Lost Face

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Lost Face, by Jack London
The Project Gutenberg eBook, Lost Face, by Jack London This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net
Title: Lost Face Author: Jack London Release Date: May 12, 2005 [eBook #2429] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) ***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LOST FACE***
Transcribed from the 1919 Mills and Boon edition by David Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk
LOST FACE by Jack London
Contents: Lost Face Trust To Build a Fire That Spot Flush of Gold The Passing of Marcus O’Brien The Wit of Porportuk
LOST FACE
It was the end. Subienkow had travelled a long trail of bitterness and horror, homing like a dove for the capitals of Europe, and here, farther away than ever, in Russian America, the trail ceased. He sat in the snow, arms tied behind him, waiting the torture. He stared curiously before him at a huge Cossack, prone in the snow, moaning in his pain. The men had finished handling the giant and turned him over to the women. That they exceeded the fiendishness of the men, the man’s cries attested. Subienkow looked on, and shuddered. He was not afraid to die. He had carried his life too long in his hands, on that weary trail from Warsaw to Nulato, to shudder at mere dying. But he objected to the torture. It ...

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It was the end. Subienkow had travelled a long trail of bitterness and horror,homing like a dove for the capitals of Europe, and here, farther away than ever,in Russian America, the trail ceased. He sat in the snow, arms tied behind him,waiting the torture. He stared curiously before him at a huge Cossack, prone inthe snow, moaning in his pain. The men had finished handling the giant andturned him over to the women. That they exceeded the fiendishness of themen, the man’s cries attested.Subienkow looked on, and shuddered. He was not afraid to die. He hadcarried his life too long in his hands, on that weary trail from Warsaw to Nulato,to shudder at mere dying. But he objected to the torture. It offended his soul. And this offence, in turn, was not due to the mere pain he must endure, but tothe sorry spectacle the pain would make of him. He knew that he would pray,and beg, and entreat, even as Big Ivan and the others that had gone before. This would not be nice. To pass out bravely and cleanly, with a smile and ajest—ah! that would have been the way. But to lose control, to have his soulupset by the pangs of the flesh, to screech and gibber like an ape, to becomethe veriest beast—ah, that was what was so terrible.There had been no chance to escape. From the beginning, when he dreamedthe fiery dream of Poland’s independence, he had become a puppet in thehands of Fate. From the beginning, at Warsaw, at St. Petersburg, in theSiberian mines, in Kamtchatka, on the crazy boats of the fur-thieves, Fate hadbeen driving him to this end. Without doubt, in the foundations of the world wasgraved this end for him—for him, who was so fine and sensitive, whose nervesscarcely sheltered under his skin, who was a dreamer, and a poet, and anartist. Before he was dreamed of, it had been determined that the quiveringbundle of sensitiveness that constituted him should be doomed to live in rawand howling savagery, and to die in this far land of night, in this dark placebeyond the last boundaries of the world.He sighed. So that thing before him was Big Ivan—Big Ivan the giant, the manwithout nerves, the man of iron, the Cossack turned freebooter of the seas, whowas as phlegmatic as an ox, with a nervous system so low that what was painto ordinary men was scarcely a tickle to him. Well, well, trust these NulatoIndians to find Big Ivan’s nerves and trace them to the roots of his quiveringsoul. They were certainly doing it. It was inconceivable that a man could sufferso much and yet live. Big Ivan was paying for his low order of nerves. Alreadyhe had lasted twice as long as any of the others.Subienkow felt that he could not stand the Cossack’s sufferings much longer. Why didn’t Ivan die? He would go mad if that screaming did not cease. Butwhen it did cease, his turn would come. And there was Yakaga awaiting him,too, grinning at him even now in anticipation—Yakaga, whom only last week hehad kicked out of the fort, and upon whose face he had laid the lash of his dog-whip. Yakaga would attend to him. Doubtlessly Yakaga was saving for himmore refined tortures, more exquisite nerve-racking. Ah! that must have been agood one, from the way Ivan screamed. The squaws bending over him steppedback with laughter and clapping of hands. Subienkow saw the monstrous thingthat had been perpetrated, and began to laugh hysterically. The Indians lookedat him in wonderment that he should laugh. But Subienkow could not stop.This would never do. He controlled himself, the spasmodic twitchings slowlydying away. He strove to think of other things, and began reading back in hisown life. He remembered his mother and his father, and the little spotted pony,and the French tutor who had taught him dancing and sneaked him an old worncopy of Voltaire. Once more he saw Paris, and dreary London, and gayVienna, and Rome. And once more he saw that wild group of youths who had

dreamed, even as he, the dream of an independent Poland with a king ofPoland on the throne at Warsaw. Ah, there it was that the long trail began. Well, he had lasted longest. One by one, beginning with the two executed atSt. Petersburg, he took up the count of the passing of those brave spirits. Hereone had been beaten to death by a jailer, and there, on that bloodstainedhighway of the exiles, where they had marched for endless months, beaten andmaltreated by their Cossack guards, another had dropped by the way. Alwaysit had been savagery—brutal, bestial savagery. They had died—of fever, in themines, under the knout. The last two had died after the escape, in the battlewith the Cossacks, and he alone had won to Kamtchatka with the stolen papersand the money of a traveller he had left lying in the snow.It had been nothing but savagery. All the years, with his heart in studios, andtheatres, and courts, he had been hemmed in by savagery. He had purchasedhis life with blood. Everybody had killed. He had killed that traveller for hispassports. He had proved that he was a man of parts by duelling with twoRussian officers on a single day. He had had to prove himself in order to win toa place among the fur-thieves. He had had to win to that place. Behind him laythe thousand-years-long road across all Siberia and Russia. He could notescape that way. The only way was ahead, across the dark and icy sea ofBering to Alaska. The way had led from savagery to deeper savagery. On thescurvy-rotten ships of the fur-thieves, out of food and out of water, buffeted bythe interminable storms of that stormy sea, men had become animals. Thricehe had sailed east from Kamtchatka. And thrice, after all manner of hardshipand suffering, the survivors had come back to Kamtchatka. There had been nooutlet for escape, and he could not go back the way he had come, for the minesand the knout awaited him.Again, the fourth and last time, he had sailed east. He had been with thosewho first found the fabled Seal Islands; but he had not returned with them toshare the wealth of furs in the mad orgies of Kamtchatka. He had sworn neverto go back. He knew that to win to those dear capitals of Europe he must goon. So he had changed ships and remained in the dark new land. Hiscomrades were Slavonian hunters and Russian adventurers, Mongols andTartars and Siberian aborigines; and through the savages of the new worldthey had cut a path of blood. They had massacred whole villages that refusedto furnish the fur-tribute; and they, in turn, had been massacred by ships’companies. He, with one Finn, had been the sole survivor of such a company. They had spent a winter of solitude and starvation on a lonely Aleutian isle, andtheir rescue in the spring by another fur-ship had been one chance in athousand.But always the terrible savagery had hemmed him in. Passing from ship toship, and ever refusing to return, he had come to the ship that explored south. All down the Alaska coast they had encountered nothing but hosts of savages. Every anchorage among the beetling islands or under the frowning cliffs of themainland had meant a battle or a storm. Either the gales blew, threateningdestruction, or the war canoes came off, manned by howling natives with thewar-paint on their faces, who came to learn the bloody virtues of the sea-rovers’gunpowder. South, south they had coasted, clear to the myth-land ofCalifornia. Here, it was said, were Spanish adventurers who had fought theirway up from Mexico. He had had hopes of those Spanish adventurers. Escaping to them, the rest would have been easy—a year or two, what did itmatter more or less—and he would win to Mexico, then a ship, and Europewould be his. But they had met no Spaniards. Only had they encountered thesame impregnable wall of savagery. The denizens of the confines of the world,painted for war, had driven them back from the shores. At last, when one boat

was cut off and every man killed, the commander had abandoned the quest andsailed back to the north.The years had passed. He had served under Tebenkoff when MichaelovskiRedoubt was built. He had spent two years in the Kuskokwim country. Twosummers, in the month of June, he had managed to be at the head of KotzebueSound. Here, at this time, the tribes assembled for barter; here were to befound spotted deerskins from Siberia, ivory from the Diomedes, walrus skinsfrom the shores of the Arctic, strange stone lamps, passing in trade from tribe totribe, no one knew whence, and, once, a hunting-knife of English make; andhere, Subienkow knew, was the school in which to learn geography. For hemet Eskimos from Norton Sound, from King Island and St. Lawrence Island,from Cape Prince of Wales, and Point Barrow. Such places had other names,and their distances were measured in days.It was a vast region these trading savages came from, and a vaster region fromwhich, by repeated trade, their stone lamps and that steel knife had come. Subienkow bullied, and cajoled, and bribed. Every far-journeyer or strangetribesman was brought before him. Perils unaccountable and unthinkable werementioned, as well as wild beasts, hostile tribes, impenetrable forests, andmighty mountain ranges; but always from beyond came the rumour and the taleof white-skinned men, blue of eye and fair of hair, who fought like devils andwho sought always for furs. They were to the east—far, far to the east. No onehad seen them. It was the word that had been passed along.It was a hard school. One could not learn geography very well through themedium of strange dialects, from dark minds that mingled fact and fable andthat measured distances by “sleeps” that varied according to the difficulty of thegoing. But at last came the whisper that gave Subienkow courage. In the eastlay a great river where were these blue-eyed men. The river was called theYukon. South of Michaelovski Redoubt emptied another great river which theRussians knew as the Kwikpak. These two rivers were one, ran the whisper.Subienkow returned to Michaelovski. For a year he urged an expedition up theKwikpak. Then arose Malakoff, the Russian half-breed, to lead the wildest andmost ferocious of the hell’s broth of mongrel adventurers who had crossed fromKamtchatka. Subienkow was his lieutenant. They threaded the mazes of thegreat delta of the Kwikpak, picked up the first low hills on the northern bank,and for half a thousand miles, in skin canoes loaded to the gunwales withtrade-goods and ammunition, fought their way against the five-knot current of ariver that ran from two to ten miles wide in a channel many fathoms deep. Malakoff decided to build the fort at Nulato. Subienkow urged to go farther. Buthe quickly reconciled himself to Nulato. The long winter was coming on. Itwould be better to wait. Early the following summer, when the ice was gone, hewould disappear up the Kwikpak and work his way to the Hudson BayCompany’s posts. Malakoff had never heard the whisper that the Kwikpak wasthe Yukon, and Subienkow did not tell him.Came the building of the fort. It was enforced labour. The tiered walls of logsarose to the sighs and groans of the Nulato Indians. The lash was laid upontheir backs, and it was the iron hand of the freebooters of the sea that laid onthe lash. There were Indians that ran away, and when they were caught theywere brought back and spread-eagled before the fort, where they and their tribelearned the efficacy of the knout. Two died under it; others were injured for life;and the rest took the lesson to heart and ran away no more. The snow wasflying ere the fort was finished, and then it was the time for furs. A heavy tributewas laid upon the tribe. Blows and lashings continued, and that the tributeshould be paid, the women and children were held as hostages and treated

with the barbarity that only the fur-thieves knew.Well, it had been a sowing of blood, and now was come the harvest. The fortwas gone. In the light of its burning, half the fur-thieves had been cut down. The other half had passed under the torture. Only Subienkow remained, orSubienkow and Big Ivan, if that whimpering, moaning thing in the snow couldbe called Big Ivan. Subienkow caught Yakaga grinning at him. There was nogainsaying Yakaga. The mark of the lash was still on his face. After all,Subienkow could not blame him, but he disliked the thought of what Yakagawould do to him. He thought of appealing to Makamuk, the head-chief; but hisjudgment told him that such appeal was useless. Then, too, he thought ofbursting his bonds and dying fighting. Such an end would be quick. But hecould not break his bonds. Caribou thongs were stronger than he. Stilldevising, another thought came to him. He signed for Makamuk, and that aninterpreter who knew the coast dialect should be brought.“Oh, Makamuk,” he said, “I am not minded to die. I am a great man, and it werefoolishness for me to die. In truth, I shall not die. I am not like these othercarrion.”He looked at the moaning thing that had once been Big Ivan, and stirred itcontemptuously with his toe.“I am too wise to die. Behold, I have a great medicine. I alone know thismedicine. Since I am not going to die, I shall exchange this medicine with you.”“What is this medicine?” Makamuk demanded.“It is a strange medicine.”Subienkow debated with himself for a moment, as if loth to part with the secret.“I will tell you. A little bit of this medicine rubbed on the skin makes the skinhard like a rock, hard like iron, so that no cutting weapon can cut it. Thestrongest blow of a cutting weapon is a vain thing against it. A bone knifebecomes like a piece of mud; and it will turn the edge of the iron knives wehave brought among you. What will you give me for the secret of themedicine?”“I will give you your life,” Makamuk made answer through the interpreter.Subienkow laughed scornfully.“And you shall be a slave in my house until you die.”The Pole laughed more scornfully.“Untie my hands and feet and let us talk,” he said.The chief made the sign; and when he was loosed Subienkow rolled acigarette and lighted it.“This is foolish talk,” said Makamuk. “There is no such medicine. It cannot be. A cutting edge is stronger than any medicine.”The chief was incredulous, and yet he wavered. He had seen too manydeviltries of fur-thieves that worked. He could not wholly doubt.“I will give you your life; but you shall not be a slave,” he announced.“More than that.”Subienkow played his game as coolly as if he were bartering for a foxskin.

“It is a very great medicine. It has saved my life many times. I want a sled anddogs, and six of your hunters to travel with me down the river and give mesafety to one day’s sleep from Michaelovski Redoubt.”“You must live here, and teach us all of your deviltries,” was the reply.Subienkow shrugged his shoulders and remained silent. He blew cigarettesmoke out on the icy air, and curiously regarded what remained of the bigCossack.“That scar!” Makamuk said suddenly, pointing to the Pole’s neck, where a lividmark advertised the slash of a knife in a Kamtchatkan brawl. “The medicine isnot good. The cutting edge was stronger than the medicine.”“It was a strong man that drove the stroke.” (Subienkow considered.) “Strongerthan you, stronger than your strongest hunter, stronger than he.”Again, with the toe of his moccasin, he touched the Cossack—a grislyspectacle, no longer conscious—yet in whose dismembered body the pain-racked life clung and was loth to go.“Also, the medicine was weak. For at that place there were no berries of acertain kind, of which I see you have plenty in this country. The medicine herewill be strong.”“I will let you go down river,” said Makamuk; “and the sled and the dogs and thesix hunters to give you safety shall be yours.”“You are slow,” was the cool rejoinder. “You have committed an offenceagainst my medicine in that you did not at once accept my terms. Behold, I nowdemand more. I want one hundred beaver skins.” (Makamuk sneered.)“I want one hundred pounds of dried fish.” (Makamuk nodded, for fish wereplentiful and cheap.) “I want two sleds—one for me and one for my furs andfish. And my rifle must be returned to me. If you do not like the price, in a littlewhile the price will grow.”Yakaga whispered to the chief.“But how can I know your medicine is true medicine?” Makamuk asked.“It is very easy. First, I shall go into the woods—”Again Yakaga whispered to Makamuk, who made a suspicious dissent.“You can send twenty hunters with me,” Subienkow went on. “You see, I mustget the berries and the roots with which to make the medicine. Then, when youhave brought the two sleds and loaded on them the fish and the beaver skinsand the rifle, and when you have told off the six hunters who will go with me—then, when all is ready, I will rub the medicine on my neck, so, and lay my neckthere on that log. Then can your strongest hunter take the axe and strike threetimes on my neck. You yourself can strike the three times.”Makamuk stood with gaping mouth, drinking in this latest and most wonderfulmagic of the fur-thieves.“But first,” the Pole added hastily, “between each blow I must put on freshmedicine. The axe is heavy and sharp, and I want no mistakes.”“All that you have asked shall be yours,” Makamuk cried in a rush ofacceptance. “Proceed to make your medicine.”

Subienkow concealed his elation. He was playing a desperate game, andthere must be no slips. He spoke arrogantly.“You have been slow. My medicine is offended. To make the offence clean”you must give me your daughter.He pointed to the girl, an unwholesome creature, with a cast in one eye and abristling wolf-tooth. Makamuk was angry, but the Pole remained imperturbable,rolling and lighting another cigarette.“Make haste,” he threatened. “If you are not quick, I shall demand yet more.”In the silence that followed, the dreary northland scene faded before him, andhe saw once more his native land, and France, and, once, as he glanced at thewolf-toothed girl, he remembered another girl, a singer and a dancer, whom hehad known when first as a youth he came to Paris.“What do you want with the girl?” Makamuk asked.“To go down the river with me.” Subienkow glanced over her critically. “Shewill make a good wife, and it is an honour worthy of my medicine to be marriedto your blood.”Again he remembered the singer and dancer and hummed aloud a song shehad taught him. He lived the old life over, but in a detached, impersonal sort ofway, looking at the memory-pictures of his own life as if they were pictures in abook of anybody’s life. The chief’s voice, abruptly breaking the silence, startledhim“It shall be done,” said Makamuk. “The girl shall go down the river with you. But be it understood that I myself strike the three blows with the axe on yourneck”.“But each time I shall put on the medicine,” Subienkow answered, with a showof ill-concealed anxiety.“You shall put the medicine on between each blow. Here are the hunters whoshall see you do not escape. Go into the forest and gather your medicine.”Makamuk had been convinced of the worth of the medicine by the Pole’srapacity. Surely nothing less than the greatest of medicines could enable aman in the shadow of death to stand up and drive an old-woman’s bargain.“Besides,” whispered Yakaga, when the Pole, with his guard, had disappearedamong the spruce trees, “when you have learned the medicine you can easilydestroy him.”“But how can I destroy him?” Makamuk argued. “His medicine will not let medestroy him.”“There will be some part where he has not rubbed the medicine,” was Yakaga’sreply. “We will destroy him through that part. It may be his ears. Very well; wewill thrust a spear in one ear and out the other. Or it may be his eyes. Surelythe medicine will be much too strong to rub on his eyes.”The chief nodded. “You are wise, Yakaga. If he possesses no other devil-things, we will then destroy him.”Subienkow did not waste time in gathering the ingredients for his medicine, heselected whatsoever came to hand such as spruce needles, the inner bark ofthe willow, a strip of birch bark, and a quantity of moss-berries, which he madethe hunters dig up for him from beneath the snow. A few frozen roots

completed his supply, and he led the way back to camp.Makamuk and Yakaga crouched beside him, noting the quantities and kinds ofthe ingredients he dropped into the pot of boiling water.“You must be careful that the moss-berries go in first,” he explained.“And—oh, yes, one other thing—the finger of a man. Here, Yakaga, let me cutoff your finger.”But Yakaga put his hands behind him and scowled.“Just a small finger,” Subienkow pleaded.“Yakaga, give him your finger,” Makamuk commanded.“There be plenty of fingers lying around,” Yakaga grunted, indicating the humanwreckage in the snow of the score of persons who had been tortured to death.“It must be the finger of a live man,” the Pole objected.“Then shall you have the finger of a live man.” Yakaga strode over to theCossack and sliced off a finger.“He is not yet dead,” he announced, flinging the bloody trophy in the snow atthe Pole’s feet. “Also, it is a good finger, because it is large.”Subienkow dropped it into the fire under the pot and began to sing. It was aFrench love-song that with great solemnity he sang into the brew.“Without these words I utter into it, the medicine is worthless,” he explained. “The words are the chiefest strength of it. Behold, it is ready.”“Name the words slowly, that I may know them,” Makamuk commanded.“Not until after the test. When the axe flies back three times from my neck, thenwill I give you the secret of the words.”“But if the medicine is not good medicine?” Makamuk queried anxiously.Subienkow turned upon him wrathfully.“My medicine is always good. However, if it is not good, then do by me as youhave done to the others. Cut me up a bit at a time, even as you have cut himup.” He pointed to the Cossack. “The medicine is now cool. Thus, I rub it onmy neck, saying this further medicine.”With great gravity he slowly intoned a line of the “Marseillaise,” at the sametime rubbing the villainous brew thoroughly into his neck.An outcry interrupted his play-acting. The giant Cossack, with a lastresurgence of his tremendous vitality, had arisen to his knees. Laughter andcries of surprise and applause arose from the Nulatos, as Big Ivan beganflinging himself about in the snow with mighty spasms.Subienkow was made sick by the sight, but he mastered his qualms and madebelieve to be angry.“This will not do,” he said. “Finish him, and then we will make the test. Here,you, Yakaga, see that his noise ceases.”While this was being done, Subienkow turned to Makamuk.“And remember, you are to strike hard. This is not baby-work. Here, take the

axe and strike the log,so that I can see you strike like a man” .Makamuk obeyed, striking twice, precisely and with vigour, cutting out a largechip.“It is well.” Subienkow looked about him at the circle of savage faces thatsomehow seemed to symbolize the wall of savagery that had hemmed himabout ever since the Czar’s police had first arrested him in Warsaw. “Take youraxe, Makamuk, and stand so. I shall lie down. When I raise my hand, strike,and strike with all your might. And be careful that no one stands behind you. The medicine is good, and the axe may bounce from off my neck and right outof your hands.”He looked at the two sleds, with the dogs in harness, loaded with furs and fish. His rifle lay on top of the beaver skins. The six hunters who were to act as hisguard stood by the sleds.“Where is the girl?” the Pole demanded. “Bring her up to the sleds before thetest goes on.”When this had been carried out, Subienkow lay down in the snow, resting hishead on the log like a tired child about to sleep. He had lived so many drearyyears that he was indeed tired.”“I laugh at you and your strength, O Makamuk, he said. “Strike, and strikehard.”He lifted his hand. Makamuk swung the axe, a broadaxe for the squaring oflogs. The bright steel flashed through the frosty air, poised for a perceptibleinstant above Makamuk’s head, then descended upon Subienkow’s bare neck. Clear through flesh and bone it cut its way, biting deeply into the log beneath. The amazed savages saw the head bounce a yard away from the blood-spouting trunk.There was a great bewilderment and silence, while slowly it began to dawn intheir minds that there had been no medicine. The fur-thief had outwitted them. Alone, of all their prisoners, he had escaped the torture. That had been thestake for which he played. A great roar of laughter went up. Makamuk bowedhis head in shame. The fur-thief had fooled him. He had lost face before all hispeople. Still they continued to roar out their laughter. Makamuk turned, andwith bowed head stalked away. He knew that thenceforth he would be nolonger known as Makamuk. He would be Lost Face; the record of his shamewould be with him until he died; and whenever the tribes gathered in the springfor the salmon, or in the summer for the trading, the story would pass back andforth across the camp-fires of how the fur-thief died peaceably, at a singlestroke, by the hand of Lost Face.“Who was Lost Face?” he could hear, in anticipation, some insolent young buckdemand, “Oh, Lost Face,” would be the answer, “he who once was Makamuk inthe days before he cut off the fur-thief’s head.”TRUSTAll lines had been cast off, and the Seattle No. 4 was pulling slowly out from theshore. Her decks were piled high with freight and baggage, and swarmed with

a heterogeneous company of Indians, dogs, and dog-mushers, prospectors,traders, and homeward-bound gold-seekers. A goodly portion of Dawson waslined up on the bank, saying good-bye. As the gang-plank came in and thesteamer nosed into the stream, the clamour of farewell became deafening. Also, in that eleventh moment, everybody began to remember final farewellmessages and to shout them back and forth across the widening stretch ofwater. Louis Bondell, curling his yellow moustache with one hand andlanguidly waving the other hand to his friends on shore, suddenly rememberedsomething and sprang to the rail.“Oh, Fred!” he bawled. “Oh, Fred!”The“Fred” de sired thrust a strapping pair of shoulders through the forefront ofthe crowd on the bank and tried to catch Louis Bondell’s message. The lattergrew red in the face with vain vociferation. Still the water widened betweensteamboat and shore.“Hey, you, Captain Scott!” he yelled at the pilot-house. “Stop the boat!”The gongs clanged, and the big stern wheel reversed, then stopped. All handson steamboat and on bank took advantage of this respite to exchange final,new, and imperative farewells. More futile than ever was Louis Bondell’s effortto make himself heard. The Seattle No. 4 lost way and drifted down-stream,and Captain Scott had to go ahead and reverse a second time. His headdisappeared inside the pilot-house, coming into view a moment later behind abig megaphone.Now Captain Scott had a remarkable voice, and the “Shut up!” he launched atthe crowd on deck and on shore could have been heard at the top ofMoosehide Mountain and as far as Klondike City. This official remonstrancefrom the pilot-house spread a film of silence over the tumult.“Now, what do you want to say?” Captain Scott demanded.“Tell Fred Churchill—he’s on the bank there—tell him to go to Macdonald. It’sin his safe—a small gripsack of mine. Tell him to get it and bring it out when hecomes.”In the silence Captain Scott bellowed the message ashore through themegaphone:—“You, Fred Churchill, go to Macdonald—in his safe—small gripsack—belongsto Louis Bondell—important! Bring it out when you come! Got it!”Churchill waved his hand in token that he had got it. In truth, had Macdonald,half a mile away, opened his window, he’d have got it, too. The tumult offarewell rose again, the gongs clanged, and the Seattle No. 4 went ahead,swung out into the stream, turned on her heel, and headed down the Yukon,Bondell and Churchill waving farewell and mutual affection to the last.That was in midsummer. In the fall of the year, the W. H. Willis started up theYukon with two hundred homeward-bound pilgrims on board. Among themwas Churchill. In his state-room, in the middle of a clothes-bag, was LouisBondell’s grip. It was a small, stout leather affair, and its weight of forty poundsalways made Churchill nervous when he wandered too far from it. The man inthe adjoining state-room had a treasure of gold-dust hidden similarly in aclothes-bag, and the pair of them ultimately arranged to stand watch andwatch. While one went down to eat, the other kept an eye on the two state-room doors. When Churchill wanted to take a hand at whist, the other manmounted guard, and when the other man wanted to relax his soul, Churchill

read four-months’ old newspapers on a camp stool between the two doors.There were signs of an early winter, and the question that was discussed fromdawn till dark, and far into the dark, was whether they would get out before thefreeze-up or be compelled to abandon the steamboat and tramp out over theice. There were irritating delays. Twice the engines broke down and had to betinkered up, and each time there were snow flurries to warn them of theimminence of winter. Nine times the W. H. Willis essayed to ascend the Five-Finger Rapids with her impaired machinery, and when she succeeded, shewas four days behind her very liberal schedule. The question that then arosewas whether or not the steamboat Flora would wait for her above the BoxCañon. The stretch of water between the head of the Box Cañon and the footof the White Horse Rapids was unnavigable for steamboats, and passengerswere transhipped at that point, walking around the rapids from one steamboatto the other. There were no telephones in the country, hence no way ofinforming the waiting Flora that the Willis was four days late, but coming.When the W. H. Willis pulled into White Horse, it was learned that the Flora hadwaited three days over the limit, and had departed only a few hours before. Also, it was learned that she would tie up at Tagish Post till nine o’clock,Sunday morning. It was then four o’clock, Saturday afternoon. The pilgrimscalled a meeting. On board was a large Peterborough canoe, consigned to thepolice post at the head of Lake Bennett. They agreed to be responsible for itand to deliver it. Next, they called for volunteers. Two men were needed tomake a race for the Flora. A score of men volunteered on the instant. Amongthem was Churchill, such being his nature that he volunteered before hethought of Bondell’s gripsack. When this thought came to him, he began tohope that he would not be selected; but a man who had made a name ascaptain of a college football eleven, as a president of an athletic club, as a dog-musher and a stampeder in the Yukon, and, moreover, who possessed suchshoulders as he, had no right to avoid the honour. It was thrust upon him andupon a gigantic German, Nick Antonsen.While a crowd of the pilgrims, the canoe on their shoulders, started on a trotover the portage, Churchill ran to his state-room. He turned the contents of theclothes-bag on the floor and caught up the grip, with the intention of entrusting itto the man next door. Then the thought smote him that it was not his grip, andthat he had no right to let it out of his possession. So he dashed ashore with itand ran up the portage changing it often from one hand to the other, andwondering if it really did not weigh more than forty pounds.It was half-past four in the afternoon when the two men started. The current ofthe Thirty Mile River was so strong that rarely could they use the paddles. Itwas out on one bank with a tow-line over the shoulders, stumbling over therocks, forcing a way through the underbrush, slipping at times and falling intothe water, wading often up to the knees and waist; and then, when aninsurmountable bluff was encountered, it was into the canoe, out paddles, anda wild and losing dash across the current to the other bank, in paddles, over theside, and out tow-line again. It was exhausting work. Antonsen toiled like thegiant he was, uncomplaining, persistent, but driven to his utmost by thepowerful 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, freezingtheir hands and making it imperative, from time to time, to beat the blood backinto the numbed fingers.As night came on, they were compelled to trust to luck. They fell repeatedly onthe untravelled banks and tore their clothing to sheds in the underbrush theycould not see. Both men were badly scratched and bleeding. A dozen times,