Chapter XVIII: The Mounted Police

Who has not heard of the Royal North-West Mounted Police, that devoted little band of men, about one thousand strong, who guard an empire? What magic lies in the title! What visions rise before the mind of lonely detachments, long, bleak trails, deeds of heroism, constant watchfulness, unswerving devotion and loyalty to the Sovereign of the Realm!

We have seen in former chapters how helpful they were to the Bishop in bringing in mails in the early days, and of their rescue of him and his household from the flood at Forty Mile. It therefore seems right that some account should be given here of these noble men, who patrol these great Northern regions, and how they have aided not only the miners and frontiersmen, but the missionaries as well.

There was a time in the history of Canada when the great North-West Territory belonged to the Hudson’s Bay Company. At length the British Government purchased the land from them for a large sum of money. Settlers began to pour into the country. All kinds came, bad as well as good, took up land, brought their families, and built homes, many of them out in lonely places. Liquor-dealers, horse-thieves, and desperadoes began to flock into the new country, thinking it a good place to carry on their illegal business. The Indians, inflamed by whisky or hatred of the new-comers, were always a source of trouble. It was never known at what instant an uprising would take place, when thousands of dusky warriors would sweep over the land, carrying destruction and death in their train.

It is a most trying task breaking down the trail for the dogs to bring along the sleds, loaded with provisions and camping outfit. The snow is generally light, and even after the snow-shoes have crushed it down the sleds draw hard, and the poor dogs make slow progress.]

It was at this critical time, 1873, that a little body of men, known as the North-West Mounted Police, entered the country to preserve law and order. What could a mere handful of men do in such a vast country, against such a host of redskins and evil white men? It was like the stripling David going forth to meet the giant Goliath. But as David had right on his side, and a mighty Power behind him, so had these few dauntless men who took up their gigantic task. Every man, as he went forth to make an arrest or settle some dispute, knew that he had the power of a great Empire behind his back. The renegade white men knew it, and the Indians soon knew it, too. They were well aware that if they shot down one of these prairie riders, thrust a sword through his breast, or injured him in any way, they would have to face the wrath of the whole British Empire.

Going, therefore, to his work clad with such an authority, one man, even a stripling, was a match for a horde. The lifting of his gauntleted hand was sufficient to quell a mob; the appearance of a red coat in a drinking and gambling house, where six-shooters were lying all around, was as if an army had appeared at the door; and a mere speck on the prairie caused the lone frontiersman and his wife to breathe more freely, for they knew a rider of the plains was on his long patrol of watchfulness.

They became the sleuth-hounds of the trails, and the watch-dogs of life and property. Woe to the man who had committed any crime! there was no region or country which could free him from the grip of the alert Reds. There was only one door of escape, and that was death. On snow-shoes and with dog-teams, through vast forests, over sweeping prairies, across barren grounds, they would track their man until they found him, either dead or alive.

No more thrilling instance is given of their coolness and courage than during the building of the Canadian-Pacific Railway right across Canada from the Atlantic to the Pacific. It was in 1883 that out on the prairies the work of construction was being rushed ahead. At one place a wily Indian chief, Pie-a-pot by name, and his numerous tribe had pitched their tents, and refused to allow the work to go on. Pie-a-pot had hundreds of well-armed braves, anxious for a fight, and only waiting for an opportunity to begin their deadly work. Here at last was the time, and their hearts beat high at the thought of sweeping away the pale-faces who had invaded their country.

The Mounted Police never considered numbers. When word reached them of what the Indians were doing, two smart members of the force, a sergeant and a constable, rode into Pie-a-pot’s camp. Just think of it—two against so many! It seemed like the sheerest piece of madness. The sergeant at once ordered the Indians to leave. This command was received with shouts of laughter. The braves gave vent to savage threats, and the women made the air resound with their shouts of derision. Then the sergeant calmly pulled out his watch, and told Pie-a-pot he would give him just one-quarter of an hour to obey his order and strike camp. At this the excitement became more intense. The braves jeered, discharged their rifles under the horses’ noses, and jostled the riders; but the two policemen remained as calm as if nothing unusual was going on.

When a strike is made in a new region, and the prospectors and miners rush to the place, the Mounted Police at once pitch their tents there. If the strike prove of importance, and the camp is likely to be permanent, the Police erect good log-houses for themselves.

_From a photograph by Muirhead._]

At the end of the fifteen minutes the sergeant placed the watch in his pocket, threw the reins to his companion, and walked deliberately over to Pie-a-pot’s tent. The coverings of the tent are spread over a number of poles, tied together near the top. These poles are so arranged that the removal of a particular one, called the “key-pole,” brings the whole structure down.

The sergeant did not say a word, but very quietly, so as to impress the Indians, kicked out the key-pole of Pie-a-pot’s tent, and brought the whole affair down upon the old man’s head. Howls of rage went up at this insult to the chief, and all rushed for their arms.

It was a critical moment. The least sign of weakness on the policemen’s part, or a motion from Pie-a-pot, would have been fatal to the two brave men; but they were as cool as ever. The sergeant then walked around, and kicked out all the key-poles of the other tents.

“Pie-a-pot,” says W. A. Fraser, the Canadian author, writing about this, “had either got to kill the sergeant—stick his knife into the whole British nation by the murder of this unruffled soldier—or give up and move away. He chose the latter course, for Pie-a-pot had brains.”

At this time the Mounted Police had not advanced into the Yukon territory; but as the miners began to arrive, Bishop Bompas longed for some authority to protect his dusky flock, and to quell the disturbances which sometimes took place. It was partly due to him that at last a body of these men were sent to Forty Mile. Just across the little Forty Mile River they built their post, at a place known as Cudahy. From here they patrolled the creeks, and settled any turbulent spirits who were bent on making trouble.

One night a man and a woman came to the Bishop’s house and asked him to marry them. This he at once did, never suspecting anything wrong. Just at the conclusion of the service a knock sounded upon the outer door. There the Bishop found a policeman, who at once asked to see the man he believed to be in the house.

“But he is engaged,” remarked the Bishop, “and cannot very well see you just now.” When, however, he heard that he was needed for some mischief he had been doing, the good missionary became very uneasy. He took the policeman into his study, where the newly-married man was standing with his back to the door. The policeman noticed that a revolver was sticking out of the man’s hip-pocket, and knew he would have to act without delay. Quickly crossing the room to where the man was standing, he seized the murderous weapon in one hand, and clapping the other on his shoulder, told him that he was a prisoner.

This sudden arrest surprised him, and he turned angrily upon the Bishop, thinking he had informed upon him. But the policeman soon explained everything, and that the woman standing there was the wife of another man living at Forty Mile. “In that case,” said the Bishop, sternly looking toward the prisoner, “the marriage I have just celebrated is null and void.” Then the humour of the situation seemed to strike him, and he added, with a merry twinkle in his eye, “And I have got the fees!”

The policeman then took the prisoner away, and driving a log into the ground in the centre of the largest of the shacks, handcuffed the man, and fastened him to the log with a trace-chain. They gave him several blankets, in which he rolled himself up and went to sleep. Finally, the man was expelled from Forty Mile. He was packed into a boat in the middle of the next night, given a piece of bacon, and pushed out into the current, with strict orders never to return. He was never heard of again—or the woman he had married—or the fees!

On the trail the mid-day meal is eaten in the open, in some sheltered place if possible, where there is sufficient fuel for a fire. The dogs remain in harness, and are not fed until their day’s work is done. It is a very trying experience to light a fire and prepare a meal on a cold day.]

When, several years later, so much gold was found on the Klondyke River, and thousands of men poured into the country, many more men of the Mounted Police were sent to the Yukon. If you were to go to-day to a little place called Tagish, on the head-waters of this great Northern river, you would see a number of tumble-down log-buildings; and going farther still down that stream, other deserted houses in lonely places would be seen. These ruins once throbbed with life and energy. The Yukon River was the great highway of traffic, and as the living stream moved by, summer and winter, ever-watchful eyes from some detachment noted the procession; willing hands were ready to uphold some weary wayfarer, and chafe his poor, numb body; active feet were always in readiness to track the miscreant to earth and bring him to justice. Only on the final day of account will it be known how many lives were saved, how many bands of lawless men held in check, and how much good done by that little body of men.

That was several years ago, and since then changes have taken place. Now there are two great nerve-centres, Dawson and Whitehorse. As the telegraph operator feels the beat of a city’s pulse many miles away, so the commanding officer knows what is taking place in the most remote portion of his huge district. Now, all along the trail which leads from Whitehorse to Dawson, a distance of 320 miles, policemen are stationed at regular intervals. A hold-up is an unknown event, and one travels as safely as along some quiet village in Eastern Canada.

If you go to the barracks at Whitehorse, you will see a pile of old registers, with thousands of names recorded there. Every man who goes down the river in an open boat must give his name, and have his boat registered. Sometimes three or four men go together. Then, upon reaching Dawson, if any are missing, the police at once begin to inquire. They know who were in the boat, and they at once ask what has happened to the others. In this way criminals have been found out and punished. Many are the stories those old registers could tell of the early, stirring days.

The writer has travelled 1,000 miles by dog-team in the Yukon, and everywhere he went he met members of the force, no matter how desolate the region. One Saturday night he and his Indian arrived, cold and tired, at a police post. Here they were kindly sheltered and fed. The next day being Sunday, the police-team was harnessed to a sled, and a drive made to a road house some distance away. Here service was held. No one could sing, but a big gramophone served instead, and rolled off several old, familiar tunes.

Everywhere the missionary goes he is sure to find a hearty welcome and assistance from these men. Living in the shadow of the big log barracks for about five years, the writer has seen much of these men. Many of them are from England, Ireland, and Scotland. They are, as a rule, a gentlemanly class of fellows, some having been bred in homes of comfort and luxury. Here they are all equal, unless they obtain the much-coveted stripes on the sleeves which lift them to the rank of corporal or staff-sergeant. Their scarlet uniforms, with the well-polished buttons, are often seen on the streets. They have their own skating-rink, near the barracks, toboggan-slide, and a fine library and recreation room. It is certainly pleasant to hear all through the day the sweet bugle-calls, summoning the men to their various duties. The present bugler, who is the son of an English clergyman, has kindly supplied the notes and words of some of the bugle-calls.

[Music: MEN’S MEAL: SECOND CALL.

Pick, pick ’em up, pick ’em up, hot po-ta-toes,
hot po-ta-toes; pick ’em up, pick ’em up, hot po-ta-toes, oh!]

[Music: STABLES CALL.

Oh, come to the sta-ble, all ye that are a-ble, and
Wa-ter your hor-ses, and feed them some corn;
Wa-ter your hor-ses, and give them some corn;
Wa-ter your hor-ses, and feed them some corn.
Oh, come to the sta-ble, all ye that are a-ble, and
Wa-ter your hor-ses, and feed them some corn.]

[Music: LIGHTS OUT.

Lights out! lights out!]

[Music: REGIMENTAL CALL (R.N.-W.M.P.).]

It was mentioned in another chapter how the police carried the mails along the river with dog-teams before the stage-road was built from Dawson to Whitehorse. They still do much work in this line, carrying mails to lonely outlying creeks. But the great task is that of carrying the mail over the Rocky Mountains to Fort McPherson, 475 miles from Dawson. Away up there in that desolate region, at Herschel Island and other places, are Hudson’s Bay Company’s men, as well as missionaries, hunters, and trappers, eagerly longing for news from the outside world. About Christmas-time a patrol starts from Dawson to carry the mail to these people afar off.

The dogs used by the Mounted Police, in harness and on the trail, are the best that can be obtained, and even then some of them give out beneath the fearful hardships of the trail.]

It is a Herculean task to break trail through a desolate wilderness and over the wind-swept Rocky Mountains. Only the hardiest men and dogs are chosen for this task. Usually there are about four policemen and two Indian guides, with five dog-teams and toboggans. If you look into a police report, you will read there the events which happen day after day, for it takes about three months to make the round trip of 950 miles in all. How careful is the man in charge not to tell too much about what that march means! But anyone who has been on the trail can easily read between the lines, and he sees hardships endured and difficulties overcome of which Arctic explorers might well be proud.

Suppose we pick out a few of these matter-of-fact entries of the trip of 1905:

“_January 1, 1906._—Roads very heavy. Distance travelled, twenty miles. Snowing all day. Thirty-five degrees below zero.”

“_January 8._—Followed McQuesten Lake to the end, and then followed the edge of the hills for about seven miles. Weather, 48 below. Strong wind all day.”

“_January 9._—Four men went ahead to break trail.”

“_January 10._—Weather very windy, and 61 below.”

“_January 16._—Snow very deep, with water on ice. Weather 18 below in a.m., and 38 below in p.m.”

“_January 18._—Had a very hard day on the dogs, and they just played out. Braine Creek is nearly all glacier. Nearly all of the party got wet, and we had a narrow escape from freezing. Distance travelled, eighteen miles. Weather, 54 below.”

“_January 26._—Left camp at 8 a.m., with a blizzard blowing.”

“_January 27._—Dog John had to be turned loose on account of frozen feet.”

“_February 1._—Had to turn dog Ping loose, and neither he nor John turned up at night.”

“_February 2._—Dogs did not turn up, and I reckon their feet are too bad for them to travel.”

“_February 8._—The mountain we crossed is a very bald one, and we could not see much of it on account of storm.”

“_February 14._—Left camp at 7.30 a.m., and followed the portage two miles to Peel River, and then seventeen miles down the Peel to a native cabin, and camped there at 8 p.m. We had eaten the last bite of food for breakfast, but fortunately came to an Indian camp, where we obtained twenty-four rabbits, and gave the dogs each half a rabbit. Distance travelled, nineteen miles. Weather, 52 below.”

“_February 15._—Followed the Peel River down to Fort McPherson, where we arrived at 4.30 p.m. On our arrival all of our dogs were just about played out; in fact, one of them, Sandy, dropped about a mile above the fort.”

And so His Majesty’s mail was carried over that desolate waste. The bare words, “dog’s feet frozen,” “broke trail,” “52 below zero,” “wind blowing,” “snow very deep,” and such-like—what pictures rise before the mind as we read these laconic words! They are typical of the North, where men shrink from enlarging on their hardships, lest they should seem like boasters. It was the same with Bishop Bompas. Read the accounts of his journeys, and you will find them, as a rule, long, dry statements of his many journeys.

These pictures of the carrying of the mail from Dawson to Fort McPherson will prove interesting. They were given to the writer last summer by one of the men who made the long journey. As far as is known, they have never yet been given to the public.

And so far up in this Northern region these noble men carry on their great work. Well it was that King Edward lately bestowed upon them the additional regal name, and now they are known as the Royal North-West Mounted Police. Their motto is, _Maintien le droit_. And well do they follow it out. One more closing incident is typical of them all:

A young man was sent to hunt up some horses that had strayed. It was winter, and a blizzard struck him. He never returned, but the next spring, in a cut-off _coulée_, an officer on patrol found a uniform by the side of a skeleton. A piece of paper arrested his attention. Picking it up, he read the pathetic words which had been scrawled there by the young man, on a leaf torn from a pocket-diary, the winter before: “_Lost. Horse dead. Am trying to push ahead. Have done my best._”