and then, when an insurmountable bluff was encountered, it was into the
canoe, out paddles, and a wild and losing dash across the current to the
other bank, in paddles, over the side, and out tow-line again. It was
exhausting work. Antonsen toiled like the giant he was, uncomplaining,
persistent, but driven to his utmost by the powerful body and indomitable
brain of Churchill. They never paused for rest. It was go, go, and keep on
going. A crisp wind blew down the river, freezing their hands and making
it imperative, from time to time, to beat the blood back into the numb
fingers.
As night came on, they were compelled to trust to luck. They fell
repeatedly on the untravelled banks and tore their clothing to shreds in the
underbrush they could not see. Both men were badly scratched and
bleeding. A dozen times, in their wild dashes from bank to bank, they
struck snags and were capsized. The first time this happened, Churchill
dived and groped in three feet of water for the gripsack. He lost half an
hour in recovering it, and after that it was carried securely lashed to the
canoe. As long as the canoe floated it was safe. Antonsen jeered at the
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17
grip, and toward morning began to curse it; but Churchill vouchsafed no
explanations.
Their delays and mischances were endless. On one swift bend, around
which poured a healthy young rapid, they lost two hours, making a score
of attempts and capsizing twice. At this point, on both banks, were
precipitous bluffs, rising out of deep water, and along which they could
neither tow nor pole, while they could not gain with the paddles against
the current. At each attempt they strained to the utmost with the paddles,
and each time, with hearts nigh to bursting from the effort, they were
played out and swept back. They succeeded finally by an accident. In the
swiftest current, near the end of another failure, a freak of the current
sheered the canoe out of Churchill’s control and flung it against the bluff.
Churchill made a blind leap at the bluff and landed in a crevice. Holding
on with one hand, he held the swamped canoe with the other till Antonsen
dragged himself out of the water. Then they pulled the canoe out and
rested. A fresh start at this crucial point took them by. They landed on the
bank above and plunged immediately ashore and into the brush with the
tow-line.
Daylight found them far below Tagish Post. At nine o’clock Sunday
morning they could hear the Flora whistling her departure. And when, at
ten o’clock, they dragged themselves in to the Post, they could just barely
see the Flora’s smoke far to the southward. It was a pair of worn-out
tatterdemalions that Captain Jones of the Mounted Police welcomed and
fed, and he afterward averred that they possessed two of the most
tremendous appetities he had ever observed. They lay down and slept in
their wet rags by the stove. At the end of two hours Churchill got up,
carried Bondell’s grip, which he had used for a pillow, down to the canoe,
kicked Antonsen awake, and started in pursuit of the Flora.
“There’s no telling what might happen–machinery break down, or
something,” was his reply to Captain Jones’s expostulations. “I’m going to
catch that steamer and send her back for the boys.”
Tagish Lake was white with a fall gale that blew in their teeth. Big,
swinging seas rushed upon the canoe, compelling one man to bail and
leaving one man to paddle. Headway could not be made. They ran along
the shallow shore and went overboard, one man ahead on the tow-line, the
other shoving on the canoe. They fought the gale up to their waists in the
icy water, often up to their necks, often over their heads and buried by the
big, crested waves. There was no rest, never a moment’s pause from the
cheerless, heart-breaking battle. That night, at the head of Tagish Lake, in
the thick of a driving snow-squall, they overhauled the Flora. Antonsen
fell on board, lay where he had fallen, and snored. Churchill looked like a
wild man. His clothes barely clung to him. His face was iced up and
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18
swollen from the protracted effort of twenty-four hours, while his hands
were so swollen that he could not close the fingers. As for his feet, it was
an agony to stand upon them.
The captain of the Flora was loath to go back to White Horse. Churchill
was persistent and imperative; the captain was stubborn. He pointed out
finally that nothing was to be gained by going back, because the only
ocean steamer at Dyea, the Athenian, was to sail on Tuesday morning, and
that he could not make the back trip to White Horse and bring up the
stranded pilgrims in time to make the connection.
“What time does the Athenian sail?” Churchill demanded.
`’Seven o’clock, Tuesday morning.”
“All right,” Churchill said, at the same time kicking a tattoo on the ribs of
the snoring Antonsen. “You go back to White Horse. We’ll go ahead and
hold the Athenian.”
Antonsen, stupid with sleep, not yet clothed in his waking mind, was
bundled into the canoe, and did not realize what had happened till he was
drenched with the icy spray of a big sea, and heard Churchill snarling at
him through the darkness:–
“Paddle, can’t you! Do you want to be swamped?”
Daylight found them at Caribou Crossing, the wind dying down, and
Antonsen too far gone to dip a paddle. Churchill grounded the canoe on a
quiet beach, where they slept. He took the precaution of twisting his arm
under the weight of his head. Every few minutes the pain of the pent
circulation aroused him, whereupon he would look at his watch and twist
the other arm under his head. At the end of two hours he fought with
Antonsen to rouse him. Then they started. Lake Bennett, thirty miles in
length, was like a mill-pond; but, halfway across, a gale from the south
smote them and turned the water white. Hour after hour they repeated the
struggle on Tagish, over the side, pulling and shoving on the canoe, up to
their waists and necks, and over their heads, in the icy water; toward the
last the good-natured giant played completely out. Churchill drove him
mercilessly; but when he pitched forward and bade fair to drown in three
feet of water, the other dragged him into the canoe. After that, Churchill
fought on alone, arriving at the police post at the head of Bennett in the
early afternoon. He tried to help Antonsen out of the canoe, but failed. He
listened to the exhausted man’s heavy breathing, and envied him when he
thought of what he himself had yet to undergo. Antonsen could lie there
and sleep; but he, behind time, must go on over mighty Chilcoot and down
to the sea. The real struggle lay before him, and he almost regretted the
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19
strength that resided in his frame because of the torment it could inflict
upon that frame.
Churchill pulled the canoe up on the beach, seized Bondell’s grip, and
started on a limping dog-trot for the police post.
“There’s a canoe down there, consigned to you from Dawson,” he hurled at
the officer who answered his knock. “And there’s a man in it pretty near
dead. Nothing serious; only played out. Take care of him. I’ve got to rush.
Good-by. Want to catch the Athenian.”
A mile portage connected Lake Bennett and Lake Linderman, and his last
words he flung back after him as he resumed the trot. It was a very painful
trot, but he clenched his teeth and kept on, forgetting his pain most of the
time in the fervent heat with which he regarded the gripsack. It was a
severe handicap. He swung it from one hand to the other, and back again.
He tucked it under his arm. He threw one hand over the opposite shoulder,
and the bag bumped and pounded on his back as he ran along. He could
scarcely hold it in his bruised and swollen fingers, and several times he
dropped it. Once, in changing from one hand to the other, it escaped his
clutch and fell in front of him, tripped him up, and threw him violently to
the ground.
At the far end of the portage he bought an old set of pack-straps for a
dollar, and in them he swung the grip. Also, he chartered a launch to run
him the six miles to the upper end of Lake Linderman, where he arrived at
four in the afternoon. The Athenian was to sail from Dyea next morning at
seven. Dyea was twenty-eight miles away, and between towered Chilcoot.
He sat down to adjust his foot-gear for the long climb, and woke up. He