Читать книгу Gold Mountain - Vicki Delany - Страница 15

For the rest of the day, everywhere in Skagway I went, people looked me in the eye and said they couldn’t help me. No one had premises to rent. The real estate office man told me every plot in town was sold, although he seemed to be doing a roaring trade with everyone else who stopped by.

I was approached by one gaunt young woman, who scratched constantly at her armpits and crotch and spoke to me with breath like an abattoir. She’d be happy, she said, as I tried not to breathe too heavily, “to come work for you and Mr. Soapy.”

I considered Smith’s offer.

For about five seconds.

I had been controlled by a man once, and I wasn’t much older than Angus is now when I swore I would never allow myself to be so again. I had come to Alaska to make an honest living, to have my son living with me and to be proud of me.

This theatre Soapy was proposing would be nothing but a front for a prostitution operation. If they even needed a front. It seemed like the law didn’t much care what Mr. Smith got up to.

When I’d been an apprentice pickpocket, I roomed with a group of whores in Seven Dials, one of London’s worst slums. I knew what a foul, exploitative, violent business it is. Illegal, immoral or not, I wanted no part of it.

I was most certainly not going to be a madam for the likes of the woman who had accosted me on the street.

No one in Skagway, probably in Dyea either, would offer me what I needed to set up a business or to find employment. Other than Soapy Smith.

Which meant I would either have to marry Mr. Paul Sheridan, or return to Vancouver.

Neither option appealed to me.

I went back to the restaurant with the sign on a pair of trousers and took a seat to consider what I was going to do now. There would be no trouble getting passage south. Boats were arriving day and night, dumping cargo and passengers and returning almost empty.

I sipped at my tea, which I suspected was more seaweed than leaves grown on the verdant green hillsides of India.

A man came in and took a seat in the corner. He was small and rat-faced, with greasy hair, a mouthful of grey and broken teeth, and skin marked with the memory of childhood acne. He ordered beans and bacon in a rich Glasgow burr, and hearing the sounds of my homeland brought a brief smile to my heart.

“Would ye be Mrs. MacGillivray?” he said to me.

“What of it?” I snapped.

“Just asking,” he said. “Ye’re the talk o’ the town, ye ken.”

I humpfed and sipped my tea.

“Ye talk like an Englishwoman but ye’ve a good Scots name.”

“I am a Scotswoman,” I said. “I lived on Skye when I was a child.”

He pushed his chair back and came over to my table. I looked at his ugly face and saw nothing but a man homesick for Scotland. He held out his hand. “Ray Walker. Of the Glasgow Walkers.”

I laughed and accepted his hand. “Why don’t you bring your plate over, Mr. Walker, and join me. But I warn you, being seen in my company might not be good for your business prospects. Unless you work for Mr. Smith. Do you?”

“No, Ma’am. I do not.”

He dug into his food and I sipped my disgusting tea.

“What are your plans, Mr. Walker?” I asked.

“Heading for Dawson tomorrow, ma’am.”

“Prospecting?”

“No. Mining isn’t for me. I’ve a mind to open a bar. Lots of men passing through town, they need someplace to drink.”

“I hope you don’t run into the likes of Mr. Smith.”

“Not likely to. They say the Mounties keep Dawson a law-abiding town. Keep your nose clean, they’ll leave a man alone to mind his own business.”

I nodded. “Sounds like heaven.” I finished my tea, and Ray Walker pushed his empty plate to one side. We stood up and walked outside together. A light rain was falling, making everything even muddier and more depressing than it had been.

I held out my hand. “I wish you luck on your journey, Mr. Walker.”

His own hand was rough and scarred. It felt warm and welcoming in mine. “And you too, Mrs. MacGillivray. If I may give ye some advice, Skagway isn’t a place for a lady such as yourself.”

“So I am beginning to realize.”

We both looked up at a shout. Angus and his two companions were running down the road toward us. My son was caked in mud from top to toe. About the only thing recognizable was his big white smile.

I decided, at that moment, I would do whatever necessary in order to keep him with me.

The three laughing boys ran in circles around us.

“Hi, Ma,” Angus shouted.

“Ma. Ma,” his friends repeated.

“Good heavens,” I said. “What happened to you?”

“He fell.” One of the boys dropped to the ground and rolled around, presumably imitating Angus. When he stood up he was almost as muddy as my son.

“Are you going to introduce me to your friends,” I said.

“Sure. This is Bob and that’s Bob.”

“They’re both named Bob?” I peered at the boys. They had shiny black hair and dark eyes, golden complexions and high cheekbones in round faces. “Oh,” I said, “they’re Indians.”

“Yup,” Angus said. “Tiglit. White folks call them Bob ’cause they can’t remember their real names. They’re cousins or something.”

“Mr. Walker, this is my son, Angus. And Bob, and ... uh ... Bob.” Ray Walker and Angus shook hands. The Bobs fell back, suddenly shy.

“A pleasure to meet ye, Angus, Mrs. MacGillivray. Good luck to ye. I’m heading to the Yukon tomorrow.”

“Wow,” Angus said, “are you going prospecting?”

Walker gave me a grin. “In a manner of speaking.”

“How are you getting there, sir?”

“I’m taking the White Pass route. They say it’s easier than the Chilkoot.”

“No,” the taller of the Bobs said. “No. White Pass is not good.”

“What da ye mean?”

“White Pass is hard. Too hard. Many horses die, many men turn back. Chilkoot better.”

“That’s not what I’ve heard,” Walker said. “There’s a path through the White Pass. The forest has been cleared and a walking path built that’s easy for horses to manage.”

The boy shook his head.

“Gee, Mr. Walker,” Angus said, “you sound like my mother thinking there’s a telegraph. When would anyone have had time to cut a path any longer than a couple of hundred yards?”

“I heard ...” Walker said.

“Bob and Bob’s parents are working as packers,” Angus said. “They’re staying with their grannies outside town while their folks are away. They told me. All the Indian packers know the White Path’s a death trap.”

The boys nodded in unison.

“Chilkoot much better,” the taller one said.

“I’d listen to them if I were you, Mr. Walker,” I said. “Local knowledge is a valuable thing.”

Walker looked dubious. “Perhaps I’d be better staying here a while ’afore rushing off. See what other folks think.”

“No,” the shorter Bob spoke for the first time. “Rivers freeze soon. Go now, or too late.”

“Angus.” I spoke very slowly, but my mind was racing. “Have you met any of these packers?”

“Sure. Indians have come from all over looking for work. They’ll carry a man’s stuff up to the top of the Chilkoot Pass. To the Canadian border. There’s a lake at the bottom of the mountain and you can take a boat all the way from there to Dawson.”

I looked at Ray Walker. He looked at me.

“Angus and I have three trunks,” I said. “And several bags of provisions. Obviously, I cannot carry our belongings all the way to the Klondike. I’ve brought enough food to last us several weeks, some warm clothes, blankets, sturdy boots. I also have Angus’s school books, including the plays of Mr. William Shakespeare. I have excellent dresses, among them a Worth from Paris, as well as hats and accessories.”

I did not mention that I had the last of my funds from the sale of Mrs. McNally’s jewellery.

“I have food, camping equipment.” Walker dropped his voice. “And liquor. Good Scots whisky. Enough for a chap to open a bar.”

“And a dance hall, perhaps. Where one could employ respectable entertainers and ladies to dance with the customers.”

“I’ve got a roulette wheel and chips and cards.”

A shout came from down the street.

“Mrs. MacGillivray. There you are.” Paul Sheridan was running toward us, his long legs churning up mud. “You boys, be off with you.” He made a shooing gesture at Angus and his friends. “Don’t you be pestering decent white women.” The Bobs slipped away. Angus looked confused. His face and hands were streaked with mud and his filthy cap covered most of his shock of overlong blond hair. “Get away boy,” Sheridan snapped, “or I’ll have you locked up.”

“Mr. Sheridan,” I said. “You are speaking to my son.”

He peered at Angus. Angus’s blue eyes blinked back.

“Sorry, boy. Didn’t recognize you. Don’t you be hanging around with those Indian bastards. Nothing but trouble, the lot of them. Turn your back and they’ll steal you blind.”

“We can’t have that, now can we,” I said. My sarcasm escaped Mr. Sheridan.

He turned his attention to Ray Walker. “Is this man bothering you, Mrs. MacGillivray?”

“Most certainly not,” I said.

Walker stared at Sheridan until the American flushed and turned away.

“Mrs. MacGillivray,” he coughed, “I wonder if I can have a word in private.”

“Oh, very well.” We crossed the street. Angus and Mr. Walker watched us.

“You shouldn’t be associating with Indians,” Sheridan said. “It will do your reputation no good.”

“Your employer wants me to manage his whorehouse and yet you are concerned with my reputation. Your logic escapes me, Mr. Sheridan.”

I might not have spoken, as Sheridan carried on. “And men like that one, Walker. He’s leaving for the Yukon, and good riddance. He’s small but good with his fists. Mr. Smith offered him a job. He turned Soapy down outright. Soapy don’t like that.”

“So I gather. As a matter of fact, Mr. Sheridan, I have decided to travel to the Yukon myself.”

“You can’t be serious! What about my proposal of marriage? Mrs. MacGillivray, I implore you.” And to my astonishment, and that of everyone else on the street, he dropped to one knee and took both of my hands in his. “Mrs. MacGillivray. Fiona, I have adored you since ...”

I snatched my hands away. “Get up you fool. You’re making a scene.”

His legs wobbled as he struggled to stand. With a sigh, I held out my arm and assisted him. The knees of his trousers dripped with mud.

Angus and Mr. Walker were watching us, eyes wide and mouths hanging open. “You tell your mother to forget this talk,” Sheridan said, “only fools and easterners go digging for gold.”

“We’re easterners,” Angus said.

“As I’m going to the Klondike in any event,” I said, “what would you say is the best route to take?”

Sheridan’s eyes slid to one side. “The White Pass, by far. You’ll want horses. I can help you find some.”

“What an excellent idea. Now, I have to take my son and attempt to find him a bath. Why don’t we meet again, say, the day after tomorrow, and you can take me to view these horses.”

He touched his hat. “My pleasure, Ma’am. And if, well, if by chance the journey’s too hard for you and you want to come back, my offer stands.”

“I’m sure it does.”

I never did meet with Mr. Sheridan to discuss horses. The following day, with the help of his friends, Angus found six men willing to carry our goods over the Chilkoot Pass. Ray Walker and I met for what passed for tea and discussed a joint business venture. A dance hall and saloon. Each of us owning one half of the business.

I had one more encounter with Mr. Jefferson Smith. We were preparing to board a boat that would take us up the Lynn Canal to Dyea and from there to the Chilkoot. Smith was mounted on a white horse, looking every inch the Southern gentleman.

He swept off his hat as Angus and I approached. “Mrs. MacGillivray. I’m sorry to see you leaving. I’d hoped we could do business. Your grace and beauty would be a valuable asset not only to me, but to the town of Skagway. If I offended you by my crude offer of employment, I apologize. How about we become partners? Equal shares in the theatre?”

I looked at Angus. His sweet open face, his trusting blue eyes.

He believed in me.

“Goodbye, Mr. Smith. I don’t expect we will meet again.”

We arrived in Dawson in September of 1897. And the long, dark, cold winter settled in.