Titanic and Other Ships By Charles Lightoller
Chapter 22 CROSSING THE ATHABASKA
One river we struck as we got up to the mountains seemed the father of all rivers, the Athabaska, broken up into rapids and nearly three miles across. We arrived on the banks one evening, and set out to get over as it is always better to have dry clothes and the river behind you in the morning. We forded a considerable distance and arrived on an island in the middle, where, in the end, we had to camp for the night. Next morning we set out to find a ford. There wasn't one, and, what was of added interest, we found that the river was rising.
A couple of days before, we had chummed up with another party of three heading the same way, so we joined forces in the hope that many heads might help. I can't say they they did, but fortunately for all of us, the assurances we had received from old timers that sailors take naturally to the trail, proved quite true and of inestimable value, though parked in the middle of the Athabaska, with a rising river in front and behind us, it did not seem as if all our sailoring experience was going to help much; and it didn't, despite seven attempts to find a ford. There seemed nothing for it but to take the bull by the horns, get on a horse, get into the water, and hope for the best.
The opposite bank, another island, was only a matter of a hundred yards, but the sides were sheer with the exception of two places where the banks had broken away. There seemed practically no hope of fetching the break higher up the river, but the lower one was just possible. So I determined, that night, that unless the river went down I was going to have a shot at it, particularly as there was every unpleasant indication that the river frequently submerged the whole island. Bill would go anywhere where anyone else would lead. He certainly had no fear, and he was the only one of the party who would face water. His horse was none too good though, just a bundle of nerves; whereas mine, that I had chosen out of a corral of fifty or sixty, could and would do anything but talk. This was to be the one and only occasion on which I ever saw him baulk at water, and that night, when I tried to get him to face this flood--which was nothing but white water, coming tearing and foaming down out of the mountains--he certainly didn't like it. In fact it is no exaggeration to say he just hated it. Bill would come, but unfortunately he had never ridden a horse in his life, much less swam one. I cautioned him, "Now mind, as soon as he loses his feet, get off his back and hang on to his withers," and in we went, Rufus step by step, and every step a snort. He certainly did not like it a bit, and, speaking generally, a man is a fool to force one of these intelligent pack horses when he baulks. But this was an exception. So with a pat and an urge, he went on, step by step, with the water foaming between his legs, till at last he lost his feet, got a dose of funk, and tried to fling back. Fortunately, his head came round my way, and I was able to give him a hearty smack on the nose, and head him off again in the right direction. Then he stretched himself out and went through the water like a harbour launch.
Having settled him on his course, I looked round for Bill who had followed me in. All that was visible at the moment were the four legs of a horse, sticking up above the water, and just in the act of rolling over. Bill must have lost his head, and tried to stick on his horse's back, both of them rolling over in consequence.
Amazing though it seemed, I struck the higher break in the opposite bank, an accomplishment I had though utterly impossible. I'll say that horse could swim! The moment old Rufus touched the ground with his feet he tore out of the water like one possessed, snorting like a grampus, thoroughly wound up, and shaking like a leaf with excitement. Throwing a leg over him as he came out, I kept him going and galloped down to the lower end of the island as hard as we could, coiling the lariat up in my hands at the same time. Bill had one chance as he swept by, and one only. If he missed the end of that lariat, he was bound down to where the river humped itself up in a canyon, a few miles below, in which no canoe, let alone a man, could live for a minute.
Arriving at the lower end of the island, I drove Rufus down the spit until he was as deep in the water as I dared go and still retain good foothold, and then waited until Bill came past. It was a critical moment, for I knew I should only get that one throw, and that to pretty well the full extent of the rope. I must land the end of the lariat somewhere near him, where he could either swim to it--in which case he would lose his horse--or, if I was fortunate enough, get so near that he could secure the end, and still hang onto the horse's halter.
Actually, what happened, I made my throw, and with unlimited luck, landed the end right alongside of him. I yelled to him to hang on to his horse, while he took a quick seamanlike turn round his wrist, and with the other hand gripped the halter. My end was round my waist, slacking and easing away to the strain whilst Bill and his horse, swung round into the eddy where we were standing, and got their feet on firm ground again.
No one ever had a closer call, though Bill didn't seem to worry.
We spent that night turning ourselves round, like a roast of beef on a spit, trying to warm one side and then the other, lying in nothing but our underclothes, in front of a roaring fire we had built up out of driftwood.
The whole of the next day we were alternately fording, swimming, and freezing, whilst we made our way to the mainland, were we eventually located an Indian canoe. This we brought down to where the others were marooned, and eventually succeeded in ferrying the rest of the party over. The river was by then within a few inches of the surface of the island and they had made all preparations for taking to the trees. That would have been all right, but, unfortunately horses can't climb.
It is undoubtedly a great game crossing rapids in a canoe. You tow up stream so far, until you find an eddy or little bay, causing a bit of slack water. Probably just a cut of a few feet into the bank will do. Then a bit lower down on the opposite side, another convenient eddy must be found. Then load the canoe, and don't forget to put the paddle on top of everything, ready to hand. Give her a push, leap in, and land in the bottom on your knees, sitting on your feet--if you are lucky. It needs a bit of practice, but fortunately I had had plenty of opportunity for that in the dug-outs of Rio de Janeiro, in which you surely do have to part your hair in the middle. I had won many a race in Rio, and compared with a Dug-out, the Canadian birchbark is easy. Having landed in the bottom of the canoe you seize your paddle, and dig like fury. The water fairly curls up at the bow, and you simply tear across the river at the rate of knots. Head her straight for the opposite eddy as if you were going to ram the bank at full speed. Actually what happens is when the stem touches dead water, and the river sweeping down, swings the stern round, bringing the canoe to a standstill, riding motionless alongside the bank all in one movement. It is thrilling all right--particularly with rapids just below you--but tiring when you have to keep it up all day, as we had to, to get clear of the island before it disappeared.
All throughout this long trek, swimming rivers, getting through jamb-piles, over muskegs; hail, rain, blow and snow, my old banjo survived. It had, as a matter of fact been a good companion and helped cheer us up and pass many a weary hour, right from the start of the voyage on board ship, and also on the slow going train bound west and even, at times, on the trail.
Bill was a particularly good step dancer and singer, which had, as a rule packed our car on the way across country. Many and evening we passed away singing old popular songs. On the trail the banjo was brought out when we were not too dog tired, after a terrific day's struggle--times when it needed all one's powers of self-control to prevent quarreling with anybody, or everybody who came near. There was the amusing side too, such as up in the mountains, when Indians squatted on their haunches all round us. They rarely speak, nor do they ask for food, but it is always the custom to pass them a dish of beans, which, of course, is the staple diet. After we had finished our meal, and put on our pipes, the smoke of the fires slowly blowing across, sometimes, partly for a lark, we would start up the banjo, and Bill his song and dance. It was worth while just to see the looks on those Indians' faces. Their features always seem carved out of stone, and it is considered the worst form for them to register any surprise, but to hear the sound coming out of that banjo usually beat them, and immediately it was put down, they would gather round and peer into it, to see where the sound came from.
How that old banjo survived beats me. It always seemed to come up smiling even after swimming a river or working through a forest.
One follows the old buffalo trails which almost invariably lead to a ford, also wherever buffalo could go between the trees, so also could a pack horse pass between them. I have, on more than one occasion, seen the banjo athwart two trees, and old Rufus gently putting pressure on it, wondering, I expect, what sort of a fool I was to make up his pack so badly that he couldn't get through. As a matter of fact, the banjo was always just lightly placed on top of the pack, and was apt to swing across. However, nothing was ever broken, all credit to the old boy.
For day and days we would be plodding on through forests, hardly ever seeing the sun. Then, just like walking out of a door, you walk out from amongst the trees, with nothing but the prairie in front of you, without even a shrub in sight; nothing but limitless snow.
On one occasion, after being several days in the open, we arrived at the edge of one of these forests, and camped for our midday meal before diving in. It was obvious to even the most inexperienced that something very special in the way of storms was brewing. A heavy bank was coming up as black as night, but full of beans (literally and metaphorically) we would be hard cases and allow nothing in the way of weather to stop us. We still had to learn that, above all, discretion is the watchword in that hard country. So, having finished our meal, we once again hit the trail. It was not long before snow, in the powdery, dusty form which it always takes in the interior of Canada, was sweeping through the trees, growing thicker and thicker every minute. It never snows in flakes; always this fine dust, which on the open prairie will suffocate a man in a few minutes. We stuck to the trail for a couple of hours until it completely disappeared. We realized we had lost the trail when one of the horses went over the edge of the cliff and rolled to the bottom. By the time we got him and his pack up again we decided we had had enough, and finding a suitable spot, went into camp. The first thing was to get a fire going, and in this country one always carries a bit of birch bark. This will burn and burn brightly under almost any conditions; very nearly under water. With this, and a few pine branches, it is always possible to start a good blaze, and if one can get hold of willow then you can have all the heat you want, and no smoke. We were glad to get any fire whatever, so just dropped jackpines across it, and as it burned up, so cut down bigger and bigger trees, until we had one gigantic bonfire going, throwing out a tremendous and mighty welcome warmth for some dozen or two yards all round. It was the only way to hope to hold off the snow and get any degree of comfort.
A weird sight, in the middle of this Canadian forest. Sitting around a gigantic fire, the horses' tails to wind, nothing but an impenetrable canopy of snow all round, but so great was the heat from the fire, and so fine the snow, that it actually melted and evaporated before it could touch the ground. The upper part of the trees, in fact trees twenty yards from us were out of sight in the snow, and yet where we were, within the snow walls, was warm and dry. Soon we had the billy going, and a pan full of pork and beans on a fire. Wet clothes and wet blankets, which had been under the pack saddles, hanging up to dry. Even the crashing of an occasional tree could not keep us awake. We slept and dreamt of the gold we were surely going to find some time soon.
A few days later we did actually make our strike. It came about when we had been choosing our camp for the night. In this choice there are two essential factors, food and water for the horses. It may be a swamp--it frequently was; and in that case you can cut yourself some perfectly good boughs of jackpines and make out as comfortably as you can; but grass there must be. On this occasion, where we were prospecting was on a creek, and next morning while some of the party went off with their rifles, others, of whom I was one, went down to the creek with gold pan and shovel to "wash."
This washing out, on bars and banks, had just about become a rite by this time. As a matter of course one shouldered gold pan and shovel, and trudged off whenever a river showed up. To a certain extent, it had become perfunctory, although there was always the suspense and the latent thrill as to whether "colours" would show up. You take a shovel of pay dirt, throw it into a pan of water, and commence by giving it a heaving circular motion, which sends the water swirling round, stirring up all solid matter in the pan. The lighter earth, smaller shingle and gravel quickly flow over the edge as dip after dip of water is taken, until, finally, there is nothing left but black sand, and in this resides the float gold, which is separated and collected by introducing about a teaspoonful of mercury to which the gold adheres. Then, squeezing the mercury through chamois leather, you have a little nugget of gold left behind--if you are lucky.
I forget whose pan it was that first got down to the black sand, but there was a yell, "We've found." Everybody dropped everything and dashed over to see what it was. Sure enough, there were the colours shining bright and clear as the pan with the residue of black sand and a little water, was given that final scientific twirl which throws the black sand forward and leaves trailing out behind the glittering specks of gold.
There is only the last test; viz., application of muriatic acid. If it is gold, it only shines the brighter, but if it is false, maybe mica, it will at once turn black, and disappear.
Our next call was for the acid, which could not be found. Evidently it was stowed away in some chap's pack who, at that moment, was off with his rifle trying to pick up a stew for the pot. Nowhere could we discover the muriatic, but we had some acetic acid, and with this we decided to give it a try-out, until we could make the proper test.
The effect was that the gold only gleamed the brighter, and we jubilantly assured ourselves that we had "found." At once, everyone started planning out the camp, the sluice boxes, and all the necessary paraphernalia connected with placer mining. More pay dirt was washed out, and still more colours found--and wealth and affluence were assuredly ours for the taking! All that remained was to gather up the gold that was lying at our feet, and trek back to civilization.
About this time the fellow with the gun, gameless as usual, arrived back in camp. Of course the good news was told, and, quite as a matter of form, merely to confirm what we were convinced was already a fact, we suggested the muriatic test. He got the acid out of his pack, and over we went to the gold pan; gave it a little swing, and on the glittering contents poured the muriatic. Result, complete, absolute and utter black out. It was mica. Down went all our hopes and with them our spirits.
However, these disappointments soon wear off, and one is ready again to strike the trail with that buoyant confidence that forever lies in the prospector's heart. Good pay dirt, he is confident is only a little further on.
To be well bitten with the gold bug is a glorious sensation--always on the verge of the great discovery. The sun is never up early enough, and sets too soon. There would be nothing to beat it, if one only had plenty to eat. Even the scenery alone up in these mountains, almost compensates for the hardships. Everything is wonderful and seems so amazingly near. Even the snow caps of the Rockies, towering thousands of feet above look as if one could leave the sunshine and be tobogganing within an hour, so rarefied and wonderfully clear is the atmosphere. Look up a draw (an opening between mountains). "Oh yes," you'll say, "We'll fetch that tomorrow night," but maybe it will be three days before you reach it; a spot which seemed at most some ten or fifteen miles away.
A grand country, but a hungry one. At that time, even the Indians themselves were starving, and burning out the forests for game. These mountain Indians are the only tribe left that are not treaty bound; though, nevertheless, they have a wholesome respect for that magnificent body of men, the Canadian Mounted.
Naturally one keeps one's eyes peeled, and one's rifle close to hand night and day, but there was never an occasion, or even the remotest approach to a necessity to use it. They are a friendly lot--wonderful, both at hunting and on the trail. Their powers of endurance are almost beyond belief, on foot and on horseback. I've known a trained Indian runner, to go for three days and three nights without let or pause, and without food, other than what he was carrying with him. I'll admit he was making his way with a very urgent message; but for endurance they are mighty hard to beat. Then keep up a glide or lope, doing a steady four miles an hour the whole day through. The pack horses are trained to walk and never break into a trot or canter, but the distances they can cover, with this little short step, would be utterly beyond the power of the horses commonly found in civilisation. Of course, this applies to the pack horse, and should not be confused with the ordinary cayuse, which is the boon companion of other Indian tribes such as Blackfeet, Crows, and Sioux, who are not exactly the chaps to have with one on a pack train. On the other hand they can perform marvels of horsemanship also.
One evening in North Edmonton, there was an argument between a half breed Blackfoot and some white men as to whether a certain tribe of Blackfeet had or had not been wiped out by the Crows, on the banks of the River Saskatchewan near by. There is a place close to the banks of the Saskatchewan known as the Hudson Bay Flats, where an old Hudson Bay Fort used to stand. A flat piece of land, extending over perhaps, fifty or sixty acres. It was claimed, that in a fight between the two tribes, the latter drove the former over the edge of the cliff, into the river and drowned the lot of them. This half-breed Blackfoot maintained that his tribe were neither drowned nor annihilated, but that they went down the cliff on their horses and swam the river. Almost everybody smiled at his claim, for although the cliff consisted of earth, yet it was so utterly sheer, that it seemed impossible for a man to get down, with any degree of safety, let alone a man and a horse. Furthermore, taking into consideration that the Blackfeet rode at it, full tilt, with the Crows in pursuit, one could imagine nothing but sheer annihilation.
To me the smile certainly seemed justified.
Then this half-breed got shirty and said he would ride at that cliff himself for a bottle of whisky, and he was not long in finding a man who would put up the bottle, if he would do it. The next day we all turned up on the flats, and this chap mounted his cayuse, bare back, a good quarter of a mile away from the edge of the cliff, and without pause or hesitation rode straight at it, over the edge, and down the odd hundred feet and into the river. All I can say is, he simply went over and down into the river, and swam back. How he managed it, or why both horse and man didn't go head over heels, is simply beyond me, but the fact remains that he never left his horse's back, although he laid full length along it, with his head resting on its rump. I have certainly never seen, and could never have imagined such an amazing feat--but I'll say he won that whisky.
These fellows are now all Treaty Indians, but whether with either the Crows or the Sioux, there is now very little to fear. The Canadian Mounted Police have brought it home to these tribes (likewise renegade whites) that there is going to be law and order, and they know, for a stonewall certainty, that any break away from this, and somebody will pay the penalty.
The same applies to the white man. There's none of the wild and woolly west business in Canada. It a man drew a gun he'd probably get his stern kicked, good and hard.
In the past it was the custom for one of the Canadian Mounted to be detailed off to track down and arrest any man who had committed a crime, whether small or great, and the powers of endurance exhibited by the tracker were never less than those of the man he was tracking down. Day after day, and week after week, he would follow his man, and eventually track him down. Of course, if the crime had been such as murder, the man had to be brought back alive, or with very clear evidence of his death. There was a recognised procedure in the latter instance which gives evidence enough when dealing with Indians, the details of which there is no need to go into too closely. In any case there are lots of really good writers who have written up the Canadian Mounted--though the romance has been somewhat dimmed since they mounted them on motor-bikes.
[ 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35 | 36 | 37 | 38 | 39 | 40 | 41 | 42 | 43 | 44 | 45 ]
