Fools' Gold

Fools' Gold

Richard Wiley

Dzanc Books
1334 Woodbourne Street
Westland, MI 48186
www.dzancbooks.org

Copyright © 1988 Fools' Gold by Richard Wiley

All rights reserved, except for brief quotations in critical articles or reviews. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publisher.

Published 2013 by Dzanc Books
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eBooks ISBN-13: 978-1-938604-16-4
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Published in the United States of America

The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author
.

For Gigi with love

FOOLS' GOLD

August 1, 1899.

64° 30' north latitude. 165° 24' west longitude.

Nome blisters the lower lip of Seward Peninsula.

A shallow land shelf extends into the Bering Sea.

Breakers wash the flat beach.

The coastline is razor straight from West Point to Cape Nome, perhaps twenty-five miles east southeast. North, across the low mountains, is Kotzebue Sound, and then farther north, one hundred and twenty nautical miles, the Arctic Circle.

Here two rivers notch the clean coastline: the Nome and the Snake. They move into the breakers sluggishly, forming back eddies, swirling over the gutted silt beds. At the tip of the peninsula, past Port Clarence, past the village of York, lies Cape Prince of Wales, its cold nose nudging Asia; the ancestral footpath.

There is a lifeboat, loose from the freighter
Portland
and pitching toward shore. Beneath it the sockeye salmon, up from the mid-Pacific, find their way to the spawning place. At the farthest reaches they lie in the shallows of the ancient streams, inedible, silver bellies turned red, eggs planted in the silt like bean sprouts. There is a prospector's superstition that for every salmon egg a nugget of equal size, gold and round, is born of the earth itself.

Above Nome the mountains slope quickly into tundra, frozen in the winter, covered with a soggy green-gray moss during the summer months. There is a striking lack of vegetation. The tundra is covered with hummocks, bursting like cold sores through the earth, but generally the land is barren, yielding to scrub timber at best. In the uplands ptarmigan and grouse nest by the thousands. On the coastal marshes duck and geese are as thick as the winter ice.

Finn, an Irishman, stands down the beach watching the lifeboat nearing shore. He's a new arrival himself, as can be judged by the position of his tent in the expanding city. For an hour his was farthest south of any in Nome, then second farthest, then one among fifty. He came on this very
Portland
, voyage before last, and is meeting her now by way of fulfilling a promise. There's an Irishwoman aboard and he's had a letter saying he is to see her safely settled in.

The pilot stands in the stern of the lifeboat; the passengers sit between their hands, knuckles wrapping the wooden seats beneath them. Starboard there are larger skiffs carrying lumber and provisions to lines of men who stand in the water then string up the beach like pilings. The breakers swell, an occasional wave crashing, coasting up the beach. Seagulls call to the lifeboat, braiding the air behind it. The pilot cuts the burping engine, moves to the bow, and jumps out to turn the boat seaward again. The passengers step over the side and feel the cold salt water wrap their legs. In a moment they look to see the pilot poling himself away from them. The women step gingerly, the hems of their dresses turning dark. The men shout to the pilot, waving. A coin purse is thrown and arcs, causing the seagulls to dip toward it for an instant. The pilot catches the coin purse and holds it aloft briefly, before everything, the boat and the pilot too, disappears into a wave trough and is gone.

They have arrived. Finn steps forward, extending his arms to them. The rhythm of the line of men passing provisions up the beach does not break; heads turn toward the newcomers but hands are steady. The two women place their bags on the sand and lift their skirts, kicking their feet. Henriette, in sealskin jacket, frowns at her wet ankles and sand-covered shoes. Ellen steadies her while she empties them.

Two of the passengers are Japanese and one of them cannot speak English at all. They are dressed in white shirts and collars and are carrying their jackets across their arms. The younger one is the spokesman and speaks to the others and then to his companion. They have traveled six months and have arrived in Nome on schedule. The younger is called Fujino, the older, Kaneda.

When Henriette finishes drying her feet she helps Ellen, who turns away from the men and balances on one foot. Ellen is the Irishwoman, it's clear to Finn, and though they are strangers they are from the same part of Ireland and share the same family name. Finn walks boldly up to them.

“Well then…” he says.

In August of 1899 Nome was a village of tents. Wood was piled up, lumber for the building of the real town, but as yet there were only tents, then up past them, way up toward the tundra, a single three-story wooden house. The village wound from its center like a galaxy. There were paths between many of the tents, but there were no real streets yet, and toward the beach the tents looked to have grown directly out of the earth, the way loose sand banked against them so. Their flaps were pulled back, forming triangles, or were laced like shoes against the wind, and in front of them men sat on stiff-backed chairs, strangely postured. Many small craft were on the water and many more were pulled up the dark beach, their tiny keel marks crisscrossing the sand like distant highways. Circles of men stood about. There were mules tied to rear tent pegs, and dogs were everywhere.

The five of them walked up the slow incline, pushing their heels into the sand. Finn led, the women followed, then the Japanese. Ellen, her arms pressed tightly to her sides, wanted to suggest that they all join hands. She clutched her carpet bag. It was surprising to her that there were so many who were idle here, so few working. The loose friendship formed aboard ship tightened for her as they entered the town. Names had been stenciled on the sides of some of the tents, and on others shingles hung from small tears in the canvas, messages burnt like warnings on their visible sides. It was like walking into a maze.

“There's no fit place for a cup of coffee,” said Finn, turning and smiling at them. “There is the New York Kitchen but it's dirty, no table for a private party.”

Ellen said, “If we could just sit awhile. Get our bearings,” but the two Japanese turned abruptly and began saying goodbye. Fujino announced that they would be going to look for the supplies they'd need, for a place to stay the night. He stepped back and bowed deeply, thanking the two women for the pleasure of their company on the voyage. He suggested that they meet occasionally and the others agreed, hesitant to see them leave so quickly, before they had a sense of direction, a feeling for
the town. Nevertheless, the two Japanese
moved away. They backed down the small path, smiling, they stepped around a tent and were gone.

A lack of movement by those nearby gave the feeling that it was warmer than it actually was. Large mosquitoes floated slowly past them. Ellen and Henriette looked at the empty space where the Japanese had been. They were standing in front of the New York Kitchen, its flap bent back and held by a knife stabbed through it. Inside the Kitchen men sat bent over bowls on long benches. They brought pieces of beef or long thin fish to their mouths. Their food was all in hunks, nothing that would crumble against the uneven pressure of their large hands, but still they ate greedily, their knees pressed together to prevent loose bits from falling to the floor.

“A spot of tea then, if you don't mind the benches?” Finn said softly.

They leaned toward the low entrance, but before they could enter a briskly walking man stepped in front of them, looking inside. “Let's go now,” the man shouted. “We need you all.” He was speaking to no one in particular, but moved everyone. Henriette and Ellen listened to the dull sound of benches pushing through the sand, the commotion of men standing. The Kitchen emptied of its eaters, who followed the man back around a corner, quickening their pace, swatting at the mosquitoes who buzzed now, matching with their tone the gossipy chatter that had arisen from the men and from the bystanders.

Finn and Ellen and Henriette stayed a moment but then they too followed the crowd. People had come out of nearby tents and stood waiting. The men from the Kitchen paced themselves like soldiers, heading toward the beach. A path had been formed by the bystanders, by the people standing along its sides, and led from the beach all the way up to the wooden house that stood toward the foothills, slightly above the town. There was the sense of a parade, but since the crowd could not see far they were quiet and listened. They could hear the grunts of the men from the Kitchen and in a moment an unsteady wagon was pushed along the winding path and among them. The wheels of the wagon moved slowly in the brutal sand. A crystal chandelier hung from a crossboard at the top of the wagon, the tears of it touching each other, ringing softly in the warm air.

“It has the look of winter to it,” someone whispered, “the way it gleams like ice.”

The owner of the chandelier rode the wagon too, his feet braced, his sleeves rolled up, his arms, like those of a dishwasher, pushed among the chandelier's tears. Easy. Steady. His name was Dr. Kingman and his eyes were deep and worried.

As the wagon moved along, the path behind it closed and the people followed. Finn was reminded of the long struggle to Calvary, the chandelier, like a man with an aura, shining toward the sky. He wondered what these two women were thinking of, coming to a place like this. All these sandy men trudging. This other young girl appeared to be an American. She was frail-looking, but prettier than the hard-boned Irish one. He could see in her face the story of her leaving: family up in arms, father wishing his sons had the sense to get out and that his daughter'd stay. Finn had sisters of his own plugging about somewhere. Looking at Ellen he couldn't remember their faces being any different. They'd be farmers' wives by now, no doubt, with their hair pulled back in buns, a wisp or two of it straying about their eyes.

It took nearly an hour to move the wagon over the soft earth and up to the big house. The house was painted brown and had been furnished with tables and chairs brought from Seattle and from San Francisco. Three women stood in its doorway but quickly stepped back to allow the chandelier room to pass. In the main room on the first floor a brass hook had been embedded into the central ceiling beam. The owner and two others carried the chandelier down off the wagon and into the house. They stood on ladders in order to lift the chandelier up to the brass hook and let it settle. They heard the slight creaking of the beam as it took the weight, and they stepped back to watch it slowly stop moving. The room was quiet. No part of the chandelier had been broken. The sun through the window showed pink and clear at the edges of the chandelier. Dr. Kingman stood in its liquid light, rubbing his hands briskly on the front of his trousers. Everyone in town had seen it. The house was carpeted and clean. The workmen stood quietly on the porch looking in, their food cooling quickly in the New York Kitchen.

Before the two Japanese left Nome they purchased a territorial map and learned how to stake a claim. They exchanged their suits and collars for miners' clothes, bought a pack mule and a tent, and moved through the verdure and the wildflowers carrying back packs. When it rained they tucked their trousers into their boots, or took out paper umbrellas and kept moving. They hiked all the first afternoon, camped, then hiked all the next day, reaching Topcock Creek at five o'clock in the evening, two o'clock the next afternoon in Tokyo. Kaneda liked to keep track of the time so that he could stop during the day and think of his wife and his children at home. He was a carpenter by trade, but had read everything in the Japanese language on gold mining. His one regret was that he could not speak English at all. He'd tried learning it once but had failed. He needed a tutor for his children and had met Fujino by placing an advertisement to that effect in the newspaper. English was the language of the future and Fujino had lived in America and had been to England itself. When Kaneda decided to leave for Alaska he asked Fujino to go with him. Still, even with a translator it was frustrating for Kaneda not to be able to speak to anyone. He felt foolish, was afraid of offending someone, of not being able to explain.

Kaneda and Fujino pitched their tent in the waning light. They were counting on being able to mine where others could not. They'd use a water wheel and let the power of the creek move the mounds of stone and gold across the floor of their sluice boxes. They built a fireplace between their tent and the edge of the stream, catching trout and letting them cook in the oil of their frypan until the tails turned up and the eyes turned white. They had bottles of soy sauce and slender wooden chopsticks. From the back of their pack mule they unloaded sacks of short-grained rice, washed it in the stream and boiled it over the coals. They used the rice water for tea.