The Red Book Magazine/Volume 20/Number 4/Gold and Two Men

HE lamps in Mother Monohan's saloon were now dim, for midnight was near and customers had ceased to come. The red firelight flowed between the parted doors of the round-bellied stove; and in its path two objects stood out against the surrounding shadows. One of them was the ancient and rusted harpoon which hung among the mural decorations of the place. The heavy weapon gleamed, ensanguined by the flare. Under it the face of Noyes took on a brazen ruggedness from the glow of the flames. Harpoon and face glinted in strange harmony. And this seemed as it should be; for Noyes was a survivor of New Bedford's stern tribe of ship's captains.

The flickerings crept back and forth over his white hair and wide shoulders. We were all silent; and then he spoke. His voice had grown huge and deep on the quarterdeck; a voice trained to boom through howling wind and pounding surge like a bell buoy's signal note.

“Gold!” He leaned forward and raised his hand. “You spun that yarn of gold and a woman. It made me think of what I saw one time in the Arctic. Gold and two men.

“Twenty odd years ago! In them days Herschel Island was the end of the world. It seems like it ought to be longer.”

With that he paused, as if he were satisfied with having recalled the picture—whatever it was—to his mind. He sat smiling, as one who looks back down the long vistas of the years, and sees large deeds played over in silent pantomime.

From different parts of our circle, voices urged him for the tale. He nodded, but he did not speak at once. After he had waited thus for the procession to pass before his memory, he threw back his head.

“All right,” said he; and he told this story:

Back in eighty-nine I was captain of the steam whaler Nunivak; and we were nigh the end of a two-years' voyage into them northern waters, hunting the bow-head and trading for furs. We had wintered the year before off Wrangel Island. Then we had come on east and we had followed the ice, getting our share of bone and blubber. Until now, with the summer at an end, we were ready for “Homeward Bound,” before the ice should come again and lay hold of her. She was at anchor off the mouth of the Mackenzie.

The sea about and for ten mile out was yellow and fresh from the flood of that big river. And it happened that I was standin' alone on the quarterdeck one arternoon—lookin' across that yellow water out onto the uncharted Arctic.

I was wonderin' what laid there—what lands and gulfs and all. I could see a stretch of open water; and here and there an ice cake, all blue and green. Somers up there laid the bones of old explorers' ships, where the pack had trapped them and squeezed them into splinters. And men said that the natives told of ancient floes that no vessel could penetrate; and of open waters beyond them floes again. And there was stories of a big lake along the coast, with many islands; and yarns of monstrous schools of whales, and of rich fur-bearin' countries. But no man knew. It was jest stories. Uncharted seas! I stood there a-starin' out onto their beginnin'.

Now, ever sence I was a lad, I always had liked them places on the chart where there is no coast line marked—where the dark patches jest blur off into the white; and ye have to wonder. It was an old habit of mine of nights in the chart house, to pull out the blue-backs and study over them blurred places—tryin' to think what would be there where no man had set foot and no ship had sailed.

And as I stood there on the quarterdeck that arternoon, a curious thing happened.

Out of the emptiness there come a speck. At first I was not sure of it; and then it showed a mite plainer. I kept my eyes on it, for it struck me as bein' strange. It come on. I knew it was real.

I clapped my glasses to my eyes; it was a whaleboat—under sail and a-drawin' on. And arter a long time I seen how there was two men in it and it was laden low to the water's edge.

I mind well the way it looked that arternoon. Late summertime and the sun was dipping low now. Around the Nunivak was the roll of yellow waters—ahead, the open, unknown sea. Way off there, the glint of the last sunshine was on some blue ice, so that the wash of the swell dripped off of its edge like quick-silver. And still beyond, a-comin' from I did not know where, that little whale-boat!

When it was nigher I seen how careful the men had decked over their cargo with skins of the hair seal. And now I made out one of them to be white, for he had a long beard. And the other was an Eskimo.

My crew and the most of the officers had gone ashore. It was the season when the natives dry the salmon; and the men was feastin' on roast fish. They had some liquor with them—for this was before the days when the missionaries made things strict—and I did not look for them to be back until long arter nightfall. So, when the whaleboat run up at last and come alongside, I was waitin' alone on the quarterdeck.

In less time than it takes to tell, the white man showed over the rail. A tall man, big in the shoulders and with a long red beard all shot with grey. He wore Eskimo clothes of skins; and his face had been peeled and frosted until his skin was like a native's. He come alone—the other was down there in the boat—and he walked straight aft.

When he spoke to me I noticed how slow the words come, as if he had not been usin' his own language for years. And there was another curious thing about him; it was his eyes; ye would think they were two coals burnin' back in his head.

I asked him down into the cabin for a drink. He took one step to come and then:

“No,” says he; “that can wait. I come a long ways to make a dicker with ye, Cap'n. We'll tend to that first.”

All this time I was a-wonderin' where he had come from. I asked him what it was he wanted.

“Step over to the rail,” says he, “and I'll show ye.”

I went with him and he called down in the Eskimo tongue. The native pulled away some of the hair seal deckin' and I seen his cargo. The boat was heavy with baleen and furs.

“That is only a part of it, Cap'n,” he says. “Now, do ye want to buy?”

I was keen enough, especially for the furs. It was the beginnin' of the Frisco merchants buckin' the Hudson Bay Company; and we was after all we could get. So I told him I guessed that could be fixed up. He give me a queer, sharp, sidewise look; and then he says:

“There is one condition. I would tell that now.”

I asked him what. He pulled a little poke out of the inside of his parka; he opened it and he took out a brass button—one of them kind a soldier or a policeman wears. I could see there was a dozen or so more in the poke.

“Now,” says he, “if we can make a fair price on my cargo—and there is three more boat loads like this—I'll deal with ye. And I will say this: there is two black fox skins and other pelts that will make ye hungry to look at them. And a boatload of good, clean baleen.”

“A fair price ye shall have,” says I. “But what is that string on it?”

“A little thing,” he says, “but it means much to me. And the man who buys my cargo must bide by that. If ye will wear one of these brass buttons and if ye will put one on the coat of every ship's officer; and if ye will give me and this Eskimo cabin passage down to Frisco; and will treat him as if he was a white man and an officer—not a common sailor or native. That is the string. Do that; and after ye have fixed a fair price, I'll knock off two thousand dollars.”

I thought it over for a minute. I could see nothin' wrong in it. Only the cabin passage for the Eskimo; there might be some roar over that from the mates. When I said as much, he shook his head.

“Why do ye stick for that?” I asked him. “And what does this here brass button mean anyhow?”

“When we've fixed up our deal,” he says, “and have got the stuff on board, I'll tell ye-the hull of it. But that takes a long time. I'll say this to ye now: it is fair and above board. I pass my word on that. And I have furs cached three days sailin' from here that will make your eyes hang out when ye see them.”

“Go and fetch them,” I says; “and bring this cargo aboard. I'll do it, brass buttons and all.”

“And treat the Eskimo like an officer,” he says.

“Aye,” says I, “like an officer.”

He grinned under his big red beard and he pinned the button on my coat. When that was done he called down to the Eskimo. The two of them set to work unloadin' the whale boat; and when I seen the cargo on our deck, I was satisfied even if it was a strange deal. For the bone was of the best quality; and as for the furs, there was pelts there that would sell in London for four figgers. When they had transferred it all, they started for the rail. I asked them to stop over night, but the white man says:

“I've been waitin' long enough now, to be able to wait a while longer. And this is three days sailin' each way.”

They cast loose and they started back. And I did not see them for a week. We did some huntin' and we was busy cuttin' up a whale when they come the next time. And I took care to have my mates wearin' brass buttons accordin' to our bargain. We took on their furs and the bone and some walrus ivory; and I mind there was a polar bear skin, the like of which I never see for size. I talked with the white man, but I could get nothin' from him about where he had got all of this; he was all business and in a hurry. So away he went again with his Eskimo; and this time it was eight days before he come back. For there was some heavy weather in the meantime. But they drawed alongside one arternoon jest as we had finished takin' on water and makin' ready for the voyage back to Frisco. By the time that last cargo was aboard and stowed away and tallied off, all hands on the Nunivak—from the fust mate to the rawest sailor that we had shanghaied —was speckylatin' about them brass buttons. The talk went round and round the ship.

But there was not much time for speckylatin' that evenin', for there was too much floatin' ice to make a man feel comfortable when he is ready for the homeward voyage. So we weighed anchor, and we sailed away to the west'ard, with the next change of course to be for the south'ard and the Golden Gate.

All hands was feelin' good; for a two years' voyage into the Arctic gets tiresome. Them two cabin passengers was the only quiet men aboard ship besides myself. They stood on deck side by side and I could see the white man a-pintin' things out to the Eskimo and explainin' them. When darkness come the two of them went below and set down.

The fust mate dropped into the cabin for somethin' or other. The Eskimo was settin' on one of the lockers. Of course the mate was wearin' one of the brass buttons on his coat accordin' to agreement. The native give him a look, and with it a grin; then he got up and touched the button with his finger and held out his hand. The mate, bein' an old timer and used to all manner of natives, grinned and shook hands.

It was the same way when the other mates showed, a-wearin' their brass buttons. And, when the Eskimo set down to eat with us, I seen how he did not grab his food like the natives always do; but he was fairly sweatin—he was tryin' that hard to handle his knife and fork like the rest of us.

Them things made me wonder. But there was other curious facts about this Eskimo. He was a good head taller than any of his kind that I had seen, and his language was different in many ways. What was more, he was always doin' his best to speak English.

So, take it all and all, I was a-wonderin' over the feller. And I was waitin' for Chisholm—that was the white man's name—to tell his yarn, which he had promised me to do.

One night when we was two days on the homeward voyage, I set down with Chisholm and we cast up our accounts. It was pretty late and all the others was in their bunks, only the mate that had the watch; and he was on deck. Chisholm checked off my tally; and I give him the figgers as nigh as I could accordin' to what ought to be market prices. I did not give him any the best of it either, for the company had aimed to do their tradin' with natives and not white men. But he was suited. It come to a cool hundred thousand dollars. He set there a-lookin' at the paper; and arter a while he drawed a deep breath, and:

“Well, I got it,” he says. He nodded his head three or four times and looked acrost the table at me. “I knew I'd get it.”

“Well sir,” says I, “I'm keepin' my bargain. My officers is wearin' them buttons and your Eskimo is travelin' cabin passage like a white man. And now ye can tell me where ye found him and all accordin' to your promise.”

He filled his pipe and lighted it and he set there smokin' for a while. And then, “It goes back five years,” says he; “and it seems like it was longer, now that I come to think of it.” Then he set a while as if he was thinkin'; and when he had done,

“The Eskimo,” says he, “is my pardner. And he gets what I get.”

“But the button,” says I.

“The button,” says Chisholm, “is a little thing. Ye will see that when I get to it. I have harder things ahead than that to keep my end of the bargain with him. Listen:

“Ye remember the bar diggin's on the Stikeen? I was at Fort Wrangel when a bunch of miners had come out and was spendin' their money. I was a common sailor, and my vessel was a-layin' in the stream. I watched them miners, and I seen them throwin' gold away. And it come to me how I had been a-battin' around from port to port and workin' for wages all the time, and gettin' nothing. And here was men—many of them not half as good as me—with their fists full of nuggets; while I had never held more than two twenty-dollar pieces at one time. I seen how it was—work for wages and stay poor. That night I deserted from my ship.

“I went inland to the diggin's; the gold was there; I seen it comin' from the sluices; but I was years too late; other men owned the rich ground; I prospected, and all I got in the bottoms of my pits was ice. So I turned to and I sweated for wages once more; but this time I saved a stake. And then I left the country and I started north.

“I went up the coast to Juneau. There was nothin' there for a poor man. I left that camp and I started over Chilkoot Pass. A dozen or two prospectors had gone over it the year before. I built a bateau on the banks of Lake Linderman and I traveled down the Yukon. Time and again I stopped and prospected; but all I got was a few colors. I went on down stream; and I missed the camp of Forty Mile. I traveled on inside of the Arctic Circle. I left the Yukon and I went up the Porcupine. I had my rifle and my goldpan.

“I done as the natives done. Caribou and the salmon and ptarmagin was good enough for me; and berries to keep my blood thin. I spent a year up on the Porcupine; and I trapped. I sold my furs to the companies and I made a good grub stake.

“I was dressin' like a native now, and my beard was down to my waist. I had pretty nigh forgot the sound of my own language; and there was months when I did not even talk to an Indian. And there I got my idee of how to lay hold of my gold. It was not layin' in the ground for me; but there was rich furs, and they meant big money.

“Them furs meant big money; but I seen how the companies had Alaska corralled. And there up on the Porcupine inside of the Arctic Circle, I made up my mind to go on—on past where men had been.

“I crossed the mountains; I come to the Mackenzie River; I built me another ; I went down the stream. It was a hard trip and it was lonely in them big stretches of barren lands; and there was rapids the like of which I had never seen before. But I made it and I come to the mouth. I was on the shore of the Arctic Sea.

“There was a whaler at Herschel Island; I bought a whaleboat and I hauled it up and went into winter quarters. And when the spring come I took that whaleboat and I sailed out into the northeast. And this was the third year sence I had left my ship.

“Now durin' them years while I had been travelin' I had often thought of gettin' a pardner. But no man that I had seen had suited me; for when ye are up in these latitudes and away from your kind, the other man must be jest right. That man had not showed his face yet. And so I sailed out alone in my whale-boat—out into the Arctic Sea.

“The ice went out; I followed it. I hunted here and I hunted there; and I done pretty well; but I was not gettin' rich. And the summer time come and it passed by. And now it was the season of the salmon fishin' and time to get in the winter's grub. Here was I alone and winter only a few weeks away.

“Then I come to the shores of the great Eskimo lake that men tell about, but no white man has ever seen—only me. It lays with jest a strip of land between its waters and the Arctic and it is two hundred miles long; it has many little islands. There is fish and all kinds of wild fowl.

“I come to that lake and there I found a tribe of Eskimos. They was dryin' salmon for their winter's store. I beached my boat and I went among them. They were different Eskimos than I had ever seen before. Taller and better lookin'; and they spoke a different tongue. And none of them had ever seen a white man.

“They crowded around me and they made a big wonderment over me. I was like a king among them. I was able to make them understand a few words of the Eskimo tongue which the natives speak around Herschel Island;. and for the rest of language, I had to make it with signs.

“I found their chief. He is this man—my pardner. I set down with him and he told me how they had tales from their fathers, who had heard the stories from their grandfathers, of men with hair and beards the color of mine. They believed us white men was a kind of gods. I figger it that the explorers that perished up beyond Coronation Gulf must of run afoul of thet tribe in the old days—or mebbe before that when men was huntin' for the Northwest Passage. For these Eskimo had come down from the north-east, where they had lived always.

“Now while the chief was tellin' this, he had his eyes fixed on my shirt; and the shirt was fastened at the top with a brass button that I had took from my store of tradin' trinkets. And when he had done, he up and asked me about the button. Then an idee come to me.

“Ye see I needed help for grub and to make a house. And I needed help to get my furs thet was to make me a rich man. And here was the man to give me what I needed. And I told him what it was thet I was after, and what it meant to a man thet had it—gold.

“But a native is curious. Ye have to give him something thet he can see and handle to make him understand the other things which he cannot see. A Siwash does not know anything about his gods unless he has a totem for to look at. Ye understand me? And when I come to talk with this Eskimo of power among men and riches and all that, I had to have some kind of a sign to show him—somethin' like a totem is to a Siwash. And here was this brass button thet he had been a-lookin' at and askin' about. So I made thet button out to be a totem.

“I told him thet the man who wore one of them was big; and he had power; and other men obeyed him. I said it was the sign of riches and all they gave. Only I did not say riches or wealth. Them Eskimos had no words for sech things. I explained thet part of it by tellin' him what wealth would give a man.

“Now of course when I told him thet, he begun to want a button. He asked me how he could get to have one. And then I told him thet I had more; and thet if he would help me de what I had come here to do, I would put one of them on his parka. I told him I had come here after furs and sech; and he must go with me and get them. If he would do this, I would give him the yellow totem and he would have all the power which went with it. He agreed.

“In the beginnin', when we struck the bargain, I was not thinkin' of what laid ahead. I was a-goin' to pin the button on him and he would help me. And thet was all there would be to it, too,—fool him, jest as white men have done with natives many times before.

“So we made the bargain, with me havin' thet idee. And I put the button on his parka. And the men of the tribe, they brought me food and made me comfortable; and I got my winter's grub and got an igloo built for me when the snow come; and got furs to lay on—and all without so much as turnin' a hand. And the ice pack froze solid over the Arctic; and the long night come. And the months went on, until at last the springtime begun to show, and the sun.

“And this pardner of mine went with me, huntin' and trappin'. And when the ice pack broke and left the sea open, I seen it was time for us to get whalebone.

“Then I seen how I would have to make good with him. For this got me—him leavin' his people and havin' that faith in what I had told him. There was other things too—one time, when we was huntin' polar bear out on the ice, and when I stumbled after woundin' a big, ugly female, he closed in with his spear and got the meat ripped off of his forearm to the bone, to save my life. I seen where I was. I had a pardner. And half of what I got was his.

“I had give him thet brass button. And now it was up to me to give him the things thet the totem stood for.

“Well, we trapped and we hunted the whales. Us two together. We went out, him in the stern with the steerin' oar and me in the bow with the harpoon and the lance. And many's the close call we had in them waters. But we got much bone and we stored it. And we went over the ice fields to lands thet no white man had ever see; and there we found rare furs, until we had enough to make us rich down in God's country.

“Now durin' all them months of trappin' and huntin' he learned to speak English. And I told him about the ways of the white men and the cities. And I explained to him the power of gold, what it brings to the man thet has it. I explained it after the manner a man must tell things to a savage. To this Eskimo, gold is a sort of a charm; and it brings power and comforts. And because the brass button is the same color, he still thinks like he did when I first pinned it onto him; that is a totem which means the wearer has gold; and all other men will obey him. Ye understand now why I made my bargain with ye?

“Thet is the yarn. This summer we cached our furs and bone; and then we sailed down here, for I was pretty sure we would find a whaler. And the rest of it ye have seen. I am takin' my pardner out with me to give him the things I promised him. And I will keep my word.”

With that Chisholm stopped talkin'. And I could not help likin' him better after he had spun his yarn. For there is not many men will keep their word with a savage.

So, durin' the balance of the voyage, I done what I could to see thet the Eskimo had things the way he wanted. It was not hard. It did not take much to satisfy him. He used to stand on deck, and watch the mates as they ordered the crew around. And it seemed to make him feel good.

One day we steamed into the Golden Gate; and then of course there come a time when I had my hands full, seein' thet the crew was paid off, the cargo unloaded, and a hundred other things. So I did not get much chance to say good-by to Chisholm and the big Eskimo. They left us at the wharf.

The winter went by; and many a time I wondered how them two was gettin' along. And often I speckylated on how Chisholm was keepin' his bargain. But I got no word from either one of them; and they sort of went out of my mind. Then one spring day the Nunivak was ready to sail into the North once more. We had the crew on board and everything ship-shape, and I was settin' in the cabin. The fust mate come down.

“Man on deck wants to see ye, sir,” says he.

I asked who the man was and he laughed. “Tell him to come down,” says I. And a minute arterwards, there stood the big Eskimo in the cabin. I did not know him at first. For he was dressed, as nigh as I can come to tellin' it, like some country lad that wants to be a dude, and has the price but not the savvy. He had a derby hat and his stiff black hair shot out around his head in under the brim like a fringe of bristles. He had a bright blue suit of clothes, and a white shirt and a collar that was sawin' off his neck. He stood there a-sayin' nothin'. And there was a sadness in his face.

I asked him what he wanted; and he told me in good English, but speakin' very slow and solemn, thet he wanted me to take him back to the mouth of the Mackenzie. He laid down a handful of gold-pieces on the table for to pay his passage.

Now, I had much on my hands jest then and not much time for talkin'; and for all thet I was sorry for him because of the sadness thet was in his face, I could not bother too long. So I told him, short and to the p'int, that I could take him; but it might be a long time before we reached the mouth of the Mackenzie. And I told him thet he would have to bunk forward with the crew. For my bargain was done with Chisholm.

He nodded. “Good,” says he.

So I left him and went up' on deck. And later on that day, when the Nunivak was under way outside of the heads, I seen him again. He was a-comin' up from the fo'c'stle. And he had took off every rag of them white men's clothes. He was in skins again, like any native. I could not help noticing how much more of a man he looked in them garments. He came on deck, and he faced torards the no'th, And he stood there, a-lookin' at the sky's edge. He said no word to any man.

I went below. It must of been two hours arterwards thet I come up again; and there he stood, still lookin' into the no'th.

Now the voyage was a slow one, for the ice was late in breakin' in Behring Sea. And every day thet Eskimo would spend pretty nigh all of his time on deck; and always he would stand there with his eyes turned to the no'th. And he never said nothin' to no man.

At last we come to Herschel Island and then to the mouth of the Mackenzie. And there he left us. He went overside and ashore in a small boat with some of the crew. They told me thet he dickered with some natives and bought a kyack. And thet same day I stood on the quarterdeck and I seen him goin' out into the no'theast; and I watched him until he was a speck.

I had noticed him thet mornin' when he left the ship; and it seemed to me like he was lookin' more alive—as if some of the sadness had left him. But, any more than sayin' good-by to him, I had no talk with him. And so I stood there a-lookin' off into them uncharted seas after him, and wonderin' why he had gone back. After all, I thought, Chisholm must of gone back on his bargain.

Well, the summer went by and the next winter. And we cruised back and forth and it was pretty nigh a year afterward when we come to Point Barrow one day. I went ashore to do some business at the whalin' station. And there was Chisholm. He was jest the same as ever, only his beard was trimmed down and he was more peaked and whiter. We shook hands and we talked of this and thet. And then I asked him about the Eskimo, and what was wrong. He shook his head.

“I'll tell ye,” says he, “how it happened; and ye can size it up for yourself. I kep' my bargain.

“When we left the ship, I took him up Market street; and he saw what was big wonders to him. We went to a big hotel and we stayed there. Now at the beginning, he could not keep his eyes off the bell boys and the policemen. Ye see they wore brass buttons. And it worried me some, to see him a-watchin' them. But it was all right. He seen men a-tippin' them bell boys and he told me about it—how people give them tribute. And he seen the traffic squad out there in the street; and he told me how when one of them raised a hand all men and horses and cars had to stop.

“Well, later on come the gold. Half of what I had was his. I kept it for him; but it was his and when he wanted gold, I give it to him. He was happy. He said that the yellow charm—thet was what he called it—was mightier than he had thought. He used to tell me how he tested its power and it never failed him. When he wanted anything he got it. Now it was curious to see how well it did work out, too—and how he took it. He tried thet gold in a hundred queer ways, accordin' to his savage idees, and they all come right. And he begun to copy the white men. I managed to keep him away from whiskey by tellin' him it was a devil thet bewitched men; and so he did not go wrong or get into trouble. And he genuinely lived like a rich man.

“Many an evenin' I'd set down and listen to his yarns of what he had seen and what he had done, and it was wonderful sometimes to hear him. And it made me feel good to know thet he was happy.

“But later on it begun to change. He begun to get very quiet. And then I would find him a-settin' by himself lookin' out of the window acrost the roofs and sayin' nothin'. And he got so he did not eat well, and he seemed sad always.

“Then at last he told me what was the matter. He had figgered it all out in that savage head of his; and it come to this: The white men had got this yellow charm that give them all the things thet they wanted. But to get this here charm they had had to barter one thing. And what do ye think thet thing was? It was the open places and the fresh cold air.

“And he had bartered away them things jest like the white men. It was a-killin' him. He said so.

“Well, I felt sorry for him and I tried to cheer him up, and I did all I could to make things pleasant for him. But it was no use. He was gettin' worse all the time. And at last he asked me one day whether he could trade back again. And I see thet he was in earnest. So I sent him down to the Nunivak, for it was the day she was to sail. We shook hands and he said thet if he could get back there into the North, he would be happy. For he had seen our power and all; and he would rather have the other.”

When Chisholm told me thet I understood it. But I did not understand why he was up here again. Says I:

“What was it ye come for? Are ye sick of the things down there like he was; and did ye come back for the open places and the fresh air?”

“Me?” says he. “No; I come back for jest a little more gold.”