John looked in the plate-glass mirror. He had smiled at Sal, but she barely noticed. He had forgotten; his once-charming smile was, well, less than that. His gums were bleeding. He splashed the water over his face, swished it around his mouth, and spit. His fingers were swollen. He looked much older, he thought. Then he heaved his sack onto a shoulder and headed for the dock. The June sun soothed his aches as he strode, resolutely, nodding at folks who were nodding farewells. The illness left his pride intact, but he knew what he must do. He paused, closing his eyes until he saw the ocean waves rolling into shore. He could feel the spray. John swayed slightly, as if his knees might give way. He opened his eyes and a lad – eight or nine – was grinning broadly. He had splashed him … the "spray."
John smiled, then looked away, remembering …
It was fall of 1897 when he stepped off the boat with his mandatory ton of supplies. He and James stood at Dyea, trying to ignore the knots that were forming in their gut. Neither man was prepared for what lie ahead.
They steadied themselves with the guide rope on the Golden Staircase,” the fifteen hundred or so icy steps. John’s brother-in-law was suffering the effects of the cold, his jaw clenched tightly. John watched him falter, struggling himself. But he kept going. He didn’t know what was ahead, but he knew all too well what he’d left behind. He wasn’t going back.
John Griffith Chaney was born south of The Slot – the crack that ran down the middle of Market Street, in San Francisco – a dividing line of sorts. North of it were theatres and hotels and respectable folk with respectable houses. South of it were the factories and slums and the less-than-humble dwellings of the dirt-poor.
Something cold jolted John back from his thoughts. Pure mischief spread across the lad’s dirt-streaked face. John was full of spitfire himself at that age. He’d sold newspapers on corners and, after a time, figured out how to attract folks. He spent hours at the Oakland library each day. Even though he only finished eighth grade, John could read like nobody’s business. He’d scan the papers and shout out some exciting story. John sold more papers than anyone he knew. The boy had pluck; he still did at twenty-two, but he knew when he was licked.
He didn’t make much selling papers. He could do better. He worked thirteen- to sixteen-hour days, six or seven days a week, working in one factory after another until he was “no longer needed.” It was no life for a young man. John grew increasingly restless. He became an oyster pirate, stealing oysters from local mudflats at night, but he hated how “dirty” he felt. John always hated injustice; he loved it when folks got “what was coming to them” and when “poor folk” got a break.
Despite the hopelessness, John was a fighter like the scrapper who appeared in front of him again, grinning widely before running to torment some other unsuspecting soul.
John learned how to make a story sound like it should and he found work writing for a local paper, but that didn’t make much either. The depression gripped San Francisco (John was even arrested once for vagrancy). He had to find a way out.
Rumours began circulating south of the slot: rumours of "Gold!" spread through the streets like a fire through dry brush. John’s excitement grew and by the time he reached Dyea, he was burning with Klondike fever.
Nothing would stop him …
Nothing but scurvy. John’s limbs felt heavy, but he still had some fight left in him. And, by most standards, he was ruggedly handsome with his thick wavy hair and tall, lean frame. His smile hinted at a keen sense of humour (though it was hard to manage at present).
He’d seen suffering and even stupidity, here, like the prospector who perished when he couldn’t start a fire to save his soul. He froze. ‘Let that be a lesson to newcomers.’ John helped many, giving up some of his stock of vegetables.
John told tales on long winter months, of what he’d seen: of hardships and, of men and the horses that died on the Dead Horse Trail. But he never mentioned James. He wanted to preserve some shred of his brother in law’s dignity.
Comforts were scarce. All he wanted to think of now was home, and the ocean he would swim in. It would wash away the dirt and grime and disappointment of this place.
“John. John Chaney. Get in.” He lifted his bag on one shoulder and took his last look at Dawson. His dreams had melted with the spring thaw. He’d start over … perhaps even write ... and find a wife … kids …
John would never be without a dream.
John Griffith Chaney, son of William and Flora. He knew who he was, even if he wasn’t sure where he was going.
Maybe I’ll even get in some fishing. John smiled at the thought, then remembered his step-father, John London. John London had affectionately called him ‘Jack’; after all, it wouldn’t do to have two John Londons in the family. Jack London sounded better …
Yeah, he’d go fishing and maybe even write a book …
(If you guessed that John Chaney was Jack London, writer of Call of the Wild [among so many other books and writings], you are correct. This was my husband's favourite book in high school.