1897
CHAPTER ONE
The brakes on the Sierra steam locomotive screeched as the train pulled into the Townsend Street Depot in San Francisco. When it lurched to a stop, a man carrying a black leather valise grabbed hold of a stanchion to steady himself. Momentarily off balance, he bumped into another man, causing him to drop his copy of the Chronicle newspaper.
The folded newspaper flipped open on the carriage floor. The banner headline read…
SACKS OF GOLD
FROM THE KLONDIKE
The man knelt to pick up his newspaper and then turned to berate the other passenger who had jostled him. He faced a tall bearded man with steely gray eyes, who gave him a cold baleful stare. He wore a sweat stained buckskin jacket, a broad-brimmed Stetson hat, and strapped to his waist was a holstered Colt single action revolver.
With a southern drawl he asked the slightly flustered man, “What does that paper say about sacks of gold, Suh?” The man with the newspaper replied, “There’s been a huge gold discovery up in Canada, it’s all in here.” He held out the paper.
“Here, take it, I’ve read it already.”
William Clarke Mosby tucked the newspaper into the pocket of his jacket and joined the line of passengers getting off the train. He held on tightly to his valise which contained all of his worldly possessions. Mosby was a former brevet major in J.E.B. Stuart’s 1st Virginia Confederate Cavalry. After the war he switched sides and joined the Union Army and campaigned for several years against the Apache in the Arizona Territory. Now retired, the fifty-four-year-old veteran was looking to make a fresh start in the Golden State.
Mosby walked across the platform and asked a station attendant to hail him a cab. The Gurney that approached was an unusual two wheeled affair, drawn by a weary looking horse. He told the driver that he wanted to be taken to the largest bank in San Francisco. The man snapped the reins and the horse began to trot briskly along the cobbled street. Mosby sat back and took in all the sights and sounds of the bustling city. It was the largest he had ever visited; it made Tucson seem like a one-horse whistlestop.
Mosby had heard that San Francisco was the West Coast’s primary port and a major economic hub. It was a wealthy and fast-growing city – a legacy of the California gold rush - and featured Victorian architecture and the grand mansions on Nob Hill. Also, there was a blend of cultures including a vibrant China Town, the largest Chinese settlement outside of Asia. Mostly he was amazed by the tall buildings, and was intrigued by the cable cars that traversed the hilly landscape.
Fifteen minutes later, he walked into the impressive Bank of California building and asked to see the manager. The clerk gave him a suspicious glance, but he had learned not to judge a customer by the clothes he wore.
“What is your business, Sir?”
Mosby replied, “I want to make a large deposit.” A few minutes later he was ushered into an oak paneled office and introduced to a distinguished looking older gentleman.
The man asked amiably, “How can I help you?” Mosby reached into his valise and extracted a thick bundle of banknotes, which he placed on the desk. The banker said, “That seems like a considerable amount of money.” Mosby then upended his valise and a dozen more bundles dropped out. They all consisted of large denomination bills, featuring the face of Ulysses S. Grant.
The manager asked, “Do you mind if I inquire as to the source of this money, and what plans you have for it?” Mosby responded, “You need not concern yourself about where the money came from, Suh. And as far as my plans, I will be looking for a suitable business opportunity to make an investment.”
CHAPTER TWO
The banker had summoned a clerk to count the money and another one to complete the paperwork. They also gave him cheques to use when drawing funds from his new account. When he left the bank, he decided to stretch his legs and walk the several blocks to the hotel that had been recommended. The Palace Hotel was currently considered one of the most luxurious hotels in the world. The banker had warned that it was pricy, but insisted that it was most suitable for a man of his means.
When Mosby approached the hotel, he was stunned by its magnificent facade. A doorman saluted and pointed the way to the front desk. The check-in clerk managed to suppress his surprise over Mosby’s buckskin clad appearance, and welcomed him warmly when he placed his Bank of California cheque book on the counter. Minutes later, a bellhop directed him towards the elevator. When they entered his two-room suite on the fourth floor, Mosby was astonished by its opulence. The flush toilet, bathtub and the hot and cold running water were a revelation. He thought, this is a far cry from the rustic officer’s quarters at Fort Apache.
Mosby had ordered ice and a bottle of whiskey to be delivered to the room. When it arrived, he poured a drink and opened the newspaper. In the Chronicle he read that the steamship Excelsior had arrived in San Francisco Bay recently, after a long voyage from St. Michael, Alaska. It carried a fortune in gold and had set off a public frenzy.
Apparently, a year earlier George Carmak, Skookum Jim Mason and Tagish Charlie had discovered a massive gold deposit on Bonanza Creek, near Dawson in the remote Yukon Territory. The paper reported, “Fifteen miners on the Excelsior were returning with half a million dollars in gold dust.” They quoted one man… “The excitement on the river is indescribable and the output from the new Klondike district is beyond belief. Men who had nothing last fall are now worth a fortune. One man who had worked his forty square foot claim is coming out with ten thousand in dust.”
The paper’s artists made numerous etchings of the photographs of the miners and their camps, it ran lists of the miners and how much money they had made, and it interviewed anyone who’d actually been to the goldfields.
The Chronicle warned of the hardship’s potential gold-seekers would face…
“The Klondike region presents difficulties which would stagger the average man, and make afraid even those who have already traveled the long and tortuous trail that leads to the golden ground. In order to reach Dawson City, one must cross icy plains, climb steep snowclad mountains and spin down treacherous rivers which threaten every minute death and destruction. Not one of the miners who came on the Excelsior will advise anybody to make the journey. They tell gladly enough of the wealth to be had almost for the picking, but they also tell you of the dangers.”
Mosby was intrigued by what he had read about the Klondike, and thought what an adventure it would be to visit such a place. He discounted the warning about the dangers. He mused, if you want danger, try fighting off a war party of murderous Apache. After finishing his drink, he changed into his one spare shirt, before descending to the main floor dining room. He debated whether he should wear his gun belt. Then, through habit and an abundance of caution, he strapped it on.
CHAPTER THREE
Declan O’Brian was a former Pinkerton detective turned bounty hunter. The Irish immigrant was bespectacled and small of stature, and didn’t fit the typical image of a man in this dangerous line of work. He dressed in a tweed suit and wore a Derby hat, but under his jacket in a shoulder holster, he carried a .450-calibre Tranter double action revolver. His business was hunting down fugitives wanted by the authorities, where large rewards were offered for their apprehension.
O’Brian had been searching for William Mosby for several years. A reward was being offered for information leading to the recovery of funds that were stolen from a Butterfield stagecoach. The bounty hunter was certain that Mosby was involved. He had become aware of Mosby’s existence when he apprehended another criminal. The man had four crisp new fifty-dollar bills in his possession. He said that he had sold a horse to an ex-cavalry officer named Bill Mosby. The man had paid him with bills that he had peeled off a thick wad of cash.
The bounty hunter had followed Mosby’s trail from Arizona to Texas and then north to Wyoming. He finally tracked him to the location of Buffalo Bill Cody’s Wild West Show in St. Louis, only to find that he had narrowly missed him. Mosby had left after arguing with Buffalo Bill over the inclusion of Chief Sitting Bull in the show. Sitting Bull had been the leader of the Lakota Sioux when they massacred the 7th Cavalry at the Little Big Horn. The commanding officer - George Armstrong Custer - had been a classmate of Mosby’s at West Point.
O’Brian discovered that Mosby had recently moved west to San Francisco.
~ ~ ~
Mosby approached the reception desk of the Garden Court restaurant, where he was greeted by the host. He presented his room key and asked for a table for one. The man snapped his fingers and a pretty young woman stepped forward.
“Please follow me, Sir.”
Heads turned as they proceeded through the bustling restaurant; the other diners no doubt wondering who this rough looking interloper might be. Mosby was seated at a small table, next to a larger one where six people were having dinner. They glanced his way briefly, then resumed their conversation.
He looked around and thought perhaps that he had been transported to another world. The restaurant was situated in a massive atrium, which was the centerpiece of the Palace Hotel. The lead glass ceiling was supported by tall marble columns, and the late afternoon sun filtered through, to give the room a warm glow, which added to the ambience provided by the crystal chandeliers.
He noted the snow-white linen tablecloths, the silverware and the crystal stemware. Someone was playing a harpsichord in the far corner. The atmosphere was one of elegance, warmth and privilege. His server approached and he ordered the butternut squash soup and the sea bass. She also recommended a half bottle of a particularly exquisite Chardonnay from their wine cellar.
As he finished his meal, Mosby couldn’t help overhearing the conversation at the next table. They lingered over coffee, talking about the Excelsior and the stampede of would-be miners who were booking passages to the Klondike. A young man amongst them was particularly impassioned about seizing the chance to strike it rich. He seemed to be attempting to convince the others to form some sort of syndicate to underwrite the cost of an expedition to the goldfields. One of the men seemed mildly receptive, while the others were skeptical. Soon afterwards, they decided to adjourn to the smoking lounge for brandy and cigars. A few minutes later, Mosby followed them into the lounge.
CHAPTER FOUR
Bill Mosby stood at the rail of the SS Enhydra as it steamed north towards Seattle. They were three days out of San Francisco, two days away – weather permitting – from their destination. The rusty old freighter was pushing through heavy seas at a speed of 17 knots. It was loaded to absolute capacity with cargo and gold seeking passengers. Many of them were seasick and frequently paid a visit to the leeward side of the vessel.
Three weeks earlier, Mosby had approached Jack Carpenter as his party broke up from a gathering at the Palace Hotel. He had introduced himself and asked if he could have a brief word concerning their mutual interest in the Klondike. Jack and his brother-in-law Rawley Maxwell had joined him in a quiet corner of the smoking lounge. Their enthusiasm over a possible expedition to the goldfields, had turned into a serious discussion. Over brandy and cigars, they had talked until late in the night.
The following day, the three men had met for lunch at the Pacific-Union Club. Membership in that exclusive private club was a perquisite Raleigh Maxwell enjoyed as a partner at Morrison, Foerster & Cope. The thirty-year-old lawyer was a graduate of Harvard Law, and was married to Jack Carpenter’s older sister Marion. Raleigh was an avid sailor, whose only previous adventure of note had been a sailing trip down the coast of California to Santa Catalina Island. He impressed Mosby as being a dynamic individual with energy to spare, and he was prepared to commit financially to both his and Jack’s share in mounting an expedition to the Klondike.
Jack Carpenter was a twenty-two-year-old graduate of Stanford University. He was a fit outdoor enthusiast who spent considerable time camping and hiking in the Santa Cruz Mountains. His goal was to become a writer. But he knew that he needed to acquire some real-life experience. A recent graduate, he was living at home with his mother and hadn’t yet found suitable employment. The Klondike gold rush beckoned as the perfect solution. It would provide adventure, experience and maybe a chance to make his fortune. He might also gather enough material for a good book.
The men agreed to proceed expeditiously, being aware that thousands of other men were caught up in the frenzy and were heading for the Klondike. They also reached an agreement that Mosby – as an experienced army officer – would assume responsibility for the leadership of the group.
His first suggestion was that they gather as much information as possible about what they might face on the dangerous journey north; also, the type of equipment and supplies that would be needed. To obtain this, Jack and Mosby would attempt to speak with some of the returning prospectors from the Excelsior. In the meantime, Rawley Maxwell would use his business connections to try to leapfrog the long queues, and book their passage on the first available ship.
Mosby had hit it off with Jack right from the beginning. The two spend a lot of time together tracking down the Klondike veterans, and had gotten to know one another quite well. Jack was fascinated by Bill Mosby’s experiences in the civil war and his campaigns against the Apache. He asked if Mosby had ever shot anyone with the pistol he wore around his waist. Mosby equivocated,
“Only when it was necessary.”
Jack had taken him home for dinner and introduced him to his mother. She was an attractive forty-four-year-old widow, and Mosby had been quite taken with her. He thought, I’d really like to see her again when we get back.
In parting she had urged him, “Take good care of my son, Mr. Mosby.”
The information they gathered was not particularly encouraging. Everyone spoke of the extreme dangers they would face in attempting to reach the goldfields. They were advised not to go… or, at least delay their departure until next spring. Apparently, there had been a massive influx of miners into Dawson City (three miles from Bonanza Creek), with more swarming in every day. Dawson had previously been a small indigenous fishing village before the discovery of gold, and now its modest infrastructure was completely overwhelmed. Provisions had become scarce, and great hardships were predicted for the coming winter.
They learned that the most direct route to the Klondike was by ocean steamer up the inland passage, a naturally sheltered sea route extending for more than a thousand miles past Vancouver Island along the west coast of Canada to Skagway, Alaska. From that coastal embarkation point, they would follow a steep thirty-three-mile trail leading over the Chilkoot Pass to Bennett Lake, British Columbia. This would mark the beginning of a five-hundred-mile passage by boat or raft through a lake system and then north (but downstream) along the Yukon River to Dawson City. They would have to navigate many treacherous obstacles, including the Five-Finger Rapids, all in a race to reach their destination before winter set in.
All of this must be accomplished while transporting a heavy load of food and equipment. The Canadian North West Mounted Police had mandated that each person passing through their border crossing at the top of the Chilkoot Pass, must be in possession of one ton of food supplies. This requirement was implemented to avert mass starvation in the Klondike.
CHAPTER FIVE
In Seattle, Mosby had bribed the captain of another rust bucket and they were underway once again. There had been a brief altercation when a few of the men they had displaced were prevented from boarding. When it got nasty, Mosby had pulled his pistol and they backed down.
They steamed up the Inland Passage, the destination was Juneau, Alaska. This would still leave them one hundred miles short of Skagway, but the captain had told them not to worry. As long as they had more cash to spend, he could find transportation for them.
Mosby had brought five thousand dollars, which was contained in a leather pouch he wore under his shirt. He also carried a supply of twenty-dollar ‘double eagle’ gold pieces in a small backpack. The coins were added weight to carry, but he figured they might come in handy. What he didn’t know, was that he was bringing more gold into the Klondike than what most other miners would carry out.
The crates and burlap sacks of food and equipment they had acquired, seriously limited their mobility. There were three tons of non-perishable food items, and a massive amount of equipment ranging from picks and shovels to sleeping bags and a canvas tent. They had also packed an array of clothing and footwear to contend with every possible weather condition. All of this was clearly marked to distinguish it from the massive amount of similar baggage. Loading and unloading these supplies every time they boarded or debarked from a ship required a tremendous effort.
As the ship steamed up the inland passage, the passengers gathered at the starboard rail and watched the magnificent coastline as they passed by. The waves broke on a shore that varied from white sand beach, to rock shelfs, tidal pools, boulders and occasional jutting headlands, all piled high with driftwood. The dense green rainforest bordering the shore appeared to be impenetrable, and it stretched inland as far as the eye could see. In the distance, the coastal mountains were shrouded in cloud and mist.
When they arrived in Juneau, they found themselves in the company of about a thousand other frantic gold-seekers, all seeking passage to Skagway. The captain offered an unexpected solution. He said, “For the right price, I can arrange immediate transportation for you and your goods by canoe. It’s a two-day paddle.”
“Otherwise, you’ll rot here on the wharf for the next week… maybe longer.”
The captain returned an hour later with an aboriginal man in tow. He introduced him as the chief of the local Tlingit community. The chief gave Mosby a wooden stare, but became more animated when several gold coins were unveiled. He was able to converse in fairly good pigeon English, as they bartered over the cost of his services. While they spoke, two sixty-foot cedar canoes glided up to the wharf. Money changed hands, and the crowd looked on in dismay as the three privileged men and their supplies were loaded aboard the two vessels.
These were sturdy ocean-going canoes that had been carved out of massive cedar trees. There were ten native paddlers in each canoe, and they moved at a fast pace as they hugged the shoreline of the Lynn Canal. The Lynn is called a ‘canal’ because early explorers like George Vancouver used the term to describe long narrow sea passages. The Lynn is actually a one-hundred-mile-long glacial fjord that cuts deep into the interior, and ends at the Chilkoot inlet.
The captain had explained that their destination was now a small Tlingit fishing camp named Dyea, which was situated right at the Chilkoot Trailhead. It was ten miles closer to the trail than Skagway, and arriving there by canoe would save them at least a day of unnecessary land travel. Shortly after departing Juneau, they shared the waterway with a pod of humpback whales and along the route they sighted walruses, grizzly bears and bald eagles. The beauty of the place was intoxicating, with the senses further enhanced by the briny smells and screeching sea birds. When it rained on the second day it was a mixed blessing. On the one hand they were captive to the elements while sitting in the open canoes, but the rain-enhanced waterfalls cascading off the deeply carved walls of the fiord were a wonderful sight to behold.
CHAPTER SIX
When the flotilla came into view of Dyea, it was immediately clear that it was low tide. The shallow delta in front of the village was a mud-flat, extending for at least one hundred yards from the shoreline. Even the mouth of the Taiya River, adjacent to the village, was exposed and unnavigable. The Tlingit paddlers ran the canoes aground in the muddy silt, and then jumped out and began to carry the cargo towards shore. The chief turned to Mosby, and with difficulty explained that everything must be on dry land before the tide came back in.
When Mosby reached the shore, he could hardly believe his eyes. It was a scene of total chaos. There were hundreds of men milling around with seemingly no sense of purpose. The din of their voices was punctuated by occasional angry shouts. There was even the sharp report of a gunshot from somewhere nearby. A few tents and makeshift shelters had been erected, but most of the men were exposed to the elements and they had a dazed, hollow-eyed look about them. Mounds of equipment and supplies were stacked everywhere in haphazard fashion.
The Tlingit village was a long-established link between the coast and the tribes of the interior. It had been just a small collection of huts, a quiet seasonal spot for fishing and trading… before the prospectors arrived and turned it into a chaotic boom town. The largest enterprise in the village was the saloon which was sheltered under a huge tent. The high-pitched tinkling of piano music emanated from within, as swarms of thirsty miners lined up to buy a drink. Many of these men were down to their last dollar. Some had been turned back at the Chilkoot Pass by the North West Mounted Police because they had insufficient supplies and were now in limbo.
Several men had rushed down to the beach to greet the arrival of the canoes. They were desperately vying to arrange a passage out of this hellhole. The chief began to bargain, but it was clear that only a few of them had the means to meet his steep price. The Tlingit paddlers had stacked all of the Mosby party’s goods in a large pile. Standing in front of it, the three men looked at each other with blank looks. Each one was thinking, what the hell do we do now? As the uncertainty of the situation began to sink in, a heavy rain began to fall. Jack and Raleigh began to unpack the tent, while Mosby wound his way through the crowd in the direction of the saloon.
Mosby tossed back a shot of highly priced 35-cent whiskey and thought, the only people getting rich here are the ones ‘mining the miners!’ He began a conversation with a man next to him and was told that Dyea was the entry and exit point for both the optimistic and the disillusioned. Over half of the men in camp had either been turned back at the Chilkoot Pass, or had been physically defeated by the ordeals of the trail. There had been many deaths due to injuries, hypothermia and illnesses caused by unsanitary conditions. Men were selling off their goods for a little as 10-cents on the dollar… at any price to raise money for a passage home.
The man had suggested that he speak to the people at the Healy & Wilson Trading Post, to arrange hiring packers to carry his party’s goods. He said that most of the miners were either short of funds or indebted, and had to carry their own food and equipment. Some of them had walked nearly a thousand miles - back and forth – to move one ton of supplies thirty-three miles over the Chilkoot pass to Bennett Lake. Mosby walked to the nearby trading post and introduced himself to John Healy. After some negotiation, they agreed that for 20-cents per pound, Healy would provide fifty Tlingit packers to carry their three tons of goods over the pass. The cost amounted to a small fortune, but there seemed to be no other option.
Early the next morning they were awakened by a man shouting “hello-hello,” at the front flap of the tent. Mosby stuck his head out and was greeted by a Tlingit man… he said his name was Kaalgéi, and he was accompanied by a large number of packers. He pointed to their pile of goods, and the men began to distribute the items and load up. They were fit looking; not tall in stature and somewhat slim, but apparently physically powerful. They moved with the confident assurance of trail veterans. Some of them had woven baskets strapped to their backs, others were fitted with a sort of carved wooden saddle. As they balanced their loads, each one adjusted a tumpline on his forehead to help distribute the weight.
Kaalgéi said, “We go to Sheep Camp, many miles… sleep there.” Mosby knew from studying the map that the camp was about fourteen miles away. He thought, that’s a long way on foot for an old cavalryman! They quickly packed up the tent and hurried to catch up with the packers. Each of the three men carried about twenty pounds of camp gear and personal items in their backpacks. The Tlingit packers were burdened with over eighty pounds, but they still moved with alacrity. They forded the Taiya River at a shallow section and approached the trailhead. It was a narrow path leading into a dense rainforest.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The coastal rainforest was humid, oppressive and soggy; the trees still dripping from the recent rain. The path was muddy and slippery, well-trodden by the feet of countless gold seekers. It was luminated by a faint light filtering through the canopy of old growth hemlock, fir and red cedar trees. Beards of pendulous gray moss hung from branches, and a wide variety of lush green fauna intruded from both sides of the trail. Sword ferns, salal, shrubs and colorful flowers all competed for space amongst the rotting blowdown. The group had proceeded for less than five minutes when they encountered evidence of a drama that had played out with those who preceded them.
The first indication was the intensely foul odor emanating from the carcass of a dead horse. It was lying off to the side of the trail; it’s halter, lead rope and panniers were still attached. It appeared as if the overloaded animal had broken a leg when it slipped in the mud. A bullet hole in the side of its head told the rest of the story. While the three men paused to examine this tragic scene, the speedy packers had continued forward along the trail and were now out of sight. Kaalgéi had told them this was likely to happen, and they would all meet later at Sheep Camp. He said, “Easy, follow trail… no stop for long.”
As they continued along, Mosby noticed that Raleigh Maxwell had adopted a rather pronounced limp.
“Raleigh, you seem to be struggling.”
“My left foot is killing me. I think I’ve developed some blisters.”
They halted a few minutes later, and Raleigh sat on a fallen log and removed his boot. He tugged off his wet sock and looked at his foot… then groaned in frustration. Mosby could see that the area around the ankle and heel was quite raw. He thought, Christ, it looks like chopped liver!
Raleigh admitted, “These boots never did fit right, and after they got wet getting out of the canoe, they really started to bother me.”
Raleigh’s spare boots were in a crate, currently on the back of a Tlingit packer, now about a mile ahead on the way to Sheep Camp. And so was their first aid kit. The only treatment they could administer was to wrap a handkerchief around the abrasion before Raleigh pulled his boot back on. As the poor man continued on Mosby thought, this is really bad news! He could see on the map that they had another six or seven miles of rain forest to traverse – roughly at sea level – before encountering several miles of rugged terrain leading towards Sheep Camp, at an elevation of 1,058 feet. At the present time, they were only about one mile into a fourteen-mile day.
Half an hour later, Raleigh was in so much pain that he could hardly hobble along. Mosby had put him in the lead to set his own pace, but their progress had slowed to a virtual crawl. At this speed there was no way they would reach Sheep Camp before dark… or even this day. And this was the easy part of the trail. Raleigh sat again, and proceeded to take both boots off.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can continue on.” He examined his feet; both of them were now pretty chewed-up.
“What are we going to do?” asked Jack. He turned to Mosby with an anguished look.
Mosby, the pragmatic military man, knew what had to be done. But it would be hard medicine for Jack to swallow.
“If we turn back to Dyea, all of our supplies and equipment will be lost to us. Any delay while we get sorted out increases the odds of getting stuck at Bennett Lake for the winter, not to mention the exorbitant cost of hiring packers again. Our best option would be to arrange passage back to San Francisco.”
“No, no,” Raleigh insisted! “You two must continue on… I’ll go back alone.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Mosby and Jack had hiked through the coastal rainforest to where it approached the Taiya River at Finnigan’s Point. Jack had been almost inconsolable when they parted company with his brother-in-law. But Raleigh had convinced him that he was comfortable returning alone; he would remove his ill-fitting boots and walk barefoot along the muddy trail back to Dyea… it was only a couple of miles. He said that he had sufficient money, and would seek to make arrangements at the Trading Post with John Healy to return to San Francisco. Mosby handed him some extra cash to use in case of some unexpected contingency.
Jack and Raleigh were both close to tears when they parted. They finally shook hands, then reluctantly turned and walked away in opposite directions.
Later…
Jack and Mosby saw a smoldering campfire as they approached the river. After gathering up a few sticks of wood, they blew the fire back to life and inserted a tin of mutton into the embers. They ate the tasty meat along with some dried fruit, and then topped up their canteens from the river. It was now past mid-day and according to the map they were still less than half-way to Sheep Camp. They could see that the trail ahead was transitioning to a treeless rock-strewn landscape. According to footnotes on the map, this was where the land elevates and the climb up to the pass begins in earnest. Mosby figured they had about six hours of daylight left. They would have to increase the pace.
During the day they had seen countless other gold seekers hiking in each direction along the trail. Some were walking back to Dyea to pick up another load. Others were heavily burdened as they carried a portion of their supplies towards the Chilkoot Pass. The total number of trips – back and forth – was dependent upon the weight of each carry. Heavier packs meant fewer trips, but at the cost of a slower pace and greater fatigue. A few horses and mules were in service, but they could only go as far as the foot of the pass; beyond that the climb was too steep for them to continue. Remarkably, some people were struggling with heavy canvas boats, while others carried lumber to build boats when they reached Bennett Lake.
In the late afternoon they passed a campsite called Canyon City where hundreds of miners had stopped for the night. Mosby consulted the map once again and could see that they still had roughly five miles to go… most of it would be up hill. Jack seemed to be handling the physical demands of the trail without a problem, but Mosby was exhausted. He thought with a certain gallows humor, how did I ever talk myself into this? He knew that the toughest part of the day was yet to come, but was consoled by the fact that he wasn’t carrying an eighty-pound pack on his back. Or lugging a bloody boat! He gritted his teeth and just kept pushing on. They had to reach Sheep Camp before dark.
Along the trail they saw increased amounts of discarded equipment. Overburdened miners had tossed aside any items they deemed unnecessary, to lighten their loads. In many cases exhausted men had simply given up the dream and turned back. Mosby thought humorously, the only excess weight that he carried was a supply of gold ‘double eagles’ and extra cartridges for his Colt Peacemaker. These were the last things he’d be throwing away.
The duo had fallen in with a small group of men who were also headed for Sheep Camp. The sun was just slipping over the horizon when they smelled smoke, and then saw a large number of tents that had been erected beside the trail. Kaalgéi had been watching for them and gave a wave; then he directed them to where their supplies had been stacked. The packers sat around huddled in their blankets, resting after a hard day and no doubt thinking about the difficult 2,500-foot climb which awaited them in the morning.
Jack pitched the tent, while Mosby heated up two tins of mutton in the campfire. By the time they had finished eating the sky was pitch black, and the temperature had dropped considerably. Mosby crawled into his sleeping bag and immediately drifted off to sleep. By candlelight, Jack spent the next hour recording the events of the day in his journal.
It was still early when they broke camp and resumed the hike towards the Chilkoot Pass. They followed a stream which flowed down through a canyon from the foot of the pass. Then it was a three-mile steep ascent to get to a place called ‘the scales,’ where the packers weighed their goods to prove to the Police that both of their employers had the required one ton of food. From there it was less than a mile to the top of the pass. But it was almost straight up, and it was the most difficult part of the trail. It was erroneously called ‘The Golden Stairway.’ But there were no defined steps, as the whole spillway was filled with rocks and large boulders. This necessitated the use of both hands and feet to scramble over the rugged terrain. It was a tough climb, more so for anyone carrying a heavy load.
When they were about half way to the summit, Mosby and Jack stopped to take a breather. They sat together on a large bolder and looked back at would later be known as ‘the meanest 33-mile trail in history.’ It was a clear day and from this elevation they could see all the way to the distant green of the coastal rainforest. Half an hour later they crested the summit of the pass where the Union Jack flag was snapping in the wind. This marked both the Continental Divide and the International Boundary between the U.S. and Canada. The elevation was 3,759 feet.
CHAPTER NINE
As Raleigh walked back to Dyea through the rainforest, he felt defeated and depressed. He wondered how he would ever be able to explain to Marion that he had abandoned her brother in this wilderness? Passers-by had barely given him a glance as he walked barefoot with his boots slung over the back of his pack. He thought, the unusual was the norm in this crazy place. Back in the village he went to see John Healy at the trading post. Unlike most gold seekers Raleigh had money to spend, and so Healy immediately took him under his wing. The first thing he did was to arrange accommodation at the Olympic Hotel, a three-story structure billed as the ‘largest hotel in Alaska.’
The sea voyage back to California was an adventure in itself. Healey had arranged passage for him on a freighter to Juneau. From there Raleigh sailed on another ship to Seattle, and then on a third vessel to San Franciso. He sent his wife a cryptic cable before departing Seattle assuring her that all was well with him and Jack. She was waiting for him on the pier when he finally arrived. There was also a reporter from the Chronicle. A few days later the paper ran a lengthy – rather exaggerated – feature story about his adventures in the far north. Also mentioned prominently was San Franciso native son Jack Carpenter, and a romantic pistoleer by the name of William Clarke Mosby.
Meanwhile…
Declan O’Brian was chasing down a wanted criminal in Denver, when he received a wire from a friend at the Pinkerton Agency. The man knew that O’Brien had a long-time interest in the whereabouts of one William Mosby, and here was Mosby’s name splashed all over the pages of the San Francisco Chronicle. The wire briefly explained that Mosby was prospecting for gold in the Klondike and would ultimately be returning to San Francisco. O’Brian’s friend said that he would contact him through Western Union with any further news.
~ ~ ~
The trail down from the summit of the Chilkoot Pass was a steep decline which crossed a permanent snowfield as it led around Crater Lake. The well-worn track through the snow was slippery and the two men picked their way carefully with the aid of walking sticks. They were part of a long lineup of gold seekers, most of whom were burdened with weighty packs. Once again Kaalgéi and the packers were somewhere up ahead, well on the way to the next camp.
As Mosby and Jack descended to a lower elevation, the snow gave way to a high alpine plain, which skirted Crater Lake and extended well into the distance. There were numerous waterfalls and the sun glistened on melting glaciers in a setting that can only be described as a natural wonder. They crossed streams, hopping from rock to rock, and over gravelly terrain with seeping water, creating rivulets which flowed into the lake. This five-mile stretch of the trail seemed endless and as fatigue began to set in, they wondered if they would ever reach the camp. Finally, they spotted tents on the hillside up ahead.
Two days later they arrived at Bennett Lake, and at first had difficulty in finding a place to erect the tent. All of the waterfront was already claimed, but they eventually found a spot some distance from the lake near a rather smelly latrine. By now, almost 30,000 gold seekers had swarmed in, and had created tent cities all along Bennett Lake and nearby Lake Lindeman. There was a frenzy of activity as they all prepared for the onset of winter. This was a naturally densely wooded area, but every tree for miles around had been cut down to provide lumber for boat building and for heating and cooking.
Bennett Lake is the headwater of the Yukon River system, and water flowing from the lake passes through a series of rivers and lesser lakes into the mighty Yukon which extends all the way – five hundred miles - to Dawson City and beyond. Thousands of boats were under construction to carry the gold seekers to the Klondike after the spring thaw. A few boats were heading out now, but it was a little late in the year and as the temperatures dropped there was a risk of being trapped in the ice. Mosby noted that there was one large stern wheeler at anchor off shore. He wondered, would it be possible to get passage on this vessel and get the hell out of here?
Mosby wound his way through the tents to where the North West Mounted Police detachment was located about a mile up the lake. The sergeant there told him that the stern wheeler SS Melissa II was departing the following morning for Whitehorse and Dawson City. He didn’t know if there was any availability for more passengers, but warned that if there were it would be very pricy. He suggested that Mosby go to the Arctic Restaurant & Hotel where he would probably find the Melissa’s Captain drinking at the bar. The hotel was currently just an amalgam of tents and rough timber… but was a popular watering hole for the more affluent gold seekers.
Mosby was greeted by the proprietor who explained in a thick Bavarian accent that Captain Lemar was currently being entertained in the back room. He then asked Mosby without hesitation what business he had with the captain.
“I was hoping to arrange passage for me and my partner on the Melissa.”
The entrepreneur replied smoothly, “I believe the ship is booked to capacity, but for the right price I’m sure two more men could be squeezed aboard.” Let me act as your agent, and for a small fee I’ll lean on the captain to make it happen.”
Half an hour later Mosby left the bar and hurried back to tell Jack to pack up. He had managed to secure passage for them on the SS Melissa II… for the outrageous sum of two thousand dollars.
CHAPTER TEN
The ten-day voyage down the Yukon River passed without event, although they did observe the wreckage of several makeshift boats along the way. Whether the gold seekers on these vessels had drowned or were now marooned in this unforgiving wilderness was unknown. It was an omen of what was to come… after the ice went out the following spring, a virtual armada would be launched from Bennett Lake. Hundreds of leaky, poorly constructed boats and rafts would either sink or breakup in the rapids along the five-hundred-mile route to Dawson City. As many as three hundred men would be meet their death.
Mosby and Jack Carpenter had been assigned as deck passengers on the Melissa. The ninety-foot stern wheeler had a dozen small cabins below, but they were all crammed with passengers and provided minimal comfort nor privacy. On deck the two men had little shelter from the elements as they rolled up in sleeping bags covered with waterproof tarps. The nights were cold and as the temperature dropped, ice had begun to form along the shoreline. Their departure from Bennett Lake had been just in the nick of time. The delay of one more week would have increased the chances of the Melissa getting caught up in the ice.
Jack made a point of engaging each of the passengers in conversation, and made copious notes in his journal. He already had an idea for the outline of a book. One of the men he talked to was a grizzled old miner from California, whose name was Ned Bellamy. Ned was a veteran of the California gold rush, and more recently had been prospecting for silver in Nevada and Colorado. Evidence of the old man’s past success was evident by his having the financial means to hire Tlingit packers to carry his supplies over the Chilkoot Pass, and also to pay the hefty fee for a passage on the Melissa.
After several discussions with Ned, Jack approached Mosby with an interesting proposition.
“Bill, what do you think about the idea of partnering up with Ned? He’s an experienced prospector who could help us a lot when we get to the goldfields.”
Mosby was open to the idea, and before they reached Dawson City, they had reached an agreement for a three-way split of labor, expenses and profits.
When the Melissa pulled up to the city dock, Mosby was one of the first down the gangplank. He approached a group of men and asked if anyone was looking for work. Soon he had several men helping to unload their supplies.
Meantime…
Ned walked to the Mining Registry Office in town and inquired about how they could file a claim. The clerk told him that all of the most valuable properties near Bonanza and Eldorado Creek had been staked out by local prospectors and early arrivals soon after the initial gold strike a year ago. He also explained that there was nothing in that immediate area available. The only option he said was to prospect further afield and hope to discover some gold deposits in a creek or river bed. But, he warned, “There are thousands of men out there ahead of you.” As Ned turned to leave, the man added, “If you’re interested, there are a couple of registered claims that are up for sale.” He continued…
“One of them is a five-hundred-foot frontage on Victoria Gulch which flows into Bonanza Creek. It was worked by Henry Putnam who returned to San Francisco on the Excelsior. He’s asking three thousand dollars.”
The following day, the three men and a string of fourteen mules made their way along a well-trodden path to Victoria Gulch. They passed by dozens of claims where men were working industriously with picks and shovels and many were panning for gold in the icy waters of the creek. It was now early November and the temperatures had dropped dramatically. The first dusting of snow was on the ground; just a prelude of the brutal winter that was yet to come.
When they reached Putnam’s claim, their guide pointed to the stakes in the ground which confirmed the location. Burned into the wood was the identifier… No. 23 Above. On either side of the five-hundred-foot frontage, men in claims numbers 22 and 24 paused briefly in their work to shout greetings at the new arrivals. The fast-flowing creek was about thirty feet wide along their frontage, and the claim extended fifteen hundred feet to the rear, up a wooded hillside.
The muleteers unloaded their goods and immediately returned to Dawson for another load. It would take three trips to transfer all of their equipment and supplies. The three partners were excited to have arrived at their claim and immediately went to work. They selected a level spot and erected two tents. One of them would be used to shelter their food supplies and the other one to be used as sleeping quarters. Ned pointed out that there were two immediate priorities. One was to lay in a supply of firewood, and the other was to build a secure shelter to house them during the winter.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
It had been a long cold winter with massive amounts of snow. Temperatures had averaged -10 degrees Fahrenheit, dropping to as low as -40 during the occasional cold snap. At Ned’s urging, they had hired four men from town to cut timber which they used to build a rough log cabin. By then there were hundreds of men in Dawson who were desperately short of food supplies and money. They were happy to work at any menial job that was available. These four workers cut trees – some as far as a mile away – and then dragged them back to the site with lengths of rope. When there were enough logs to build the cabin, they continued to accumulate wood which was sawed into short lengths and split for firewood. An enormous woodpile was created, of which every stick would be burned during the coming winter.
Initially they had excavated the gravelly earth near the shore line, and fed it through a rocker box which had been devised by Ned. This was a labor-intensive method, but it did result in a modest accumulation of gold flakes. Then the temperature dropped and the ground froze over. This was followed by a heavy snowfall. They cleared the snow from where they were working, and built a fire to thaw the ground and continued digging. This was marginally effective, but they soon realized that they were burning way too much wood. If they continued, they might find more gold… but, at the risk of freezing to death later in the winter. Their immediate neighbors had been forced to abandon their claims, not having had the foresight to build durable shelters or set in an adequate supply of wood.
The three men spent most of the winter clearing snow from the tunnel leading to their ever-diminishing woodpile. Otherwise, there wasn’t much to do except to keep the fire burning. It was reasonably snug in the cabin, although cold drafts found their way in on particularly windy days. They were isolated from the outside world, except for contact with the occasional passersby who stopped and begged for food. They told horrific stories of widespread starvation, frostbite, scurvy and typhoid fever. The winter season in this sub arctic environment was brutal, and it gave rise to much suffering among the ill-prepared gold seekers.
Confined for months at close quarters, the men spent countless hours telling stories and recounting their personal histories. Ned told entertaining yarns about the California gold rush and the fascinating cast of characters he had met over the years. Mosby was more circumspect, and had to be prompted to reveal some of the darker aspects of his history. Jack scribbled it all down in his journal. Everything he heard was potential material for the book he intended to write. One thing they all agreed upon was their good luck to be sitting in this cabin in the Klondike, and not back at Bennett Lake. They knew that in the spring, thousands of men would descend on the goldfields… much too late to the party.
Mosby had decided that he would work the claim with his partners until the fall of 1898. He mused, then I’m out of here! There was no way he was prepared to spend another winter in this icebox. Besides, he didn’t come here just to strike it rich. He already had more money than he needed in the bank in San Francisco. It was the adventure that he had craved. But now he wished he were back at the restaurant in the Palace Hotel, ordering the butternut squash soup and the sea bass. Ned said he would make his future plans based on the results of working the claim in the coming months. Jack wasn’t too sure what he wanted to do.
When the snow melted and the ground thawed, they resumed working in the gravelly earth near the river. Day after day they dug and then shoveled this gritty soil into the rocker box and washed it with water from the river. The leached material was then added to an ever-increasing mound of debris. They found trace amounts of gold, but barely enough to justify the backbreaking effort. Then Ned investigated the geology of the hillside behind the cabin and thought a particular formation offered some promise. With pick and shovel they excavated a slope where the water run off had created a narrow ravine. This soil was then pulled on a wooden sledge down to the river’s edge and run through the rocker box. At first there was no evidence of gold. But when they dug deeper into the ravine, they discovered a rich deposit.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Mosby and Jack stood at the rail as the ship pulled into San Francisco Bay. They had taken the rich man’s route on their return from the Klondike; this involved a two-thousand-mile cruise by steamer down the Yukon River from Dawson City to St. Michael, Alaska. From there they arranged passage on an ocean-going cargo steamship which carried them first to Seattle and then on to San Francisco. During a brief stop in Seattle, Jack sent a telegram to his mother to let her know when they expected to arrive. He didn’t tell her that they were in possession of seventy pounds of gold that was worth over $20,000.
They parted company at the dock, after Mosby had made arrangements for their gold to be deposited with the Bank of California. He promised to join Jack and his mother for dinner the following evening. He then proceeded to the Palace Hotel and checked into a two-room suite. Through room service he ordered ice and a bottle of whiskey, and also asked the concierge to summon a tailor to measure him up for a new ensemble of clothing. He was sipping his drink when there was a knock on the door.
Mosby opened the door and faced a dapper looking man who was wearing a bowler hat. His immediate thought was, this isn’t the tailor. The man was pointing a pistol at him and had a smile on his face, but the smile wasn’t reflected in the emotionless stare from his dead looking blue eyes.
“Is your name Mosby?”
Mosby replied, “Yes, my name is Mosby. And who are you, Suh?”
“My name is Declan O’Brian, and I’m arresting you on behalf of the Pinkerton Agency. You are a person of interest in the robbery of a Butterfield stagecoach.”
Mosbys mind briefly went back… to the Apache he had chased down some years ago in the Sonora Desert. The renegade, who Mosby had already wounded during a battle with his Cavalry Troup, had ridden his horse hard until it collapsed. Then he opened a vein and drank some of its blood before continuing on foot towards the distant mountains. When Mosby caught up, he shot the dying horse to put it out of its misery. An hour later he did the same to the Apache. On the return, he opened the saddle bags on the dead horse and found a large amount of money. He had no idea where it originated from.
“What are they paying you to bring me in?”
“You’re worth a thousand dollars,” replied O’Brian.
Mosby replied, “I’ll give you a thousand dollars to forget that we ever met.”
“No, I want more. A lot more!”
Mosby quickly drew his pistol and shot the man. He though, don’t hold a gun on a man when you haven’t cocked the hammer.
He dragged the body into the bathtub and then poured himself another drink. Minutes later there was a soft rap on the door. The tailor had arrived.
By Michael Barlett