Zachary's Gold

by Stan Krumm

  To Hazel.

  Of course.

  Always.

  I WAS RAISED IN THE hill country of New Hampshire, my parents being second generation American farmers and moderately successful as such. My father was able and determined to see that I received an education better than his own, and to that end dispatched me to Chicago at the age of nineteen years to study law.

  “Lawyers,” he pronounced more than once, “are the roosters in the henhouse of this world.” There was some truth in this quaint observation, although within the metaphor of a henhouse, I believe that foxes would be the animals more relevant to that profession.

  Knowing his hopes for my life as I did, I was rather surprised at his great displeasure two years later when I announced that I had taken employment as a Pinkerton agent. I had assumed that he would quickly see the similarity between the two careers, both being in the field of law and its maintenance, and consider that my scholastic goal had been more or less reached, but this was not the case. His protestations were all the more hurtful to me in that I had been forced to falsify several letters of recommendation to secure the job. At that point in my life, the idea of cheating in order to become an enforcer of the law did not seem paradoxical at all.

  The temptation is to state that my father refused to speak to me from that day on, but in fairness, I myself never found opportunity to communicate to him, and he had no idea of my whereabouts after I left school. I liked my family well enough, but as a group we were always too busy to form those poetic bonds that cannot be broken, or at least ignored.

  My three years as a Pinkerton man accomplished two things. Firstly, it taught me to use a Colt revolver a third as long as my leg, thereby convincing me that I was a fully redoubtable young bull and a challenge to all comers. Secondly, it showed me that not every occupation that promises challenge and adventure can fulfil that promise. For approximately thirty-four months I was based in various hotels and railway stations, endlessly asking questions and searching, usually in vain, for scoundrels and swindlers. The greatest excitement I experienced was in being lost twice in snowstorms, and the only time I actually used my revolver, I shot out all the windows and most of the door of a small house. I discovered later that my desperado had never actually occupied the place.

  I was only a slightly more cynical and experienced young fellow, however, as I headed west for California in the summer of 1863. There was still a challenge available there for a young man, was the surety, and chances for more than a meagre salary and bunions. I had some vague notions of rounding up wild horses or discovering and conquering some lost tribe of very rich Indians, but by the time I reached San Francisco gold and rumours of gold were the only thoughts that I would entertain. In this, I followed much of the population, for while the greatest finds in the region were becoming or had become depleted, the dream remained. New Eldorados were reported from here and there as well—Idaho and Montana were interesting to me, at first.

  I decided to winter in San Francisco, though. I had found work on the docks and desired to build up enough capital to endure a short period of careful prospecting with no income to cover expenses, before I became fabulously rich. Each evening as I squirrelled away my resources, I would gaze longingly towards the Montana hills, where my empire was waiting to reveal itself. I amassed quite a collection of maps and pored over them diligently, as if sufficient study would reveal the secrets of the future.

  Longshoremen are a rough lot generally, and the people I encountered that winter on the docks were mostly as shameless an amalgam of liars and storytellers as one could hope to find, but mixed with the falsehood and phantasms was a theme I could not ignore—that the relatively instant fortunes of the day were being made not in Montana, but far north of me in the new English colony of British Columbia. British Columbia was where the real gold and the real gold seeker were to be found.

  I was reluctant at first to consider the trip, for anyone familiar with the region described it as the Devil’s own region to travel. I had hoped to encounter a more hospitable form of wilderness for my journeys, but as the months passed, so did my reservations.

  Thus it was that on April 3, 1864, I took passage on the paddlewheel steamship Commodore to Fort Victoria, en route to the colony of British Columbia. Because of my connections with the stevedores I was able to work for my fare as a non-skilled crewman, my duty being to clean the decks, to sweep and swab continuously. We were so grossly overladen with passengers, however, that there was scarcely a free patch of deck, bench, or bunk that was not covered either by an itinerant miner or his stack of gear. Therefore, I managed to find time to do a fair amount of posing on the foredeck with my eyes on the horizon and my scraggly bronze moustache fluttering in the wind. I was a tall and skinny creature but fancied myself something of an inspirational portrait piece in that posture.

  From Fort Victoria, another steamer—this one so old that it was hardly seaworthy—carried our small horde of humanity across the gulf waters to the mainland and about thirty miles up the Fraser River to Fort Langley, where the next segment of my journey began.

  I disembarked in the early afternoon, optimistic and only mildly nauseated from the ship’s motion, so I determined to shoulder my pack and make some distance towards Fort Hope. By nightfall I had covered twenty miles along a most pleasant road, and as I lay rolled in my blanket by a cheery fire, I felt sure that the stories of the road’s treachery and danger had been grossly exaggerated.

  The next day, in bright spring sunshine, I walked the forty miles to Fort Hope, camping just north of the settlement in ease and good spirits. I remember this quite well, for it was the last I saw of ease and good spirits for some time.

  The ten or twelve miles to Fort Yale introduced me to the realities of the odyssey I had undertaken. A fine, cold rain fell steadily and seemed to double the weight of my pack. I spent much of my time cursing the foul capriciousness of road surveyors. When a straight path through the forest was quite obviously available, they chose to make it meander like a prairie stream, and when a really formidable obstacle presented itself, they forced the traveller directly up its face, rather than divert him around it.

  It was also at this time that I first glimpsed the river’s malicious rage. The flat grey maelstrom twisted along the base of the slate cliff looking as deceptively slow as a coiling serpent until it struck some exposed rock and spat up sheets of rabid foam. (To this day I recall seeing, at a spot twenty miles or so above Fort Yale, a pair of fallen trees fully thirty feet in length being borne swiftly down the swirling waterway. I watched them hurtle to the edge of a great whirlpool, whereupon they flipped up on their ends like twigs and were swallowed in a single gulp.)

  It was nightfall when I straggled into Fort Yale, and I immediately took the chance to emulate the Christ child by seeking refuge in a stable. I remained there the following day, it being a Sunday. Like most of the travellers, I was grateful for a Sabbath rest, even though my own expedition had scarcely begun. A trader with four pack mules was due to leave Monday morning—a French Canadian whose name I now forget. Along with a half-dozen other apprehensive adventurers, I chose to accompany him. We would give him the safety found in numbers, and he, for his part, could supply us from his stocks with certain items we would otherwise have had to carry on our backs. It was a fortuitous arrangement and kept those unpleasant weeks of sojourning from being totally impossible for me. The journey was more than a week and a half of cold, aching bones and misery that I shall not describe at length.

  One vivid picture remains in my mind, though, from the celebrated Royal Engineers’ road through the wicked lower regions of the Fraser Canyon. I remember being forced to venture out onto what the Frenchman called “cat’s paths”—hanging slings of boards suspended
from ropes above and shored up by random logs underneath. Dangling there against the sheer slate face, I found the view of watery death far below me was too much to endure and too near to ignore, and I was forced to creep along with my eyes tightly shut, one hand holding a mule’s packstrap. It was an undignified posture, but, as I say, a memorable one.

  I could easily spend a great deal of time describing our travel north through river canyons, over mountain ridges, swamps, and deserts. It was an eventful journey. I recall vividly the night we expelled an Englishman named Alexander from our company for cheating at cards, barely refraining from hanging the scoundrel. I remember equally, at another point, how disgusted I was to witness the lengthy funeral the papist Frenchman gave his favourite packhorse when it broke a leg and had to be shot.

  It is a country that breeds memorable images and strange stories, although the strangest and most memorable still awaited me, weeks later, and farther north.

  After travelling for about ten days, we reached the outpost of Soda Creek, some sixty or seventy miles down the Fraser from Quesnelle Mouth. That stretch of the river is safely navigable, and, as luck would have it, we were able to gain passage on the sternwheeler next day.

  The operators of that vessel proved to be as wild a lot as any dock workers in San Francisco, and I arrived at the beginning of the last leg of my expedition quite drunk. Indeed, in my attempt to disembark I almost drowned in about three feet of water before I could extricate myself from beneath my river-soaked pack. By sleeping in a shed owned by the shipping company, I was able to keep the frost off my blanket, but I awoke very cold and ill-disposed to the world next day.

  I set out alone and travelled nearly twenty miles—as far as Cottonwood House—where I ate good beefsteak and potatoes, then retired immediately to the stables where, warmed by hay and horse breath, I slept a full twelve hours.

  In the morning I was much invigorated. Checking my accounts, I found I still had several days of rough grub and thirty-five American dollars, while being within thirty-odd miles of my destination. After having covered roughly four hundred, it seemed such a short distance that I expected to reach the goldfields that day, but that majestic and malevolent country had more than one surprise in store for newcomers.

  The wagon road from Quesnelle Mouth to Barkerville and Cameronton was barely begun at that time, Mr. Gustavus Blin Wright having lately arrived with his crew of men, and I was working my way through the forest along a path four to six feet in width, which seemed to have been directed either by a madman or a jackrabbit. It wound and twisted through an otherwise trackless region that managed to be both of extremely steep relief and covered by swamp. When the forest allowed any distance of vision, snow could be seen on the heights, and after climbing only a short while, I found snow on each side of the trail.

  I camped that night on frozen ground between high, white drifts, wondering as I went to sleep whether I would be frozen and blown over before morning. In the following weeks and months, I was to grow used to that as my retiring thought, for in that land the snow can come in any week of the year, and the nights are never warm.

  There was, of course, no question of turning back.

  AN OMNIPRESENT COLD PERVADES ALL recollections of my early days in the Cariboo. Cold crept up into my bones at night from the ground where I slept. Cold fell down silently from the dark sky to surround me in the morning. If I found respite by a fire or in some warm building, the relief was only momentary. The cold was patiently waiting for me when I started on my way again, down the slippery clay streets and the boggy creek banks.

  The town of Barkerville did not lend itself to flowery descriptions or fond memories. Situated in the shallow valley of Williams Creek, it more resembled a desolate battleground or the site of some horrific natural disaster than a planned community boasting to be the “largest city west of Chicago and north of San Francisco.”

  The lower slopes of both hillsides had been more or less completely denuded and were simply a vast expanse of mud and slush dotted with mine shafts and shanties—criss-crossed with footpaths and a spiderweb network of troughs and wooden flumes directing the water of the creek to run a myriad of pumps and Cornish wheels. What trees still remained could not hope for a much longer existence. The sound of chopping and sawing as these were transformed into lumber and firewood was incessant during daylight hours, and a white veil of woodsmoke across the valley’s roof was the only testimony to the past existence of smaller forms of vegetation. Scattered across this bleak panorama were the places of human habitation, so small and squalid that they could easily be missed at a casual glance.

  While little of beauty could be credited to the town, it could certainly boast great energy and constant activity. The noise of logging, digging, building, pumping, pounding, shouting, and cursing lasted all day and well into the night. Indeed, even during the hours of darkness, the valley bottom was covered with spots of light—lanterns glowing over the wet shafts that had to be worked twenty-four hours of each day.

  The buildings of Barkerville proper were strung along one long main street and one back street—a few decent structures serving as stores, hotels, and saloons, while the living quarters of most common miners were ramshackle affairs set up with little care and no intention of longevity. Each builder had the same thought—that his cabin needed to last only a few months until he was rich enough to leave. Work time was too precious to squander on personal comfort, and almost none of them had wives or family to consider.

  My naivety and lack of foresight were remarkable, in hindsight, and it was to my great discredit that I had thought only as far as making the trek to the land of promise and little of what would be required upon my arrival. I suppose I expected to find some cheap boarding house or bunk-down arrangement, a short season of leisure while I chose the most obvious site to begin my harvest of mineral bounty. Needless to say, no such accommodation existed. The choice was between absolutely exorbitant rates in hotel rooms or a squatter’s chances wherever the ground was dry. Luckily, many of the buildings were constructed two or three feet off the ground on wooden pillars, and I spent my first two nights underneath a general store in cold but comparatively dry conditions.

  The search for a claim site was more complicated than I had anticipated—the whole of Williams Creek and all the more promising side gulches being completely staked long before my arrival. Newcomers like me hoped that we might get a chance to pick up a lapsed claim in a good location. Each miner was required to live continuously on site to retain title, and speculation was that some claim holders might not return from their legally permitted winter layoff, but they were not required to do so until June first, and talk was that the allowance might even be extended to the first of July.

  It was a huge country in which I stood, and a withering prospect to have to choose one particular hundred-foot square where a dream might be nurtured into reality.

  As I wrapped myself in my blanket that first night under the general store, my mind was like a cauldron, boiling with sundry unpleasant opinions and emotions. I was physically exhausted after my long journey, however, and I was quickly asleep, in spite of the constant noise of boots booming like a drum along the boardwalk not far from my head.

  It was not noise that dragged me up and out of my slumbers in the middle of that night, but a small sharp pain near my belly. When enough of my consciousness returned, I realized that some small animal—a mouse, in fact—had managed to crawl inside my clothing and was currently scurrying along my skin, biting where he deemed necessary. This appreciable discomfort caused me to sit up abruptly in the dark, or rather to attempt to sit up, for my head cracked into the floorboards above me with a sound like someone dropping a watermelon, and I sprawled prostrate once more. On the mouse, who bit me again.

  By the time this situation had finally been corrected I was, of course, wide awake. I am no more afraid of rodents than any man, but the sensation of sharing one’s undergarments with the lower beasts can be quite disco
ncerting. I couldn’t blame the little fellow much, for like myself he was only searching for the warmest available place to sleep, but I confess that when I extracted him from my shirt I did not set him free to bother me again, but summarily dispatched him to meet his mousey Maker.

  I resolved to find better accommodation as quickly as possible.

  I began the next day with a breakfast of dried beef strips warmed over a fire some fellows had set up behind a corral on Back Street. Conversing with this small group for a short time, I quickly became aware of the protocol that governs talk among prospectors and miners. The first rule on this line is that one may hold forth about great fortune or complain bitterly about the fickleness of life with impunity, and with little risk, in either case, that anyone will believe a single word. Where questions to another person are concerned, however, great care must be exercised. Facetious or jesting enquiries are perfectly fine, as are opinions about technique, background facts, or the superstitions that help to make many decisions. It is forbidden, however, to ask anyone how much gold they have, where they found it, or any variation on those two questions.

  I escaped that breakfast time with no new friendships made, but no blows exchanged, and straightaway walked the three miles to the gold commissioner’s office in Richfield, where maps of Barkerville, Cameronton, Antler Creek, Stout’s Gulch, and all other sections of the region lined the walls.

  I considered myself to be rather knowledgeable about maps by this time, but after studying these for an hour, I was none the wiser. I walked and pondered, then returned to examine them further, but with no better luck. Other men came and went continually, many checking the same diagrams I found so incomprehensible, then nodding sagely and departing while I tried in vain to decipher the codes of four-figure numbers, pencil scratches over curving lines, and curious abbreviations.

  After most of another hour, I departed the offices again and had just paused on the boardwalk outside the main doors when a small man with an enormous red beard accosted me.