suddenly, from the Tartar’s deck came a hoarse command, and a contingent of uniformed navy reservists moved quickly onto the wharf, rifles at the ready. Outgunned, Soapy Smith realized that this was one gamble he could not win. Bowing slightly, he smiled at Wood. “Why don’t you stay awhile, inspector?”

  Inspector Wood graciously declined Smith’s offer of “hospitality,” and his group carried the precious cargo up Tartar’s gangway.

  Lake Bennett to Dawson City, Yukon

  Spring–Summer 1898

  A month before the Mounties’ American showdown on the Skagway wharf, Salome and Tom Lippy were living with their new baby in a tent at Lake Bennett. It had been a wonderful time away on the outside, but now, like the Berrys, the Lippys were back in the North. The Berrys had sledded across the frozen lake a few weeks before. The Lippys and thousands of others were anxiously waiting for spring breakup to float down the river. All day long the sound of saws and hammers filled the air as hundreds of boats took shape on the broad, curving shoreline.

  The homemade creations hammered together in the huge Lake Bennett tent town often reflected the builders’ haste (the vessels soon sprang leaks and quickly foundered), and sometimes their sense of creativity. Stampeder Mont Hawthorne knew about boats from his days at the Columbia River canneries and built a scow sturdy enough to hold himself, two others and their tons of supplies.