History That Doesn't Suck - 88: “The Last Frontier:” The Purchase of Alaska and the Klondike Gold Rush

Episode Date: April 12, 2021

“This is my last opportunity to make a big haul. Alaska is the last West.” This is the story of the US purchase of Alaska and the famous Klondike Gold Rush. Russia needs funds and sees its territory of Russian-America as a liability. That has US Secretary of State William Henry Seward seeing opportunities, such as fisheries and access to Asian markets. It’s an ideal match of interests for two major powers—provided William Henry can convince the Senate to approve the treaty to purchase a region twice the size of Texas. Decades later, three men find gold in one of the Klondike River’s tributaries. Although in Canada, most of the 100,000 prospectors (called “stampeders” or “klondikers”) who’ll flock here do so via Alaska. There’s wealth to be had if they can survive the journey … and avoid getting robbed blind in Skagway by Jefferson “Soapy” Smith. ____ Connect with us on HTDSpodcast.com and go deep into episode bibliographies and book recommendations join discussions in our Facebook community get news and discounts from The HTDS Gazette  come see a live show get HTDS merch or become an HTDS premium member for bonus episodes and other perks. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

The Civil War and Reconstruction was a pivotal era in American history. When a war was fought to save the Union and to free the slaves. And when the work to rebuild the nation after that war was over turned into a struggle to guarantee liberty and justice for all Americans. I'm Tracy. And I'm Rich. And we want to invite you to join us as we take an in-depth look at this pivotal era in American history.

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I'm your professor, Greg Jackson, and as in the classroom, my goal here is to make rigorously researched history come to life as your storyteller. Each episode is the result of laborious research with no agenda other than making the past come to life as you learn. If you'd like to help support this work,

receive ad-free episodes, bonus content, and other exclusive perks, I invite you to join the HTDS membership program. Sign up for a seven-day free trial today at htdspodcast.com slash membership, or click the link in the episode notes. It's Friday night, March 29th, 1867. William Henry Seward is at home in his Washington, D.C. mansion on the corner of Lafayette Square, a stone's throw from the White House. Now 68 years old, the short, slender Republican with a Roman nose, impressive gray hair, and who answers to his first and middle names, is playing the popular card game whist with his family.

It's been almost two years since Lewis Powell tried to assassinate him under this very same roof at about the same time John Wilkes Booth was assassinating his dear friend, U.S. President Abraham Lincoln. But scarred as he might be from that night, emotionally and physically, William Henry Seward is still here serving as Secretary of State.

Much to the chagrin of many of his fellow Republicans, he now does so under Lincoln's successor, President Andrew Johnson. Around 10 o'clock, a visitor interrupts the Seward family game night. It's Russian Minister Eduard Stekl. A stocky man with dark, receding hair and a friendly, mutton-chop beard, Eduard brings urgent news. I have a dispatch, Mr. Seward, from my government, by cable. The emperor gives his consent to the session. Tomorrow, if you like, I will come to the department and we can enter upon the treaty. The land to be ceded is Russian America.

William Henry has dreamed of the United States acquiring this far northern territory for years. He's been laying the groundwork with Edward at least since last year. Now that Tsar Alexander II is officially on board with the broad strokes of their negotiations, this treaty is in the bag. Well, provided that, per Article II, Section 2 of the US Constitution,

two thirds of the senators present concur. And the Senate's current session ends tomorrow at noon. The hopeful secretary doesn't want to leave this hanging though. That just opens the door to something going wrong. So why not get this treaty entered upon a little faster than that? Smiling at his late night visitor, William Henry replies,

Why wait till tomorrow, Mr. Stoeckel? Let us make the treaty tonight. But your department is closed. You have no clerks and my secretaries are scattered about the town. Never mind that. If you can muster your legation together before midnight, you will find me awaiting you at the department, which will be open and ready for business. Everyone snaps into action.

The Russian minister, American secretary, and support staff are at the State Department building by midnight. Seated in a room furnished with a large writing desk, comfortable chairs, and an enormous globe, Edward informs his American counterpart that Russia is uncomfortable with a few last items. His government wants to receive payment when the treaty is signed, not months later. It wants the payment made in London, not Washington, D.C. It's also seeking a guarantee that San Francisco will continue to buy Russian-American ice for a year. William Henry Perry's The sale of Russian America

must be clear and absolute, meaning Russia will have no further say about the region. Nor can the United States pay sooner or do so in London. Prevailing across the board, the Secretary of State nonetheless sweetens the pot by increasing the previously agreed upon purchase price from $7 million to $7.2 million. Excellent. All's agreed, and within a few hours, they have English and French versions of the treaty ready. The Russian and American statesmen sign for their respective countries at 4 a.m. It's now six hours later, 10 a.m., Saturday morning. With only two hours remaining in the session, senators are hard at it, discussing issues in the Capitol when the serge hard at it discussing issues in the Capitol

when the sergeant at arms makes an announcement. A message from the President of the United States. You can see the disdain on many of the legislators' faces. Another veto. Some glibly predict to each other. Yeah, the predominantly Republican senators are getting fed up with the unionist Democratic president as post-war reconstruction continues.

But this isn't a veto. After a pregnant pause, the sergeant at arms proclaims, a treaty for the session of Russian America. What? A treaty? Most are taken off guard. William Henry only mentioned it to the chairman of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee, Senator Charles Sumner, last night. He only told other influential senators this morning.

Not much lead time, but this treaty is a delicate task. The Secretary of State knows the Senate is automatically hostile to anything remotely associated with President Andy Johnson. He further knows some senators mistakenly think Russian America is just a frozen wasteland. Both of those things have kept William Henry tight-lipped. But can he shepherd this through now? Not today. The surprise of something big and possibly worthwhile is just too much. One senator is overheard saying, I thought we were going to have another hack at Andy Johnson today, but it looks now as if we're going to vote for the biggest and most unheard of thing the administration has done yet. But there's hope. It's decided that the Senate will open a new,

special three-week session on Monday, and during that, this august body will decide whether to ratify. In the meantime, this massive potential sale of land is referred to the Foreign Relations Committee. In other words, Chairman Charles Sumner now holds most of the marbles. William Henry spends his next week wining and dining key senators and seeking friends in the press. It's all he can do.

Charles Sumner spends the week doing his homework. Between the Library of Congress and the Smithsonian Institute, the influential Republican becomes an expert on Russian America almost overnight. But is this leading him to favor the treaty or oppose it? The following Monday, April 8th, Charles speaks for more than three hours on the Senate floor. I can't give you the verbose, graying Massachusetts man's exact words,

but he does favor the treaty. Charles lays out a vision of greater access to Asian markets, landing a blow against British interests in North America, and gaining excellent natural resources, particularly fisheries. He further notes that the region isn't as frozen over as some Americans assume. Charles also calls Russian America by a different name. It's derived from one of the land's indigenous peoples, and according to Frederick Seward, it's his secretary of state father's

preference. That name is Alaska. William Henry's done it. The next day, April 9th, 1867, the Senate approves his treaty by a vote of 37 to two. In doing so, the already continent-wide United States is gaining roughly 500,000 square miles of new territory, more than double the size of Texas, for about two cents per acre. It is the last major accomplishment of William Henry Seward's political career, and soon it'll be the scene of another major gold rush,

with guns slinging, saloons, brothels, and everything else you'd expect in the Wild West. This is America's last frontier, Alaska. Welcome to History That Doesn't Suck. I'm your professor, Greg Jackson, and I'd like to tell you a story. Today, we experience the Wild West's last holdout, Alaska. But before we do that, let's hang with William Henry Seward for a bit. I'll explain the sale of Russian Alaska in greater detail. Then we can debunk the myth of Seward's folly as we follow the secretary on his visit to Alaska's current capital, Sitka. From there, we'll head across the border and bear witness to the 1896 discovery of gold near the Klondike River in Canada. Though not in the U.S., the Klondike, or Yukon Gold Rush of 1897-98,

is going to rock Alaska's world. We'll come to appreciate that as we join hopeful prospectors, known as stampeters or klondikers, while they traverse the difficult, if not deadly, Chilkoot and White Passes. But just in case a gold rush doesn't feel Wild West enough for you, I'll also introduce the King of Skagway, Jefferson Soapy Smith. I wouldn't call him a gunslinger, but let's just say this con man would fit in just fine with a few of the people we've met in recent episodes. Dressed warm? Good. Then let's figure out how on earth the United States

acquired Alaska in the first place. Then we can head north. Here we go. I think Tsar Alexander II's decision to sell his American turf to the United States can best be summed up in two words. Strategic retreat. Let me elaborate. By the mid-19th century, American whalers and traders have a noticeable presence in Russian America and its waters. This got Russian authorities wondering. Might they find themselves in a conflict with the United States over whaling and fishing rights,

if not for the land itself in years to come? Meanwhile, the government-subsidized Russian-American companies fur trade isn't running a profit, and only 700 or so Russians, tops, even live here. Given that reality, Russian leaders aren't sure a conflict with the United

States is worth it. Now let's add another global power to the picture. Britain. In addition to being Russian America's neighbor via Canada, the British Empire rules in India. It has done so in relative security since driving the French presence from Asia's subcontinent more than a century ago at the end of the Seven Years' War. Yeah, we're more than three years into this podcast and that war still has ramifications. I know you missed me referring to it, so you're welcome for that. But with the Russian Empire seeking to expand southward toward India and elsewhere across Eurasia, the two imperial powers are at odds. Just a little over a decade ago, they were on opposite sides of the Crimean War.

Britain and its allies won. And now, the two juggernaut empires are vying for control, or at least influence, over Central Asia. Though mostly diplomatic in nature, this throwdown will endure for over half a century. Eventually, it will come to be known as the Great Game. But you'll have to wait a few decades for English author Rudyard Kipling to popularize the phrase. Right now, in 1867, he's just a two-year-old kid growing up in India. Putting all of this together, the Tsar and his financially hurting government see selling

Russian America as an opportunity to 1. unload a territory that has become a financial liability, 2. put some serious coin in the coffers to help with expenses, including Russia's imperial ambitions to counter those of Britain's and Central Asia. Three, strengthen its relationship with the United States. And four, with a little luck, encourage conflict between the U.S. and Britain over this land in North America.

Basically, in this century of global empires treating territories like the future board game risk, this sale is a strategic retreat for Russia to shore up and build elsewhere. And while Horace Greeley's New York Tribune and a handful of other newspapers mock the purchase, describing Alaska as, while Russia, or a polar bear garden, the truth is that most of the press and most Americans dig the purchase and see it as a win-win for Russia and the United States. I know, if you're up on Alaskan history, you've heard that the media at large immediately denounces the U.S. buying Alaska as Seward's Folly.

But that just isn't true. Don't get me wrong. The term Seward's Folly will be invented just well after the purchase. Right along with the after-the-fact exaggerations of American society criticizing said purchase. If you want to read a most adamant rebuttal of this myth, I recommend William Henry's biographer, Walter Starr. He suffers no fools on this point.

So next time someone mentions Seward's Folly to you, and someone will, this myth is in many a US history textbook, you can kindly let them know that the only folly is the myth's repetition. And if that's too awkward, just send them this episode. Don't worry, I can tell them. Truth is, William Henry's contemporary Americans see what he does. New opportunities for whaling and access to additional fisheries and Asian markets. To that very point, San Franciscans treat William Henry like a rock star when he passes through their port city on California's coast during his nine-month-long vacation-slash-tour that takes him through the western United States and Mexico between 1869 and 1870. But I won't detail his time visiting in the evolving lower 48 or neighboring Mexico.

Given today's topic, there's really only one part of the tour we have to hear about. William Henry's visit to the region he arranged for the nation to buy, Alaska. It's Tuesday morning, June 13, 1869. Excited citizens crowd a San Francisco pier where a steamship is tied off. The people are here to bid farewell to the city's illustrious visitor, former Secretary of State William Henry Seward. After arriving in a special rail car provided by former California governor and Central Pacific associate Leland Stanford,

William Henry had mentioned that he'd like to see Alaska. Immediately, he had a posse volunteering to accompany him and his choice of two steamers. He selected the one better suited to pass through channels, the active, and today they depart. The crowd erupts in cheers as the active's crew casts off her lines and erase her colors. The vessel steams west and soon passes through the mild, wide strait that explorer John C. Fremont named the Golden Gate. With brief stops in small coastal settlements like Seattle, it's a week before the active reaches the Strait of Juan de Fuca in the 49th parallel. They're now in the thousand mile long inside passage.

Running from Seattle through British Columbia up to Alaska's long southeastern strip, often called the Panhandle, every sight is breathtaking. Here's how William Henry's son, Frederick Seward, describes it. Now came a voyage to whose scene the world offers no parallel. The steamer passed through an archipelago of islands, straits, and sounds, now miles in width, now narrowing to a few hundred yards. The waters are tranquil as a Swiss lake, safe for the frailest bark canoe, and yet deep enough for the largest ocean steamer. Evergreen forests of tall cedars and spruce and pine crowd down to the water's edge so dense

as to be impenetrable. Sometimes hills, covered with like forests, cluster behind them on every side. Sometime precipitous cliffs rise hundreds and even thousands of feet with cascades dropping over them like those of Yosemite. Wow, the inside passage sounds gorgeous, Frederick. with cascades dropping over them like those of Yosemite. Wow. The inside passage sounds gorgeous, Frederick.

And it's amid this almost untouched beauty that the act of steams toward the Alaskan capital, where more than a century of Russian rule ended with a flag ceremony exchanging its banner for that of the United States on October 18, 1867. This is Sitka. It's about 6 p.m., Friday, July 30th, 1869. Former Secretary of State William Henry Seward and his entourage are just setting foot

on the shore of Baranov Island and into formerly Russian-settled Sitka. With the summer sun shining late into the night at this northern latitude, they could see everything while walking the small capital's dirt roads and plain sidewalks. The wooden houses, the ornately decorated Russian Orthodox church, and of course, the Russian-built fort sitting on a prominent hill overlooking the town. The stars and stripes flutter as its cannons fire a salute to welcome Sitka's distinguished

visitor. Entering the town, William Henry and his group also notice a variety of people around them. Many are Russians, whose three-year window to choose between Russian and American citizenship is drawing to a close. Frederick Seward tells us they're dressed in their home nation's traditional attire. Others are indigenous Tlingit, wrapped in their customary blankets. The U.S. military men are obvious in their blue uniforms. Finally, there are American merchants who wear the flashiest of styles

now available in San Francisco. After visiting the mayor and the old Russian governor's house now being used as a military headquarters, William Henry wanders the sunny nighttime streets for three hours. The New Yorker doesn't waste a second of his precious few days in Sitka.

He enjoys a reception in his honor, tours the new sawmill and brewery, reviews the troops, and attends both Lutheran and Russian Orthodox church services. But no part of his time here will be longer remembered than his visit with Sitka's indigenous people, the Tlingit.

On William Henry's second day in Sitka, Chief Ebbets of the Tongass Tlingit pulls out all the stops in welcoming the secretary to his village. William Henry walks on luxurious furs. In other words, the chief has literally done the equivalent of rolling out the red carpet. Beyond feasting, storytelling, and merriment, Chief Ebbets also presents William Henry with gifts of fur, a gorgeously decorated hat, a chest, and more. But this isn't just a party. The distinguished guest is experiencing a tradition, or ceremony, rather, shared by indigenous peoples and First Nations of the Pacific Northwest.

This is a potlatch. The ceremony of gift-giving, dancing, and feasting might accompany a number of significant events, like today's visit from the former Secretary of State. But it also displays the status of the host, in this case, Chief Ebbets. It's probably safe to say, then, that the chief is showing his American guest, who just happens to be the very man who arranged for the United States to purchase Alaska from Russia, that as a Tlingit leader, he is William Henry's equal. But the potlatch's symbolism seems lost on the former Secretary of State. Worse still, for the relationship between the United States and the Tongass Tlingit, William Henry won't reciprocate by giving the chief or his people gifts. It's less likely an intentional snub and more a cultural misunderstanding.

Evidence for that is in his son Frederick's writings as he describes a potlatch not as an important cultural event that includes future exchange as a show of respect, but as, quote, a complementary gift, close quote. Whatever his understanding, the fact remains that the secretary's failure to deliver on potlatch reciprocity causes very real and deep hurt to the Tongass Tlingit people. So down the road, they'll answer the only way they can, with a totem pole.

Totem poles are important to the cultures of the Pacific Northwest's indigenous peoples and First Nations. They might signify a specific clan, tell a story, memorialize the deceased, or serve other purposes, like shaming. In the 1880s, the Tongass Tlingit will carve and erect a shame pole for William Henry Seward. When it wears out, the next generation will produce a new shame pole in the 1930s, and when that one wears out in the early 21st century, Tlingit artist Stephen Jackson will carve still a third one.

Now, William Henry can't right the wrong, which, if ever righted, would bring down the shame pole. He dies before the first one goes up. Surrounded by his family, the anti-slavery, Civil War and Reconstruction era Secretary of State passes away in his New York home on October 10, 1872. his family, the anti-slavery, Civil War, and Reconstruction era Secretary of State, passes away in his New York home on October 10, 1872. Despite living in such a divisive time, or perhaps because of it, the last words to escape his dying lips are, and I quote, love one another. William Henry could be a divisive figure, but many Americans, including Harriet Tubman, and even

President Ulysses S. Grant, who didn't always see eye to eye with William Henry, will mourn the death of this statesman who fought on behalf of immigrants, Black Americans, and literally reshaped the geography of the nation with the acquisition of Alaska. Surely, word of William Henry's death made it to the Tlingit at some point. So why will the shame pole endure 150 years later? Like many symbols, it evolves. Future Tongass Tlingit leaders will describe the shame pole not as representing the once Secretary of State's 1869 visit

as much as expressing their feeling that the United States, like Russia before it, does not and has not respected their sovereignty. I suppose that whether the shame pole comes down or someday takes on a fourth iteration will depend on future relations between the Tlingit and the United States. By the way, if you find yourself in Alaska's panhandle, maybe doing one of those Alaska cruises, you can visit the shame pole topped with a caricature of William Henry Seward. It's just down the road from Ketchikan in the village of Saxman. Now, while in Sitka, William Henry asserted in a speech that Alaska's

resources would quickly draw settlers. They don't. Apart from the fur trade-oriented Alaska Commercial Company, few American entities or citizens will head to the region anytime soon. As such, it takes Congress 17 years from the 1867 treaty to even set up a government. With a white population of less than 2,000 and an indigenous population of 25,000, Alaska is left under the control of the U.S. Army until 1877. It then falls to the Treasury Department as customs collector Motram Ball briefly finds himself the highest-ranking government official around. The U.S. Navy takes the baton in 1879 and holds it until Congress finally delivers civil government with the passage of the Organic Act in 1884.

But Alaska's few thousand citizens are less than jazzed with it. The first Organic Act makes Alaska a district, hence my careful avoidance of the word territory this whole episode, with a presidentially appointed governor and federal court, but no legislature. Instead, the district is to rely on the laws of the next closest state, Oregon. Washington is still a territory. Alaskan citizens could expect not to send voting representatives to Congress. Only states do that. But man, they don't even start as a territory. It's frustrating, and nothing but an influx of people is going to change the situation.

Though not statehood worthy, an influx will come. The same precious metal that brought American citizens and immigrants alike to California in the mid-19th century is about to inspire a whole new generation to risk life and limb for immediate riches in the far northern climes of Alaska and just over the border in Canada's neighboring, soon-to-be-split, Northwestern territory. This is the Klondike Gold Rush. Want to learn how you can make smarter decisions with your money? Well, I've got the podcast for you. I'm Sean Piles, and I host NerdWallet's Smart Money Podcast. On our show, we help listeners like you make the most of your finances.

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Come find us at ancienthistoryfangirl.com or wherever you get your podcasts. It's early August, 1896. A California-born fisherman named George Carmack and his Tagish First Nation family have made camp at the confluence of the Yukon and Klondike Rivers in a far western region of what is currently still a part of the Northwest Territories, Canada. To use their English names, we have George's wife, Kate, their daughter, Graffy Gracie, Kate's brother, James Mason, better known as Skookum Jim, as well as two nephews, Charlie and Patsy. The family's nets

are in the water, and fish caught earlier are curing in the taggish fashion when George sees a familiar face in a boat rowing toward their camp. It's a local prospector, Robert, or Bob Henderson. George calls out as Bob exits his boat. Hello, Bob. Where in the world did you drop from, and where do you think you're going? Just came down from Ogilvy. I'm going up the Klondike. What's the idea, Bob?

There's been a prospect found in a small creek that heads up against the dome. I think it empties into the Klondike about 15 miles up, and I'm looking for a better way to get there than going over the mountains from the Indian River. Got any kind of a prospect? We don't know yet. We can get a prospect on the surface. When I left, the boys were running up an open cut to get to bedrock. Bob has George's attention. At this point, he's ready to see if he can get in on the action.

Where are the chances to locate up there? Everything staked? Bob pauses. He glances at George's First Nation family, then responds. There's a chance for you, George. But I don't want any damn cywashes staking on that creek. Let me explain that last line. The word Bob just used to describe George's family, cywash, comes from a pidgin language called Chinook jargon. The word itself is believed to be a corruption of the French word sauvage, that is, savage.

In other words, Bob just called George's family damn savages. It's nothing George isn't used to hearing, but that's where the conversation ends. Bob returns to his boat, pushes off, and departs to rejoin his partners. Well, George is interested in prospecting, but he isn't going to do so with Bob. Not after that refusal of his family. The next day, George, Skookum Jim, and Charlie set out on their own. Rather than going up the Klondike River and joining Bob at Gold Bottom Creek, the three men head up the tributary closest to them, to Rabbit Creek.

The next few days are of no real value. We find the scarcest traces of gold and eventually hike over a ridge that bring them to the creek where Bob Henderson is. Crossing paths again, George promises to let Bob know if he finds gold back on Rabbit Creek. Share the wealth, you know? But then Bob refuses to sell tobacco

to Skookum Jim or Charlie because the two men are taggish. George isn't going to forget that. Finding nothing worthwhile near Bob, the trio hike back over the ridge, and on August 17th, one of them, possibly Skookum Jim just washing out a dishpan, sees it. Thick, soft yellow metal among flaky slabs of rock

just visible to the naked eye under the cool, clear running water. Yeah, it's gold. The three scream and dance with joy. They collect some, then stake their claims. Now here's where things get murky about the discovery. By Canadian law, a prospector may only have one mining claim in a given mining district at a time. There's exactly one exception to this though. Whoever discovers gold gets two claims. In this case, George is credited as the double claiming discoverer, while Jim and Charlie take one claim each.

But did George discover it? Or as some accounts say, did the three fear that locals and Canadian law wouldn't respect a First Nation man making the discovery, so Jim chose to hand the credit to his white brother-in-law? Or did George duplicitously push this idea on his brother-in-law to get the double claim? These are questions with which historians grapple, but we'll never find satisfying answers. All we know for sure is that George is credited with the discovery and

gets two claims. Jim and Charlie get one claim each. And as they record their claims, bragging all the way, bringing hundreds of prospectors up Rabbit Creek, soon renamed Bonanza Creek, they never tell Robert Henderson. His refusal to pan beside or sell tobacco to Tagishman literally cost him a fortune. How's that for karma? Skookum Jim, George Carmack, and Charlie's Find isn't the first in Western Canada or Alaska. On a small-scale level, Alaskan gold mining goes back to the Russian era. The Russian-American company actually kept close hold on the extent of its knowledge of gold for fear that prospectors would overrun the region.

The discovery of gold near Sitka around 1872 piqued some interest, and prospecting picked up all the more when Joseph Juno and Richard Harris found gold just a little to the north and east of Sitka in the Gastineau Channel in 1880. Prospectors flocked to this spot at the top of Alaska's panhandle, and within a year, they established the first new settlement in Alaska since the Russian era. After some flirtations of naming it Harrisburg for Richard Harris, the miners decided to go with his French-Canadian partner and dubbed it Juneau. And unlike so many other mining towns, this one won't disappear after the gold does.

Eventually, it will replace Sit disappear after the gold does. Eventually, it will replace Sitka as the district's capital. So all that to say, Skookum Jim, Charlie, and George's discovery isn't the first bit of gold found up north. And as you can tell from Robert Henderson's presence, their discovery wasn't even the first whiff of gold along the Klondike River. But this discovery changes the game. The far western part of Canada's Northwest Territories will soon break off as the Yukon Territory, and the spot where George and his family were camping, the confluence of the Yukon and Klondike Rivers, will become Dawson City. Dawson will be home to tens of thousands of prospectors and have all the economic

trappings they bring. Saloons, dance halls, gambling houses. Given the last few episodes, you know the drill. But while the Klondike or Yukon Gold Rush is in Canada, it has a large impact on the United States as Americans join the fray. And as many of these soon-to-be prospectors come via Alaska, it will greatly impact this far North American district. The deluge of prospectors really gets going the next year, in July 1897. That month, two ships, each with passengers carrying small personal fortunes in Klondike gold, make their way to San Francisco and Seattle, respectively. As the newly enriched passengers disembark, word of their wealth and its origins spread like wildfire through the nation's newspapers. Eager would-be prospectors, soon known as Klondikers, or, given their rapid movement, Stampeders, are fast on their way to the Pacific coast, looking to board a ship that can take them up the inside passage to Alaska, from which they can continue on to the Klondike.

Now, Klondikers could travel overland through Canada. But as we know from episode 83, overland travel is slow, arduous, and pretty much sucks without robust railroads. So it's not exactly shocking that most Klondikers opt to head to the West Coast, usually San Francisco, California, or Seattle in the recently upgraded from territory to state of Washington, then travel by ship to Alaska. If they really want to blow money and go in the right, not frozen time of year, Klondikers can sail just under 3,000 miles

from Seattle, Washington, to St. Michael, which is located in Western Alaska. Once there, they can transfer from ship to riverboat, then go eastward and up the Klondike River for 1,700 miles, all the way to Dawson City. It's a much quicker trip, only six weeks. But if you have that kind of cash, maybe you don't need to resort to prospecting?

Oh well, adventure, am I right? Anyhow, most Klondikers go to Alaska William Henry Seward style, via the inside passage. That's what a young Californian named Jack London does. Bored with farm and factory work and unable to afford another semester's tuition at UC Berkeley, the future famous author turns Klondiker. Only two weeks after the July 1897 arrival of that ship in San Francisco with newly enriched miners, Jack and his brother-in-law ship out of that same port city. They sail up the west coast, into the Pacific Northwest's inside passage, past Sitka, past

Juneau, and right into a fjord at the top of Alaska's panhandle, called the Lynn Canal. Finally, they end their 1500 mile voyage by disembarking at the head of the fjord's Teia Inlet. But we've only finished the first of three legs on this journey to the Yukon. Beginning the second leg, Jack must make a choice as he sets foot on Alaskan soil. Does he head out from the established overnight town of Dai'i? Or should he get going from its neighboring and fellow nascent but now thriving town of Skagway? The two are only a few miles apart from each other, but each leads to the start of two very different trails over some serious mountains.

Dyee will take him through the Chilkoot Pass, while Skagway leads to the White Pass. Both have their pros and cons. Luckily, you don't have to decide. I'm going to take you on both. Not wanting to ditch Jack London just yet, let's follow him on the Chilkoot. Basically, this trail is for fans of mountaineering, so I hope Jack London has been working on his cardio and doing his endurance training. The Chilkoot is a grueling 33-mile path that increases several thousand feet in elevation. And the last half mile is just cruel.

In that short distance alone, the trail climbs 1,000 feet. It is so steep here, it actually has a 1,500-step staircase carved into the ice and snow. Appropriately, the gold-fevered stampeters call it the Golden Staircase. Have you ever seen Klondike Gold Rush photos of countless people, warmly covered from head to toe, ascending steep, snow-covered paths in a line longer than those at an amusement park during peak hours? If so, it's probably a photo from the Chilkoot Trail. And in case that doesn't sound difficult enough to some of you endurance athletes,

let's add a ton of weight to the equation. I mean that ton literally, as in 2,000 pounds. Naturally, the exact number will differ for every Klondiker, but that's a fair estimate. In addition to their clothes and equipment, they are required by Canadian law to bring a one-year supply of food. If they skimp, a Mountie may very well stop them right here on the path's summit. So in order to move all those supplies, Klondikers are going back and forth on this arduous 33-mile trail.

Our future author, Jack London, figures that, in moving his gear, he traveled each mile of the Chilkoot Pass 20 to 30 times. Good God. If Jack wasn't in shape when he got here, he is now. Some get help moving their gear by hiring less well-off stampeters or indigenous packers. Before personally setting off this massive 1897 to 98 gold rush, Skookum Jim and George Carmack actually met doing this very job here on the Chilkoot Pass.

In fact, Jim's nickname, Skookum, comes from that work. Skookum means strong in the Chinook jargon, and that's certainly an accurate description of this well-built, physically powerful, taggish man. Okay, now let's check out the other route, the White Pass Trail. Here we are, back at the head of the Teia Inlet. We're just a few miles away from Dahi, now in Skagway. This path is longer. It's also significantly easier. So if you're looking at one of those photos of stampeters still in a ridiculously long line, but on far more level terrain and accompanied by horses, it might have been taken here. And yes, not being so steep,

it needs a literal staircase to surmount. Stampeders can use horses to carry their supplies through the White Pass. Nice. Unfortunately, some Klondikers' knowledge of and concern for their beasts of burden does not equal their interest in getting gold. As a result, they overpack and overwork their horses.

As the fatigued animals trudge along the slick, snowy, boulder-covered trail, their hooves might slip and sometimes that has deadly results. As tens of thousands of Klondikers take this path, hundreds of horses plummet to their death on the White Pass Trail. Of course, horses aren't the only casualties on these trails. All sorts of dangers await the Stampeders. They might die in an avalanche, like the one that kills 43 men climbing the Chilkoot on April 3rd, 1898.

Then there's hypothermia, disease, as well as suicide and even murder. Short as the second leg of the journey may be, it's the most dangerous. But those Stampeders who persevere through either the Chilkoot or White Passes aren't done yet. The other side only puts them at the headwaters of the Yukon River, usually at Lake Lindemann or Bennett. They now have to build their own boats and take them the last 500 or so miles to Dawson City. This goes smoothly for some, like author Jack London. Having taken the Chilkoot Pass, he's now at Lake Lindemann. He and his group take two weeks to build a boat, then push off on the lake.

The Whitehorse Rapids pose plenty of danger, but they manage it, then coast safely through the more placid remaining 400 miles. All told, they spend about one month on their small watercraft. Others aren't so lucky. Beyond struggling to build a boat, so many lives are claimed by the waters here that the Canadian police begin to regulate travel. For instance, if a party includes women and children, they're flat out forbidden from the White Horse Rapids. They'll have to carry their boats down past that point before getting on the water. So we've made it to Dawson City, and there are many fascinating, fun stories that can be told of life up here. Perhaps best known is that of the successful prospector Swiftwater Bill Gates, who offers the renowned beauty and dance hall girl,

Gussie Lamour, her weight in gold if she'll marry him. She turns him down flat. But alas, we can't tarry and pan for gold on the Bonanza Creek. Time is short, and we cannot let this episode end without meeting the legendary conman who's taken over the last frontier city of Skagway. And we've got to hurry. He isn't long for this world. This is the death of Jefferson Sobey Smith.

Napoleon Bonaparte rose from obscurity to become the most powerful and significant figure in modern history. Over 200 years after his death, people are still debating his legacy. He was a man of contradictions, a tyrant and a reformer, a liberator and an oppressor, a revolutionary and a reactionary. His biography reads like a novel, and his influence is almost beyond measure. I'm Everett Rummage, host of the Age of Napoleon podcast, and every month I delve into the turbulent life and times of one of the greatest characters in history, and explore the world that shaped him in all its glory and tragedy. It's a story of great battles and campaigns, political intrigue, and massive social and economic change, but it's also a story of great battles and campaigns, political intrigue, and massive social and

economic change. But it's also a story about people, populated with remarkable characters. I hope you'll join me as I examine this fascinating era of history. Find The Age of Napoleon wherever you get your podcasts. When Johann Rall received the letter on Christmas Day 1776, he put it away to read later. Maybe he thought it was a season's greeting and wanted to save it for the fireside. But what it actually was, was a warning, delivered to the Hessian colonel, letting him know that General George Washington was crossing the Delaware and would soon attack his forces. The next day, when Rall lost the Battle of Trenton and died from two colonial Boxing Day

musket balls, the letter was found, unopened in his vest pocket. As someone with 15,000 unread emails in his inbox, I feel like there's a lesson there. Oh well, this is The Constant, a history of getting things wrong. I'm Mark Kreisler. Every episode, we look at the bad ideas, mistakes, and accidents that misshaped our world. Find us at constantpodcast.com or wherever you get your podcasts. It's just past 1.30 on the 4th of July, 1898. We're back at the starting point for Klondikers traveling the White Pass, Skagway, Alaska. The city didn't even exist a short while ago, yet it's now the largest in the district. 8,000 people call this place home, enjoying a thriving economy that serves the Klondikers

as they pass through at the rate of 1,000 per week. The city's size is obvious today. Just take in the crowd thronging Broadway's wooden sidewalks to watch the Independence Day parade. As the parade progresses, one participant riding a dappled gray horse pushes his way to the front. In his late 30s, the man cuts a trim figure, has dark hair, or has a thick, full beard.

Huh, okay, now he's pushed past the Grand Marshal. Seems he wants to steal the show. Then again, maybe he already has. Between his caged, pet-balled eagle on the star-spangled wagon behind him, and his men distributing candy, peanuts, and firecrackers to kids all along the way, who isn't paying attention to him? He also calls most of the shots around here. This is Jefferson Soapy Smith. Jeff is a confidence man. These figures don't capture the imagination quite like gun-slinging bandits robbing trains,

but make no mistake, they have found success in the American West. Jeff got his start young in life. Born in Georgia, his family moved to Round Rock, Texas. He was there the day Sam Bass' gang got into a shootout with the Texas Rangers in 1878 and remembers watching it play out. It was during these early Texas years that Jeff began to learn and successfully practice the simpler tricks of the confidence trade, you know, cards and shell games, that sort of thing. But by the 1880s in

Colorado, he had really perfected his game. He had a con in which he set up on the street and feigned to be a soap salesman, giving cash prizes along with the purchase of a bar of soap. He'd make sure passers-by witnessed as someone scored a $100 bill. And there's the draw. Then he'd sell them all his $5 per bar soap. Of course, the winner was always someone from his gang, and the real buyers got nothing but very overpriced soap. But what else did you expect? By 1884,

his con led to a nickname. Jeff Smith was now Soapy Smith. And by targeting outsiders, people who don't vote or pay taxes in the town he's currently working, Soapy found some lawmen and public officials were willing to work with him. For instance, in 1892, he and his crew rigged elections sufficiently to just run the town of Creed, Colorado. Through these means, he could establish businesses in which to fleece his victims, such as gambling halls and saloons. Yeah, Soapy's no small-time huckster.

He's far scarier than that. He comes across as legitimate. But by the 1890s, Soapy was seeing the same changing world as Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid in the last episode. The Wild West was shrinking, and his opportunities were shrinking with it. That sent the very wanted Butch and Kid to South America.

For the less wanted Soapy, though, it meant heading to the last remnant of the West, or the last frontier, as it's known, Alaska. Soapy said as much in 1897, to quote him, This is my last opportunity to make a big haul. Alaska is the last West. I know the character of the people I shall meet there, and I know that I am bound to succeed with them. And that brings us back to Skagway in 1898, where Soapy has more than proven just how right his assessment was as he brings a lifetime of illegal, dubious talents to bear. He buys off

the U.S. Marshal. Soapy even sets up a company of volunteer militia. The outbreak of the Spanish- American War in February creates the perfect opportunity for this patriotic move, and Soapy is on it. To be fair, he could be something of a patriot. Not sure how you can fleece your fellow citizens and be a patriot, but hey, people are complicated. Crucially, Soapy also sticks with his target the outsiders game. Not hard to do when, as I mentioned earlier, a thousand Klondikers pass through Skagway each week. Stampeders don't know it, but Soapy's gang of a hundred men is already working them before they even ship out of Seattle. Once they get to Alaska, he's also got men on the trail, all trying to lure these hopeful prospectors to one of Soapy's fine Skagway establishments, like a saloon or gambling house. Now, I don't condone this. I think

that goes without saying, but my personal favorite of Soapy's Skagway cons is his telegraph office. After traveling across the continental United States and steaming up the Pacific Northwest, who wouldn't want to send a telegram home to let their family know they've made it safely to Alaska? Klondikers not only pay to send the telegram, but they pay to receive the message when their families send back a response. You know what's really impressive about that? Skagway doesn't have a telegraph line, so it's all bunk. And if a thug who answers to Soapy like he's the freaking godfather should rob a Stampeder so blind the man can't even continue on to the White Pass, well, that's fine. The ever

legitimate appearing Soapy will generously lend the poor soul enough cash to get back to Seattle. So, in this rough and tumble town of nightly gunfights and more than its fair share of muggings and murder, Soapy has built quite the empire to lord over. But even in Alaska, the sun is setting on the Wild West. As we've seen so often in these overnight boom towns, some Skagway residents have recently formed a vigilante group. They call it the Committee of 101. They haven't moved on the all-powerful Jeff Soapy Smith yet, but its members are sick of this King of Skagway's rule. Then there's the Iron Horse. The White Pass and Yukon Railway Company

is working on laying track from Skagway up, you guessed it, the White Pass. And the big money operation has no interest in answering to the whims of a mob boss. Perhaps they won't have to much longer. Just a few days after the 4th of July parade, the vigilantes see their opportunity to strike, and they take it.

It's the night of July 8th, 1898. Soapy is at his headquarters, his parlor, as it's called, drinking and scheming with friends. The man's upset. Here's the deal. Earlier today, some of his gang robbed John Douglas Stewart, a successful Klondiker returning home to British Columbia, of about $2,600 worth of gold dust. Or so says John. Soapy's men are claiming John lost his gold fair and square in a three-card gambling game.

Except witnesses saw Soapy's men trying to press John into playing, him refusing, then the gang snatching his bag of gold anyway. Oof. Soapy's standing by his guy's story, but vigilante Skagway residents, including 17 White Pass and Yukon Railway officers, have been meeting and talking today. They want to move against Soapy, and right now, some 200 of them are meeting yet again

down on Juneo Wharf. Now he's got his gang and his own vigilante group to boot, but after almost a year in Skagway, are things slipping? And can Soapy let this meeting go on? It's an affront to his power. It's now about 9pm. Still drinking, still deciding what to do, Soapy receives a note. It says the crowd down at the wharf is angry. Drunk and angry himself, the Skagway King grabs his Winchester rifle, possibly a revolver,

and sets out to confront the vigilantes as half a dozen or so of his men follow. Though armed, it seems the con man thinks he can talk his way out of things. It's not more than 15 to 30 minutes before Soapy reaches it, but you need to know that Juno's wharf is no small thing. 15 to 20 feet wide and six to 10 feet above the mud, then water below,

the wharf extends half a mile out into the water. Point being, as large as this meeting is, none of its attendees can see or at least recognize Soapy. Though not too dark at this latitude in the summer, they're simply too far out on the wharf. But the vigilantes did place four guards up here at the wharf's shore end. They aren't necessarily meant to get violent, just to keep a lookout for Soapy's gang. Only one of them is actually armed, Frank Reed. Leaving his men on the shore, Soapy walks, filled with rage, right down the wharf.

With his rifle slung over his shoulder, the King of Skagway orders the first guard, John Landers, and his unnamed friend off the wharf. They obediently jump to the ground six feet below. The next set of guards, Josiah Tanner and Jesse Murphy, offer no resistance either. Soapy blows right past them. Soon, he gets close enough for the final guard, Frank, to recognize him.

A former but no longer friend of Soapy's, Frank calls out, Halt! You can't go down there! Soapy's rifle remains shouldered and Frank's revolver is still tucked. But as Soapy keeps advancing, some accounts say the two men start yelling. Swearing. They're now face to face, just inches apart. It only lasts a few seconds. King Ascague swings his rifle off his shoulder.

He may intend to club Frank since he's too close to fire, but whatever his intention, Frank catches the Winchester with his left hand. As he presses the muzzle away, the guard pulls his.38. Seeing Frank's revolver, Soapy exclaims, My God, don't shoot! Though he pulls the trigger, Frank's trusty Smith and Wesson fails to discharge. With the stakes elevated, both men now take aim and proceed to fire everything they've got at the other.

They fire their first shot simultaneously, then unload on each other. Frank is shot in the leg and lower abdomen, or groin. He lays face down on the wharf, breathing, but mortally wounded. He'll die in the days to come. Soapy has a grazed left arm and a hole through his left thigh, and his heart. Soapy is dead. If you believe the prevailing narrative to date, that is. In the 21st century, Soapy's great-grandson, also named Jeff Smith, will contend that Frank didn't fire the failed shot. According to Smith, one of the other guards, Jesse Murphy, came up after the

gunfight and picked up Soapy's dropped rifle. It's at this point that Smith believes his great-grandfather exclaimed, my guy don't shoot. But Jesse did. Right through the heart. Perhaps the most compelling part of Smith's argument, which he makes in his biography, alias Soapy Smith, The Life and Death of a Scoundrel,

is that it would be quite hard for a man shot through the lower abdomen by a.44-40 at close range to squeeze off a shot. Honestly, nailing down the details on these western figures is often next to impossible, but I want you to know both versions. If Jesse didn't kill Soapy, he does nonetheless grab the dead man's rifle at this point and aim it at the now leaderless gang members back at the wharf's shore end. Someone else yells to them, they've killed Soapy, and if you don't clear out quick, they will kill you too. The six men do the math on their odds against 200 rather rapidly. They clear out. Soapy's gang gets it. Their days in Skagway are over. If Soapy hadn't died that July night in 1898, his empire would have died soon all the same.

The Klondike is simply saturated with too many prospectors. I mean, this cold rush drew an estimated 100,000 people. Only 40,000 actually made it all the way to Dawson City, but that was still far too many for everyone to grow as rich as George Carmack or Skookum Jim. Besides, by the end of the year, a gold discovery in western Alaska precipitates the 1899 Nome Gold Rush, which, I'll note, draws a friend of ours from the last episode, Wyatt Earp. Then in 1902, the Alaskan interior brings the last frontier yet another gold rush. This is how we get the city of Fairbanks. And taken together, these gold rushes had quite an

impact on Alaska. Let's stick with the Klondike since that was our focus today. By the time this gold rush is said and done, that once obscure far north region of Canada yields $150 million worth of gold. Not a bad take for the international Klondikers, many of whom were Americans that promptly went back to the states and pumped their findings into the nation's economy. Nor was gold the only source of fame and fortune. Jack London doesn't succeed as a prospector, but he sure gets some good material for his future career as a writer. How else does a kid from California grow up to write a riveting novel in which the main character is a sled dog in the Yukon?

That's my half a sentence and not doing full justice summary of The Call of the Wild. And like the California gold rush, there's plenty of money to be made selling supplies or services to prospectors. Skagway owes its existence to that. Finally, there are political implications.

Even though the Klondike, Nome, and Fairbanks gold rushes only double Alaska's population between 1890 and 1900, from about 30,000 to 60,000, it's enough of a change to make the United States government pay more attention to Alaska. In 1898, Congress passes legislation enabling railroads to gain a right-of-way and permitting settlers to homestead. In the years to come, further laws create real municipalities, paving the way for the district to upgrade to a territory with a legislature in 1912. to settling some questions over their border between the District of Alaska and the Yukon Territory, which suffered from nebulous wording in an 1825 treaty made between the Russians and the British.

And yes, while Canada has enjoyed greater autonomy since the 1867 British North America Act, Britain still has a significant role in its government at the turn of the century. Let's just say Canada's self-governance is still evolving. The disputed border gets sorted in 1903. So the United States has its last frontier, Alaska. And as it evolves from district to territory,

you might say the Wild West is over. Or is it? We have a few loose ends to tie up, including a visit with an incredibly popular Wild West show. Next time, we'll sort out fact and myth on the stage as we reconnect with Sitting Bull or Wowed by Annie Oakley. And meet the man behind this show, Buffalo Bill. HTDS is supported by premium membership fans.

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