by Tom McCarthy
While I was checking off my outfit and seeing it onboard, I noticed a lot of the Rampart men, with hand trucks gathered from the various stores, taking their own outfits aboard, ignoring the shipping clerk and dumping their goods wherever they found a place to put them. The officers and deckhands were protesting and swearing, but the men went right along loading their outfits.
Presently the captain pulled the whistle rope and ordered the plank drawn in and the cable cast off from the “deadman.” Instantly three men marched to the cable’s end, seized the man who was to cast it off, and held him. Then fully fifty men with their packs on their backs filed down the plank. The first mate tried to stop them. He even made a move to draw his pistol, but the foremost man—a big six-footer—threw his arms around him and carried him back against the stairway and held him until the men with their packs were all aboard. It was all done quietly and with the utmost good humor. The men grinned up at the swearing, red-faced captain on the upper deck, and one shouted, “We’ll give you a poke of dust, Cap, when we get to Nome.”
When all were aboard, somebody on the bank cast off the cable, the swift current caught the boat, the wheel backed, and we swung around and headed down the Yukon, bound for the new strike.
Whiskers were very much in evidence in that closely packed mob of men that stood around on all the decks, stepping on each other’s feet, perching on stairways, boxes, pole bunks—anywhere for a resting place. To go from one part of the boat to another was a difficult proposition.
The most evident trait of the crowd was its good nature. The deckhands, among whom I recognized a lawyer friend from Dawson and a former customs collector from Juneau, were gold seekers like all the rest, and it was, “Hello, Shorty!” “Ah, there, Dutch!” “Where you goin’, Jim?” between them and the newcomers. A rollicking, happy-go-lucky crowd, all joyful at being on the way to the new diggings. Even the officers of the boat began to smile, secretly pleased that they had a record-breaking and most profitable load aboard and were free from blame for overloading because they could not help it.
As for me, I was well content, even to be hustled and jostled and elbow-punched by this horde of scraggly-bearded men of the northwestern wilderness. This was my parish, my home, and these were my comrades, my chums, my brothers. I was just as sunburned and weather-beaten as they were and felt the same tingling of nerves, the same leap of the blood at the call of fresh adventure.
I was dressed in the same sort of rough woolen mackinaw clothes and soft flannel underwear as the men around me. I had left my clerical suit and white shirts and collars behind for three reasons: First, for the sake of economy. These strong, loose garments did not cost a third as much as broadcloth and would wear twice as well. Besides, it would cost a dollar and a half to have a white shirt laundered in interior Alaska (which, at that time, was twice the original cost of the shirt), and twenty-five cents to do up a collar, the cost price of which “outside” was three for a quarter. I could wash my flannel shirts myself. Second, for comfort’s sake. The soft wool of these garments was so much warmer and more pliable than a “Prince Albert” suit, and a starched collar would sear one’s neck like fire when it was “sixty below.” My chief reason, however, was that I wished to create no artificial barriers between my parishioners and myself. I wished to stand on the same social level. I desired these men to feel that I was one of them and could camp and “rustle,” carry a pack, live on rabbits, and rough it generally as deftly and cheerfully as they—live the same outdoor life and endure the same so-called hardships.
The viewpoint of these “sourdoughs” was shown in a funny way at our first landing place after leaving Rampart, which was the little town of Tanana. When the boat tied up, the whistle gave three sharp hoots, showing that the stay would be very short. As soon as the plank was ashore, a man ran up it, and when he reached the deck, he called loudly, “Is there a preacher aboard? Is there a preacher aboard?”
A grizzled old miner who did not know me pointed to the only man on the steamboat who wore a Prince Albert coat and white shirt and collar and drawled, “Wa-al, that there feller, he’s either a preacher or a gambler; I don’t know which.”
The “dressed-up” man proved to be a gambler. I made myself known to the anxious man from the village, followed him ashore, and married him to a woman who was waiting in the company’s office.
That was one voyage of mingled discomfort and pleasure. Discomforts and hardships are as you make them and take them. There were a few of that company who grumbled and swore at being crowded, at being obliged to stand up all day, to lie on the floor or on the piles of cordwood at night, besides being compelled to fairly fight for their meals or to get their food from their own kits. But the majority of these men had been camping and roughing it for two years. Many of them had packed heavy loads over the Chilcoot Pass in the great Klondike Stampede, had made their own boats and navigated hundreds of miles of unknown and dangerous rivers, had encountered and overcome thousands of untried experiences. To all of them, these little discomforts were trifles to be dismissed with a smile or joke, and they had contempt for any man who fussed or complained.
One of the cheeriest of the crowd aboard the steamboat was a newsboy twelve or thirteen years old. His name was Joe; I never knew his surname. He had had a very wonderful time. The year before—the summer of 1898—he was selling papers in Seattle. He heard of the high prices paid for newspapers and magazines at the camps of the Northwest. He bought three or four hundred copies of the Seattle P.I. (Post-Intelligencer) and Times. He paid two and a half and three cents apiece for them, the selling price at Seattle being five cents. Then he got five or six hundred back numbers of these papers, from a day to a week old, for nothing. He also got, mostly by gift from those who had read them, three or four hundred of the cheaper magazines, some new, some a month or two old. For his whole stock, he paid scarcely fifteen dollars.
Joe smuggled himself and his papers aboard a steamboat bound for Skagway and worked his passage as cabin boy, waiter, and general roustabout. At Juneau and Skagway, he sold about one-fourth of his papers and magazines—the papers for twenty-five cents each and the ten-cent magazines for fifty cents. He could have sold out but, hearing that he could get double these prices at Dawson and down the Yukon, held on to his stock.
He formed a partnership with an old “sourdough” miner, who helped him get his papers over the Chilcoot Pass and down the Yukon to Dawson. At the great Klondike camp, he quickly sold out his papers at a dollar each and the magazines at a dollar and a half to two and a half.
Joe spent the winter of 1898–1899 at Dawson selling the two papers published in that city and running a general newsstand, in which he sold the reading matter he had sold before but gathered up again from the buyers. Sometimes he sold the same magazine four or five times.
When the Nome stampede began, Joe got into the good graces of the manager of the steamboat company and got free passage down the Yukon. He shared my wolf robe on the floor of the purser’s room, and we became great chums. The boy was so bright and quick and at the same time so polite and accommodating that he made friends everywhere. He was a Sunday-school boy and distributed my little red hymnbooks when I held service in the social hall of the steamboat on Sunday, and his clear soprano sounded sweetly above the bass notes of the men.
“Joe,” I asked him one day, “how much money have you made during the last year and a half?”
“Well,” he replied, “I sent two thousand dollars out home from Dawson before I started down here, and with what I am making on this trip and what I hope to make at Nome, I think I’ll have five thousand dollars clear when I land at Seattle the last of October.”
“That’s a dangerous amount of money for a small boy to have,” I warned him. “Have you lost any of it?”
Joe grinned. “No, I dassent. Some card sharps tried to get me to gamble at Dawson. They said I could double my money. But my partner [the old min
er] said he’d lick me half to death if I ever went near the green tables. I didn’t want to, anyhow. Everybody helps me take care of my money.”
“What are you going to do with it?”
“Why, give it all to mother, of course. She’ll use it for me and my sister. I’m going to school as soon as I get home. Mother works in a store, but I guess this money’ll give her a rest. She needs it.”
A word more about little Joe before I leave him. He made good at Nome in September and sailed for Seattle the last of October. The last I heard of him, four or five years later, he was making his way through the University of Washington and still managing newspaper routes in Seattle. His is a case of exceptional good fortune, and yet I know of a number of boys who have made remarkable sums selling papers in Alaska. It is a boy’s land of opportunity as well as a man’s.
Our voyage to St. Michael was a tedious one—down the long stretches of the Lower Yukon, worming through the sandbars and muddy shallows of the interminable delta, waiting through weary hours for tide and wind to be just right before venturing out on Bering Sea. Hurrying at last under full steam through the choppy sea, with the waves washing the lower deck and producing panic, uproar, and swearing among the men packed upon it—we came to the harbor of St. Michael on the windswept, treeless, mossy shore of Norton Sound.
I was still to work my way through a tangle of delays and adventures before I could reach my goal—the great new camp at Nome, 130 miles from St. Michael.
I had first to get my outfit together on the wharf, counting the boxes and war bags, pursuing the missing ones to other outfits, and proving my claim to them. In the confusion this was a hard job, but I only lost two or three of my boxes. I piled my goods in a corner of the big warehouse of the North American Trading and Transportation Co. and set up my tent on the beach, for I was near the end of my money and could not pay the high prices charged at the hotels. I got into my camp kit and did my own cooking, protecting my food as best I could against the thievish Eskimo dogs.
Then began a search, which lasted a week, for means of getting to Nome. The gold hunters were putting off every day in whale boats, Eskimo oomiaks, and small sloops and schooners but these craft were too small and uncertain for me to risk passage in them. My caution proved wise, for five or six of these small boats, after setting out, were never heard of again.
While I was waiting, the U.S. revenue cutter, Bear, came into the harbor, and aboard her was Sheldon Jackson, superintendent of education for Alaska, the noted pioneer missionary. He was just returning from a tour of the native schools and reindeer stations. (He was the man who had introduced the reindeer into Alaska from Siberia to supply the wants of the Eskimo.)
“Hurry on to Nome,” he counseled me. “You were never needed more in all your life.”
At length there limped into the harbor a little tub-like side-wheel steamboat belonging to the Alaska Exploration Company, whose wharf was a mile and a half distant up the harbor. There was no way of getting my goods across the swampy tundra of St. Michael Island to the wharf. On the beach I found an abandoned old rowboat with open seams. I procured pieces of boards, some oakum, and pitch and set to work to repair the old boat. The steamboat was to sail for Nome the next forenoon. I worked all night. I made a pair of clumsy oars out of boards. Then I carried my goods to the leaky boat and rowed them to the dock. It took three trips to transfer my outfit, and while I was rowing back and forth, somebody carried off my most valuable war-bag, containing most of my footwear and underclothes—one hundred dollars’ worth.
I was a tired man when I stumbled down the steep stairs into the dark and stuffy hold of the little steamboat and much more tired when, after two and a half days of seasickness, bobbing up and down in the choppy seas like a man on a bucking bronco, I pulled up the stairs again and let myself down the rope ladder into the dory which was to take the passengers ashore at Nome.
“You can only take what you can carry on your back,” announced the captain. “There’s a storm coming up, and I’ve got to hurry to the lee of Sledge Island, twenty miles away. You’ll get your outfits when I come back. Lucky we’re not all down in Davy Jones’s locker.”
I strapped my pack-sack, containing my wolf robe and a pair of blankets, on my back, glad to get ashore on any terms. The dory wallowed heavily in the waves, the strong wind driving it toward the sandy beach. Boats have to anchor from one to two miles offshore at Nome. When we reached the beach, a big wave lifted the dory and swung it sideways. The keel struck the sand, and she turned over, dumping us all out, the comber overwhelming us and rolling us over and over like barrels. Drenched and battered, we crawled to land.
A heavy rain was falling as I staggered up the beach with my water-soaked blankets on my back, looking for a lodging house. The beach was lined with tents, placed without regard to order or the convenience of anybody except the owner of each tent. A few straggling board shacks were stuck here and there on the swampy tundra. Two or three large, low store buildings represented the various pioneer trading companies. The one street, which ran parallel to the beach, was full of mud. The buildings most in evidence were saloons, generally with dance hall attachments. The absence of trees; the leaden, weeping sky; the mud; the swampy tundra; the want of all light and beauty made this reception the dreariest of all my experiences in the new mining camps.
But I long ago learned that nothing is so bad but that it might be worse. I had not at that time seen Edmund Vance Cook’s sturdy lines, but the spirit of them was in my heart:
Did you tackle the trouble that came your way
With a resolute heart and cheerful,
Or hide your face from the light of day
With a craven heart and fearful?
Oh, a trouble’s a ton or a trouble’s an ounce,
Or a trouble is what you make it;
And it isn’t the fact that you’re hurt that counts,
But only, how did you take it!
I soon found a sign written in charcoal on the lid of a paper box—Lodging. I entered the rough building and found a cheery Irish woman named McGrath. There was no furniture in the house except two or three cheap chairs and a homemade board table.
“Shure, ye can,” she answered in reply to my question about spending the night there. “Ye’ll spread yer robe an’ blankets on the flure, an’ it’ll only cost ye a dollar an’ four bits. Ye’ll plaze pay in advance.”
I took stock of the contents of my pocketbook. There was just five dollars and a quarter left of the thousand dollars with which I had started from home on the first of May. It was now the first of September, and no more money was due me until the next spring. My food and tent were on the steamboat and would not be likely to come ashore for many days. It was Sunday evening, and a whole week must elapse before I could take up a collection.
I paid my landlady and she put my blankets by her stove to dry. I paid another dollar and a half for a supper of beans and flapjacks—the first food I had tasted for three days. I slept soundly that night on the floor, without a care or anxiety. The next morning I paid another dollar and a half for breakfast and could not resist the temptation of purchasing a Seattle paper (only three weeks old—what a luxury!). I had just twenty-five cents left—and I was a stranger in this strange corner of the earth!
I could not help laughing at my predicament as I entered the Alaska Exploration Company’s store. A bearded man standing by the stove bade me “good morning.”
“You seem to be pleased about something,” he said. “Have you struck it rich?”
“Well, yes!” I replied. “A rich joke on me,” and I told him of the fix I was in.
“What? You are Dr. Young?” he exclaimed, shaking me heartily by the hand. “Why, I’m a Presbyterian elder from San Francisco.”
The man’s name was Fickus, a carpenter, who had come to Nome to build the store and warehouses of one of the big companies. He had held th
e first religious meetings in the new camp and had found quite a circle of Christian people.
He offered to lend me money, but I refused to take it. “No,” I said, “let us wait and see what happens.”
Something happened very quickly. While we were talking, a young man entered the store and came up to me.
“I understand that you are a minister,” he said.
“Yes,” I replied. “What can I do for you?”
“You can marry me to the best woman in Alaska.”
“Is she here?” I asked, with a triumphant smile at Fickus.
“Oh, yes; she came on the last boat from Seattle.”
“When do you wish the ceremony to take place?” I inquired.
“Right now,” he replied. “You can’t tie the knot too quickly to suit me.”
I followed the eager young man, married him to a nice-looking girl who was waiting in a nearby cabin, received a wedding fee of twenty dollars, and returned to my newly found friend with the assurance that my wants were supplied until my outfit would come ashore.
This was my introduction to the second great gold camp of the Northwest—the raw, crazy, confused stampede of Nome.
8
How the Merrimac Was Sunk in Cuba
By Rupert S. Holland
The Spanish fleet was mounting an assault in the Cuban harbor of Santiago. It would be an easy sail into the Caribbean for a surprise attack on the Americans. Or so they thought. A heroic crew on a secret and audacious mission and an iconic old ship would change Spanish plans.
In the small hours of the morning of June 3, 1898, the Merrimac, a vessel that had once been a collier in the United States Navy, slipped away from the warships of the American fleet that lay off the coast of Cuba and headed toward the harbor of Santiago. The moon was almost full, and there was scarcely a cloud in the sky. To the northwest lay the Brooklyn, her great mass almost white in the reflected light. On the northeast the Texas loomed dark and warlike, and farther away lay a ring of other ships, dim and ghostly in the distance. Ahead was the coast of Cuba, with an outline of mountains rising in a half circle beyond the harbor. Five miles across the water, Morro Castle guarded the entrance to the harbor, in which lay a fleet of the Spanish admiral Cervera.
