Down the Yukon (12 page)

Atop a long spit, the village momentarily passed from view as we paddled under the headlands. We could plainly hear the surf ahead.

Where the river shallowed and spilled through the beach, we stepped out of the canoe and stood up gingerly, easing our aching backs.

We were looking at the Bering Sea, gray as the clouds overhead.

A Yukon sternwheeler, the
Bonanza King,
was anchored offshore. Skin boats with half a dozen paddlers were lightering supplies from the vessel to the beach. Hundreds of men, women, and children were spilling down from the village atop the spit angling into the sea.

We withdrew our canoe from the water and carried it up the beach where the tide couldn't reach it. Except by the round-faced children who stared, we were generally
ignored. We went to see what we could learn.

Numbers of Eskimos loosely surrounded three white men on the beach. From the fringes of the crowd we ascertained that the one who'd come ashore with the supplies was a representative of the Alaska Commercial Company. The brisk weather, or else his impatience, had flushed his face a bright red. His counterpart from the trading post in Unalakleet was alternately adding figures and tugging on his walrus mustache. The third, in a black robe, was an old priest with a beard as white as the caribou moss on the tundra. The priest stood to the side, silent.

The visiting trader was in a hurry to return to the sternwheeler. “There are four hundred and fifty-three stampeders on the
Bonanza King
desperate to stake claims at Cape Nome,” I heard him say. “If I delay them, they'll lynch me.”

We nudged our way closer. If he was about to leave, I knew I'd better speak up. At his elbows, I asked, “What news of the Great Race?”

The three noticed us for the first time and stared dumbfounded. “Who are you and where in the world did you come from?” asked the red-faced trader from the sternwheeler.

“Jason Hawthorn and Jamie Dunavant,” I answered. “We've just come down the Unalakleet River. We're registered in the race.”

There was a sudden commotion in the crowd, which parted as two men, bug-bitten and sunburned, came pushing their way through—Donner and Brackett. “Who are you?” Donner demanded of the traders as he panted for breath. Donner had noticed us, of course, but was acting as if we weren't there.

With raised eyebrow, the trader from the ship replied
stiffly, “My name is Hurley, of the Alaska Commercial Company. These gentlemen are George Thompson, from the A.C.C. post in Unalakleet, and Father Karloff, from the Russian church here. And you are…?”

Donner hesitated, and I knew why. The bloodhound who was after him was neither of these two, but he might be close. If Donner gave his name, it would be dangerous for him. But if he didn't, he couldn't win. If he intended to win, he had to stick with the name under which he'd registered.

“Donner and Brackett,” he replied, a note of desperation in his not-so-smooth voice. “We're in the race.”

Hurley nodded. There was no indication in his eyes that he'd been alerted to these names.

The detective might be on his way down the Yukon, I realized, but he hadn't overtaken the
Bonanza King.

Should I denounce Donner here and now for a criminal?

I knew I couldn't. They wouldn't hold him, not without evidence.

Hurley glanced at Brackett. The boxer looked quickly away. In all likelihood he was under orders not to speak.

“Now, what about the race?” Donner demanded. “How stands the race?”

“I'm in a hurry,” Hurley said. “This much I can tell you. We reached the mouth of the Yukon at Kutlik by the northern channel ahead of every boat in the race.”

“Did you talk to them?” Donner interrupted. “Those at the head of the race? What were their intentions when they reached the sea? Attempt a direct crossing of Norton Sound to Cape Nome? Hug the shore to St. Michael before crossing? Follow the shore all the way around without attempting a crossing at all?”

“What do you think?” Hurley asked Thompson. “Do the rules allow me to reply?”

The trader from Unalakleet tucked his pencil behind his ear. “The rules are posted, and they're precious few.”

“I'll tell you, then. Weather allowing, they plan a direct crossing of the sound, with Eskimo guides leading the way. That seems to be the common strategy. To skirt the coast all the way to Nome would add a hundred miles or more. Some plan to use their skiffs, others to paddle native craft.”

“And where do you reckon the leaders are at this moment?”

Hurley thought about it. “Just reaching the sea, same as you.”

“That's what we needed to know!” Donner cried jubilantly. To Thompson, he said, “We'll need some supplies from your store, and for you to recommend a craft for us and to arrange for the sale of it.”

“In good time,” Thompson replied, and returned to adding a column of figures.

Hurley's eyes went from Donner and Brackett to Jamie and me. “We'll tell Nome about you, both teams. Two teams having made the portage will add a great deal of interest. Nome knows all about the race. Every man on the beach will be on the lookout and will know your names.”

For the briefest moment Donner's flint-hard eyes seemed to me to flicker with fear. Then he caught himself. “Will the money be ready, in cash, for the victors?”

With a grin, Hurley replied, “Aye, it's ready.”

Donner hesitated, then asked in perfect command of himself, “What are our chances of catching a big steamer heading south? Quickly, that is. If we win, we have no use for Nome.”

“Steamers come and go every day, that's what I've been hearing.”

“Good,” Donner said. “That's good.”

Within minutes Hurley was being paddled back out to the
Bonanza King.
Donner and Brackett were following Thompson up the path to the trading post.

The old priest saw us standing there, at an utter loss, watching them go. He motioned after Thompson and our enemies. “Why you two not go with?”

“We have no money,” Jamie replied.

“Ah…,” he said ponderously. “Always a problem.”

I'd been studying the skin boats drawn up on the beach. How were Donner and Brackett going to control a boat that large, even if it was light? “Those boats over there,” I said. “Can two people handle those?”

The priest shook his head. “Those are for hunting whales. Seven paddles, harpooner. You need two-man kayak. All covered with skin, even the top. For hunting seals and sea lions.”

“That's what we need,” Jamie said.

“Lots of work to make one. Eskimos don't giff 'em away. Anyway, you can't cross without Eskimo guides. Out on the ocean, no land in sight, the Eskimos always know where they are. Birds, sun, current, wind…I been in this land before it was sold to the Americans, and I could not paddle to Cape Nome if my life depend on it.”

“Those other two men are going to hire guides,” I said. “We could follow along.”

“What an idea!” Jamie encouraged me.

“All we need is a kayak,” I begged.

The priest rolled his eyes.

“We have paddles,” I said, just to keep talking. “Maybe we can trade our birchbark canoe for one of those kayaks you mentioned.”

The priest heaved a sigh. “Those Indian canoes are worthless on the ocean. Paddles worthless, too. For kayak you need blades on both ends—paddle both sides, quick, quick. I wish I could help you.”

The old Russian bent to pet Burnt Paw, who as usual was favoring his right front foot. “Got a thorn, little one? Let me see if I can help you.”

“He burned his paw in a fire,” I explained.

“Ah,” the priest said sympathetically, “hurt your foot.”

Suddenly the old man's eyes lit like bright candles. “Wait a minute. That gives me idea.”

“Tell us,” Jamie urged.

“Haff my life, I try to build hospital here. No money! Always, no money. That prize for winning this race, it's twenty tousand dollars, eh?”

Jamie and I nodded vigorously.

“You two, me, makes three. I find you kayak, I become equal partner. You win, I get almost seven tousand dollars for hospital.”

I hesitated. I glanced at Jamie. Without a word spoken, we agreed.

“It's for a good cause,” Jamie said. With a chuckle, she added, “God would be on our side, Jason.”

The old priest laughed. “You bet your britches.”

“It's a deal,” I told him. “Now, let's hurry!”

In less than an hour's time we had our kayak. It was slim as a needle at the bow and stern and no wider than thirty inches across its midpoint. Its frame was made of whittled driftwood, and its sheath, tight as drum, was fashioned from sealskins. The cordage was fashioned from their sinews. Openings fore and aft allowed entry; skirts made of seal gut would cinch around our waists and keep out the sea.

By this time, six Eskimos were launching one of their skin whaleboats. With a wild cry they paddled through the light surf. To our chagrin, Donner and Brackett launched a kayak right behind them.

“We better start,” I fretted, “or we'll lose them.”

“Everyone out there has gut jackets and pants,” the old priest said. “Waterproof. You need those. Wait a minute—I sent for them.”

Jamie said, “I understand why those two are in such
a hurry, but why the Eskimos?”

“Same reason as riverboat. The weather is good, but it could change. They have a far way to go.”

“How long will the crossing take?”

The priest shrugged. “No wind, about twenty-six hours.”

An Eskimo girl came running down from the village with our jackets and pants in hand. Daylight shone through them, yet they were obviously sturdy. We put them on. They had drawstrings at the hood, wrists, and waist. They weighed almost nothing.

We stowed the small sacks of food that Father Karloff had provided for us, our flasks of water, and a few bare essentials from our previous outfit. If we were to have a chance, we had to go light.

It was 5:30
P.M.
by Jamie's watch when we floated the kayak. My bladder was as empty as I could possibly manage. This was going to be a test of more than one kind of endurance.

I stepped gingerly into the bow and Jamie took her place in the stern. Sure he was being left behind, Burnt Paw was whimpering in the arms of the priest. To the mutt's great relief the priest waded out and handed him to me. I placed him on my lap, then cinched the kayak skirt loosely at my waist to allow him room to see and breathe.

With a glance over my shoulder at Jamie, I caught her unprepared as she was struggling to find a comfortable position in her low-slung seat. Her eyes were bloodshot and she looked positively gaunt, on the verge of collapse.

At that moment, all the excitement went out of me. I was filled with foreboding and dread. The Yukon River had been almost like a friend. We knew nothing of the cruel, dark face of the sea.

“What is it, Jason?”

With a rueful laugh, I said, “I'm not sure, of a sudden. I want us to live through this.”

For nearly half a minute Jamie closed her eyes and said nothing. When she opened them, she said, “We won't be alone. If we get into trouble, the Eskimos will fish us into their boat. I'll always wonder if we could have won, and so will you.”

Her face was still drawn, but her hazel eyes were revived and flashing fire.

She'd revived me, too. In every bone and muscle I could feel how badly I wanted to get to Nome and get there first. “Let's catch them, then, before they're out of sight!”

We paddled head-on toward the surf. The double-bladed paddles propelled the light, streamlined craft remarkably quickly. The kayak cleaved the waves like a knife blade, and we cleared the surf in a wild spray of splash and foam. Ahead, the rolling gray sea.

“Godspeed,” called the old priest. “Don't forget my hospital!”

It was difficult to make out the kayak ahead and the whaleboat in front of it. All of us were paddling directly into the sun, low over the sea to the northwest.

“No worries,” Jamie called confidently from the stern. “We'll catch them.”

“No worries,” I repeated.

We caught up hours later, as the sun was setting. We approached no closer to the kayak than a hundred yards.

It was some time before Brackett, in the stern, happened to glance back over his shoulder.

A second or two later, Donner glanced over his.

“Bet they're surprised,” I said.

An hour later the sun came back up.

We paddled briskly at the very margin of endurance. Hour after hour, the pace never slackened.

By now we couldn't see land in any direction.

When the sun was high, the wind picked up. It started to drive swells at us, hills that had to be climbed.

On the uphill we had to paddle hard lest we lose momentum and be tipped sideways. Handled properly, the kayak was remarkably stable, but sideways we'd be flipped in an instant.

We paddled on. The wind pushed the swells to greater heights. We dreaded storm clouds on the horizon but saw only a thin veil of vapor high, high above.

Many hours later, when the sun was at its highest, Donner suddenly hollered to the whaleboat ahead. The Eskimos stopped paddling. As the kayak pulled alongside the whaleboat, we remained behind.

The Eskimos were all looking at us.

“What's going on?” I asked.

“I don't know,” Jamie said hoarsely. She opened her spray cover and took out her flask of water. “What are they doing up there?”

The Eskimos were working to secure a length of rope from the stern of the whaleboat to the bow of the kayak. I couldn't believe my eyes.

Seconds later, paddles were flashing and they were under way again. Unwilling to believe what we were seeing, we wallowed in the swells. The Eskimos had the kayak under tow.

“Donner and Brackett wore out,” Jamie called. “From battling the wind.”

“It's no wonder.”

“I'm racking my memory to recall the rules.”

“Me too. I'm afraid it said you can't get an assist from a
motor
craft.”

“You're right. The rules said nothing about an assist from a man-powered craft. Hard to admit, but I suppose they aren't breaking the rules.”

“Surely the judges would disqualify them. How could it be anything but cheating?”

“I don't know. Maybe the Alaska Commercial Company won't be able to do anything about it.”

We started after them, but it didn't take long to discover that we couldn't keep up.

“They're pulling away,” I said with undisguised panic.

“We have to keep up,” Jamie called breathlessly.

We both started paddling hard, just as hard as we could. It didn't need to be said what our chances were if we were left behind on this sea, far, far from the sight of land.

For several hours or more, we battled to keep them in sight. The swells had died down and the face of the sea was calm once again, but no matter how hard we gasped for breath, no matter how hard we paddled, the boats ahead in the hard glare of the sun kept slipping into the distance.

Finally, on the very horizon, they blinked out.

“Stop,” called Jamie. “Stop paddling, Jason. I can't see them anymore.”

“I know. I know.”

For a long time we said nothing, just wallowed in the swells. Burnt Paw rolled his eyes up at me.

“What should we do, Jamie?”

She opened the kayak skirt, then the drawstring at her waist, and fished her father's gold watch from her pocket. “It's three-thirty in the afternoon. We've been
under way for twenty-three hours.”

“Do you think we're close to Nome?”

“The wind slowed us down so much, I don't think so. Not at all.”

“We can tell direction by the sun, can't we?”

“Only vaguely. For a couple hours tonight, we'll have the North Star. By the map, Nome is north-by-northwest of Unalakleet. We could keep the North Star almost completely to our right….”

“But that would help for only a few hours.”

“We're lost, Jason. When the wind comes up again we can paddle with it and assume it will push us to land. That's all I can think of.”

“You sound almost calm.”

“That's because I'm terrified.”

“Thank you for saying so. I was afraid it was only me.”

I reached my hand back and she clasped it.

I said, “You could've been on the stage today, in some big city.”

“I don't have any regrets,” she said softly. “I'm like you. Whatever happens, I have to live life on my own hook—even if there's only hours left of it,” she added with a desperate laugh. “I'm starving, Jason, what about you? If I'm to be lost at sea, I'd rather have something in my stomach.”

We found the waterproof sacks that the priest had provided and discovered hard biscuits, dried fruit, dried salmon. We ate ravenously.

I fed bits of salmon to Burnt Paw. “Burnt Paw isn't worried,” I said.

“Look!” Jamie cried. “A boat!”

She was pointing to the right of our bow. In the distance I saw the prow of a boat and the flash of paddles.

“Coming this way!” I exclaimed. “What's going on?
Is it that same whaleboat, or another?”

It was the same one. After several more minutes we could make out a kayak behind the whaleboat and slightly to the side. Both boats were coming our direction. Before long we could discern that the kayak was no longer under tow.

We finished our meal as we watched the slow approach of the boats. Several hundred yards away, just as we could begin to distinguish their faces, the Eskimos stopped paddling, the kayak as well.

The Eskimos waved us toward them.

We put away our provisions and began to paddle.

As soon as we did so, the whaleboat wheeled about and paddled away again.

“I think I understand,” I said. “When the Eskimos looked back and saw that we weren't even in sight, they came back for us.”

“I bet anything Donner ordered them not to, but they wouldn't obey.”

“And our friends lost their tow. The Eskimos must have taken a dim view of attempted murder.”

“All of a sudden I feel stronger. Let's catch up, eh? We're back in the race!”

Within half an hour we'd caught them. After that we stayed a slim fifty yards behind Donner and Brackett. The sun was sinking fast now, and we were paddling directly into it.

It set in a red blaze of glory. With the glare gone, the twilight revealed the silhouettes of great ships ahead, half a dozen of them, and beyond, a thin line along the horizon.

“Ships!” I cried. “Land! Nome!”

“Now look over your left shoulder, Jason. Tell me what you see.”

“A Yukon river paddle wheeler! Hundreds of people at the rails! Stampeders from Dawson!”

“Look what's around it.”

“Boats! Skiffs!”

“A dozen or more, coming hard. They're racing, and the people on the sternwheeler are watching. Do you think they see us?”

“No doubt. Now comes the real race, Jamie—let's show 'em some smoke. Let's paddle like there's no tomorrow.”