Edmonton was the main depot for fur traders and served the greater region of the north-west. Though the land around it was very flat the town itself was situated on a high table of ground overlooking the thickly wooded valley of the North Saskatchewan River, which at one point was a mile in width. The streets were wide, too, and never was an exhausted Nat more grateful to reach anywhere as he and Rymer led their jaded horse into town that sunny September day.
‘Oh God,’ puffed a weary and dust-covered Rymer, dragging his feet at the very thought of the thousands of miles that lay ahead. ‘I don’t think I can face going any further.’
Nat murmured reassurance, as much for himself as for the other youth. ‘You’ll be all right after a rest. Just keep your mind fixed on that gold.’
At that precise moment food took precedence over all else. Using Rymer’s money they healed their starvation before taking a room in an hotel where they had a bath, a shave and luxuriated in clean cotton sheets for the next two nights whilst they and their horse recouped strength for the much longer excursion that lay ahead. By this time, the memory of that awful first leg was beginning to fade and Rymer’s enthusiasm had returned. They bought clothes more fitted to the Arctic temperatures they would have to endure – padded coats, snow shoes, fur-lined boots and gloves – and as much food as they could carry, in the shape of dried meat, bacon, beans and biscuits. It transpired that they would have little need of the compass, having only to follow the hundreds of other prospective miners who had also stopped to restock in Edmonton.
‘I’ve been talking to this bloke.’ A smirking Rymer joined Nat, who was busy loading up the horse on the morning of their departure. ‘He said if we’d taken the train to Vancouver we could’ve got a ship right up the coast to Alaska. We walked all that way for nowt!’ He ended on a giggle.
‘Oh, that’s bloody hilarious, that is!’ Nat shoved the other’s elbow off the saddle and, with obvious bad temper, continued his task.
‘Well, I weren’t to know was I?’ Rymer spread his palms. ‘I’ve never done this sort o’ thing before. Anyway, what we have to do now is to make our way over the Rockies.’
‘Oh well, that shouldn’t take us long.’
‘Then through British Columbia to the coast. We must be able to go some of the way by river.’
‘Hang on, I’ll just stick a paddle up this horse’s arse.’
Rymer dealt him a shove. ‘No, dummy, we use it to carry the stuff most of the way and when we get to a river what’ll take us to the coast we sell it.’
Nat performed a last check of the horse’s cinch. ‘Which way do we go then?’
Rymer consulted his map. ‘I think… we need to head for the Yellowhead Pass, here.’ He stabbed at the paper.
‘Right, take your last look at civilization and let’s be off then.’ Without further preamble Nat bounced into the stirrups.
‘I suppose that means I’m walking,’ muttered Rymer to himself and, hefting his pack, followed Nat out of town.
* * *
The route to Edmonton which they had previously found so exacting was as a Sunday School jaunt compared to the thousands of miles of wilderness that lay before them, with precipice, glacier and ravine all conspiring to hinder their fortunes. Hidden gorges awaited them like Venus flytraps waiting to catch any unfortunate insects, for indeed Nat and Rymer were as insignificant as flies upon this vast terrain. Nat enjoyed solitude, but even he was unnerved by such a degree of isolation and began to ponder on all the mishaps which could befall them. Why, if they should trip and fall victim to one of the numerous black caverns their skeletons would remain undiscovered for eternity! Prey to such thoughts, he was glad now that he had waited for Rymer, who at least was good for a joke to lighten the journey.
Contrary to all nightmares, disaster was to strike first in the shape of the tiniest chip of rock which became lodged in the horse’s hoof. The lame animal brought quandary: they had counted on it to provide extra finance when they reached the nearest waterway, so did they leave it behind and throw away this source of cash, force it to walk on in the hope that a town was nigh, or remain here for a few days until it recovered? With the acceptance that they were going to lose money one way or another they decided to press on with the horse and by extreme good fortune happened upon a trapper’s camp within a few miles. Here they managed to sell the nag, though at a far reduced price than it was worth. After spending the night amongst the first humans they had seen for weeks, they rose again to wend their lonesome way through canyon and creek.
Leaves fell, the temperature dropped. Their hair grew long, their clothes were filthy. Rations dwindled and their diet became monotonous, but with every hardship they kept reminding each other that there was gold at the end of this nightmarish trek. This and this alone kept Nat alive. There were many times during those weeks when Rymer would have gladly turned over and continued to sleep forever had his companion not kicked and bullied him into going on. Their morning greetings became less and less affable, new names were exchanged, none of them complimentary, but somehow the angry words and desperation served as fodder. Somehow, despite the months of hardship, they finally staggered upon the coast of British Columbia and, to much rejoicing that they would no longer have to rely on their aching feet, sought passage on a boat that would carry them north.
Their isolation at an end, Nat and Rymer found great pleasure in the company of other budding goldminers, for the vessel was crammed with men from every nationality and all walks of life; bank managers, butchers, tailors, gamblers, all infected by the same disease and each a source of information to be milked. The pair discovered from one who had investigated this more thoroughly than they had that there were rules and regulations to be followed. The North-West Mounted Police had stipulated that miners must have a year’s supply of provisions in order to be allowed into the Yukon.
Rymer turned to glance at Nat. ‘I didn’t know that, did you?’
Nat was unconcerned. ‘No, but we would’ve stocked up anyway once we’re ashore.’ He regarded the man’s attire with a critical eye. ‘You don’t look like a miner.’
‘That I am not,’ conceded their informant, whose face had been wizened by the frustrations of his job rather than the outdoor life. ‘But unlike you I had the nous to investigate every aspect of prospecting before I gave up my somewhat safer career. I was a bank clerk. Thirty years of counting other people’s fortunes whilst I and my wife had to make do with a comparative pittance. Rather than rob the bank I decided to take my chance here. Oh, I have no illusions, it’s going to be hard – I hope you realize that too.’ He beheld his young companions with the falsely authoritative air of one who has always craved subordinates, and now seized upon these two as vessels into whom he could pour his accumulated wisdom.
Rymer assured him, ‘We’re not afraid of hard work, sir. Thanks for the advice, we’ll stock up when we arrive.’ Nat despised him for making them appear green, and looked away as if to disassociate himself.
‘My pleasure, young man. Er, you hail from England if I’m not mistaken.’
Rymer grinned. ‘Yeah, we—’
‘What about you, sir?’ Nat, unprepared to let Rymer tell everyone their business, turned to address an intellectual-looking man who stood eavesdropping nearby.
The man coughed and inclined his head. ‘Oh, I am a schoolteacher, or was until a few days ago.’ Nat balked and gave Rymer a nudge that suggested they depart. ‘However, like this gentleman here I too have made vigorous investigation before embarking on my mission. It seemed only wise to do so.’ Undeterred that the boys were edging away, he began to impart his own particular brand of knowledge which centred on the politics of the region. ‘You see,’ he tucked his thumbs behind his lapels, unable to eschew his previous role in life, ‘the only effective route to the Klondike is by way of the Lynn Canal which cuts across the Alaskan panhandle, the boundary of which has never been clearly defined since the Americans purchased it from Russia. Our government is trying to
claim jurisdiction over the head of the canal so that we miners can bring in supplies without paying American customs duties, and—’
Rymer cut him off. ‘You mean we have to pay to get in?’
‘As yet I fear the argument is unresolved.’ The schoolmaster showed that he did not appreciate being interrupted. ‘Now…’
Nat exchanged a look with Rymer, then abruptly dragged him away. ‘What a tosser! I didn’t go through all that just to be bored to death. Come on, those blokes look a bit more interesting.’
With such a diversity of passengers boredom proved easy to escape. What could not be evaded was the monotonous throb of the engine whilst one was attempting to sleep, the gut-churning swell of the waves, and the increasing discomfort of the weather. As before, Nat and Rymer kept despair at bay by repeating their creed: this would all be worth it in the end. Eventually, the ship reached the icy fiords of the Alaskan panhandle, and Nat and Rymer joined in the loud cheers that accompanied its berth, mercifully unaware that the worst part of their journey was still ahead of them.
Unsure of their next move, but nevertheless euphoric at being here, Nat and Rymer merely followed the example of all the other thousands of hopefuls as they tottered from the ship into the clutches of the Alaskan winter, breathing their disbelief at the savagery of the landscape.
On the beach hundreds of tents marked the starting point of the miners’ journey, the breath of man and dog joining in one fetid pall on the icy air. Even in the brief moments that Nat and Rymer had been standing here the cold began to permeate the fur lining of their boots and Nat, banging his gloved palms together, suggested they should make a fire. After this, they pitched their tent alongside the others, melted some ice to provide water and warmed their innards with a meal of bacon and beans, the relief from which was all too temporary. As the afternoon dwindled so the risk of frostbite increased. Icy pincers tweaked at extremities, removing all feeling. In an effort to keep warm Nat and Rymer gathered wood with which to build a crude sled; this they dragged to the store in town and loaded it with the year’s supplies they had been informed they would need. With the optimism of the young and foolhardy they struggled to drag the vehicle back to the camp; it would not budge. To much laughter from the more experienced onlookers, Nat gave the sled a furious kick and, after angry debate with Rymer, went off to buy a more serviceable one while Rymer guarded the provisions.
Night was cold beyond belief. Even tucked inside his sleeping bag and this enveloped by the tent Nat could not get warm, woken constantly by the agonizing ache in his kneejoints and the howling and fighting of sled dogs. Long before dawn came to these Godforsaken climes he was restless to be off.
He and Rymer breakfasted in darkness and by the time it did get light they were on their way to the Yukon along a trail of glaciers and snowdrifts. With many gone before them and no snowfall in the last few days the trail was hard packed, otherwise the load would have been impossible to pull without dogs. Nevertheless, it was not easy with one tugging from the front and the other pushing from the rear. The effort made them sweat, and moisture twinkled on the fur of their coats and immediately froze. That others had experienced similar hardships became all too evident from the abandoned canoes, worn out boots and broken bottles that littered the winding trail. Nat had hoped to make at least ten miles that first day, but after only half this distance their muscles and bones ached as if they had travelled for days and they were forced to stop and rest.
‘It’s no good,’ rasped Nat when he had managed to catch his breath, the polar air scouring his throat and lungs each time he inhaled. ‘We’ll have to chuck some of this stuff off.’
An equally exhausted Rymer agreed. ‘But what? We need all of it.’
Nat puffed, feeling the warmth of his own breath against his petrified cheek. ‘Well, we can get rid o’ one o’ these tins o’ meat right now.’ He reached into a sack. ‘I’m famished.’
‘Oh yes, one tin is gonna make a big difference, I don’t think.’
Nat was in no mood for sarcasm. Every tooth in his head ached with cold. ‘Just make yourself useful and get a fire going!’
‘You would have thought the shopkeeper would’ve warned us not to buy too many tins,’ opined Rymer, hacking at branches of pine.
‘He’s hardly gonna chuck away custom, is he?’ derided Nat. ‘We should’ve known better.’
Wintriness forbade too long a delay. After the meal they performed a ruthless inventory, dispensing with the heaviest items on the sled, one of which was the tent. At Rymer’s misgivings Nat exchanged logic. ‘We’re gonna be bloody cold whether we’ve got it or not! Let’s get rid of some of these tins an’ all.’
‘But that bloke said we’d need…’
‘I don’t care what that tosser said!’ Nat’s jaws were even more painful with the reaction of hot food upon cold teeth. ‘We won’t be able to eat it if we’re dead from the effort of dragging this bloody sledge. There has to be somewhere we can restock along the way. At the rate we’ve been going we’ll average about two inches per day if we’re lucky.’ Tins were hurled over his shoulder, disappearing into the snow.
Thanks to the purge they made much greater headway in the afternoon. At twilight they laid their sleeping bags upon branches cut from snowladen pine, huddling up close together for warmth, and at dawn they set off again.
In this mode they travelled for mile after rugged mile, criss-crossing the tracks of bird and mammal, losing count of the days and weeks, being overtaken and left behind by dogsleds pulled by laughing huskies, until one day, with a unified cockcrow of triumph, they reached the Chilkoot Pass.
Here a stain of red serge against the dazzling backdrop marked the border post of the North-West Mounted Police, its purpose being to turn away undesirables and those who came with insufficient stores. Nat and Rymer struck out towards it. As they grew nearer, though, their hearty grins began to fade at the exhibition of maxim guns trained upon them and the uncompromising face of the Law. Most of the men wore thick navy jackets over their tunics, fur hats, and mukluks on their feet. More unnerving, however, was the one who struck out to meet them in only a red tunic, tight pants and stetson – obviously to show that he was too tough to need a coat. That sort always had a lot to prove. Nat hung back and glanced at Rymer, having no need to voice a fear that was all too evident. What if, after all this effort, this torture, the police refused to let them through? What if the abandonment of a few tins had cost them a fortune in gold?
Rymer played with his wispy beard. ‘Christ, look at them guns! Nobody mentioned them, did they? What if they say we haven’t enough supplies?’
Nat attempted to be blase. ‘What’s all this we business? I’ve got my supplies.’ He pointed to the sled. ‘Where are yours?’ Rymer gawped at him.
‘It’s a joke.’ Nat’s sigh emerged as a frosty cloud.
‘I never know with you,’ grumbled the other, then stared back at the guns.
Nat lunged forward, commanding through gritted teeth, ‘Away, we can’t hang about here or they’ll get suspicious. If they say we haven’t got enough food just tell ’em we’re on a diet, and stop looking so bloody nervous!’ Attempting to appear confident, he and Rymer lugged the sled towards the border. At once their way was barred. Nat gave what he hoped was a manly greeting to the constable, who was circling their sled in the manner of a husky about to start a fight. The man barely looked at him, concentrating his eagle eye on the sled. Bitter cold had carved a meanness on his face. ‘Unfasten those straps!’
Nat and Rymer tried to appear casual but efficient as they surrendered their goods to be weighed, each of them feeling bilious with fear. Nat prayed: Oh God, please, don’t let him stop us. If he does I think I’ll go mad. I’ll have to kill him. I will, I’ll have to kill him. Then the others would throw aside the pipes and cigarettes they were now smoking at leisure, open fire with their maxims, and blow great holes in Nat and his friend; already he could see his own body ripped by bullets, falling, falling, his
blood staining the ice.
The pointer on the scales wavered, then was still, each eye fixed to it, waiting. The constable stepped back and flicked his hand in the direction of the border. Nat hardly dared to believe it. They were being granted right of entry! Helped by his partner, both of them trying not to rush, he began to reposition the goods on the sled, shoving them this way and that in a competent fashion before moving off, never once glancing at Rymer, still dogged by the certainty that a voice would ring out to call them back.
No voice came. Thank you! Thank you! Relief, however, was shortlived, for now another obstacle blocked their route to the goldfields: the great Chilkoot Pass. Nat and Rymer lingered to gaze in awe at the stairway cut into the ice, upon which dark figures laden by tools plodded upwards, ever upwards towards the bruised sky. The adventurers were to discover, from those others who gathered at the foot of the mountain range preparing to make the same trip, that the journey across the Chilkoot Pass went on for thirty-three miles! Horrified, Nat dropped to his knees and sank his face into gloved palms. How would they be able to carry goods weighing two thousand pounds on their backs, he demanded of Rymer? It was of course impossible. Short of turning back, there was no option: they must travel back and forth, back and forth across those thirty-three refrigerated miles until all their equipment was on the other side.
Shoddy Prince Page 37
