The Trail of 98 (35 page)

She merely shook her head, sitting there cold as a stone.

"Then," I said, "if you call yourself dishonoured,
I too will become dishonoured. If you
choose to sink in the mire, I too will sink. We will go down together, you and
I. Oh, I would rather sink with you, dear, than rise with the angels. You have
chosenwell, I too have chosen. We stand on the edge of the vortex, now will we
plunge down. You will see me steep myself in shame, then when I am a hundred
shades blacker than you can ever hope to be, my angel, you will stoop and pity
me. Oh, I don't care any more. I've played the fool too long; now I'll play the
devil, and you'll stand by and watch me. Sometimes it's nice to make those we
love suffer, isn't it? I would break my arm to make you feel sorry for me. But
now you'll see me in the vortex. We'll go down together, dear. Hand in hand
hell-ward we'll go down, we'll go down."

She was looking at me in a frightened way. A madness seemed to have gotten
into me.

"Berna, you're on the dance-halls. You're at the mercy of the vilest wretch
that's got an ounce of gold in his filthy poke. They can buy you as they buy
white flesh everywhere on earth. You must dance with them, drink with them, go
away with them. Berna, I can buy you. Come, dance with me, drink with me. We'll
live, live. We'll eat, drink and be merry. On with the dance! Oh, for the joy of
life! Since you'll not be my love you'll be my light-of-love. Come, Berna,
come!"

I paused. With her head lying on the cushioned edge of the box she was
crying. The plush was streaky with her tears.

"Will you come?" I
asked again.

She did not move.

"Then," said I, "there are others, and I have money, lots of it. I can buy
them. I am going down into the vortex. Look on and watch me."

I left her crying.

It is with shame I write the following pages. Would I could blot them out of
my life. To this day there must be many who remember my meteoric career in the
firmament of fast life. It did not last long, but in less than a week I managed
to squander a small fortune.

Those were the days when Dawson might fitly have been called the dissolute.
It was the regime of the dance-hall girl, and the taint of the tenderloin was
over the town. So far there were few decent women to be seen on the streets.
Respectable homes were being established, but even there social evils were
discussed with an astonishing frankness and indifference. In the best society
men were welcomed who were known to be living in open infamy. A general
callousness to social corruption prevailed.

For Dawson was at this time the Mecca of the gambler and the courtesan. Of
its population probably two-thirds began their day when most people finished it.
It was only towards nightfall that the town completely roused up, that the fever
of pleasure providing began. Nearly every one seemed to be affected by the
spirit of degeneracy. On the faces of many of the business men could be seen the
stamp of the pace they were going. Cases in Court had to be adjourned because of
the debauches of lawyers. Bank
tellers stepped into their cages sleepless from all-night
orgies. Government officials lived openly with wanton women. High and low were
attainted by the corruption. In those days of headstrong excitement, of sudden
fortune, of money to be had almost for the picking up, when the gold-camp was a
reservoir into which poured by a thousand channels the treasure of the valley,
few were those among the men who kept a steady head, whose private records were
pure and blameless.

No town of its size has ever broken up more homes. Men in the intoxication of
fast-won wealth in that far-away land gave way to excesses of every kind.
Fathers of families paraded the streets arm in arm with demi-mondaines. To be
seen talking to a loose woman was unworthy of comment, not to have a mistress
was not to be in the swim. Words cannot express the infinite and general
degradation. It is scarcely possible to exaggerate it. That teeming town at the
mouth of the Klondike set a pace in libertinism that has never been
equalled.

I would divide its population into three classes: the sporting fraternity,
whose business it was to despoil and betray; the business men, drawn more or
less into the vortex of dissipation; the miners from the creeks, the Man with
the Poke, here to-day, gone, to-morrow, and of them all the most worthy of
respect. He was the prop and mainstay of the town. It was like a vast trap set
to catch him. He would "blow in" brimming with health and high spirits; for a
time he would "get into the game;" sooner or
later he would cut loose and "hit the high places";
then, at last, beggared and broken, he would crawl back in shame and sorrow to
the claim. O, that grey city! could it ever tell its woes and sorrows the great,
white stars above would melt into compassionate tears.

Ah well, to the devil with all moralising! A short life and a merry one.
Switch on the lights! Ring up the curtain! On with the play!

In the casino a crowd is gathering round the roulette wheel. Three-deep they
stand. A woman rushes out from the dance-hall and pushes her way through the
throng. She is very young, very fair and redundant of life. A man jostles her.
From frank blue eyes she flashes a look at him, and from lips sweet as those of
a child there comes the remonstrance: "Curse you; take care."

The men make way for her, and she throws a poke of dust on the red. "A
hundred dollars out of that," she says. The coupier nods; the wheel spins round;
she loses.

"Give me another two hundred in chips," she cries eagerly. The dealer hands
them to her, and puts her poke in a drawer. Again and again she plays, placing
chips here and there round the table. Sometimes she wins, sometimes she loses.
At last she has quite a pile of chips before her. She laughs gleefully. "I guess
I'll cash in now," she says. "That's good enough for to-night."

The man hands her back her poke, writes out a
cheque for her winnings, and off she goes like a
happy child.

"Who's that?" I ask.

"That? that's Blossom. She's a 'bute,' she is. Want a knockdown? Come on
round to the dance-hall."

Once more I see the Youth. He is nearing the end of his tether. He borrows a
few hundred dollars from me. "One more night," he says with a bitter grin, "and
the hog goes back to wallow in the mire. They've got you going too Oh, Lord,
it's a great game! Ha! ha!"

He goes off unsteadily; then from out of the luminous mists there appears the
Jam-wagon. In a pained way he looks at me. "Here, chuck it, old man," he says;
"come home to my cabin and straighten up."

"All right," I answer; "just one drink more."

One more means still one more. Poor old Jam-wagon! It's the blind leading the
blind.

Mosher haunts me with his gleaming bald head and his rat-like eyes. He is
living with the little ninety-five-pound woman, the one with the mop of
hair.

Oh, it is a hades of a life I am steeped in! I drink and I drink. It seems to
me I am always drinking. Rarely do I eat. I am one of half a dozen spectacular
"live ones." All the camp is talking of us, but it seems to me I lead the bunch
in the race to ruin. I wonder what Berna thinks of it all. Was there ever such a
sensitive creature? Where did she get
that obstinate pride? Child of misfortune! She minded me of a
delicate china cup that gets mixed in with the coarse crockery of a hash
joint.

Remonstrantly the Prodigal speeds to town.

"Are you crazy?" he cries. "I don't mind you making an ass of yourself, but
lushing around all that coin the way you're doingit's wicked; it makes me sick.
Come home at once."

"I won't," I say. "What if I am crazy? Isn't it my money? I've never sown my
wild oats yet. I'm trying to catch up, that's all. When the money's done I'll
quit. I'm having the time of my life. Don't come spoiling it with your precepts.
What a lot of fun I've missed by being good. Come along; 'listen to the last
word of human philosophyhave a drink.'"

He goes away shaking his head. There's no fear of him ever breaking loose.
He, with his smile of sunshine, would make misfortune pay. He is a rolling stone
that gathers no moss, but manages to glue itself to greenbacks at every
turn.

I am in a box at the Palace Grand. The place is packed with rowdy men and
ribald women. I am at the zenith of my shame. Right and left I am buying wine.
Like vultures at a feast they bunch into the box. Like carrion flies they buzz
around me. That is what I feel myself to becarrion.

How I loathe myself! but I think of Berna, and the thought goads me to fresh
excesses. I will go on till flesh and blood can stand it no longer, till I drop
in my tracks. I realise
that somehow I must make her pity me, must awake in her that guardian angel
which exists in every woman. Only in that way can I break down the barrier of
her pride and arouse the love latent in her heart.

There are half a dozen girls in the box, a bevy of beauties, and I buy a case
of wine for each, over a thousand dollars' worth. Screaming with laughter they
toss it in bottles down to their friends in the audience. It is a scene of
riotous excitement. The audience roars, the girls shriek, the orchestra tries to
make itself heard. Madder and madder grows the merriment. The fierce fever of it
scorches in my veins. I am mad to spend, to throw away money, to outdo all
others in bitter, reckless prodigality. I fling twenty-dollar gold pieces to the
singers. I open bottle after bottle of wine. The girls are spraying the crowd
with it, the floor of the box swims with it. I drop my pencil signing a tab, and
when I look down it is floating in a pool of champagne.

Then comes the last. The dance has begun. Men in fur caps, mackinaw coats and
mucklucks are waltzing with women clad in Paris gowns and sparkling with jewels.
The floor is thronged. I have a large, hundred-ounce poke of dust, and I unloose
the thong. Suddenly with a mad shout I scatter its contents round the hall. Like
a shower of golden rain it falls on men and women alike. See how they grovel for
it, the brutes, the vampires! How they fight and grab and sprawl over it! How
they shriek and howl and curse! It is like an arena of wild
beasts; it is pandemonium. Oh, how I
despise them! My gorge rises, butto the end, to the end. I must play my
part.

Always amid that lurid carnival of sin floats the figure of Blossom, Blossom
with her child-face of dazzling fairness, her china-blue eyes, her round, smooth
cheeks. How different from the pinched pallid face of Berna! Poor, poor Berna! I
never see her, but amid all the saturnalia she haunts me. The thought of her is
agony, agony. I cannot bear to think of her. I know she watches me. If she would
only stoop and save me now! Or have I not fallen low enough? What a faith I have
in that deep mother-love of hers that will redeem me in the end. I must go
deeper yet. Faster and faster must I swirl into the vortex.

Oh, these women, how in my heart I loathe them! I laugh with them, I quaff
with them, I let them rob me; but that's all.

In all that fierce madness of debauch, thank God, I retained my honour. They
beguiled me, they tried to lure me into their rooms; but at the moment I went to
enter I recoiled. It was as if an invisible arm stretched across the doorway and
barred me out.

And Blossom, she, too, tried so hard to lure me, and because I resisted it
inflamed her. Half angel, half devil was Blossom, a girl in years, but woefully
wise, a soft siren when pleased, a she-devil when roused. She made me her
special quarry. She
fought for me. She drove off all the other girls. We talked
together, we drank together, we "played the tables" together, but nothing more.
She would coax me with the prettiest gestures, and cajole me with the sweetest
endearments; then, when I steadfastly resisted her, she would fly into a fury
and flout me with the foulness of the stews. She was beautiful, but born to be
bad. No power on heaven or earth could have saved her. Yet in her badness she
was frank, natural and untroubled as a child.

It was in one of the corridors of the dance-hall in the early hours of the
morning. The place was deserted, strewed with debris of the night's debauch. The
air was fetid, and from the gambling-hall down below arose the shouts of the
players. We were up there, Blossom and I. I was in a strange state of mind, a
state bordering on frenzy. Not much longer, I felt, could I keep up this pace.
Something had to happen, and that soon.

She put her arms around me. I could feel her cheek pressed to mine. I could
see her bosom rise and fall.

"Come," she said.

She led me towards her room. No longer was I able to resist. My foot was on
the threshold and I was almost over when

"Telegram, sir."

It was a messenger. Confusedly I took the flimsy envelope and tore it open.
Blankly I stared at the line of type. I stared like a man in a dream. I was
sober enough now.

"Ain't you coming?"
said Blossom, putting her arms round me.

"No," I said hoarsely, "leave me, please leave me. Oh, my God!"

Her face changed, became vindictive, the face of a fury.

"Curse you!" she hissed, gnashing her teeth. "Oh, I knew. It's that other,
that white-faced doll you care for. Look at me! Am I not better than her? And
you scorn me. Oh, I hate you. I'll get even with you and her. Curse you, curse
you"

She snatched up an empty wine bottle. Swinging it by the neck she struck me
square on the forehead. I felt a stunning blow, a warm rush of blood. Then I
fell limply forward, and all the lights seemed to go out.

There I lay in a heap, and the blood spurting from my wound soaked the little
piece of paper. On it was written:

"
Mother died this morning. Garry.
"

"Where am I?"

"Here, with me."

Low and sweet and tender was the voice. I was in bed and my head was heavily
bandaged, so that the cloths weighed upon my eyelids. It was difficult to see,
and I was too weak to raise myself, but I seemed to be in semi-darkness. A lamp
burning on a small table nearby was turned low. By my bedside some one was
sitting, and a soft, gentle hand was holding mine.