The Bugle

Telegraph Creek, 1898

His breath caught in shock as the icy water closed around his naked body. He ducked his head under and scrubbed at his hair before emerging from the glacial stream. Handfuls of sand served as a quick body scour before he rinsed off and strode onto the bank, toweling off with a large piece of flannel.

This was Cataline’s morning ritual, practiced every day of his life since his boyhood in the Pyrenees Mountains. At the age of 68 he was robust, as strong and healthy as his horses.

Dressing quickly in his warm wool pants and white cotton shirt, he drew on his leather riding boots and made his way back to the crackling fire, where the cook, Ah Ling was preparing breakfast for the crew of packers. Cataline dug in his pack for his tin mug and poured himself some of the strong black coffee, stirring in a generous spoon of brown sugar. He sat on the nearest log, beside his secundo, Dave Wiggins.

Dave had been with Cataline’s pack train for nearly forty years. He was the son of a black American prospector and a Thompson Indian woman from Lytton. He liked to brag that he was the first white man born in Lytton during the Fraser River Gold Rush.

The two older men ate their oatmeal in comfortable silence, listening to the banter of the other packers. Cataline’s crew was a diverse mix of nationalities; Native Indian, Canadian, Chinese, Mexican, and American. Despite this, language barriers were minimal. Everyone had a basic understanding of Chinook Jargon, the universal trade language in British Columbia.

With breakfast over the team broke camp. Ah Gun, his corrigador rang the signal bell and all the mules and horses went straight to their own packs to await loading, and before long were heading in single file toward the Hudson Bay Company store in Telegraph Creek.

Just yesterday morning the pack train had delivered sixty-five loads of supplies up from the steamship dock at Hazelton. The trip had taken nearly three weeks through the rugged country between the Skeena and Coast Ranges, and Cataline would have liked to graze his animals for one day before starting out again, but this was not to be.

His next contract was to conduct a party of soldiers from the post at Telegraph Creek up into the Yukon, and the officer in charge had insisted on leaving today. There was a new Gold Rush happening in the Klondike, and they were needed to go and keep the peace.

Dawn was just breaking as the pack train came to a stop outside the store. Things were relatively quiet at this time of the morning, a few trappers and prospectors sprawled on the front porch, snoring softly into the bottles of whiskey and Hudson Bay rum that had arrived with yesterday’s shipment. Cataline went to rouse the factor to open up the storehouse so they could begin loading the soldiers’ equipment and supplies.

The work went smoothly, with minimal conversation as the packers bent to their task. Cataline had just balanced out two crates of ammunition on the back of a young mare, ready to cinch them down, when a loud trumpeting shattered the peace of the morning. The mare reared in terror, sending the crates crashing to the ground. This additional noise frightened her more, sending her bucking and rearing into the other animals, which were milling around, snorting in alarm and confusion.

Cataline grabbed her halter and hauled her head down, trying to calm the panicked horse. One loaded animal bolted around the corner of the building, with Paddy Carroll in pursuit. The men worked quickly to calm the horses, and just as everything looked like it was coming under control, that horrible noise trumpeted out again. Still hanging tightly onto the mare’s head, Cataline looked around in a fury, searching for the source of this disturbance.

He found it in the column of mounted soldiers not ten yards away, their commanding officer sitting smartly astride his horse, arrogantly surveying the mayhem he had created.

Enraged, Cataline bellowed, "Shut up that horn! Scara da mule! Put dat away!"

Colonel McIntosh smirked in amusement. "Settle down, Mr. Cataline, it’s only a bugle. How soon will you be ready to go?"

"Wit’ your help, who knows?" the packer growled. "Half hour, mebbe more." He turned away in disgust, and proceeded to reload the mare, whose ears twitched nervously as he let loose with a stream of curses in several different languages.

His men exchanged uneasy glances as they hurried back to work. Cataline’s temper was not a nice thing to be around, and they weren’t taking any chances. Not that he was a violent man; he didn’t have to be. His anger itself was intimidating enough.

He barked a few orders here and there, and soon he and his men swung into their saddles. "We go now!" he shouted at the officer, not waiting for a reply. Cataline clucked at the white bell mare, cracked his whip in the air, and headed for the trail. Ah Gun rang the bell and the train fell in behind.

When McIntosh had his bugler give the signal to move out, the men in the rear of the pack train were ready for it, and soothed the animals as best as they could when the bugling started. Those nearer the front saw Cataline swing around in his saddle, glowering and shaking his fist.

Aside from the bugle blowing, the trip went without any major mishaps for the first week. Sometimes the soldiers went on ahead to be sure the trail was clear, otherwise they followed the packer’s lead. The trail was rocky and steep in places, and where it ran through the swamplands a corduroy road had been built over it.

It seemed that the colonel went strictly by the book, giving most of his orders through his bugler. Breakfast, lunch, supper, and every other conceivable event was preceded by bugling. Cataline was in such a state of annoyance over the constant trumpeting that no one dared say a word to him. He steered clear of the pompous officer, preferring to communicate his orders through Dave Wiggins.

When McIntosh did attempt to speak to him, he would round on him and exclaim "Alla time blowa the buga, no gooda, scara de mule!" then stalk angrily away, muttering disgustedly.

He made his own fire away from the main one, enjoying the solitary company of his old companions Dave Wiggins and Ah Gun.

Colonel McIntosh was amused with the old fellow, thinking him eccentric, so after a while left him alone. And continued with the bugle blowing.

One day the long train was strung out, single file as usual, with the soldiers bringing up the rear. This stretch of corduroy road was an extremely rough one, the swamp beneath it very soft, making the logs uneven and a little unstable.

The rear mule was an old one, and Cataline was about ready to retire him to the ranch in Hazelton. He walked more slowly than the others, carefully feeling the logs with his hooves before putting his full weight on them.

One soldier grew exasperated with the mule’s slow pace, as they were falling behind the main procession. "Come on, old man, get a move on" he urged, and flicked its rear smartly with his riding crop.

The startled mule lurched forward, and stumbled over a raised log. One of his knees buckled, and the weight of his pack pitched him off balance. The soldiers watched in dismay as he rolled sideways into the swamp, and lay there helplessly kicking his legs into the air and braying at the top of his lungs.

The men leaped off their horses and the closest stepped gingerly into the muck to retrieve the mule’s halter rope. They began hauling on the rope, nearly pulling the poor animal’s head off, as it was impossible for it to right itself. The colonel was summoned, and he began ordering his men into the bog to roll the mule onto its feet.

The soldiers pushed and pulled, struggled and strained, grunted and groaned, all to no avail. Their legs sank deep into the mud, and water came up over the tops of their boots, soaking their feet. McIntosh gesticulated and shouted, as the mule became more deeply mired in the muck.

Word of the problem had passed up the line, and Cataline rode back to silently watch the scene of the struggle. He sat on his horse, his dark eyes sparkling in amusement. He knew the officer would not want to ask for help, but eventually he would have no choice.

The colonel was at his wit’s end when he finally admitted defeat, and he looked up at the packer in exasperation. "What shall we do now, Mr. Cataline?" he asked.

Cataline paused briefly, a look of triumph on his face. "Blowa de buga! Blowa de buga!"

by Irene Bjerky

This story was told by Sperry 'Dutch' Cline, a constable in Hazelton who took a great interest in Jean Caux, and kept an eye on him in his elder years. Constable Cline wrote several articles on Cataline, one of which may be viewed on this website under 'Cataline Articles'.

© Irene Bjerky