“What a ride!” Piji had exclaimed when they landed in Dawson with Meg. “Made me feel alive again, like the good old days, mushing dangerous trails with our wolves.”
“Me too,” said Ike. “But look what’s happened to our best trading grounds! It’s the worst-looking city I’ve ever seen. I didn’t bring Meg all this way to see this! Look at all these mangy dogs. They’re a disgrace!” Ike led Piji, flying about town, whooshing around alleys and taverns, crowded with people and dogs laying about or staggering around the streets. “This is what happens when you bring our wolves to the city!” Ike howled. He hung his head in defeat, concluding, “Meg won’t stay. It’s too disgusting. She’ll go back to Halifax, marry Mick in Boston. Anywhere is better than this!”
“You have the eyes of a man,” said Piji. “Meg’s a woman. She’ll want to clean this up.”
But Piji couldn’t be sure and she hovered anxiously with Ike watching over Meg’s arrival in Dawson City.
DAISY AND MEG had set up their tent amidst the many others who arrived after the ice breakup. It was a tight maze of hundreds of weather-beaten canvas tents, hastily erected along the banks of the Yukon and Klondike rivers, with hundreds of small boats banging against each other, tied to the shore. Flat-bottom rowboats, canoes, dugouts, rafts, all rough hewn. Meg could see men passed out from celebrating, snoring open-mouthed in the boats. On her disappointing trek to the post office Meg had seen men and dogs flopped and sleeping on the streets of Dawson. The streets themselves were arranged in orderly numbered avenues running parallel to Front Street on the embankment. The construction of wooden buildings was going on night and day, because it could with the sun providing nearly twenty-four hours of lighting. Along with noise of banging and sawing, people shouting and singing, dogs howling and barking also went on all night. And there was the frequent ringing of a bell. Not a church or school bell, but a ship’s bell, rang outside a saloon any time a miner whacked his poke of gold on the bar and shouted, “Free drinks! All around!”
While putting up their tent, Meg and Daisy had been surrounded by curious onlookers. All of them men, prospectors, the kind of men Daisy was used to.
“You men have money?” Daisy had said to them. “This lady,” she pointed to Meg, “has things to sell. And I do mean things. Combs, soap, toothbrushes. You look like you could use some.”
Meg handled the business end of selling the supplies she unpacked from their bundles and Daisy was not shy of soliciting the business. When Meg’s money belt was full to bursting, she called a halt to Daisy’s soliciting. “Let’s go buy the best dinner we can find,” she said as they tidied up their appearance inside the tent.
Daisy had combed her braids out, tied her hair becomingly with a pale blue ribbon and donned a clean white blouse borrowed from Meg. She refused to do up the high neck buttons of the blouse, letting the frilled collar fall lightly on her neckline. She exchanged her moccasins for a pair of heeled ladies’ boots from her own pack. Meg also wore a wrinkled but clean white blouse, cinched her skirt, and put on more daintily heeled boots.
“You’re very pretty,” said Meg as they made their way to Front Street.
“I know,” said Daisy. “But I usually hear that from men.”
She was more than at ease with the men around until suddenly she tugged on Meg’s sleeve. “Look out! Some dude’s following us. Never seen one like that.” She drew closer to Meg. Meg looked over her shoulder and saw the red coat Mountie approach them. She turned and stood smiling at him. Daisy stood cautious and suspicious.
“Hello,” said Meg. “How nice to meet a policeman!”
“Constable Wiggins at your service, ladies.” He tipped his hat to each of them. “Handsome dog.” He put his hand out for Yukie to sniff.
“This is Yukon Sally. Answers to Yukie or Yukon. I am Meg Oliphant. And this is my young friend, Daisy Ritter.”
Yukie proffered her paw in the same motion she used for scratching on doors. Daisy offered her hand to be shaken by the Mountie because Meg had and signalled that she should, but Daisy did so in silence.
“You’ve arrived at a raucous time in Dawson City,” said Constable Wiggins. “The first supply boats of the season have come in, with more drink than food. As you can hear.”
They heard another gong of a bell and the call: “Drinks all around”
Wiggins explained that Dawson was full of prospectors on a spree. Those who had spent the previous months extracting gold from their claims, by the shovelful, the panful, the sluiceful, and the handful, were ready to do some spending. “And you ladies?” inquired Wiggins.
“Looking for a square meal,” said Meg.
“Song and dance,” said Daisy firmly.
“Food first?” Meg looked to Daisy for concurrence.
“Allow me to escort you to The Pioneer,” said Wiggins. Meg held up her skirt as she stepped over dog turds, tobacco wrappers, sticks, and mud holes. Daisy’s skirt was already well above her ankles but she held it yet higher.
“May I handle your malamute for you?” asked Wiggins. “We have two good teams of these at headquarters. But we’re always in need of more. Are you willing to sell?”
“Oh no!” said Meg. “Not my Yukon Sally.” Though she let Wiggins handle her.
“Keep a close watch on her then,” said Wiggins. “She’s worth a good two hundred and fifty dollars these days in Dawson. And prices aren’t going down.”
“How much is a woman worth?” said Daisy.
“Daisy!” Meg then turned to Wiggins. “She’s just kidding. Daisy is a wonderful singer. Has a most unusual voice, high soprano. You want a job as a singer, don’t you, Daisy?”
“That I do,” she said and walked ahead.
“And you, Miss Oliphant? Are you seeking work?”
“It’s Mrs., actually. I’m a widow. But do call me Meg. And yes, you bet I’m seeking work. And I think I’ve found it. Look at all these poor dogs!” A tired, mangy team of dogs, with various colour and markings, pulled a wagon across their path. Dogs were hitched to wooden posts, some were sleeping from heat exhaustion on the street. They all resembled wolves in their formation, their ears, eyes, faces, their basic colouring and size. But they carried their tails, when relaxed, high and curled, or plumed like a malamute’s. “I think some of these hard-working dogs need tending,” Meg said to Wiggins. “I am a dog doctor.”
Wiggins started to laugh but then politely suppressed it. “Pardon me.” He cleared his throat. “I had you figured for a school ma’am. And I must tell you, there is no school yet in Dawson City. But dogs there are!” They had to step around another sleeping dog. Yukie stepped carefully along, not straining on her leash, keeping her chin up, highly alert in this new situation. “Please tell me about your work,” Wiggins continued. “Inspector Constantine will be glad to hear we have a doctor of any species.”
Meg explained her mission as Wiggins made way for them through the throngs moving in and out of the few saloons and stores. Men staggered to and from outhouses, spit on the ground, snorted and blew snot from their noses, leaned up against the buildings and posts, or slumped on the bench outside Ladue’s mining and building supplies store. Some slept and snored on out-of-use dogsleds. But all who were awake enough to see Wiggins leading the regal-looking malamute and the two new ladies in town, drew to attention and doffed their hats to them.
It was hard to figure these two new women. They did not look like the leather-skinned wives who accompanied miners this far north. And they did not have the look of the dance hall hurdy-gurdies who had come from Circle City and beyond. They were both tall, not dainty-looking, and had pretty good figures. Dressed alike but had completely different colouring and the younger one had a certain waifishness about her. The older one kept an eye on her like a big sister. Some men stood up and whistled at them.
“Take it easy, boys!” Wiggins turned to them as he stepped up onto the wooden platform in front of The Pioneer Saloon. “This is Doctor Meg Oliphant from the city of Halifax and this here is her prize malamute, Yukon Sally. So, now you all know who this malamute belongs to, should she get away. And this here is Miss Daisy Ritter, a fine … What did you say?” He turned to Meg. “Oh yes, a fine soprano singer. They’ll be building a residence here in Dawson. Good evening to you all.” Wiggins tipped his hat.
Daisy, then Meg, waved politely to all the men standing and lurching around.
“Is this what city means?” Daisy whispered to Meg. “Hundreds of drunks and not enough saloons?”
Outside it was sunny and bright. Inside, The Pioneer, dark from lack of windows, was crowded with men drinking whisky and smoking cigars, roaring with men bragging, laughing, deriding, scoffing, laying wagers, and telling jokes. The odours of cigars, whisky, sweaty clothes, greasy hair, kerosene lamps, and farts blended into one gaseous smell. It overwhelmed Meg and Daisy as they stood in the doorway, eyes adjusting to the darkness. There were only a half-dozen tables and chairs, rough hewn and primitively assembled from thin logs. No table cloths. An apparent shortage of glasses and dishes. Men were drinking from tin mugs. There was a great shortage of women.
The one woman in dance hall attire of red satin with black ruffles caterpillaring over her breasts and shoulders, looked up from leaning upon the shoulders of a man at a table and scrutinized the appearance of Daisy and Meg. Close to the doorway sat two women in modest, closely buttoned dresses, no hats or jewellery. They had been chatting with each other while the several men at the table bantered amongst themselves. The men stopped talking and stood up as Constable Wiggins led Meg and Daisy to their table. Chairs were offered to Meg and Daisy.
“Mrs. Berry. Mrs. Lippy.” Wiggins tipped his hat to each of the ladies and then to their husbands on either side of them. “Clarence. Tom. May I introduce these two newcomer ladies to your table? Dr. Meg Oliphant and Daisy Ritter. The Berrys and the Lippys. Two Kings of the Klondike, I might add.” Wiggins then stood at perfect attention. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll return to my duties. Dr. Meg and Miss Daisy … if you would please make yourself known to Inspector Constantine tomorrow. He keeps a register of each and every citizen of this fair city.”
“I’m Salome Lippy. Welcome to the Klondike.” She extended her hand, which was rough, wrinkled, and reddened. Her face was young, friendly, and weather-beaten, as was Mrs. Berry’s.
“And I’m Ethel Berry.” She shook Daisy’s then Meg’s hand. “Sit down, shall we? Are you hungry? Clarence, we must order something for these newcomers. When did you arrive? How did you get here?” She paused. “Excuse me. I’m afraid I’ve lost my civilized manners. Salome and I have been here for two years. Roughing it in the gold fields. Quite an experience. Wouldn’t you say, Salome?”
“I’ll say! And I’ll say I’m looking forward to hot baths, a big bed with a mattress, oranges, fresh eggs, city lights, a horse and carriage …”
“We’re departing for the Outside, tomorrow morning,” said Ethel Berry. “We shall set sail for Seattle and the comforts of modern life. Do you know,” she turned to pat her husband’s arm, “that I was literally dragged here, as a young bride? Not at all kicking and screaming, let me tell you. It was the greatest adventure of my life. My dear Clarence pulled me over the mountains on a sled.” She sat back, momentarily beaming. “Over the Chilkoot, no less. In the middle of winter. That was our honeymoon. Now tell us, you must be adventurous women. How did you get here?”
They invited Meg and Daisy to have their first meal in Dawson “on them” while they shared their stories. A meal taken from cans of corned beef, peas, and potatoes, heated up in a frying pan and served with a pot of tea.
“Pretty bad for the price, isn’t it?” said Ethel. “But we would have paid anything for a meal like this last winter. It wasn’t to be had. We lived on porridge, sourdough bread, and whatever fish or game we could buy from the Indians. Our men kept on digging up gold in those wretched tunnels. I had nightmares about us dying of scurvy while locked in a gold vault. Which was not far from the truth.” Ethel suddenly clamped her mouth and turned to Salome.
“Our son died of scurvy,” said Salome and looked stonily ahead while Ethel put her arm around her. “I’m so sorry, Sal. I didn’t mean to remind you …”
“We’re sorry too,” said Meg and prodded Ethel to go on about their lives in a log hut with a sod roof and earth floor. Ethel described the plank table, the two seats carved from tree stumps, the plank bench, and wooden platform with cloth-stuffed mattress for their bed that were the furnishings, only a pot-bellied stove for heat. No windows. Light came from candles and a lantern or the opened door.
“I had a can full of nuggets to pay Clarence’s helpers and buy anything I wanted,” said Ethel. “But soon there was nothing to buy. Ladue’s store ran out of soap for doing laundry. He never did sell a book, or stationery for writing home, wool for knitting, anything that would have helped us keep our sanity over the dark winter months. Sal’s cabin was a half mile upstream but we visited back and forth, be it forty below or not, didn’t we Sal? We read each other’s books over and over again, till we could recite them by heart. Want to hear me recite Huckleberry Finn?” Ethel laughed. “I thought not. But don’t get me wrong. I’m not complaining. We had our love to keep us warm, in the coldest of times, didn’t we Clarence?”
Daisy ate hungrily and listened intently but would not be drawn into the conversation.
“Do you know someone who goes by the name of Finn?” asked Meg.
“Poor Finn?” said Tom Lippy. “That’s what he goes by here. Never seen a fella who gets more shafted than him. Poor beggar. There’s Lucky Swede who strikes it rich with no effort at all and then there’s Poor Finn … combing the creeks with his dogs, having to sell them off one by one. ’Course he blows what he has on booze.”
“He got put through the wringer by that woman he brought here,” said Salome. “She’s a bad sort.”
“What’s that mean?” Daisy suddenly spoke. “Do you think she’s a whore?”
“Daisy!” Meg looked askance at her.
“We don’t use that word around here, dear,” said Ethel kindly. “Inspector Constantine dealt with her case. He could tell you the circumstances. We only know that she charged Poor Finn with assault, wanted money from him, wanted him in jail.”
“She’s a dancer,” said Meg, “I know her. Mad Mitzi Bonaparte. Where is she?”
Clarence laughed. “She’s everywhere. Probably over at Joe Ash’s. The Northern Saloon. He’s got the only piano in town. Wouldn’t be surprised if she’s right there dancing on top of it. And my friend Anton paying for her drinks.”
“Anton who?” said Meg. “Not Anton Stander?” Everyone stared at her.
“I met Anton Stander in Vancouver.” said Meg, taking some tea to divert attention. “Also Mitzi and Finn. How has Anton fared?”
“He partnered with me,” said Clarence. “He too struck it rich.”
“Another Klondike King,” said Ethel, looking sensitively at Meg. “Were you very good friends? Shall we try to find him and tell him you’re here?”
“Is he too leaving with you, tomorrow?”
“No. Not Anton. He won’t take a vacation. He’s too … involved … here.” Ethel looked at Salome, then both looked away, anywhere, to the moose heads looking down at them from the walls of the saloon.
“Works hard, plays hard, does our Anton,” said Clarence. “He just came into town to celebrate the arrival of the Alice. He’ll be going back to the creeks tomorrow.”
“Speaking of ‘Alice’…” Meg abruptly changed the subject, not wanting to be seen as chasing after Anton, the Klondike King. If he were interested, he could find her. “I have a sister who’s name is Alice. I must write to her tonight if there’s a boat going out tomorrow with the mail.” She stood up. “It’s been a great pleasure meeting you and we thank you most heartily for the meal. We’ll see you when you come back from The Outside?” Meg smiled.
“Indeed. Our pleasure.” The Berrys and Lippys stood up.
“Daisy?” said Meg.
“I don’t have no letters to write,” said Daisy. “I’m going to go find that saloon with the piano.” Daisy did not return to the tent that night.
Next morning, with the letters she had spent the night writing to Mick, Alice and Jacques, in hand, Meg followed Yukie on the lead as they made their way amongst the tents, towards the makeshift docks where the Portus B. Weare, a sternwheeler, was being loaded for its trip back down the Yukon to St. Michael’s in Alaska. The Alice had left days earlier. The “docks” were heavy planks propped from the river bank up onto the boat’s gunnels. The captain, a burly man, stood at the centre of the ship’s upper deck railing, observing the commotion.
A throng of men were trying to walk steadily from the Dawson saloons to the docks. They swaggered with their bodies full of whisky and their luggage full of gold. Some dance hall girls accompanied them. They were a merry and noisy bunch, arousing dogs from various quarters, who howled or barked at their singing. Yukie yanked on her leash, trying to get to every dog she saw or heard. In the background was the constant sound of Dawson City, the sawing of lumber, the hammering of nails into boards, the shouting of orders to men and dogs.
“Hey, Meg!” Daisy called from the crowd. She raised one arm to Meg, the other was holding onto a prospector in shirt, breeches, and a new bowler hat. “You missed a good party.”
“Yes, Daisy. I can see that. But I haven’t missed the mail boat, have I?” She held her letters up, waving them at the captain. He tipped his cap, beckoning her to come aboard.
Back in their tent, Daisy was fending off Yukie who wanted to know, by sniffing, where she had been and with whom. “Look at this!” Daisy pulled out a pouch full of gold dust and nuggets. “Just look at it! Real gold. These miners have so much, they don’t know what to do with it. They lay it at your feet for a song. Pour it down your titties for a dance. Put nuggets in your bloomers if you show them …”
“Daisy, you didn’t!” Meg folded her arms firmly and frowned like a mother.
Daisy looked sideways at Meg, removed her blouse and skirt, then in camisole and bloomers sat down on her bedroll to unlace her boots. “No, ma’am. Daisy did not. But your friend Mitzi did.”
Meg sat down on her own bedroll. Then lay down on it and stared at the tent ceiling.
“Don’t you want to hear more?” said Daisy. Meg rolled over to face Daisy. “What exactly was your job at the saloon in Juneau?”
“Singing and bedding with the boss.”
“Why did you leave?”
“Because I hated the boss. Hated what he made me do.”
“How old are you, really, Daisy?”
“About a hundred and fourteen compared to you.”
“Daisy!”
“Will you quit Daisying me! You sound like my father and I hate him most of all. I’m not half as dumb as you think I am. I learn fast. You know that? I listen and I watch and I learn.” She wiped the dirt off her boots and began to shine them with the hem of Meg’s skirt.
“I think,” said Meg carefully, “I know, that you are very smart. What did you learn tonight?”
“That I can get rich here, just by singin’ and pretendin’ to be prim as them wives. You know I got more gold by keeping my blouse done up than Mitzi did by dancin’ in her bloomers.” Daisy hiccupped and broke into laughter. “You shoulda seen it. There she was, rakin’ in a dollar a dance. Same as me. Can you believe it? They’ll pay a dollar just to have one dance with you. ’Course, you have to encourage them to buy a lot of drinks from Joe Ash at the bar. He bein’ the owner and all. But Mitzi, she wants more. She wants that friend of yours. Anton what’s-his-name. He’s drunk as a skunk already. And she gets him drunker. Wants his whole poke. You can tell that. So she throws back her head, lets all those blonde curls fall loose, steps back and out of her skirt. And does a dance for all, in her bloomers. Back in Juneau, that would be nothin’ new. The boss made the women strut around in their bloomers. Brought more business. But here in Dawson it’s different. In comes that chief of what you call them? Mounties. He comes stompin’ into the saloon. Bellows: ‘No bloomers in Dawson! Fine of $100 or ten days in the clinker. Which will it be?’”
“What did she do then?” Meg asked. “Mad Mitzi.”
“Your Anton paid the fine for her and Joe Ash kicked them both out. Bein’ as that chief Mountie threatened to fine Joe Ash if bloomers was ever shown in his saloon again.” Daisy put her head down onto her pillow of clothes. “I’m real tired from all the learnin’ I did today.” She yawned so long her hiccups stopped. “I got enough money to buy anything I want. And I don’t have to suck anybody’s anything. I’m gonna buy silk dresses. How about a pink one for you, Mother Meg?”
“Thank you, Daisy, but I don’t need more dresses. And I’m worried about what could happen to you. Men can be dangerous. They can take you by surprise and … ruin you.” “Ruin me!” Daisy laughed without mirth. “What do you mean by that? You ever been ruined?”
“Came very close, once,” said Meg. “Wouldn’t want that to happen to you.”
“You talk clear as fog,” Daisy flung her arm as she rolled over. “I ain’t been killed. And it seems I aren’t ever goin’ to be sent away with a baby. So stop worrying about me. I know when to carry a knife, just like you. Except I got the sense to keep it outa sight, in my bloomers. That’s all I got to say tonight.”
It was late afternoon when Yukon Sally roused Meg and Daisy by licking their faces and yelping sharply. “Oooow!” Daisy put her hands to her head.
“How’s the head, Daisy girl?” said Meg.
“Feels like a woodpecker’s trying to get inside it for worms.”
“That bad? Come on.” Meg extracted herself from her bedroll. “I have the perfect remedy. A bath. You’ll feel much better after a soak in a tub. There’s bound to be a bath house in Dawson City.”
The bath house was a tent erected over a foundation of logs chinked with mud. A sign was hinged to a pole extending over the doorway and another painted onto the tent.
Rope lines of men’s shirts, undershirts, under drawers, long johns, and socks were strung out on either side of the tent. Wooden rain barrels and tin pails stood against the log walls. A woman with faded red hair wearing a brightly patterned cotton dress, itself in need of laundering, sat on a wooden bench pulled across the doorway. She looked up from resting her head in her hands as Yukie sprinted towards her.
“Git!” She flailed her arms. “No dogs allowed. People only in my tubs.”
Meg pulled Yukie back. “She’ll stay outside. We’d like to have a bath, Mrs. Doyle. How much is it, please?”
“Well now! Aren’t you the polite one! You must be the two new women in town. Dr. Elephant is it? And the singer?” She looked Daisy over. “Heard you sound like something between a wolf and a lark. Heard you’re right light on your feet too. Had the miners falling all over you. Heard you made that Mad Mitzi look like the tramp she is.”
“I didn’t do anything to her.”
“Sure an’ I will, if she ever comes round here again. You two want one bath or two?”
“One bath each, please,” said Meg.
“That’ll cost you $5 each and that’s for fifteen minutes in the tub. Not a second more.”
“Whoa! That’s expensive!” said Meg.
“So is clean water. And it costs me twenty-five cents a pail. That’s without heating it up. You want hot water?”
“Warm will do.”
“Right then. Come back at 8:30.”
“But we were hoping to have a bath now.”
“You and everyone else. The earliest opening is 8:30 this evening. Take it or leave it.”
“We’ll take it,” said Daisy.
“That’s 8:30 to 8:45 and no one but you two in the tubs. Don’t think you can pull a Mitzi on me.”
“What’s a Mitzi?”
“She booked the tubs for an hour, for herself and a friend. The ‘friend’ turned out to be several men … to whom she gave … shall we say ‘personal baths.’ I bet she earned more in that one hour than I earn in a month.”
“Where were you?”
“I was fool enough to take her at her word and go do some errands. Left my water boy in charge.” Molly snorted. “She gave him a good tip.”
“And probably an eyeful,” said Daisy.
“Couldn’t believe she’d do it,” said Molly. “Sure an’ I wouldn’t. Some of them miners are dirty as chimney sweeps. I tell ’em to jump in the river before they use my tubs.”
“Wooden tubs!” Meg exclaimed when she saw them. “I thought they would be tin.”
“I got tin ones on order,” said Molly. “Don’t worry. I scrubbed them down for you. You being a doctor and all.”
“What’s the matter with wooden tubs?” said Daisy as they sat in their lukewarm baths.
“Germs,” said Meg. “Other people’s germs lodged in the cracks and crannies.”
“Other people’s germs?” Daisy squirmed in her tub. “Is that like worms?”
“Yes.” Meg laughed. “Good analogy. But they’re so small they’re invisible.”
Daisy stood up. “Would you quit using such big words! I’m getting out of here. I want my money back.”
“Settle down in there!” Molly shouted through the cracks of the door. “Nobody gets their money back. And nobody gets the clap from my tubs.”
“The clap! I know what that is!” Daisy was out of the tub reaching for a towel.
“Daisy,” said Meg. “Believe me. You don’t get disease from clean water.”
“How clean is this water?” Daisy demanded of Molly.
“Fresh as a daisy.” Molly laughed. “You can trust me. And your dog doctor.”
Daisy got back in the tub with a groan. “I hate that,” she whispered to Meg. “I had a stupid school teacher who kept saying that. ‘Fresh as a Daisy.’”
“And furthermore,” said Molly loudly through the cracks, “you can learn more from me than from any school. I’ve been around. And around longer than all you others who come here with no husbands. And I’ve paid for my sins. Got the scars to prove it. But I also got my own sense of honour. I don’t lie, steal, or spread disease. But I was fool enough to hook up with a man who did all three to me. So I end up as a washer woman in the Klondike, earning as much as I can to keep myself in old age. Clean and honest. You keep clean and honest, and you’ll be all right here in Dawson, or any city.”
“Thank you,” said Meg. “Good advice, I’m sure.”
Daisy held her nose and sank under the water.
Later that night, Meg went with Daisy to The Northern Saloon. She had intended to have a couple of drinks and just watch Daisy’s performance. But Joe had rules for his saloon.
“You’re an unescorted lady,” he pointed out to her. “And mighty good-looking to all the men around here. If you dance with them, they have to pay.”
“Are you telling me I have to dance for money?” said Meg indignantly.
“I warned her,” said Daisy, “but she wouldn’t listen to me.”
“It’s only fair,” said Joe. He nodded in the direction of three dance hall girls who stood challengingly at the bar, watching what transpired between Joe and Meg. “I can’t have you taking business away from my girls, now can I? There’s Gypsy Rose and Sapphire Star and Mandolin Lily there, they can’t dance for free. And Daisy, she’s got to be paid for her talent.”
“Let me think it over, if you will, Mr. Ash. I have my own moral rules to consider. And perhaps I won’t wish to dance at all.”
But when the music began and polite men approached her respectfully, Meg accepted.
“All proceeds,” she stipulated to them, “will go to the dogs. I am a doctor thereof.”
Some of the men were excellent dancers and Meg allowed them to make more than one donation to the dogs. She had more than a couple of drinks and whistled like a man in enthusiastic applause at Daisy’s performance. Yukon Sally howled in echo as she waited outside the saloon.
“Over $50! I made over $50!” Meg counted her earnings next day in the tent. “I didn’t make that in a week as a vet.”
“I made over a hundred,” said Daisy. “It’s time you switched professions.”
“Oh no,” said Meg. “That was just fun. I want to get to work. Right Yukie? Let’s go buy a piece of land. With this on top of the proceeds from selling all the goods we brought here, we should be able to build a very nice dog house and clinic.”
While Daisy went shopping for a dressmaker and materials, Meg took Yukie to get registered at the North West Mounted Police headquarters. It was a log barracks at the end of Front Street. The main door was open, letting light into the room where Inspector Charles Constantine presided over three work tables.
“Dr. Meg Oliphant and dog, Yukon Sally, to see you, sir.”
“Thank you, Constable. Back to your duties,” said Constantine before he looked up.
“Good day, Inspector,” said Meg noticing that he was not a tall man, but certainly looked strong, his red serge coat wide shouldered. Silver showed at the temple line of his dark hair. His eyes were sharp when he looked up at her.
“Inspector, yes,” said Constantine, facing her squarely. “And chief magistrate, also commander-in-chief and home and foreign secretary. But good day? What’s a good day in this poor excuse for a town?” He pondered which table to use. “Haven’t figured that one out yet. Maybe when I can get more than three hours sleep in a night.” He lifted the chair in front of one table and placed it in front of another. “Please have a seat, Madam Doctor, here at the desk of registrants. I presume you’ve come to give me your particulars.”
“Yes, sir, if that is required.” said Meg.
“It is indeed. By the Law of Constantine. Only way to keep a handle on all the outcasts, adventurers, convicts, and general escapees from normal society that find their way to the Klondike. Do you keep a gun?”
“No. Should I?”
“Not allowed. No guns and no bloomers … ahem … indecent attire, allowed in Dawson. What is your purpose here, if I may ask, for the records?” He poised his pen.
“Veterinarian,” said Meg. “And Chief Cook and Bottle Washer.” Constantine looked her in the eye. “And professional dancer?” Meg blushed. “That was because of The Law of Joe Ash.”
“So I was informed. Just verifying.” He laid down his pen.
“I want to buy a plot of land and build a house, right away. And I need to order more supplies. It’s urgent …”
“You and Belinda Mulroney.”
“Belinda Mulroney! Is she here?” Constantine nodded.
“How and when did she …”
“First to arrive after ice breakup. Came downriver with a raft full of merchandise. Just like you. Only faster off the mark and higher priced. Sold all her goods first day she got here. Cotton goods and hot water bottles. Sold at a hundred times the price they cost her. Then she had some little cabins built and sold them off as fast as a man could fold up his tent. Now she’s hauling lumber off to the gold creeks to set up a saloon there. Where she’ll no doubt sell drinks at twice the price charged here in Dawson. It’s all highway robbery of the first order. But not something the chief magistrate can do anything about. Except I won’t let her or the other saloon bandits have the supply ships come loaded with nothing but whisky.”
“I need ether,” said Meg, “to use in my surgery. And iodine, more chloroform and cat-gut. And how about some chickens to lay fresh eggs? Are they allowed in Dawson? And seeds to plant a garden. Is it too late to get some seeds in?”
Constantine recorded her list of things to be brought in from the Outside. Then he stood up and reached across his table desk to shake her hand. “Welcome to Dawson City,” he said. “At last a citizen who is not a hooligan, circus performer, or dry-land pirate.”
“Thank you, sir. But the crucial question is: when your dogs are ill or injured, will you bring them to my surgery?”
“That too,” said Inspector Constantine, “I will see to.”
Over that summer of 1897, Dawson City expanded into several straight avenues running parallel to the Yukon River bank, with streets crisscrossing them in an orderly gridlock design. Meg had a two-storey log house built on the edge of town farthest from the busy waterfront, back near where the landscape rose up into Dome Mountain. There were two bedrooms upstairs, a sitting room, kitchen, and veterinary rooms downstairs, a porch at the front, and attached to the back of the house a high-fence kennel with rocks bolstering its base. The rocks were there to prevent Yukon Sally from digging out.
Dawson City lots were small and over a thousand dollars each. Daisy became one of the highest-paid entertainers, earning up to $500 a week with her singing, dancing, and twenty-five-cent commission on every drink that her admirers bought, and she helped Meg finance their property and building. Every inch of the property was used, with a garden in a narrow strip along the side of the house, leaving just enough room at the end of it for a small chicken coop. The boat bringing seeds and live hens did not arrive until August when it was too late to plant anything, so Meg’s two hens had a larger run. But they were so frightened by Yukie’s howling and attempts to get into their pen that they would not lay eggs and had to be sold to a restaurateur who profited hugely from their outlay.
Each time a boat arrived with mail, Meg lined up with a hundred others outside the post office. It was weeks, though it seemed like years, before she received a letter from Mick. Written in late November in response to her letter from Vancouver, it was so out of date, Meg could take nothing relevant from it except its cautionary expression of love.
I do not like this helpless situation, Mick wrote, being here in Boston while you venture into the wilds of the north. I have word that the Alaskan ports are lawless, gunslingers’ havens. No one knows anything about your destination in Canada. My darling Meg, I must not burden you with my fears for your well-being, though they torment me. You must exercise the greatest caution in your choice of companions and never venture out alone. If it weren’t for my responsibilities here I would be with you. The particular case I’m working on is as yet unsolved. I don’t know what else is of importance to say, except: my heart is with you.
Meg hiked up Dome Mountain with Yukie to savour this letter and compose her reply.
I’m overlooking Dawson City, she wrote, surely the most unusual of cities. I feel safe, protected by the diligent North West Mounted Police. It is an orderly town, in spite of its dominance of saloons. I am constantly guarded by my Yukon Sally and have the most interesting company in my young housemate, Daisy. Every woman here works hard at some job or other, and I have not found it at all as difficult as I did in Halifax to establish my business. I’m happily surprised by how “at home” I feel here in this boom town of adventurers and genuine free thinkers. And I am devoted to my patients, the hard-working, spirited, wolf-like dogs.
Most of them are the product of more hapless breeding and training than the malamute line of my Yukon Sally, the famed dogs of Ike and Piji, which I will tell you about … when we meet again. But all the dogs are hard-working and highly intelligent. I can’t wait to see them when they are in their element … pulling sleds over snow. In summer, they lay around, exhausted by heat, spreading worm infestation by eating their own or others’ turds. Yes, I’m sorry, but they do, out of hunger and peculiar habit. I do not always make myself popular by haranguing people to keep the streets clean of such “temptations” for the dogs. But once they understand the consequences, they usually do what they should, for their dog’s sake. Here, dogs are indeed valued and respected, as horses are in other parts of the world.
Dawson City is a Mecca for dog doctors. I am in my element! And though the town itself lacks trees and gardens, it is within a most beautiful landscape of great rushing rivers and forested mountains. I enjoy hiking in early morning, training Yukie to pull a light wagon or carry a saddlebag. We go along the riverfront and the rocky trail of Moosehide Gulch, often to the Tagish camp where we purchase fish and caribou from the natives.
Dearest Mick, I keep hoping every day for news from you. Must rush to get this letter on today’s boat. But, all the while, my longing is to see you, to be in your arms again …
Meg posted her letter, knowing like everyone else who haunted the post office of Dawson, that it could take many weeks for a letter to get from one side of the continent to the other and more to travel north into the unknown territory of no trains, electricity, telephones, or telegraphs.
Meg’s friendship with Inspector Constantine grew along with her reputation as a veterinarian. Word spread fast in the small area of Dawson City once Constantine himself was seen bringing members of the Mounties’ dog teams to, as her sign said: THE DOG DOCTOR.
Dogs with wounds from fighting, with ear infections, worm infestations, cut pads, strained ligaments, splinters in their throats, heat stroke, colic, the heaves, and hernias were brought to Dr. Meg’s. And since ninety percent of them left in good repair, more were brought. The two basic veterinary textbooks she had carried all the way from Halifax were talked about in Dawson as the Dog Doctor’s Bibles.
“If you don’t believe me,” Meg said, impatient with the men who doubted her abilities and knowledge because she was a woman, “look it up yourself. There!” She pointed to the thick volume on Canine Surgery. If necessary, she would read to them the pertinent passage.
It was harder to persuade some owners to not hit their dogs or feed them bones.
“There should be laws,” she complained to Constantine, who was often seen calling in at her premises, with or without a dog in hand. “How about creating the Constantine Law against Maltreatment of Animals.”
“Wouldn’t work with these ruffians,” he said, accepting a quick mug of tea. “But I tell you what does work. The Law of Greed. With the price of dogs risen from $25 to $250, not even these lunkheads will knowingly damage their dogs. You just keep telling them how to maintain their dogs’ health. The lunkheads can learn. But you have to keep drilling it in.”
“I guess that explains why I’m having such a hard time persuading them to change the breeding habits so that the females aren’t bred until they’re over two years old and then only every other year.”
“You got it,” said Constantine. “That would be defying the Law of Greed. In a gold rush town, the Law of Greed prevails.”
Piji and Ike liked to perch upon The Dog Doctor sign over Meg’s door. They could rest there, with a good view of Dawson City. The streets were cleaner and the dogs were being well maintained. Too wise to say, “I told you so,” Piji put her hand on Ike’s knee and said, “It’s good to see things turn out so well. And our dogs will have a better future with healers like this Meg you brought to our land.”
“Yes.” Ike put his arm around Piji, slipping it under Yuki’s fur. He was pleased now, very pleased. “I have watched over this creature from birth. She has become like us and more. She is the lead wolf who can nurture and maintain the pack. Even a big wild pack such as we have in this strange city. But she can’t do it alone.”
“You are right.” Piji smiled, knowing what Ike had in mind. “That chief Mountie is the right mate for her. He’s very good at keeping order. She will mate with him.”
Ike and Piji rocked together, in peace and harmony, on the sign over Meg’s door.
Daisy strolled out of Meg’s door each late afternoon. Quiet and grumpy in the early hours, Daisy rose late, lounged around the kitchen in her baggy nightgown, leafing through the book of songs she had brought from Juneau or studying Meg’s book of poetry. Daisy had been resistant to Meg’s urging her to recite Pauline Johnson’s poetry as part of her performance and had flatly refused to wear “native dress.” Daisy created her own style, hiring the best dressmaker in town to sew her bright-coloured silk dresses with an unusually short hemline that showed off her silk-stockinged ankles and expensive kid leather shoes with high heels. Constantine had ordered the boats coming upriver that summer to bring food and practical items but he couldn’t prevent the import of luxury goods that fetched the highest price. Fancy hats and shoes, bolts of satin and worsted wool, powder and rouge, olives and caviar, velvet chaise lounges, pianos and violins. Daisy was a prime purchaser.
“My mother loved silk dresses,” she said. “And so do I. And so do the men. They’d never dance with me if I wore stinky hides.”
But she found that her audience did like the odd dramatic poem mixed into her repertoire. Daisy worked hard at her job, memorizing the entire book of popular songs and a selection of narrative poems. She developed a rotation of her performances so that regular attendees would not get bored with repetitions of the previous night. She found that if an audience was flagging, she could always rally their sentiments with a soulful rendition of “Danny Boy” and a rowdy one of “Swanee River” with lots of prancing about and skirt flouncing.
Daisy liked a long walk with Yukon Sally as escort in the fresh air and sunlight of late afternoon. Her colleagues often came for a pot-luck supper with her and Meg before they went to work. Sometimes Molly Doyle joined them.
“How’s business?” said Meg, doling out her scalloped potatoes and Molly’s canned sausages.
“I’m raking it in, ever since I got a box of starch to do the men’s fancy shirts. Dollar a shirt I get. And everybody likes the new tin tubs. Less scrubbing for me and higher cost for the customer.”
Gypsy Rose poured lemonade. “So about how much would you make in a week?”
“As much as you, I reckon.”
“Over a hundred dollars?” said Gypsy. “That’s what I got last week.”
“Close enough,” said Molly. “And I got clean hands.”
“Oh quit your braggin’, Molly,” said Gypsy, “we got jewelled hands, eh girls?” She looked round at Sapphire Star and Mandolin Lily. “Dawson is a gold mine for us too. We can pick and choose the men and what we want to do with them. And they don’t want rough stuff, the way some back in real cities do. Here in Dawson, they’re hard-working miners who like their whisky and their women straight up and natural. Right girls?” They nodded in agreement. “And then there’s our Daisy, who makes a fortune without a private room. But I figure it’s all going to change once the rush gets going proper. Then we’ll have boatloads of competition. I’m going to make all I can before summer’s end, then I’ll take the best offer and sail away with him, down the Yukon to luxury ever after in the Outside.”
“Maybe I’ll do that too,” said Mandolin Lily, who wore a Turkish-style headdress and mediaeval belted and tasselled skirt, with a loose blouse that allowed a glimpse of her midriff flesh when she raised her arms.
“I’m nowhere near ready to quit,” said Sapphire Star, who didn’t have such a pretty face or interesting outfit, but did have an intriguing voice, graceful movements, and much liveliness in her eyes. “I love the stage. Can’t wait for a larger audience. I want to own the first great theatre in Dawson. Want to work for me, Daisy, instead of that cheapskate Joe Ash?”
“I might,” said Daisy, “if you have a piano.”
“Of course I’ll have a piano. And electric lights. Red velvet curtains. A mezzanine. And boxes where gentlemen can drink champagne with ladies in Parisian gowns.”
“Gentlemen in boxes?” said Daisy. “And what the heck is a mezzanine?”
After they left for their night shift, Meg had the evening to herself. She checked in on her kennel patient, a young malamute carried in from the gold creeks, emaciated and dehydrated.
“Can’t make him eat or drink,” the miner had said. “He was vomiting bile and now he don’t seem to have nothing left inside him.”
“You should have brought him in sooner,” said Meg as she gently prodded the belly.
“Yeah, well, we ain’t used to having a dog doctor. Couldn’t be sure you weren’t just some rumour.”
Meg cut into the dog’s stomach and found the blockage: a chewed boot lace.
“I’ll be darned,” said the miner. “These dogs eat everything in sight. Who’d a thought my boot lace would do him in! Will he live?”
“I think so,” said Meg. “Let me pipe water and soft food into him for a few days.”
The young dog sat up and looked intently as a wolf at Meg when she checked in on him. “Good boy,” she said, noticing he had drunk a healthy amount from his water bowl. “Back to the gold creeks for you.”
Meg closed the door of the infirmary and spoke to Yukie. “Do you know that, as your doctor, I earn far less than the laundress? And those Mounties who look after all of us, earn least of all. So where’s the social justice in this City of Dawson? What do you say we take a little trip out to the gold creeks to see what life’s like there?”
Yukie murmured, nodding her head and swiping her paw on Meg’s knee.
Constantine dropped by during his night rounds. Meg sat on the steps of her front porch while he stood at ease with his hands clasped firmly behind his back, his eyes casting over the town streets.
“Does it ever bother you,” said Meg, “that you guardians of society are paid $8 a day and, shall we say, ‘entertainers’ get a dollar a minute, and more?”
“Would you do what they do?” Constantine looked incredulous.
“No,” said Meg, smiling at his shock. “I actually prefer working with animals. But if worst comes to worst in this business, if I need to supplement my income, I’m thinking of doing a little performing myself. I do like to read, and read out loud to others. I have these novels I packed over the Chilkoot. I was thinking of giving readings from them, say a chapter a night. Might charge say twenty-five cents a person, same as it costs to get into a circus. In any city outside Dawson, that is.” She smiled.
Constantine laughed. “Dawson is its own circus,” he said. “But don’t you go worrying about money. All too soon Dawson is going to have more customers than it can possibly manage. I’ll let you in on the latest from Outside. Just when I’m getting a little order into this pack of ruffians, this jail yard of a town,” he said, “word comes that I can expect some thousands more escapees from normal society. Thousands! Moore’s Landing has just been renamed Skagway and boomed into a scrag of a place, far worse than this. No police. Run by a bunch of gunslingers, American style. Several ships a day landing in the narrows. Dumping their cargo overboard at low and high tide. Then rushing back down south for more. Flimsy buildings springing up out of the mud flats like mushrooms after a rain. Poor Moore’s having trouble just hanging onto his own plot of land. Some hooligan called Soapy Smith has established the Law of Pay Me for Protection or Get Shot.”
“Can’t you Mounties help out?”
“Not our territory. American soil. Best we can do is protect our border at the top of the Chilkoot and see to it that those who come over are adequately supplied and not slinging guns. A North West Squadron should be planting the Union Jack and patrolling the top as we speak. But the rich are coming by boat and expecting to buy anything they want here in Dawson. And the other great stupids are trying to come overland. Without a clue as to the distance and impossibility of it.”
“Why did you come here?”
“Following orders.”
“Surely you could have asked for another posting.” He looked seriously at Meg. “The Yukon is my biggest command. I’m the first Mountie to be called here.” He looked away from her, northwards. “Brought the first squadron. Built Fort Constantine, upriver there. It was my duty to hold the border and establish law and order in this territory. Never expected to be caught up in a greedy gold rush. But here I am. Here we are.” He looked at her with a soft spot in his eyes. “You’re a fine woman.”
“Why thank you, Inspector. You’re a good man.” “Try to be.” He looked at the porch floor. “Can’t marry you.” “What!” Meg gasped, then thought and smiled at Constantine. “But I haven’t asked you to marry me. What if I did?”
He looked at her. “I’d have to tell you I have a wife. Back in Winnipeg. Had three sons. Only one lived.” He hung his head momentarily. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this. Not in the line of duty. But I’ve found myself drawn to you. And I can’t be … Hell and damnation!” He snapped to attention. “Better just shut my trap now. And get on with my duties.” He looked at her, deeply embarrassed. “Good night, Dr. … Meg.”
Meg stood up. “You’re an admirable man, Inspector … Charles. May we shake hands, please? To friendship?”
He shook her hand. Saluted. Then walked in his perfect military gait into Dawson City and his duties.
Ike and Piji watched Meg hug Yukon Sally good night, then get into bed alone and lonely, pulling the covers up around her head. Huddled with Ike at the foot of the bed, Piji wanted to weep in sympathy and in disappointment of their hopes for Meg.
Ike shook his head in complete dismay. “You never know,” he said to Piji. “With humans, you just never know.”
“We’ll keep watch,” said Piji. “It’s all we can do as spirits.”