in the spring of 1918, following the smashing attack of the germans towards amiens, orders came from the french military headquarters, that all civilians were to move from towns near the line to safer areas further back. this order nearly got me into a "mix-up." it happened i was billeted at madame buay's humble home in la brebis, when the new regulation came to them like a bomb from the blue.
one day soon after, at 5.30 a.m., madame and her boy came to my room to bid me a tearful adieu. it was arranged by the authorities that they must leave before nine o'clock that morning. there was much talk, and would i help her so kindly by buying her poor little rabbits. they would starve if left behind and she could not take them. "there were just three," she said. i bought them for twenty francs; thought they would make a savoury stew for our mess.
about half past nine, i went to view my livestock. when behold, to my dismay, i found that my three rabbits had increased, in the course of nature, to ten, and there were signs of more "in the offing." on the top of this came an unexpected message for the battalion to move out at 2 p.m. that day. i tried to sell my rabbits to the local butcher, who had been permitted to stay until he cleared out his stock of meat. but no, he wouldn't buy them. they weren't, of course, fit to kill for food. at last in desperation, for i couldn't leave the beasts to starve, i rounded up the half-dozen small boys left in the place and unloaded my rabbits on them. i knew the ordinary boy cannot resist the offer of a live rabbit, even though father and mother might object. i would be gone by that time anyway. i tell only the simple truth, (those who know rabbits will not question it), when i state that i had not three nor ten, but sixteen rabbits, big and little, to give away to the boys. a second contingent had arrived numbering six! i was relieved to be quit of them, for at the rate they had multiplied that day i could see myself, before many weeks, marching at the head of a battalion of rabbits!
it was pitiful to see these french people leaving the homes in which they, or their ancestors, had lived for generations. pathos and humor combined, sometimes, in the appearance of the odd conveyances and the motive-power used. i saw one dear old lady propped up in a wheelbarrow, her son trundling her along. there were plenty other strange and sorry sights. with it all they seemed cheerful, and determined to make the best of everything.
this battalion-trek i stayed behind with a half-company of men who had been held by fatigue-duties. when we set out we decided to try a short-cut across the fields, but we wandered considerably, and had not reached our destination when supper-time drew near. we had no provisions with us. while the men were resting by the road, tired, hot, and hungry, i sauntered off by myself to where i noticed a wreath of smoke above the trees of an orchard. i saw a few soldiers there, standing by a fire not far from the farm-sheds. as i got closer two of them came hesitatingly towards me, saluted, and one said, "sir, is your name pringle?" i said it was, and then we discovered that eighteen years before we had knocked around together in the atlin gold-diggings.
they remembered me after all those years! they belonged to a detachment of canadian railway troops. the upshot of it was that when i told them of my tired and hungry kilties, they got me into friendly touch with the q.m. sergeant billeted in the farmhouse. he showed himself a right good fellow and in short order i was on my way back to my men heading a small but well-laden carrying-party. our boys could hardly believe their eyes when they saw us toddling along, laden with two big kitchen dixies of hot tea, a dozen loaves of bread and a full tin of good, fresh hard-tack. the tea and rations refreshed us and made the remaining kilometres easy.
we found the battalion located in a picturesque little farm-village. the group of houses lay snugly hidden among trees, while out on all sides, over rolling land, one could see long stretches of cultivated fields, in blocks of brown and varying shades of green. other than the farm buildings, there was only a small store, a blacksmith shop, and a tavern. the houses were ancient, built with out-buildings to enclose a court-yard, in the centre of which was, almost invariably, a manure-pile and cess-pool.
the inhabitants were primitive in their ways, kindly farm-folk of simple manners, hard-working and apparently contented.
one well, over 130 feet deep, served for public use. it was worked by a hand-windlass and to get a pail of water was a laborious process. the rough wooden shelter over it was erected, so the inscription read, in 1879. i suppose it was an event in village history when that shelter was added. there must be a wide variety of things, besides water, at the bottom of that well. the water tasted good enough, but one's imagination should not be allowed to work too carefully over the subject.
chatting along the way after we left the railway troops, my talk naturally turned from the kindness done us through those klondike friends, to other fine men i knew in the north. i was made to promise to tell "the bunch" a yukon story some evening after we got properly settled in our new billets. two or three nights afterwards, i redeemed my promise. in one of the old barns, sitting on a low beam, with the men lying around in the straw, i related to them the grim tragedy of the lost patrol.
* * * * *
in the annals of frontier-life anywhere you like in the world, nothing can be found more filled with heroic incident in the performance of duty and the maintenance of a high prestige, than the history of our own canadian mounted police. i choose this particular story, because it exemplifies, so clearly, their dominating sense of duty and the quiet fortitude in the face of danger and death, characteristic of their splendid record. it occurred in the far north, in klondike days, in a region through which i have travelled and so it has for me a double interest.
every winter since the big stampede, the mounted police have patrolled the four hundred miles of wilderness lying between dawson and fort mcpherson. the latter place consists of a dozen log buildings, on the mackenzie, far in the arctic. it is the centre of administration for a hundred thousand square miles of territory. dawson, the well-known gold-camp, is on the yukon river, close to the edge of the arctic circle. one round trip is made each winter, with dog-teams carrying mail, personal and official, needed to keep that northern world of indians, eskimo, whites, and half-breeds, in touch with civilization, and to uphold our british traditions of law and order.
the journey is always beset with dangers. one day out, and the members of the patrol know that their lives depend wholly on themselves. they may see no one else for twenty or thirty days. they will go through a vast and lonely land travelling along the wide valleys of frozen rivers, up long narrow gulches filled with snow, over miles of wind-swept mesas, and across high, treeless, mountain ridges. "all goes well, if all goes well," is a proverb of the trail, for in winter-time there, death is always near. his opportunity comes easily in numerous ways. a gashed foot cut by a slip of the axe in getting firewood, a sprained ankle, an unsheltered camp with a blizzard in the night, fog, or wind, or snowstorm, sick dogs or men, short rations, a mile in the wrong direction, all these very simply lead to distress, maiming or death. the greatest and commonest danger comes from the glacial overflows. in winter the creeks freeze solid. this dams back the water in its sources in the banks, until the expulsive force in the hidden springs, deep in the mountains, drives the water out on top of the ice. even in the most extreme cold you will find in these canyons, under the snow or shoal ice, pools of this overflow water remaining liquid for hours. to get into this with moccasins means an immediate camp and fire, otherwise there will be frozen feet and permanent crippling, and if one is alone and dry wood not at hand, it is fatal. all these and more are the chances the experienced "musher" must be prepared to take. no "tenderfoot," in his right senses, would attempt such a long journey, in winter, alone.
it was the morning of december 21st, 1910, that the patrol left fort mcpherson for dawson. it comprised inspector fitzgerald, constables taylor and kinney, and special constable carter, with three dog-teams of five dogs each. they expected to be in dawson about the beginning of february. they never reached dawson. their comrades at fort mcpherson of course gave no anxious thought to them, and when the dawson search-party came in at close of day on march 22nd, it was with surprise and horror, that they heard of the loss of the whole patrol. next day the frozen bodies of all four were brought in, those who three months before had set out on that wilderness journey, so keen and strong. they were found within thirty miles of the fort, but it was a long, long trail of 300 terrible miles that they had travelled.
towards the end of january the dawson police commenced to expect the patrol. after the first week in february, they became uneasy. on the 20th february some fort mcpherson indians arrived in dawson. one of them, named esau, had been with the patrol, as guide, to the head of mountain creek, where he was discharged on new year's day. the police had lost their way, had come on this camp of indians and employed esau to guide them until fitzgerald was satisfied the party could do without him, when he was dismissed. it was a tragic mistake.
on the 28th february, supt. snyder of the dawson post, fearing trouble, despatched the relief-party under corporal dempster, consisting in addition, of constables fyfe and turner and a half-breed named charles stewart. march 12th, on the mcpherson side of the divide, dempster saw the first sure traces of the lost patrol. in the big wind river valley he found a night-camp which had doubtless been made by the missing men. there were one or two empty butter and canned-beef tins lying about and a piece of flour-sack marked, "r.n.w.m. police, fort mcpherson." the morning of march 16th, they discovered a toboggan and seven sets of dog-harness "cached" about six miles up mountain creek. on searching more carefully, a dog's paws and shoulder-blade were found, from the latter of which, the flesh had evidently been cooked and eaten.
ten miles from seven-mile portage, march 21st, dempster noticed a blue handkerchief tied to a willow. he went over to it, climbed the bank, and broke through the fringe of willows into the timber. there before his eyes was the end of a chapter in the sad story. in the snow lay the bodies of constables kinney and taylor. a fire had been at their feet. their camp kettle was half-full of moose-skin, which had been cut up into small pieces and boiled. dempster's party cut some brush, covered the bodies with it, and went on in the direction of the fort. he says in his report, "i had now concluded that fitzgerald and carter had left these two men in a desperate effort to reach the fort, and would be found somewhere between this point and mcpherson. next morning, about ten miles further down the river, a trail appeared to lead towards the shore and while feeling in the new snow for the old tracks underneath, we kicked up a pair of snow-shoes. we then climbed the bank and a little way back in the woods we came on the bodies of the other two men. this was wednesday the 22nd march. carter had died first, for he had been laid out upon his back, his hands crossed upon his breast and a handkerchief placed over his face. fitzgerald lay near him."
dempster and his party then went on to fort mcpherson arriving about six o'clock in the afternoon the same day. there help was obtained and the remains were brought in. on march 28th, the four bodies were laid side by side, in the same grave. the funeral service was read by the rev. c. e. whittaker, the church of england missionary at that remote point. a firing-party of five men fired the usual volleys over the grave. the brave men of the lost patrol had all come to their last camping-ground.
fitzgerald's diary of the fatal journey was found. he had kept it up to sunday, february 5th, when it ceased. between the lines, for there is no sign of weakening in the written words, one can read the pathetic story of a long struggle against death from starvation and exposure, an heroic battle, maintained to the last in terrible agony. let me quote but six entries from the diary. it was carefully written commencing december 21st, the day they left the fort. it is a sad but thrilling drama extending over fifty days, staged in a mystic, white, winter-land, cruel and lonely, silent too, save for the howl of wolf or roar of mountain storm. every entry is of absorbing interest, but the quotations suffice to tell of the fateful seven days spent in vainly searching for the pass up forrest gulch, and then the brave struggle to retrace their steps to fort mcpherson. death ever came closer, stalked at last beside them every moment. he had no power to destroy their unconquerable spirits but he finally claimed their weary, worn-out bodies. here is the chronicle.
"tuesday, jan. 17th. twenty three degrees below zero. fine in the morning, with a strong gale in the evening. did not break camp. sent carter and kinney off at 7.15 a.m. to follow a river going south by a little east. they returned at 3.30 p.m. and reported that it ran right up into the mountains, and carter said it was not the right river. i left at 8.00 a.m. and followed a river running south but could not see any cuttings on it. carter is completely lost and does not know one river from another. we have now only ten pounds of flour, and eight pounds of bacon, and some dried fish. my last hope is gone (of getting through to dawson) and the only thing i can do is to return and kill some of the dogs to feed the others and ourselves, unless we can meet some indians. we have now been a week looking for a river to take us over the divide, but there are dozens of rivers and i am at a loss. i should not have taken carter's word that he knew the way from little wind river."
* * * * *
"tuesday, jan. 24th. fifty-six below. strong south wind with very heavy mist. left camp at 7.30, went six miles and found the river overflowed right across. constable taylor got in to the waist and carter to the hips, and we had to go into camp at 11.00 a.m. cold intense for all the open water. killed another dog and all hands made a good meal on dog-meat."
* * * * *
"tuesday, jan. 31st. forty-five below. sixty-two below in the afternoon. left camp at 7.15 a.m. had to double-up teams for the first mile and a half. nooned one hour and camped at 4.15 p.m. four miles from caribou river. going heavy, travelled part of the time on our old trail, but it was filled in. skin peeling off our faces and parts of the body, lips all swollen and split. i suppose this is caused by feeding on dog-meat. everybody feeling the cold very much for want of proper food. made seventeen miles."
* * * * *
"wednesday, feb. 1st. fifty-one below. left camp at 7.30 a.m. and camped at 4.30 p.m. on the river where we start around caribou born mountain. killed another dog to-night. this makes eight dogs that we have killed. we have eaten most of them and fed what dried fish we had to the dogs. sixteen miles."
"friday, feb. 3rd. twenty-six below. left camp at 7.15 a.m. men and dogs very thin and cannot travel far. we have gone about 200 miles on dog-meat and have still about 100 miles to go. i think we shall make it all right but will have only three or four dogs left. fourteen miles."
* * * * *
"saturday, feb. 5th. forty-eight below. just after noon i broke through shoal ice and had to make fire, found one foot slightly frozen. killed another dog to-night; have only five dogs now and can only go a few miles a day: everybody breaking out on the body and skin peeling off. eight miles."
these were his last written words, except his will, scrawled on a torn piece of paper with a cinder from the burnt-out fire by which he died. it read;—"all money in despatch bag and bank, clothes etc., i leave to my beloved mother, mrs. john fitzgerald, halifax. god bless all."
so, in brief, runs the story of the "lost patrol." there have been widely-heralded expeditions to north and south poles. in their months of outfitting and general preparations, these expeditions left nothing undone to ensure safety that science could devise or money buy. they knew they had the eyes of the world upon them with the consequent urge to worthy endeavour. i wish to take no honour from them, but to me there is something finer in the way brave men in lonely places and at dangerous tasks, in civilian as in military life, risk death continually, not for glory, or fame, or riches, but simply in doing their routine of duty year after year. the world takes little notice, save when some startling tragedy occurs, and then soon forgets.
this story is not told in vain if it will remind canadians of our own noble fellows, who in the wilds of our far-flung northern boundaries are adventuring their lives in these so-called "common" ways. "their heroic efforts," says commissioner perry, "to return to fort mcpherson, have not been exceeded in the annals of arctic travel. corporal dempster's reports show that the unfortunate men were wasted to shadows. all were strong, powerful, young men, and in the best of health and condition, when they left on their ill-fated journey. it is the greatest tragedy which has occurred in this force during its existence of thirty-seven years. their loss has been felt most keenly by every member, but we cannot but feel a thrill of pride at their firm endeavour to carry out their duty, and the subsequent prolonged struggle they made to save their lives."
brave and gallant gentlemen, i salute you!
