Alaska (78 page)

On the night of the fourth frustrating day, when three of the men became almost too weak to lift their legs high enough to negotiate the niggerheads, it was apparent to Klope that emergency measures must be taken, and he consulted with both California and Montana. The latter said: 'We got to put someone at the rear. Else we're gonna lose somebody back there.'

'They can see our trail,' California said, but Montana would not accept this easy answer: 'Trouble is, in this weather the man at the end says: 'I'll lie down for just a minute,”and you never see him again. Frozen solid.'

Klope volunteered to walk last, and it was fortunate that he did, because the men detected as being weakest began to lag dangerously, and he spent a trying day urging them to keep moving forward. Twice the major file forged so far ahead that he had to shout at the top of his voice to make them slow down until his three flagging charges could catch up. By nightfall two others had fallen behind, and when California, whose courage and determination helped keep the men together, consulted with his two assistants, Klope reported: 'I'm not sure I can make them keep up for another day,' and to make things worse, that night the temperature fell precipitously.

Shortly after midnight California shook those still sleeping in the protection of the snow: 'Better start moving, men,' and in the shadowy light of a waning moon they started what they would later remember as the worst night and day of their lives.

That sixth day they elected to stay with the river, picking their way slowly past protruding blocks, and at times John Klope, bringing up the rear, thought that the silent figures ahead of him looked like ants moving across a white blanket, but such poetic comparisons were banished when one of the laggards simply fell in a heap, unable to respond to Klope's commands that he rise.

When helpers hurried back, they found to their horror that 474

the man had not fainted; he had died. Yes, on the Yukon River some miles below the safety of the Fort, a bank clerk from Arkansas had died of exhaustion, and after his body had been placed under a blanket of snow, a subdued and sometimes terrified group of eleven resumed its slow march forward.

Klope was not unduly distressed by the death. He was aware that men died in arbitrary ways; on a neighboring farm a man he knew well had been strangled when the reins of a rearing horse caught around his neck, and once during a visit to Bonners Ferry he had heard men shouting at the railroad station, where a workman had been crushed between two boxcars. So he could absorb the shock of death. But when the party halted at noon for rations, he heard something that did frighten him tremendously. California, seeking to dispel the gloom attendant upon the death, was giving encouragement: 'It was fifty miles in all, and I calculate we've covered forty-two,' when a man from Ohio said: 'I heard Captain Grimm say: ”It's only fifty or sixty miles to Fort Yukon.”'

The possible addition of ten miles to what was already a hellish journey terrified Klope, for as rear man he had witnessed better than anyone else the utter exhaustion of the weakest members. When California and three other strong men moved apart to discuss the situation, Klope was impressed by the forthright manner in which the leader conducted himself: 'I want the four of us to pledge that we will not forge on ahead and forget the others. We'll stay with these men and get them to Fort Yukon.'

'But what if the time comes when one of us has to rush ahead,' Montana asked, 'to bring help?'

'You three can draw straws. I'll stay.'

'Could it have been sixty miles?' Klope asked, and California snapped: 'No.'

That afternoon the temperature dropped to ten degrees below, but mercifully no wind accompanied the fall; however, another man walking not far ahead of Klope collapsed and died, not instantly like the first, but in terrible, rasping pain over a period of forty minutes.

Klope buried him, and then the real horror of this forlorn journey began, because the Yukon became excessively humpy while the swamps were barricaded by niggerheads that were barely negotiable. At half past four what arctic daylight there was would begin to fade, and the men would face the punishment of a long, bitterly cold night without adequate protection.

Klope did not lose courage; he could never do that so long as the lure of gold pulled him forward, but as he estimated 475

the waning strength of the laggards, he realized with deepening concern that as many as three could perish during the coming hours, and he called for the other strong marchers to join him. 'What shall we do?' he asked, and California replied: 'Keep moving ahead. All night. Otherwise we could all d
ie.
'

'And if those over there . . . ?' California studied Klope's forlorn group sitting numbly in the snow, either unaware of or indifferent to the fact that their lives were under discussion, then said: 'Keep them going as long as possible. If they die, don't stop to bury them.' And he returned to the lead, where he spurred the marchers on.

It was almost dusk on that terrible day when one of the weakest men espied an amazing sight, which he called to Klope's attention: 'Dog team!' And there to the north, picking his way carefully through the frozen swamps of the Yukon Flats and obviously headed toward Fort Yukon, came a man running behind a sled drawn by seven large, powerful dogs. He was dressed in Eskimo garb, his exposed face surrounded by the fur-lined hood of a parka, his body so swathed in heavy garments that he looked almost round. He had not yet seen the struggling men, and there was a chance that he might speed by without stopping, so with a wild shout Klope started running northeast in hopes of intercepting him.

The other men, hearing the shouts, turned and saw the speeding dogsled, and without a moment's hesitation California began running, too, and because he started from a better angle, it was he whom the sled-driver finally saw. Commanding his huskies to halt, he came forward to meet these strangers, and a moment's glance at the weary file whose men had taken rest in the snow satisfied the man that he had come upon a party of cheechakos in peril.

He was Sarqaq, half Eskimo, half Athapascan Indian, and he ran a dogsled out of Fort Yukon. He spoke little English but understood many words, and when he asked California: 'Fort Yukon?' he comprehended the answer.

'How far?' California asked, and he said, holding up one finger: 'Tomorrow.' But then California asked: 'Your tomorrow or our tomorrow?' and Sarqaq did not understand.

Klope solved the problem by putting his hand on one of the dogs, a handsome white-faced animal fifth in line from the lead, and with his fingers imitated the four swiftly moving legs of a dog. Then, using his own feet, he plodded slowly forward: 'Dog one day? Man how many?'

Sarqaq, whose brown face was as round as if it had been drawn with a compass, laughed, showing white teeth: 'I now. You tomorrow.'

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Klope was in no way a religious man, but he sighed: 'Thank God.' He and California and the others in strong condition could certainly survive till tomorrow night; the weakest could perhaps be taken to warm beds by the dogsled. Taking the driver by the arm, he pointed to the resting men: 'Two, three. Maybe die,' and with sign language he indicated men dying from lack of will.

Sarqaq understood immediately, and without even a minute's hesitation knew what he must do. Furiously he started throwing off his sled the piles of fur and caribou meat he was delivering to Fort Yukon, and when it became apparent that he was unloading cargo to provide space to transport the threatened men, Klope said: 'I go get,' but Sarqaq stopped him: 'I go,' and with curt commands he swung his dogs about, sped to the line of men, who uttered feeble cheers, and asked: 'Who go?' holding up three fingers taken from the mitten which protected them from freezing. The men waited for Klope to identify the three worst cases, and when he had done so, these men, barely aware of what was happening, were loaded aboard the sled.

Then came a moment of the most painful indecision, for the seven men left behind could not anticipate what might happen. Were these three alone to be saved? Was Fort Yukon really only one day away? Could they survive any more nights in this dreadful cold?

Sarqaq, anticipating their fears, smiled like a rising moon and said to Klope: 'Watch meat. Wolves.' And to the men from the Parker he said: 'Cut meat. Chew it. Wrap in furs. I come back. Many sleds.' And off through the darkening night he sped.

It was about four in the morning when one of the travelers, who was moving about to keep himself alive, heard from the east the sound of dogs. Listening for confirmation lest he deceive his companions, he heard the unmistakable sound of men cheering on their teams, and he began shouting: 'They're here! They've come back!'

From wherever they had been sleeping and in whatever postures, the survivors leaped to their feet and peered into the moonlit night. Slowly, like the vision in a narcotic dream, dogsleds began to appear upon the Yukon, with the figures of men running behind, and as they became reality the freezing men began to scream and shout 'Hurrah!' and weep.

IN 1897, FORT YUKON WAS NO LONGER A FORT, BUT WHEN erected half a century earlier, it had been a rather formidable place, and a drawing made by the intrepid English explorer

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Frederick Whymper, in 1867, still showed the imposing four blockhouses, inside whose square nestled several homes, and two enormous barns for the storage of furs being bought and merchandise being sold by the Hudson's Bay Company, whose daring traders had established this most remote of their outposts.

In 1869, Fort Yukon provided an outstanding example of why Canada and the United States were such good and sensible neighbors: that was the year when young Otis Peacock and his army team proved that the Canadian Hudson's Bay Store was far inside American territory. Instead of raising a ruckus, Americans and Canadians had diplomatically moved the store twice, because after the first move, it was still trespassing on American soil.

For some years Fort Yukon had been a thriving little settlement of about a hundred and ninety people who earned a modest living by collecting furs from Indians and by servicing the occasional riverboat like the Jos. Parker when one stopped by, but with the discovery of Klondike gold, the town had flourished and was now crowded.

When the Eskimo Sarqaq, as he was called despite his part-Athapascan blood, and the other sled drivers delivered the ten white men to the Fort, a curious situation developed.

California, the man who more than any other had been responsible for keeping the travelers moving forward, suddenly lost his nerve, and when a third man died at the Fort, he took the blame upon himself. For three days he sat in a stupor, overwhelmed by the tragedy in which he had participated. Klope and others told him: 'You kept us going,' but he could not accept this; he felt compelled to take responsibility for the deaths of his three companions and the near-deaths of the others.

Klope was not being honest when he said that it had been California who had saved the expedition. Both he and Montana knew that they, too, had held the team together and that many more would have died had not Klope refused to let them do so. But he sought no accolade for having done what he considered his duty; instead, he sought out his rescuer, Sarqaq, and spent hours with the Eskimo's ten dogs.

Sarqaq was known as an Eskimo because that was an easier identification than half Eskimo, half Athapascan; besides, he looked like a prototypical Eskimo, with stocky build, round face and pronounced Oriental features. He was an amiable man, much given to grinning, which made his face shine like a full moon, and he enjoyed having Klope take an interest in his dogs.

He maintained ten, even though he preferred to use only seven on his sled; the extra three would be fed into the team 478

as present members aged or grew refractory. For example, he had not much use for the dog that Klope had liked in those first moments of their meeting in the Flats, number five in line. By some instinct, Klope had identified the one dog that was not a pure husky, as if he had spotted some variation in character.

'Not husky,' Sarqaq said. 'Maybe half-half.' A white man who had once owned the dog had given it the name of Breed, indicating a mixed heritage, and when Klope heard that the dog was mixed, he supposed that this accounted for the difference he had noted.

Breed looked like a husky; he had the white mask, the extremely dark hair edging his eartips, the heavy coat and the powerful front legs. His eyes were framed in white and he also had a thin white stripe down the middle of his forehead. His body was a brownish gray and his whole attitude one of alertness. His weakness was that he did not fit in with the other dogs, and if he did not mend his ways and quickly, Sarqaq would have to replace him, because one difficult, dog could ruin a team.

As Klope spent these October days with the dogs, he slowly acquired an understanding of these remarkable animals, so unlike the ones he had known in Idaho. The most important beast in a team was the lead dog, and Sarqaq's was almost unbelievable in its intelligence and its love of mushing at the head of six other dogs almost as capable. It was the lead dog who disciplined the others, who threw its total weight into the straps, who kept the sled always moving forward and who designated the track. It was responsive to Sarqaq's commands and even anticipated them, and although it could not be said that it loved its master, for it stayed aloof from humans, it obviously did love the job of leading the team and protecting the heavy sled they drew.

Dog number two in line was known as the swing, and it was its responsibility to transfer the leader's decisions to the dogs behind. Often when the lead dog died or became too old for continued service, the swing took over; in the case of Sarqaq's team, this would not occur, because although his swing was admirably suited to that job, it would not make a good leader; it was too amenable to suggestion.

Of an importance almost equal to the lead dog was the last in line, the wheel dog, for it was its task to see that the moves of the other dogs did not imperil either the safety or the progress of the sled. A knowing wheel could be worth the whole remainder of the team if it saw to it that their considerable efforts were properly applied to the moving sled, and Sarqaq had about the best wheel in the business.