Titanic and Other Ships By Charles Lightoller
Chapter 24 THE RETURN TRAIL
We'd no worry about catching up with the others. We knew only too well that the first river would bring their outfit up all standing. They were all downright good fellows, but never cut out for this sort of thing.
Sure enough, there they all were, sitting on the banks of the Athabaska, contemplating that uninviting flood. They looked a bit sheepish, but it was no use grousing, the only thing to do was to make the best of a bad job and get on, so we scouted up river until we found a canoe, which we brought down and started the ferrying. A hundred pounds at a time was the maximum load when shooting these rapids.
We had found a very suitable spot, where the canoe would lie snugly under the bank whilst we loaded her up, and a nice little bay lower down on the opposite side for an eddy. It was a bad spot as far as the river went, for it was in full flood, but it was in excellent shoving off place, and a good spot for landing. Furthermore, there was a level bank, without tree or scrub for towing the canoe up river on the far side ready for the shoot back.
Having got half the provisions over, and two or three of the chaps, I thought now was the moment to strike a bargain for provisions. Somehow, I did not feel quite the same towards these fellows, and I determined to get my whack out of them, so that Bill and I could pull out on our own. I told them, quite frankly when I got half of them parked on one side and half on the other side of the river, that they could have the canoe and welcome, but in view of the few provisions then had left us two, I did not feel obliged to waste any more time ferrying them back. (I still think I took rather a mean advantage.) Anyhow, it was soon happily settled--as far as I was concerned. We got our fair whack of grub, and they got safely over the worst river in the Nor'-West in one of its worst moods. To take a man over, he had to lie in the bottom of the canoe, underneath the little wooden spreaders. The whole canoe is as light as a feather, built of bark, and stitched with hide. Even with only one man lying in the bottom and the other on his knees paddling, she is pretty deeply loaded, and needs careful handling.
After the provisions and horses were all over, two fellows were left. To save a journey I told them both to get into the canoe, and we would make the final shoot. It was a ticklish job, and as I required every inch of room, I had unwisely put the paddle on the bank, until they settled themselves in the bottom. "Being in all respects ready for sea," or, as in this case, for the river, having her nicely, if somewhat deeply trimmed, I turned her bow off with a hand on each gunwhale at the stern, ready as the took the fast water, to vault in--and it is a bit of a job vaulting into one of these tiny craft, particularly as at the same moment you strike hite water. A shove, a jump, and I was in, at the same instant reaching down for the paddle, which, to my horror, was not there. I had left if on the bank. How it was managed, I really don't know, but I ws over the side in about half a split second, and gave the canoe a terrific tug that stopped her way, and actually, by some miracle brought her back out of the rapids and into the eddy. The chaps lying in the bottom did not realise what had happened, until I told them. They both looked a bit green, and I'll say it gave me some jar. In any case, I decided to take more time, and more care, so I left one on the beach, and made two journeys of it, this time with safety.
Next morning, the other party struck the trail, but something had happened to Bill's feet, and he was two days before he could get his boots on, and, as we had to eat something every day, our provisions again became perilously low. However, when we did catch the other party up, they had been sitting a corresponding number of days on the bank of the next river. Perhaps the saying "We're from the Black Hills, we ain't no tenderfeet" did get rubbed in a bit. That was in return for all the hot air Bill and I had to put up with when away from water, and I must admit I got a certain amount of fun out of pulling their legs, anyway.
For the last week before striking civilisation, provisions completely petered out, and we lived on the inner bark of jack pines and sourdocks. This inner bark is mainly resin, and as none of us had used a razor since we had started the trail, we all had pretty good healthy beards, which, when mixed up with this resin, turned them into useful doormats. Still, we were not bothering about our outward appearance, so much as out inward feelings, and great were the rejoicings when we met an outward bound outfit, on the same quest from which we were returning. We were able to trade a rifle, and ammunition, for some good old sow-belly, beans, and tea, and had our first square meal for a month.
Bill and I actually arrived back in Edmonton with our horses, a rifle, half a cup of rice, and three cents between us. At that time Edmonton was full of returned prospectors as a result of the great disaster which had befallen the overland trail. It ws a saying in those parts that you could find your way from Edmonton to the Klondyke, via the overland trail, by the bones of men and horses that had died by the way. Very little was heard of it outside the country, in fact, the north is notorious for its silence, both of nature and man. A more silent man than the Hudson Bay trapper and trader, and the old time prospector, it would be hard to find.
Many outfits set out from Edmonton on this terrible overland trail with little or no idea of what they were going to run up against.
One amazing ass started on a bicycle, with bottles of Bovril strapped on behind.
The trouble commenced in the earlier days, when they got away insufficiently "grub staked." Having gone so far and taken such an appalling time to cover the distance, which on paper, of curse, looked trifling--they found themselves with insufficient provisions to complete the journey. Many would push on and on, in the fain hopes of the trail improving and their being able to make better time; also, in the fond hope of finding game. Very nearly everybody was confident they could rely on the country to replenish their larder. At last, when the bitter truth was borne in on them, they were truly between the devil and the deep sea. With the Rocky Mountains, forming an impassable barrier on one side, and the prairie with its muskegs and lakes on the other, they, like us, just had to decided whether or no they would push on, or face about and go back. Naturally, an outfit would push as long as ever there was the slightest chance, and often, even longer. Then, in final desperation, they would at last be driven into turning back, both men and horses by this time terribly emaciated and weak, through hardships and short commons. They would then meet an outward-bound outfit, who, by the unwritten law of the North-West, could do no less than grub stake them; that is, give them sufficient to eat for a few days at least. This act automatically lessened the outward bound outfit's chances of getting through and so the bad work went on, outfit after outfit, pushing away north, having to reduce their own stock by helping those who were starving on their way back, only to land in the same predicament themselves. The cumulative effect almost beggars description.
It should be borne in mind that it was not a case of just a few men, but of thousands. The total number will never be known, but to my mind, it would be no exaggeration to say that at least ten thousand men lost their lives on the overland trail. Outfits, made up of experienced me, well provisioned, frequently with a sectional boar and every contrivance that years of experience in that country could suggest, came to grief; their whole expedition sapped and crippled, in efforts to save others.
I was invited to join up with an outfit of this description when first we arrived in Edmonton. Their supplies ran to a full ton, not including the sectional boat they had. These men were real old timers and I should have been one of their party, only for the fact that I was an utter greenhorn, and did not realise, until it was too late, that an invitation though given in seemingly quite a casual manner, was meant in all seriousness. By the time I did wake up, I had made arrangements with my own chum and the others to forge our own trail.
As it turned out I should not have been a scrap better off anyhow, for, despite their experience, none of them were ever heard of again.
Yes, Edmonton was full of men just broke to the world, who had what they stood up in, and absolutely nothing else. So when Bill and I got back with all our worldly wealth comprised in the half cup of rice and three cents, it was not long before I hit the trail for happier hunting grounds.
We decided in the circumstances, it was best for us each to play his own hand, so we parted, and within a week I found myself cow punching on the prairies.
There were three or four of us cowboys with some thousands of head of cattle to look after. Here again was a new experience. A happy life; a careless life. The stars for your blanket, the prairies for your bed, and your horse still your best friend. Cook what you have with you, when you can and how you can. Plenty to eat, plenty to drink, nothing much to do so long as long as you keep your eyes open, and the cattle well under control. But heaven help you when one of those brief, but terrific thunderstorms comes down and stampedes your bunch.
Some of these are fairly big horned beasts, and, in their maddened stride, will rip up a horse like a piece of tissue paper. There is only one thing to do and that is to get to the leaders of the rush, and head them off. You work away from the wind, and so you throw the head round, forming a huge circle, until, finally with luck, the head of the stampede catches up with the stern. At that moment it is very necessary to be on the outer rim, for as one end catches up with the other, so they form literally a gigantic whirlpool and the whole lot run up together in one solid mass. Not infrequently, a good bit of damage is done, but that cannot be helped. You will know all about the damage if you happen to be on the inside. Then there is only one way you will get out and that is by walking across the backs of the steers; but you can say "good-bye" to your horse. This went on for a few weeks, till, sitting by the camp fire one night, smoking and thinking things out, I realised that what I had set myself out to do, namely, to make just enough money to grub stake myself and to then head off attain into the mountains, was impossible, partly because I had determined this time to try the west side, where there is less water and more gold.
The ordinary life led by a cowboy doesn't tend to gather in the shekels, or perhaps it would be nearer the truth to say that it isn't conducive to keeping them. Every so often a bunch of steers has to be taken to the railway, or somewhere near thereto, and having disposed of them, the temptation to "blue" one's hard-earned wealth, in one great and glorious spree is usually too great to be withstood. Not necessarily a drinking spree, because, actually, there is little of that done in Canada.
For my part, I never spent five cents on drink until I had made the grub stake which would carry me out of the country.
But a cowboy who has been out on the prairie, seen no one, spoken to no one for weeks on end, must do all the crazy things that come into his mind when he gets into civilization. He is like a big boy let loose.
The night I was considering all these things by the fire, there came into my mind a promise I had made before I left England, that if things went against me I would come back. There was no question about my being up against it, and a promise is a promise. Furthermore, I could gather together more money, on my own job at sea, than I ever should cow punching, so, just as quickly as I made up my mind to get out, I decided to go back.
It was with a horrible sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach that I sold, and said god-bye to my old pal Rufus. It hurt like hell, and does even yet. Still, it had to be done, so I got it over as quickly as possible and started off back to England in dead earnest.
I had become a hobo.
The term applies to anyone who is trying to beat the country. He is not a tramp, as is generally known at home. He is best described as "a traveller without means of paying his way," an accepted fact in the country, and it is a war of wits between the hobos and the various means of transport, which in those days were mainly in the hands of the C.P.R. Jumping trains, riding the blind baggage, or making out on the rods were three of the recognized methods, and the brakies, your natural enemies; who would think nothing of swinging a five pound lynch pin on the end of a line, if they thought somebody was "riding the rods." If you were and unluckily got a crack on the hear, you simply fell off, and the train passed on. If you were lucky and could get into a van you traveled in luxury. Another good plan was to ride the blind baggage, the platform at the back of the last car, but from which you are more easily expelled. The third and last method is riding on the rods (suspension rods) under the car. That is where I usually parked, for although the least comfortable, I always found it the safest, and the place where one was sure to make the longest journey undiscovered.
I still had with me my inseparable companion the banjo, also a small sack in which I kept bacon and bread, my blankets, and another companion, a piece of cheese. I asked, when I bought this cheese, for the strongest the chap could find. It certainly was powerful. Perhaps that was why I was so successful in making such long stretches without being thrown off!
Anyway, I noticed that everyone gave it an astonishingly wide berth. However, I eventually parted company with both my cheese, and my blankets, my bread, and my bacon, through a mistaken sense of hospitality on the part of a man in charge of one of the water tanks.
These tanks are situated just so far apart, where the engine may draw up in the otherwise uninhabited country and get water. I had dropped off the fill my billy can, and the tanker, when he saw me arrive, gave the usual salutation, "Hullo, Bo. Where are you going?" My invariable reply was, "Liverpool."
As a rule a hobo is making his way from one town to another, and the vision of a man heading for Liverpool, England, seemed to strike everyone as particularly humorous. It tickled this chap to the extent that he would have me take, as he expressed it, "a drop of something with a kick." He was a decent fellow and meant well, but whilst we were busy with our salutations the train sloped off with my worldly possessions, and I was left the proud possessor of a banjo. He was so sorry that I believe he would have stopped the train at the next tank and had it held--had I urged him--until I had time to catch it up. In any case he made an excuse to flag the next train along, and whilst he was telling a little story to the brakie, I made myself as comfortable as I could on the blind baggage, which landed me as close to Winnipeg as I wanted to go.
I spent three weeks in that Prairie City; an exhibition was on at the time, which for me proved fruitful, and enabled me to collect sufficient currency to make the long to Montreal. I had not been many hours in Winnpeg when I heard of a man who had built a house and was trying to get it finished, by way of painting and so forth; but he was a notoriously bad payer and the men that were working for him had quit, as they could not get their money.
His name was Chamberlain, so I made my way over to where he lived and dug him out.
"Did he want a painter?"
"Yes, he wanted a painter. Was I a painter?"
"Yes, I was."
"Well," said he, "go right ahead and get it finished."
I did, though it was a pretty tall order. I found some paint brushes and so forth and sailed in. We neither of us discussed wages. As a matter of fact a painter's pay was three dollars a day, with which I credited myself.
After my experiences with jamb piles and muskegs, work with a paint brush, wither in one hand or the other, was child's play, and, in any case, I had served in the hardest school in which one can learn painting, and that is a British sailing ship.
Chamberlain seemed tickled to death with the hours I worked and the ginger I put into the job; in fact we became great friends, and he cordially invited me to work any number of hours I cared. I took him at his word. In the evening, I usually walked into the town and bought myself provisions to cook overnight, which served me for the next day. Good solid food, but no luxuries. One day old Chamberlain asked me where I lived. I told him "on the prairie."
"Hell, you don't mean to tell me you sleep out there every night, no wonder you get up early in the morning."
I told him that I had been sleeping out there for very nearly twelve months. However he eventually made me take a room in the house. I did for one night, and felt very nearly suffocated, and I gave up again in favour of the open air.
The time finally came when the job was finished, and up till then no mention of pay had passed between us; although some of the former hands, in the goodness of their hearts, had walked all the way out to where this house was situated on the prairie, to tender the information that I should certainly never get any money. Well, I might, or again I might nor, but my impression was that I should get what I worked for. We left it at that. Later on, Chamberlain informed me he was getting a mortgage through on the house, and until that was through he could not pay me.
He happened to tell me that his solicitors were Andrews and Pitblado, and it also just happened that while working on the exhibition grounds, I had made contact with Andrews, who was, at that time, Mayor of Winnipeg. It came about that he met me on the grounds where I was working and sent me over to bring a huge wooden form. The band of the Black Watch were playing out there at the time, and one can get an idea of the size of the form, when four forms accommodated the whole band. They were made of just rough hewn timber. I thought it a tall order, but as I was in the very pink of condition I actually managed to hoist it on my shoulder and proudly marched off with it across the grounds. By luck, I met Andrews, who asked me a bit fluently, what I thought I was doing. I told him I was carrying a form, and that, furthermore he had sent me for it.
"Put the damn thing down. Do you think I sent you alone. Where's the other man?"
Well, I had not seen him, but nothing would suit Andrews but to leave the form there for the others to collect whilst he took me away and put me on another job, which was all to do with ropes and tackles, and right into my hand. I may say that I had casually told him when walking across the grounds, in reply to his enquiry, that I was a sailor, had been out on the gold rush, and was then a hobo, bound back to Liverpool to pick up my job again, and we became quite good friends.
This was the chap who was getting the mortgage through for Chamberlain, and to whom, by good luck, I had to apply for my dollars, so, having got Chamberlain to sign my time sheet, I trotted off down town to interview Andrews. I had enough money coming to me then--if I could collect it--to see me through to Montreal, no longer as a hobo, but as a real, self-respecting passenger--what a change! When I asked for Mr. Andrews the clerk accommodated his tone of voice to my appearance, which, beyond being clean, was hardly millionairish, and the few words we had quickly brought Andrews out of his office to see what was going on.
I must say his office was reached by a steep flight of stairs, which led directly into the street, and down which I was proposing to toboggan the clerk.
"Hello, my lad," said Andrews, "what's all the row about?"
I told him.
He whistled when he saw the account, and told me the mortgage was not through. At the same time he knew exactly where I stood, and, to make a long story short (good fellow that he was) he paid me in full on the spot.
I then journeyed down to the Manor Bar, where kindred spirits used to foregather, and, to their surprise, stood them all a good round of drinks. One of the chaps who had quit Chamberlain's place before I took on, and who had been cocksure I should not get my pay, asked me "where I had got the wad." I told him.
Said he, "How did you manage to collect it?"
"Well, of course," said I--trying a good leg pull--"you don't want to go round to these lawyer's places eating humble pie; you want to go in and threaten to break up the furniture and take them to pieces. Throw things about a bit, and say, if they don't anti up, that you'll include them in a quick passage to the street. Just let them know you are some sort of a chap. See then, how quickly they will come across with your money."
He gazed at me the whole time I was talking, and then just walked out.
Half an hour of so later I had boarded the train at the Depot, and was sitting on the steps of the car yarning with a few of the fellows who had come to see me off, when another pal came on to the platform roaring with laughter, and said to me, "Say, what on earth did you tell Charlie?" When I told him the yarn, he said he had just come past Andrews and Pitblado's office in time to see Charlie thrown down the stairs into the street. We were still laughing over poor Charlie as the train drew out, and I started on the last lap for Liverpool.
Having made a good grub stake in Winnipeg, and being able to stick to one train for a change, it seemed a very short time before I was in Montreal, with its familiar ships and shipping. Here I was back on my own territory, and in touch with my old friend, the sea. My troubles, as far as the trail was concerned, were over. Crossing the ocean--or even going round the world--presented less of a problem than did a few hundred miles by land. Looking back over it all, I felt I had achieved my object to some extent. At any rate, I had been up through the North-West. I'd tried it out, I'd had a great time, and I'd got back--the next bit to Liverpool hardly counted. Admittedly I had gone broke; on the other hand I had got back, which was more than thousands and thousands of others had done. There were hundreds in Winnipeg alone--many of whom were there when I arrived on the way out, and were still there when I left on the way back--who, poor devils, had no idea how to make their way back home.
It was not long before I was on board ship, and in my own element again. I was not on board in the capacity of an officer. I took the first job that was going, and that was cattle-man--not very thrilling, with all the beasts tied up by their head stalls, and I could not help but compare them with similar animals out on the range. Here they were in their hundreds; there they had been in their thousands. Neither were the cattle-men quite the type one meets "punching" on the prairie; they were inclined to be a wee bit impulsive at the wrong time. For instance, when I came down a bit late for the first day's dinner, every scrap of food had been cleaned up, on the basis of "first come, first served." Perhaps I was more at home on this job than they had realised. However, believe me, it never happened again, and when a few of the niceties of shipboard life had been duly instilled, they proved quite good fellows--if a bit crude.
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