The Red Serge in the Goldfields

Letter 8

A Stampede on the Brink

When gold was discovered in the Klondike in 1896, the news traveled slowly until the steamers hit Seattle in July of 1897. Then it exploded. Tens of thousands dropped everything and joined the rush, ready to cross glaciers, climb mountains, and navigate wild rivers, all for a shot at fortune. The situation was ripe for chaos.

But the Klondike wasn’t in Alaska; it was in Canada (much to some stampeders’ surprise). And Canada had the North West Mounted Police.

And nothing said "Mountie" like the red serge.

The red serge was more than a uniform; it was a symbol of Canadian authority and presence. Made of bright scarlet wool and worn with dark blue trousers featuring a yellow cavalry stripe, the red serge tunic was originally inspired by British military dress. Its origins trace back to the 1870s, when the North West Mounted Police adopted it as a formal, visible reminder that law and order were extending westward across the Dominion.

In the goldfields, that blaze of red stood out against the snow and mud like a banner. For many stampeders, weary from travel and uncertainty, the sight of the red serge at the top of the pass or in the streets of Dawson was more than familiar; it was reassuring. As one of the stampede participants put it, "The appearance of the Mounted Police was most reassuring... There was law here, and it was enforced."

The First Mountie Enters the North

The gold rush hadn’t yet begun when Inspector Charles Constantine rode into the Canadian northland in 1894. But trouble was already brewing. Traders like John J. Healy and missionaries such as Bishop Bompas had sent urgent reports from the Fortymile region—fights over poker (a player slashed another across the belly and received a bullet through the hips in return), whisky flowing illegally into Indigenous camps, and not a badge in sight. Canada got the message: send the law before the chaos comes. So they sent Constantine.

Gruff, thick-set, and famously incorruptible, Constantine wasted no time asserting Canadian authority. He established a Mounted Police barracks at Fortymile, then promptly abolished the miners’ meetings, where disputes had been settled with rough justice, sometimes even death sentences. In one early case, when a meeting tried to strip a man of his claim over unpaid wages, Constantine overturned the verdict. From then on, only Canadian law would rule.

Inspector Charles Constantine

Locals quickly learned that the new boss came with rules. He banned bloomers on dance-hall girls and slapped excise duties on homemade hootchinoo (a home-made alcoholic beverage, popular when other liquors like whisky were scarce). These weren’t just petty crackdowns; they were signals. The free-for-all days were over. Some of the “freer spirits,” bristling at the regulation, packed up and moved to places like Circle City. But for those who remained, the message was clear: this was no longer a no-man’s land.

Constantine took his job seriously. Half in jest, he referred to himself as the “chief magistrate, commander-in-chief, and home and foreign secretary” of Fortymile. In reality, he wasn’t far off. He was a judge, customs officer, peacemaker, and moral compass, all wrapped in red serge.

The Border in the Clouds

Once the stampede began in earnest, the narrow trails to the goldfields became rivers of humanity, and none more so than the Chilkoot Pass. Every man and woman headed for Dawson had to drag their gear over this icy wall of rock and snow. It wasn’t long before the Canadian government realized it needed boots—Mountie boots—on the ground.

In February 1898, a detachment of North West Mounted Police officially took possession of the Chilkoot summit, acting on direct orders from Ottawa. This wasn’t just a matter of trail control; it was a political statement. The boundary between Alaska and Canada was hotly disputed. Americans claimed the line should sit far inland, at the headwaters of the Yukon. Canada insisted it was much closer to the coast. The Mounties settled the debate their own way: they planted a customhouse right on the spine of the pass, declaring, in classic fashion, that “possession is nine points of the law.” With that, the border moved from theory to snow-crusted reality.

Mounties' outpost at the summit of Chilkoot Pass

What those Mounties endured up there is hard to imagine. Their outpost was described as a “tiny hovel perched on the rim of a precipice,” battered day and night by shrieking winds and snowfall that never seemed to stop. Every stick of firewood and every log for the cabin had to be hauled twelve miles uphill. Yet still they stood their ground. The Union Jack fluttering in the storm above the hut was the first unmistakable sign that they’d crossed into Canadian territory, right next to a stoic sentry, shivering beside a Maxim machine gun.

But it wasn’t just symbolism. The Mounties were there to enforce a lifesaving rule: no one could enter the Yukon without a full year’s worth of supplies: roughly 1,150 pounds of food, plus tents, tools, and gear, adding up to about a ton per person. It was a brutal requirement, but it saved lives. And the Mounties enforced it without exception, checking thousands of stampeders and turning back anyone who tried to cheat the rule.

Their reputation for order and incorruptibility grew quickly. Skagway, just over the line on the American side, was already slipping into lawlessness under the thumb of Soapy Smith. But once across the summit, things changed. There are tales of men leaving sacks of gold nuggets unattended for weeks on the Canadian side, returning to find them untouched. One con man, blustering that he’d “shoot his way through the checkpoint,” was coolly handed a pistol by a Mountie and invited to try. He reconsidered.

Harsh weather, shifting snowfields, and the sheer madness of the rush couldn’t shake the Mounties loose from their post. Their red serge may have been covered in ice and soot, but to the incoming stampeders, it was a banner of order in the wilderness. And by placing it on the knife-edge of a mountain pass, the Mounties made something very clear: Canada was here.

The Long River

As the stampede surged beyond the mountain passes and onto the lakes, a new figure took command of the unfolding chaos: Superintendent Samuel Benfield Steele of the North West Mounted Police. Known to friend and foe alike as “The Lion of the Yukon,” Steele was a towering presence, both physically and in reputation. A seasoned officer who had policed the building of the Canadian Pacific Railway and once negotiated face-to-face with Sitting Bull, Steele brought with him a deep commitment to discipline, efficiency, and Canadian sovereignty. He had already played a crucial role at Chilkoot Pass, helping to establish the customs post on the border. But it was at the headwaters of the Yukon River that his true leadership would shine.

Samuel Steele

Following the crossing of the passes, the stampeders spilled out onto the frozen shores of Lake Bennett and Lake Lindeman, where the next great challenge began: building boats for the long journey downriver to Dawson. Thousands of desperate, inexperienced gold-seekers hammered together vessels in the mud and snow, some so hastily made they were barely more than wooden coffins. 

Steele saw the disaster coming and acted. His first move was to impose a system: every single boat had to carry a painted serial number, and his officers meticulously recorded the name of every person aboard, along with their next of kin. These records were dispatched to Mountie posts all along the Yukon River. If a boat went missing, the police could investigate. If someone vanished, their family would be notified. It was a simple but powerful innovation, and it turned chaos into an organized launch. The Mounties didn’t stop at paperwork. Steele’s men offered practical advice, urging amateur boatbuilders to “build strong—don’t start out in a floating coffin”, and regularly mediated disputes. 

Further downstream, Steele’s role became even more critical. The Yukon narrowed into Miles Canyon and White Horse Rapids, thundering stretches of churning water where dozens had already died. Boats piled up at the approach, crews paralyzed by fear, the current roaring ahead. Into this confusion strode Steele, a broad-shouldered figure in red, barking orders and restoring order. He declared that he would “make the laws as we go along—for your own good,” and he meant it.

Steele banned women and children from the canyon run, required boats to have adequate freeboard, and insisted only “competent men” take the tiller. Fines of one hundred dollars were levied for violations. To many, his rules seemed severe, but the results were undeniable. Wrecks in the canyon virtually ceased, and the river, once a gauntlet of death, became a navigable corridor. Under Steele’s command, what could have been a floating tragedy became one of the most astonishing logistical successes of the Klondike Gold Rush.

Dawson, the Lawful Boomtown

If Dawson City was the beating heart of the Klondike, the North West Mounted Police were the ones keeping it steady. By October 1897, just a year after Dawson’s chaotic birth, the NWMP had established a serious footprint. Their barracks, eight to ten log buildings forming three sides of a square, faced the Yukon River like a government compound dropped into the wilderness. Inside were officer quarters, storerooms, offices, even a court and a post office. In a town of hastily built cabins and canvas tents, the Mountie compound radiated structure.

Their presence was more than symbolic. The Mounties quickly assumed responsibilities that stretched far beyond typical law enforcement. In October 1897, they took over mail service, a thankless and chaotic task for which they had no training; yet they did it anyway. And though Dawson lacked paved streets or a sewer system, it had sidearm licensing laws. Guns weren’t allowed on the street unless you had a license. Mounties confiscated hundreds of revolvers, many of which were later auctioned off to fund operations.

As for crime? It existed, but not the kind you'd expect in a gold boomtown, Inspector Constantine took care of it. There were no murders in Dawson in 1898, and major thefts were practically unheard of. The most common charges included things like dog-stealing, disturbing the peace, and practicing medicine without a license. Sentences often included time on the government woodpile, where convicts chopped and stacked fuel in exchange for their keep. Repeat offenders were handed a “blue ticket”—a notice of expulsion from town.

When Superintendent Sam Steele arrived in June 1898 to take command of Dawson and the Yukon, both he and Constantine worked themselves to the bone. They fought illness and exhaustion but never dipped into corruption or self-enrichment. They left the Yukon “poor but respected,” their legacy written not in gold, but in the rare calm of a gold rush town that didn’t explode. Thanks to them, the Mounties weren’t just lawmen. They were the scaffolding that held Dawson together.

Beyond the Gold

As the goldfields quieted and Dawson’s fever began to cool, the two most prominent figures of the North West Mounted Police, Superintendent Samuel Steele and Inspector Charles Constantine, moved on to new postings. But their service in the Yukon left an imprint not only on the territory but on their own lives as well.

For Samuel Steele, the Klondike years were just the middle chapter of a rising arc. In 1899, shortly after leaving Dawson, he was selected to command Lord Strathcona’s Horse, a cavalry unit raised for the South African War. Some of his Klondike colleagues joined him, bringing frontier-tested discipline to a new battlefield. Steele’s military career continued through World War I, earning him a knighthood and the rank of general before his death in 1919. His legacy was one of honor and command, shaped in part by the deep discipline and resolve he had brought to the banks of the Yukon.

Charles Constantine’s post-Klondike story was more somber. After stepping down from his Dawson post in June 1898, he was reassigned to the remote Athabasca district, where he was given the immense responsibility of building a 750-mile road from Peace River to Teslin Lake. For three grueling years, he battled through bogs, bridged rivers, and hacked through forest, an undertaking that ultimately stretched his endurance to its limits. The road was never completed. Only 350 miles were finished before the project was quietly abandoned. Worn down by the physical toll of the work and the harsh northern conditions, Constantine died in San Francisco in 1912, a man whose dedication had come at great personal cost.

Though their fates diverged, both men shared the same incorruptible commitment to duty. They refused to profit from their authority. They enforced the law not with brutality, but with order, consistency, and the weight of their reputations. In doing so, they set the tone for the Mounties under their command, who mirrored their example across the goldfields.