Gold Mountain: A Klondike Mystery (5 page)

The first night we spent in Skagway, I scarcely slept a wink. Bad enough that it was daylight long into what should have been the night, but I kept going over numbers in my head. I’d have to pay my entertainers whether I was charging admittance or not. And probably pay a month’s rent on the theatre premises in advance. Plus, find a place for Angus and me to live. We certainly couldn’t stay here.

Fortunately, my son was a heavy sleeper, and he’d had a most exciting day. He’d come running up the stairs as I was about to go in search of him, full of chatter about the things he’d seen and the boys he met. Pleased he’d found potential friends, I didn’t scold him too severely for going out on his own.

The room next door to us was not being used, shall I say, for sleeping. Every half-hour the door would open and close, and then open and close again. The floorboards would creak, a man would grunt and a woman would reply. And then the bed would start to shake, sometimes softly, sometimes with enough force I feared for the occupants of the rooms below. The woman would alternately squeal or moan. Then about five minutes of quiet before the bed creaked, footsteps crossed the floor, and the whole process would begin again.

The last customer left before Angus awoke.

I roused the hotel proprietor as soon as we were up and demanded another, quieter, room. As expected, he didn’t have any empty rooms, I was lucky to get a room at all, couldn’t I see how busy the town was. But if I absolutely insisted, he could move people around. Of course, a quieter room would be more expensive. I bit my tongue and agreed.

The English tradition of the highwayman was alive and well in Alaska in the year 1897.

I went back upstairs and repacked my own sheets.

For breakfast I took us in search of a restaurant, not feeling much like finishing off the cold corned beef. We located an establishment whose sign consisted of a pair of men’s trousers, very large men’s trousers, with the name written across the seat.

The muck they served at this place was hot, and although it was perfectly dreadful, the coffee held a vague resemblance to coffee.

As Angus was mopping up his beans with a slice of stale bread, I said, “Now that we’ve arrived safely, would you like to send a telegram to your friends back at school? I’m sure they’d be most pleased to hear from you.”

“Telegram?”

“It’s quite expensive, five dollars, but I’d like to treat you.”

“Telegram?”

“Why do you keep repeating what I say, Angus?”

“Mother, there’s no telegraph here.”

“Oh, but there is. In my survey of the town, I saw a sign for the telegraph office. Five dollars to send a missive anywhere in the world.”

He laughed. “Look around you, Mother. There isn’t a boat dock. There are tree stumps sticking out of the middle of the road, we’re eating our breakfast in a tent, and everyone is living and doing business out of tents. Do you really think someone has cleared a line though the forest, or laid a cable under the ocean for a thousand miles, and set up a telegraph office before worrying about things like running water or even a government office? I’m sure there’s a telegraph machine, and someone to take your money. But there won’t be anyone at the other end.”

“Oh,” I said, feeling rather foolish. I, who should know a thing or two about fleecing unsuspecting innocents, had almost fallen into a trap. My pride was considerably hurt, and for the first time I wondered if I was a match for this place.

As Angus and I stepped outside after our meal, he spotted two young boys squatting on the wooden walkway opposite. They were no dirtier than anyone else in town, but had good teeth and bright smiles. They stood and nodded to me politely.

“Hey,” Angus said, clearly delighted. “Those are my friends, Mother. Can I go with them?”

“You may. Perhaps your friends can assist you.” I pulled a twenty dollar bill out of my reticule and gave it to him. “I’m going to locate my employees. While I’m doing that, you can move our things to our new room in the hotel. You’ll have to hire men to carry the trunks. Pay no more than twenty dollars. Then scrub the room down.”

“Sure.”

I handed him another bill. “Once that’s done, you can take your young friends for refreshment.”

He stuffed the money in his pocket, gave me a huge smile, and dashed across the street. I stood for a long time watching the three boys run off. Angus lifted his arms in the air and spun around. He pulled off his cap, tossed it high, and leapt to catch it. Sunlight ignited sparks off his fair hair.

I smiled and went about my business.

One hour later, I was no longer smiling. Not only had the brief flash of sun disappeared and the rain begun again, but the man who claimed he could tell jokes that would have miners rolling in the aisles had abruptly departed for Dyea. The three men I’d hired as musicians told me there had been a misunderstanding, and they hadn’t
really
accepted my offer. The woman who claimed to have acted on Broadway — the real Broadway in New York City — had decided she’d rather not return to the theatre. The two women travelling together, their trunk full of dance costumes and accessories, avoided looking into my face as they told me they’d accepted another position.

I would have slammed the door of their accommodation on my way out had it not been a tent with flap open to let in a breeze.

A man leaned up against a tree. He was excessively tall and very thin and had a cigar clenched between the few teeth still occupying his mouth. I had noticed him earlier, several times in fact, as my would-be employees denied they had any intention of working for me.

“Problems, Miss?” he asked me.

“Yes. As I am sure you know. Take me to see Mr. Smith.”

“Smith?”

“Jefferson Smith. Your employer. I wish to speak with him.”

“Soapy don’t see no one unless he wants to.”

“If Soapy is Mr. Smith, he will want to speak with me. What’s your name?”

“Sheridan. Paul Sheridan.”

“Mr. Sheridan. Lead the way.”

He looked as if he might refuse. Then he looked again, and I saw him take in my hat, my dress, the earrings in my ears and the necklace around my throat. He looked into my eyes and studied my face and then he smiled. “You know my name,” he said in a much softer voice than he’d used previously. “What’s yours?”

“I am Mrs. MacGillivray.”

“Is Mr. MacGillivray travelling with you, Ma’am?”

“Unfortunately,” I said, “Mr. MacGillivray is no longer with us.”

He took off his hat, but didn’t drop the smile. He held out his arm. I accepted it, and he escorted me through the mud-clogged streets, along the rows of tents, around tree stumps and over logs, past the rotting corpse of a horse, to the building housing “Jeff’s Place.” It was a saloon in a tumble-down building, wherein was the office of Mr. Jefferson Randolph Smith, also known as Soapy.

Soapy didn’t look too pleased to see me, and I suspected a stern talking-to lay in Mr. Paul Sheridan’s future.

I got straight to the point.

“I believe there is an opportunity in this town for a theatre. I don’t see anyone else offering such entertainment, so I fail to understand why you’re blocking my efforts.”

“Now, why would I do that, Ma’am?” His office was a backroom behind a bar, not much larger than the square footage of my travelling trunk.

“Perhaps you can tell me, Mr. Smith.”

“Call me Soapy, Fiona.”

“Mrs. MacGillivray.”

“Fiona.” He swung his legs off the table. “I think your little theatre might be a great idea. Men like to be entertained. Winter’s coming and they tell me it’s a tough one around these parts. But you’re not thinking big enough, and there I can help you.”

“I’m not looking for help.”

“Nevertheless, I am offering it.” His voice was light and friendly, charming. But his eyes were very dark and his jaw was set. “Now, I envision a theatre out front, pretty ladies such as yourself to draw the customers in. Gambling rooms, a bar. Upstairs rooms for when the men seek private entertainment.”

I laughed. “If you want to operate a whorehouse, Mr. Smith, feel free. I will not be competing with you. Good day.” I turned to leave.

“Hold on. I didn’t ask you here, you came on your own. So you can be polite enough to hear me out.”

I settled my face into a listening pose.

“I like you, Fiona. You’ve got a head on your shoulders and you can make men do what you want. You’ve practically got Paul there drooling on the floor. It doesn’t hurt none that you’re about the most beautiful woman I’ve seen since getting on the boat.”

“Enough of the flattery, Mr. Smith. Get on with it.”

“This is the way we’re going to do it. We’ll open a theatre as you said. I can get us a good sized building. You can manage the entertainment, hire them and fire them as you see fit. I think you’ll find those folks you called on this morning will be more agreeable when you return in Paul’s company. You’ll also manage the whores. They usually respond better to a woman, I’ve found.” He ran his eyes down my body as if he were examining a side of beef in the butcher’s window. “Some big money fellows are going to be coming this way soon. Not many will get to the Klondike before the White Pass closes, so they’ll overwinter here. Then in the spring, all those folks who struck it rich will be heading back out. Men with plenty of money,” he looked into my eyes, “will want to get their money’s worth. I figure you’re it.”

“Good day, Mr. Smith.” I headed for the door, heart pounding.

“Don’t be so quick to turn me down,” he called after me. His voice was light, mocking. “I’m not asking you to whore, just to be friendly. You work for me and you can run your theatre as you like. I’ll pay a good wage, part of the profits perhaps. This is an expensive town. Not easy to find employment, a woman on her own. With a boy to care for.”

I turned to face him. I wrung my hands together and attempted to look hesitant. “I’d like to get the advice of my father. Do you know of any way in which I can send a message to England?”

“Why sure. The telegraph office is next door. Operator’s on his meal break right now, but Paul here can help you. Cost is five dollars, even to England. For a bit more, Paul’ll stay and wait for your father to reply.”

“I’ll think it over,” I said.

Paul Sheridan followed me back out to the street. “Mrs. MacGillivray, wait,” he called.

I stopped, but didn’t turn. Sheridan walked around me. “Soapy controls this town,” he said. “No one’ll do business with you if he tells them not to.”

“Surely the police will have something to say about that.”

Sheridan laughed. “This isn’t England, Mrs. MacGillivray. Or even the Yukon. There’s one marshall here, and he does what Soapy says.”

“Oh,” I said.

“Soapy wasn’t really asking you to take up whoring,” he said.

“I am sure that will come.”

“I can see a fine lady such as yourself wouldn’t want to be a whoremistress neither.”

“No.”

“You need a man to take care of you, Mrs. MacGillivray.” The words tumbled out of his mouth. “Fiona. You and that fine looking lad of yours. Marry me and Soapy’ll leave you alone. He respects marriage, Soapy does. And ... And ... I think you’re the finest woman I ever have seen. Why ...”

“Good heavens,” I said.

“Does that mean yes?” His eyes sparkled with joy.

I walked away. Leaving Paul Sheridan standing in the mud of the street, rainwater falling on his battered hat.

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.