Читать книгу Gold Mountain - Vicki Delany - Страница 12

The word chaos had been invented to describe Skagway in the late summer of 1897.

Angus and I had arrived in Alaska aboard the good ship Bristol out of Victoria. The town didn’t even boast a dock; ships had to anchor at sea and ferry passengers and cargo to shore with boats. Horses — scrawny, terrified beasts, every one — were shoved overboard to sink or swim. We humans, along with all our possessions, were unceremoniously dumped on a muddy patch of rocks and seaweed. Fortunately, I was possessed of sufficient charm, plus the proceeds of the sale of Mrs. NcNally’s jewellery, to hire a man to ferry our trunks to the best hotel in town. I tried to barter down from the outrageous $50 an hour the foul-breathed man wanted to charge, but he shrugged and said, “You want to wait a couple hours, lady, rate’ll go down to twenty. ’Course by then tide’ll be high.”

I paid.

All I felt on my arrival in Alaska was sheer horror. Angus, on the other hand, stared at everything with wide-eyed wonder and boyish enthusiasm. Viewed from the boat, the town was nothing but a disappointing cluster of white canvas tents, immediately beyond which a dark line of trees loomed. Snow-capped mountains filled the sky. At low tide, the air stank of rotting fish and vegetation and mud. To one side of the scattering of tents lay wilderness, on the other the ocean, and I wondered uneasily what I had gotten myself into.

My unease only grew when we set foot on land.

The town boasted no more than a couple of actual buildings. Everything else, commerce as well as housing, was in tents. The main street, grandly called Broadway, was nothing but a line of tents. Why, tree stumps stuck up from the middle of the muddy roadway!

Nevertheless, I was here, and I immediately set about establishing my business venture. I’d made the acquaintance of a large number of people — first among those waiting for ships in Vancouver and Victoria and then aboard the Bristol — whom I might be able to employ. Women, for the most part, who called themselves actresses or dancers. Those I suspected were heading for the Klondike for another line of work, I avoided. On board the ship, I auditioned a group of male musicians and a vaudeville entertainer and offered them employment. They were all enthusiastic, and I felt confident about the venture.

I had plans of renting a building to use as my theatre, but now that I saw the town, I was beginning to have doubts I could locate anything suitable.

There was hope, however. Buildings were rising from the forest, virtually before our eyes, the air full of sounds of sawing and hammering.

“Isn’t this absolutely grand, Mother,” Angus said happily while we ploughed our way through the mud after our porters, there being no room on the cart for passengers.

I had taken two steps on so-called dry land and already the muck dragged at my skirts. Propriety be damned, I yanked my skirts up, folded the excess fabric into my belt, and stalked after my son and our worldly belongings.

Immediately upon checking into our hotel, I stripped the bed, bundled the sheets into a ball, threw them (and all their occupants) into the hall, and remade the bed with sheets I’d brought. With a considerable degree of foresight, I’d packed expecting conditions not to be entirely of the sort I am accustomed to, so I dug out a bottle of ammonia and a couple of rags and set Angus to wiping the entire place down. I changed out of my travel-stained clothes and put on a light blue day dress and matching hat that wouldn’t have been out of place on Pall Mall. I then wrapped a length of fake pearls, of good enough quality to appear real on not-too-close inspection, around my neck and completed the costume with pearls in my ears. Ordering Angus to remain in our room until I returned, I set off to explore our new home.

The grand tour took about five minutes.

A gambling parlour looked like a good place to begin scouting out the territory.

I knew better than to hesitate and walked directly into the tent that called itself The Pack Train Saloon.

It was the middle of the day, yet the establishment was busy. Every man in the place looked up as I entered. The roulette wheel clattered to a stop. Hands of cards were dropped and dice lay abandoned.

“Good afternoon,” I said. “I am Mrs. MacGillivray and I am here to do business.”

“Ma’am.” A man came out from behind the bar. “We don’t allow that sort o’ business here.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I said. Through a stroke of considerable fate, I happen to speak with a cut-glass aristocratic English accent. I find that the proper use of the Queen’s English reduces Americans and Canadians to bumbling fools. “I will be opening a theatre, a place of respectable stage entertainment. I am in search of premises to rent.”

The men glanced at each other.

It did not escape my notice that one particularly sallow-faced fellow slipped out the door.

“If you would be so kind,” I said to the bartender, “as to direct me to the real estate office.”

“Theatre?” he said. “What sort of theatre?”

“We will perform a selection of stage plays, have musical interludes, some dance performances, a comedian. Accommodation such as this,” I waved my hand to indicate the tent and all the men in it, “would be suitable. Until a proper building can be erected.”

“You thinkin’ of serving liquor?”

I was, but decided it would be best not to let this fellow know, yet. I would be setting up in competition with him.

“No.”

“Good,” he said. “Cause it ain’t legal to serve liquor in Alaska. Ain’t that right boys?”

They nodded at the bartender’s words. Every last one of them clutched a dirty glass. I eyed the bottles displayed on the plank serving as a bar and on the shelves stacked at the rear. There was even a keg of beer.

“Naturally, I would not be interested in breaking the law,” I said.

“Right glad to hear that,” a lazy voice said from behind me.

I turned. The sallow-faced man was back, breathing heavily. Beside him stood a heavily-bearded man with well-oiled black hair. He was perfectly dressed in a white silk shirt and satin waistcoat. A diamond pin pierced his tie, and a wide brimmed hat was in his hand.

The men cleared a path, and the newcomer walked toward me, his eyes fixed on my face.

“Ma’am. My name is Jefferson Smith. How may I be of assistance?” He gave me a broad smile. His accent was deep and slow and sounding of warm honey.

“Mrs. Fiona MacGillivray.” I held out my hand. Mr. Smith took it in his. His nails were neatly trimmed and clean. He bowed over my hand, and I wouldn’t have been entirely surprised if he’d kissed it.

At last, a gentleman of culture and refinement.

I repeated my business.

“Why don’t we go to my office and talk in private,” Smith said when I’d finished.

That didn’t sound like a good idea. “Do you have a place for rent?” I asked.

“You see, Mrs. MacGillivray,” he said with a sad shake of his head, very sorry at being the bearer of bad news. “I don’t know what things are like where you come from, but here in Alaska, ladies cannot own businesses.”

I turned to the bartender. “I’ll have a glass of lemonade, please.”

He blinked. “I don’t got lemonade.”

“In that case, I’ll have whatever that gentleman is having.” I pointed to a large man without a tooth in his mouth or a hair on his head, clutching his glass of mud-coloured liquid.

The bartender looked at Mr. Smith. Smith nodded and I was poured a drink. The glass didn’t look too clean, but I hoped the strength of the liquor would kill any infection before it could kill me. I accepted the glass, held it to my mouth, took a quick sniff, threw back my head, and swallowed it all.

Gut-rot. Highly watered gut-rot.

The men stared at me, no doubt expecting me to spit it back up and turn red with coughing. I handed my glass to the bartender. “I’ll have another, please. Not so much water this time.”

“That’ll be fifty cents for the two.”

“Quite expensive for flavoured water, I’d say.” I pulled the coins out of my reticule and slapped them on the counter. “Mr. Smith, being a newcomer in your fine town, I wouldn’t dream of breaking any laws. Fortunately, I am not a lady. Just as the refreshment served here contains no alcohol.”

The bartender handed me my second drink. I put it on the counter. “Mr. Smith, gentlemen. Good afternoon.” I made my way to the door, and men cleared a path in front of me. When I reached the tent flap, I turned around. Every eye in the place was on me. I had not the slightest doubt that Mr. Jefferson Smith was the big man in this town. “The first evening of theatre will be offered free for everyone. To thank you all for your hospitality.”

A wave of men’s voices followed me down the street.

* * *

When I returned to what laughingly passed as the best hotel in Skagway, Angus was not there. I felt a moment’s panic.

Had I made a terrible mistake, bringing my child here? In England he’d lived at home with me until he was seven, first in the care of a doting nanny and then a governess. On arriving in Toronto, I found him a place in a good Episcopalian boy’s school, where he was to be prepared for the life of a proper gentleman. He wasn’t entirely an innocent. At one time, I’d been called by the headmaster, who was threatening to expel Angus and his friends for escaping the school at night by climbing down a drainpipe.

But nothing they would have done there could prepare Angus for the Alaskan wilderness.

I took off my hat and looked around the room. Angus had done a decent job of cleaning up. He’d unpacked some of the food and opened a tin of peaches, one of potatoes, and one of corned beef. The tins were half-empty, indicating he’d had some supper.

I hoped we wouldn’t have to live on tinned food, served cold, for long. I located a fork and dug into the peaches.

Whether they had some ridiculous regulation in Alaska about women owning businesses or not was neither here nor there. Mr. Smith had quoted me the law in a place where any casual glance showed that the law was something to be ignored.

He was clearly telling me he didn’t want me setting up my business.

I had countered by appealing directly to the men, offering a free show. That I didn’t have a place to use as a theatre might not matter right now. I could surely find a clearing in the woods, post signs all over town, and hope it wouldn’t rain. One or two successful outdoor performances and I’d be getting offers of rental space in no time at all.

I put my hat back on my head and checked my pocket watch. I’d go in search of my son now and contact my new employees tomorrow.