Journey

by James A. Michener

  When Luton looked down at the map he scowled: ‘We shouldn’t care to use the Yukon steamers. We’ve decided to do it on our own. The challenge and all.’ Then he pointed to the mark that represented Fort Yukon: ‘And under no circumstances would I consider entering the gold field through American territory.’

  The Hudson’s Bay man contemplated this rejection, checked his temper, and said quietly: ‘Sir, you interpose conditions that make no sense in this part of the north. I would accept a push from a crippled old woman if it would enable me to complete a difficult journey.’ He bowed stiffly and disappeared into the starry night.

  As Luton started back toward his hotel he was diverted by a light in the distance. He moved toward it, hearing a rumble of low voices as if many men were conversing, neither in anger nor in jubilation. When he drew closer he saw a large group of Indians, men and women together, engaged in a midsummer ritual dance, their heads tilted back as if imploring the moon to appear, their feet occupied in a formless shuffle, their arms limp at their sides as if semidetached from their bodies. It was neither an exultant dance, nor one of leaping and shouting, but the number of participants, their steady shuffling movement and their low whispering song was almost narcotic, both to themselves and to those watching.

  For many minutes Luton remained in the shadows, unperceived by the dancers but participating in their quiet dance through the swaying of his own body. Even as he followed the rhythm he thought: Savages! I’ve seen them in Africa. And along the Amazon. Same the world over. Halting his swaying, he brought his right thumbnail to his teeth and gnawed at it as he contemplated the hypnotic scene: How many generations before these savages evolve a decent civilization?

  His reflections were broken by a man who sidled up from the rear, speaking in broken French: ‘Blackfeet. Most powerful Indians on frontier. Don’t let dancing fool you. Start a fight, two hundred knives at your throat.’

  As a cultured Englishman, Luton, of course, spoke French with only a slight accent, and although he resented the Frenchmen of Montreal, he welcomed this man in the wilderness, where, he thought, it was proper for him to be: ‘Why are they in Edmonton? The Indians, I mean?’

  ‘They’ve been coming here for centuries, they claim. You built Fort Edmonton on their dancing ground, they claim.’

  ‘Are you a Blackfoot?’

  ‘Métis. Long time ago, maybe grandfather Blackfoot, father Scotch, they claim.’

  ‘Your name?’

  ‘Simon MacGregor.’

  ‘Scotsman.’ The two watchers fell silent as they watched the monotonous drag-foot dancing of the Blackfoot braves, then Luton asked: ‘Does anything happen in the dance? Should I wait, perhaps?’

  ‘Just same thing, maybe five hours,’ the Métis said in English.

  When Luton whistled at this surprising information, two Indian men heard him, stepped out of the shadows, and almost diffidently asked in broken French: ‘You like dance? You want to join?’ and when he failed to state strongly that he had no desire for such meaningless posturing, they interpreted this as agreement. Politely, almost gravely, they took positions beside him, edging him not toward the shuffling dancers but to a flat area close to where he had been standing, and there they led him in steps which imitated those of the group.

  Since the men were dressed in full Blackfoot regalia—decorated deerskin jackets, tight trousers with brightly colored leather tied below the knee, streaks of red and blue down their cheeks—and since Luton’s magisterial bearing showed to advantage between the two braves, they formed a handsome trio. The light from a central fire cast deep romantic shadows across their aquiline faces, prompting the Métis to break into soft applause: ‘Très bien! Les danseurs magnifiques!’

  Luton, astonished at what he had let himself into, attempted a few additional movements, but when the men actually laid hands on him, trying to guide him into other proper steps, he pushed them away and fled the scene. Startled, the Indians stared at his departing figure, interpreted his rejection as one more evidence of white man’s ill will, shrugged, and moved off. Luton, once more alone, again could think only of other savage dancers he had seen, and his unease regarding the Indians of Canada increased. If he did not relish his imaginary view of the United States, he felt a similar dislike for Canada’s Indian lands, and with confused reactions to what he had witnessed under the stars he returned to his hotel.

  Although it was late when he reached his quarters, he routed out his three companions and dispatched Philip to fetch Fogarty. When all were present he directed Harry to unfold his big map, and proceeded in low, masterful accents to line out a chain of decisions, and as an augury of the good luck he trusted would attend them, the short, crisp directives he issued were exactly right: ‘Under no circumstances will we attempt the overland route and I wish never again to hear a word about it. That leaves us with two alternatives, and I will ask Harry to present them, for on this you have the right to influence the decision. I can survive with either choice.’

  Clearing his throat in the deferential manner he affected, Carpenter said: ‘Men, you’ve heard what Evelyn says. The choice is up to us. We can remain here in this bleak outpost village that strives to become a town for seven long months waiting for the Mackenzie to thaw—no libraries, no theater, no music, no decent food—or we leave for the Mackenzie tomorrow, get us a boat, sail her down as far as we can get before it freezes over, and when it is about to freeze, head her into some protected cove and see if we are men enough to brave an arctic winter north of the Circle, hibernating like bears. Let me hear which you prefer? Edmonton for seven months?’ The groans, except from Fogarty, were so loud they were almost palpable. ‘Sail north to the Arctic Circle and test our courage?’ Cheers, to which Lord Luton added: ‘How I would have deplored it if you had voted otherwise.’

  Then, asking Harry to move aside, he resumed command of his expedition: ‘Gentlemen, you have chosen a difficult way, but the only way. It can succeed only if we discipline ourselves rigorously. When we are iced up, we scout the land for what timber we can find, driftwood perhaps, and build a kind of hybrid tent-cabin. Total usable space, about like that corner over there. We shall all have tasks. And if we do not have respect one for the other, we shall fail.’

  After the four listeners had applauded quietly, he gave final orders: ‘Up at six tomorrow to make your last purchases to sustain us for a year, in case trouble strikes, and each man to provide two good books.’

  As the men began to bask in the euphoria of a well-made decision, Carpenter, long trained in subduing alien terrain, felt obliged to bring the team back to reality. Relying upon the map to fortify his points, he reminded everyone of the terrible contradiction of the Mackenzie River: ‘This river, which will hold us prisoner, runs parallel far to the east of the Yukon River, which we want to be on. If we stay on the Mackenzie long enough, we end up in the Arctic Ocean and no good done. We’d be nowhere. So our problem is: At what point heading north do we escape the tyranny of the Mackenzie and head west, to seek the benevolence of the Yukon?’

  ‘I’ve asked about that, Harry,’ Luton said evenly, ‘and the map is clear. On our way we will pass a score of rivers coming in from the gold-field territory. All we have to do is go up one of them till we encounter a river heading down the other way, and it will carry us right to the Yukon and the gold fields.’

  Harry was not finished, for after dipping his finger in a glass of red wine—‘It’s not fit to drink,’ he apologized—he drew a bold line from farthest north in Canada, right on the Beaufort Sea, down into the first shadow of the United States. When he was done he stepped back so that all could see: ‘The Rocky Mountains. High here, low there, very high here, but always present, never to be avoided, not by men or rivers or eagles.’ Looking intently at each of the other men, he said almost ominously: ‘No matter where we go, or how, if we want to reach those gold fields, at some point we must climb with all our gear and maybe even our boats, and cross the Rocky Mountains. There is no av
oidance, unless we want to turn back and go in the way the others go, through Alaska.’

  Lord Luton, standing very erect, his arms folded behind his back, assumed a posture of command and said softly: ‘We shall sail north on the Mackenzie, find the likeliest river heading west, and the lowest stand of the mountains, and cross over to our target.’ That said, he folded the map and advised his men: ‘Thanks to your common sense, yours too, Fogarty, we have avoided the deadly errors of the land route. May God direct our proper choices on the river.’

  In the morning the five men fanned out through the shops of Edmonton, picking up last-minute requirements, including a shovel, two axes and extra ascorbic acid. Two of their purchases would prove significant. Harry Carpenter, having been on safari and trek, sought a store that sold books, where he purchased three volumes, whose covers he promptly tore off, to the dismay of the clerk: Great Expectations, the poems of John Milton and a Bible.

  Philip Henslow went to the store with the bear in the window, and there the imaginative Peter Randolph was clerking. The author of the pamphlet for stampedes convinced him he must acquire a special pair of boots for the north.

  They were rubber, heavy enough to keep out the cold, Randolph said, and tall enough to reach well above the knee. They were highly polished and created a pleasing seventeenth-century impression when worn with trousers tucked in, but when Carpenter saw them he grew angry: ‘Who sold you such boots?’ Philip would not reply, and Harry became stern: ‘Son, rubber boots like that are for farmers who work in muck. What you need are stout, heavy leather boots like mine, with high lacing.’

  ‘I like mine,’ Philip said, whereupon Harry took another tack: ‘They do look stout. But one doesn’t wear rubber boots on a journey like this.’

  ‘They’re waterproof. The man said so. And we’ll be in water a lot, the way we plan to go.’

  Carpenter referred the problem to Luton, who chided his nephew: ‘If you want to drag around boots that heavy, so be it. But never say we failed to warn you.’

  * * *

  In the middle of August 1897, when from all over the world adventurers were heading toward the Klondike, Lord Luton, his three friends and the Irishman Fogarty rode north in two rented Red River carts to intercept the Athabasca River, some ninety miles away. Down this river they would sail in the boat they would order built when they reached the waterway, and because of careful planning by Luton and Carpenter, they would have a fighting chance of reaching the gold fields next June, if they selected wisely among the various rivers leading in from the west.

  At about the time they set forth, three men from Australia departed by the overland route, as did a dentist from Salt Lake City and three of his companions. A Frenchman, a Norwegian, two Germans and some fifty men and women from various parts of the United States, as well as many Canadians and two other parties of Englishmen, departed shortly thereafter. None of these adventurers using the land route came anywhere near the Klondike.

  One man who left Edmonton in that euphoric summer did so on a farm wagon with huge wheels, pulled by two pairs of goats that he proposed to feed on the browse they would encounter on the way. His effort would end the second week when there was no browse. Another man intended to be hauled along by dogs, and another left Edmonton with only a knapsack and a supply of specially prepared nuts and fruits which he claimed would sustain him till he reached the gold fields in early September. Seventy like them who either had left or were about to leave would perish en route, sad proof that this was a time of general insanity.

  Lord Luton had estimated that if his party could cover the relatively easy ninety miles to the Athabasca River, they would find themselves well launched on the great Mackenzie River system. So, anxious to waste not even one day of summer, and never parsimonious, Luton was willing to hire draymen to haul them to Athabasca Landing, but only if it could be done speedily, for he was determined to be among the first to sail north. ‘We really must,’ he told the draymen, ‘put ourselves well down the Mackenzie before it freezes.’

  ‘It’s ninety-four miles overland, Guv’nor, and at twenty miles a day … you can figure for yourself … more than four days.’

  ‘Make it three and a half, there’s an extra quid for each of you.’

  ‘In dollars?’

  ‘Five Canadian,’ and it was a deal.

  In this way they found themselves among the hordes speeding out of Edmonton, and it seemed strange to be so attentive to the freezing of rivers, for this was still summer and they traveled these first miles in their lightest hunting dress. As they passed through lonely settlements the inhabitants, accustomed only to hunting parties, called: ‘Are you after moose or gold?’ and Philip always cried back: ‘Gold!’

  On the layover during the third night, Harry Carpenter unfolded the modern map of the Mackenzie he had purchased in Edmonton, and with the ruler he had contributed to the expedition made careful calculations of what lay ahead for them once they entered upon the Mackenzie system at Athabasca. Since he insisted that all members of the team understand the task they were about to attack, he recited mileages carefully: ‘If we can buy a boat of some kind tomorrow, August eighteenth, start sailing immediately and keep our minds to it, we’ll have sixty-four days till the start of normal freeze-up of the Mackenzie. From here to Fort Norman, a probable target, is only eight hundred and sixteen miles as the crow flies, but …’

  Philip completed the sentence: ‘We ain’t crows.’

  Harry nodded in his direction and said: ‘The winding way we’ll have to go looks to be just over twelve hundred miles,’ and Philip whistled.

  ‘But wait. If you divide twelve hundred miles by sixty-four days, you get an average distance to be covered of under nineteen miles, and that’s possible.’

  Now Luton took over: ‘We have three enormous advantages in our favor. We’re going downstream all the way on a steady and sometimes swift current which would carry us quite a distance each day, even if we did nothing to help. And most of the way we’ll sail with a wind behind us. Most important of all, once we get into our boat, and under sail, we could move north twenty-four hours a day, every day till the freeze.’

  ‘On those terms we could get to China,’ Philip said, and his uncle continued: ‘Another advantage in our favor is that we don’t have to reach Fort Norman, or any other arbitrary point, for with the careful planning Harry started in London and completed in Edmonton, we can halt wherever we please, erect our cabin, and face the winter with impunity.’

  ‘Then why hurry so?’ Philip asked, and his uncle had the answer that motivated all the gold-seekers leaving Edmonton in those late days of summer: ‘Because we want to be far down the river next spring, when the ice melts and we’re free to travel again. Gentlemen, the excitement of this trip starts tomorrow, but also the hard work. This will be your last night in a comfortable bed properly made in a very long time. Make the most of it.’

  At Athabasca Landing—a collection of several permanent frame houses and an equal number of storage barns belonging to the trade companies—they came upon scores of white tents, indicating that other prospectors had come here for purposes similar to theirs. Luton, offended by the disarray, turned to Carpenter and Fogarty: ‘We know nothing about boats suitable for the Mackenzie. Circulate among these people and determine which would be better, to have a new boat built for us or to buy one already built.’ The two had made only a few inquiries when they found that everyone they asked was directing them to a shack occupied by four hard-working German brothers, the Schnabels, who were whipping out most of the boats going down the Mackenzie that summer.

  ‘We can build you a sturdy boat for two …’

  ‘We’re five, bound for Dawson,’ Carpenter said.

  ‘Just as easy for us.’

  ‘Have you any already built?’

  ‘Them two,’ and Luton’s men saw tied to trees along the shore two radically different craft, one a fine big boat about thirty-seven feet long, ample in width and with a small
cabin-like shack aft big enough to sleep two. The other was a small, compact craft not half as large as the first.

  ‘Are they both for sale?’ Carpenter asked, and one of the Germans said: ‘In a manner of speaking.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ and the German explained: ‘The big one has been ordered by a group of men from Saskatoon who want to trade up and down the Mackenzie. The small one has been built to the specifications mailed us by a dentist from Detroit.’

  ‘Then they’re both sold.’

  ‘Not really. We’re ahead of schedule, so if you want them, you get them. We can replace them before the owners get here.’

  ‘We’ll take the big one,’ and all the Schnabels who heard this decision broke into laughter, and one of them said: ‘Just a minute. Two different boats, two different purposes. Like I explained, the big one is for navigating the Mackenzie …’

  ‘That’s what we’ll be doing.’

  Schnabel ignored him. ‘Only the small one is for going down the Mackenzie and then getting across the Rockies to the gold fields.’

  ‘What’s the difference?’ Carpenter asked, and when Schnabel replied with only one word: ‘Portage,’ Harry slapped his leg and uttered a self-deriding laugh: ‘How stupid of me. Of course it would be impossible to lug that huge thing anywhere.’

  Now he and Fogarty turned their whole attention to the smaller boat, and Harry asked the Germans: ‘Give us honest advice. Would we be better off if we waited till you built us one exactly suited to our purposes? Five of us?’

  ‘It would be better by this much,’ and when one of the builders indicated with a thumb and forefinger a difference so small it was hardly detectable, Harry said: ‘I’m sure we’ll want this one intended for the dentist, but I must consult with Lord Luton …’

  ‘A real lord?’

  ‘Yes, and a fine gentleman,’ and he sent Fogarty running to fetch Evelyn. When Luton arrived the four Germans clustered about him, and one said: ‘We don’t get many real lords up this way,’ and another said: ‘We don’t ever get any,’ then quickly they reviewed for him the crucial difference between buying a big heavy boat intended for permanent duty up and down the Mackenzie and a small, sturdy boat for getting to the gold fields. Before they were finished Luton broke in: ‘We’ll take the small one,’ but then he repeated the question Carpenter had asked: ‘Would we gain anything if we waited for you to build us exactly what we wanted?’ The oldest of the Germans stepped forward: ‘I know what’s in your mind, sir. You think we may be trying to sell this one because we have it already on our hands.’ He chuckled: ‘Look at that crowd. More coming in every day. We can get shed of everything we have by nightfall.’