After leaving Angus MacGillivray at his boxing lesson with Sergeant Lancaster, Sterling continued on his rounds. He walked through saloons and dance halls, checking for crooked tables, clumsily-poured drinks, gold scales out of alignment, underage drinkers, men spoiling for a fight, indecency, all of the detritus of a gold rush town where the innocent sometimes made it as hard to protect them as it was to prosecute the guilty. The drunken Indian played on his mind.
Eventually his heavy black boots led him down Church Street to St. Paul’s.
He took off his hat as he opened the church doors. It was a rough wooden structure, looking exactly like what it was— a building thrown up out of the wilderness in a few short weeks. But it was also a rarely-visited sanctuary offering an island of serenity in an ocean of turbulent humanity. The minister’s wife was polishing the arms of the pews, a thankless task. In Dawson, dust and sawdust continually fell in a fine rain on everything indoors and out.
She put down her rag and wiped her hands on her apron while walking towards him with a welcoming smile. “Constable. How nice to see you. Come to check on your Indian friend?”
“Yes, ma’am. Did you fetch him then?” “My husband has taken him down to Moosehide.”
Moosehide was a small island in the Yukon River, not far from town, where the Han Indians lived. Moosehide was also the name of the ancient rockslide that had long ago taken an enormous chunk out of the side of the hill looming over the town.
“Thank you.” Sterling tipped his hat. “I’ll be off then.”
“Have you time for a cup of tea, Constable?”
A lot of dust got into a man’s throat on a hot day walking rounds in Dawson, but he couldn’t accept the friendly offer. Sterling’s father had been a preacher, a stern, cold, hard man, who had slowly drained every bit of joy out of his timid wife, until she was almost as much of a shell as he. Richard Sterling had been raised in a cold, hard home. It was irrational, he knew, but he could never make himself comfortable in the presence of a man or woman of God.
“Another time perhaps, ma’am.” He walked back out into the sunshine and the dust.
He’d never expected it to get so hot this far north. They were almost at the Arctic Circle, yet the temperature had to be close to a hundred degrees, and the sun beat relentlessly on his wool tunic. Two drunken cheechakos were shouting bawdy songs at each other and slapping backs so close to the riverbed, it was likely one or both would be in the water pretty soon. He shook himself clear of the cobwebs of memory and went to suggest they take their frivolity somewhere safer.
I went home for a much-too-short afternoon nap, had dinner with my son and changed into evening dress. The nap had been disturbed by hammering on a new house being put up across the street to replace the tent that had been there yesterday. Dinner had been dreadful—stew from a ptarmigan that must have died of an extremely ripe old age. A bone on my best corset snapped, leaving me in danger of being impaled. I’d ripped off the offending garment and struggled into an older one. Tonight I was again wearing the green satin dress. It had a plain, unadorned front and a high neckline, so I wrapped yards and yards of fake pearls around my throat. Instead of wearing a hat, I tied my hair back with a generous length of ribbon salvaged from material discarded when the dress was cut down as the bustle went out of fashion. The high neckline was so proper as to be out of place in a dance hall, but the lack of a hat made up for the shock factor.
Angus had been particularly quiet during dinner, scowling into his lumpy mashed potatoes and ubiquitous serving of beans that accompanied the foul fowl. He’d cast glances at me throughout the meal and asked if I was planning to be at the Savoy that night. Where on earth else would I be? He ate only one bowl of canned strawberries for dessert and asked to be excused.
“Zee boy up to something,” Mr. Mann said, leaning back to let his wife clear his place and set a cup of tea in front of him while he measured tobacco into his pipe.
I hoped Angus wasn’t interested in pursuing a life of crime or gambling: his poker face couldn’t fool a blind nun.
As I was saying goodbye to the Manns, Mary appeared at the kitchen door to say she was finished for the day and to collect her wages. Her hands were red and chapped, her face flushed with heat, her hair damp and hanging lank down her back, and the front of her dress was soaking wet. I invited her to walk with me to the Savoy.
A dead horse lay in the intersection of Fourth Avenue and York Street. It didn’t appear to have been there for long, as not many flies had yet gathered. I lifted my skirts with a sniff. I didn’t often think fondly of London or even Toronto, for I had come to love the Yukon (most of the time), but one didn’t have to contend with carrion in the better streets of London. Mary stumbled, and I grabbed her arm. She was obviously exhausted. She looked at me with red-rimmed eyes and mumbled her thanks.
“Have you found accommodation yet?” I said, trying to sound cheerful.
“You’re asking me to leave the Savoy, Mrs. MacGillivray?” she asked.
“No,” I said, “but you can’t stay there permanently.” “Why not?” “Why not? Because the Savoy isn’t a hotel.”
“You let white men stay.”
“Well, yes. But only our customers. Men who spend money in the dance hall and play at the gambling tables.”
“Not Indians.”
“Indians are not my customers. What’s the matter with you, Mary? I can’t let out those rooms nor put up any drunken gamblers while you’re living up there. now can I? That wouldn’t be at all proper, nor would it be safe for you. I explained yesterday that you can stay in the Savoy until you find alternate accommodation.”
“There is no accommodation for an Indian, Mrs. Mac Gillivray.”
“Mrs. Mann pays you well, doesn’t she?”
“Yes.”
“Then by the end of the week you should have enough money to find someplace to stay. This is Dawson; money is all that matters. I’ll ask some of my acquaintances if they know of a respectable woman with rooms to rent.”
“Yes, Mrs. MacGillivray,” Mary sighed. I did wonder if I was being overly optimistic. If even kind-hearted Helen didn’t want Mary around, would any other “respectable” Dawson matron be willing to take Mary under her roof? Perhaps Mary should just leave town, go back where she came from, as Helen suggested. That would relieve me of the burden of caring for her, which, truth be told, I was only doing to annoy Joey LeBlanc.
We arrived at Front Street. The evening crowd was beginning to gather, and men greeted me effusively. My neighbour stood outside the small bakery at which she and her elder sister sold coffee and waffles for twenty-five cents. Business was slow right now, but after a night of entertainment and dancing, men would be lining up for refreshment. Twenty-five cents would be all that many of them had left until their next pay-day, or until they dug up more gold. I’d bought one of their waffles once and found it dry and almost tasteless, but the sisters provided the scent of a warm oven and quality ingredients, and it was likely the men ate at the bakery as much for the smell of home as for the food.
“Lovely evening, isn’t it?” she said in her heavy Dutch accent with a warm smile that revealed an overabundance of healthy teeth.
I paused for a moment. “It is.” All the summer evenings were lovely in the Yukon. The heat of the day moderated a fraction, leaving the air warm and fresh. (Well, as fresh as it could be, considering the dead animals in the road and the hygiene of some of the miners.) The frantic activity in the sawmills died down enough that noise and dust abated. We paid heavily for these lovely evenings come winter, when the sun barely rose above the horizon all day, and even when it did, it didn’t contain a smidgen of heat.
I was about to wish her a good evening when, to my shock, she pulled a tobacco pouch and cigarette papers out of her pocket and began to roll a cigarette. In London, I’d seen barely-acceptable women (the sort who performed on stage and later joined the prince and his friends for supper) smoke cigars. But even in Alaska or the Yukon, I’d never seen a woman smoke a cigarette on the street. I had heard that some of the dancers and prostitutes did so in the privacy of their, or their customer’s, rooms.
She struck a match against a box she pulled out of her pocket and lit the end of her cigarette. She took a deep breath and sighed with satisfaction.
“How does that taste?” I asked, curiosity getting the better of good manners.
“Heavenly.” She blew a stream of white smoke out of her nostrils. It put me in mind of a horse blowing air after a hard ride on a cold day. “You should try it, Fiona.”
“Perhaps I will,” I said, although I had no intention of doing so. Tobacco cost money, and I’d managed to live without it all my years.
I remembered my manners. “Anna-Marie, this is Mary… uh… Mary. Mary, Miss Vanderhaege. Mary is living at the Savoy temporarily and has found employment with my landlady, Mrs. Mann.”
“You must try this, Fiona.” Anna-Marie said, as if I hadn’t spoken. She didn’t even look at Mary. “It’s avant-garde now, but one day every woman will be doing it.” She blew a ring of smoke through rounded lips.
“Perhaps I will. Have a pleasant evening,” I said.
“You also.” She watched her smoke ring slowly dissipate in the air.
“That was rude,” I said to Mary as we walked away.
She barely moved her thin shoulders. “Good night, Mrs. MacGillivray.”
“Good night, Mary.” I watched her round the building towards the stairs at the back. Her back was stooped and her tread heavy.
I paused for a moment, wondering what it would be like to wash clothes all day long. I never allow myself to forget how I was able to escape the filth of Whitechapel and Seven Dials and men who would control my fate. If not for a proper education, good bone structure, and most of all a generous helping of luck, I might now think myself fortunate to spend the day in Mrs. Mann’s laundry shed.
I looked out over Front Street towards the swiftlymoving brown river and the tent-dotted hillside beyond. And there she was: Chloe, standing on the sidewalk, watching me. She made no gesture, no movement, didn’t wave or smile or even pull out a gun. She only watched me, her face expressionless.
I stepped off the boardwalk, ready to confront her and demand to know what she thought she was doing. A heavily laden cart clattered past, going much too fast for the road conditions. Did the driver think he was on parade in Pall Mall? I shouted abuse at him, and he shouted back over his shoulder, not even watching where he was going, flicking the reins to make the horses go faster. They clattered down the street and disappeared around a corner. Damned fool. He’d be lucky if he didn’t kill someone, or get one of his horses injured. Judging by the condition of the horses—if I’d had enough time, I could have counted every rib—he didn’t care over much about them.
When I looked back across the street, Chloe was gone. She could be anywhere—ducking between tents on the mud flats that served as the centre of commerce; lost in the teeming crowd surging up and down Front Street; doubled back and slipped up an alley; heading for the docks and the next steamboat out of town, if I were lucky.
“You know that…lady, Fiona?” I whirled around, startled. “Graham Donohue, do you always have to sneak up on me?”
He grinned most charmingly. Graham at his handsome best. “I wish I could, my dear.”
I tried to look stern. “Don’t be naughty.” “Seriously, Fiona. That woman was watching you, and not because she was admiring the cut of your dress. Have I ever told you it is the most handsome dress?”
“Every time I have worn it, but you needn’t stop. As for that woman, I fired her recently. She was drunk on stage. I’ve seen her, more than seems coincidental, several times today. You’d best step back quickly, Graham.”
The orchestra came spilling out of the doors of the Savoy, and Graham scooted out of their way, conveniently putting one arm around my waist to guide me to one side. They weren’t much in the way of musicians, my orchestra. A violinist, a clarinet player and one trombonist. Inside we had a piano, but the pianist could scarcely carry that out to the street, so he acted as caller. I stood in the doorway, flashing a gracious, welcoming smile while the three instruments played a few tunes. Graham didn’t remove his arm, and I allowed it to remain, enjoying its warmth. All down the street, the dance halls sent their musicians out. It made a considerable racket: talent was no requirement for a musician’s job in Dawson. Eventually my men shuddered to a halt, and the caller lifted his bullhorn to announce to the entire population of the Yukon Territory that the Savoy, “the finest establishment west of London, England”, was open for their entertainment.
The orchestra gathered up their instruments and trooped back inside, followed by an eager pack of customers. I smiled at Graham. He tightened the arm around my waist and bent forward. His lovely hazel eyes moved under their heavy lashes. “Fiona, I…” “Show time,” I said cheerfully, wiggling out of his grip.
“Let’s go and see what trouble Dawson can get up to tonight, shall we?”
His face twitched above the generous moustache that overpowered his boyishly handsome face. “Yes, let’s do that.”
I nodded to Ray, who was standing behind the highly polished mahogany bar pouring rivers of whisky. He gave me a wink, indicating that all was well. Graham and I were waylaid by an old miner named Barney, eager to relate another story of his pals Snookum Jim, Taglish Charlie, George Carmacks, and the discovery at Bonanza Creek. Barney, bleary-eyed, badly dressed, scruffy as could possibly be, stinking to high heaven, had, for a brief time, been one of the richest men in Dawson. He’d been prospecting at Forty Mile when news of the strike spread and he’d had made it to Bonanza Creek in time to stake a good claim. As for almost everyone else, those who’d struggled up from San Francisco, Seattle, Edmonton, maybe even London, Amsterdam or Johannesburg, the good claims were gone before they’d so much as booked passage. Barney quickly spent all of his fortune, most of it in the saloons and at gambling tables. He loved to treat everyone, particularly the stage performers and dancers, when he was in the money. Now he occasionally bought the odd bit of mining equipment and talked about going back to re-work his claim, but mostly he hung around bars, telling tales in exchange for a glass of whisky.
“Why don’t you buy Barney a drink, Graham,” I suggested. “He’d love to tell you stories about the discovery that you can write for your newspaper.”
“Ain’t never been a day like it, let me tell you, lad,” Barney said, dragging Graham towards the bar. Graham tossed me a filthy look. The first time he’d heard this story, he’d dutifully written his copy and sent it to his newspaper. When the story appeared, his paper, the New York World, had the best single-edition sales in its recent history, and the name of Graham Donohue became synonymous with “Klondike Gold Rush” to eager readers. The following hundred times Barney related the story, Graham ignored it. He didn’t look happy at a hundred-and-one. I wiggled my fingers at him, leaving him to it.
I liked Graham a good deal. If I were looking for a husband, I might cast my eye his way. He was good-looking, charming, well groomed, and highly successful in his profession. But I wasn’t looking, so that was the end of that.
I went into the back, to the performers’ dressing rooms. I’d meant to arrive early and get a chance to speak with Irene, but the broken corset had put an end to my plans. The girls were a hurricane of preparations as they put on stage costumes, applied make-up, checked hair and stretched limbs.
Irene was pulling on a pair of long red gloves. Tonight she was going to do King Lear. For reasons unknown to me, the men loved Shakespeare. Particularly as, in a considerable switch from historical precedent, it was all acted by women. The vaudeville performers were onstage, warming up the audience and giving the girls time to dress and get ready for the first act. A lively chorus-line dance, while Ellie belted out a song, would precede King Lear. It was perhaps not as Shakespeare imagined it, but it was the way Dawson wanted it.
Satisfied everything was under control, I ducked to avoid a flicking red boa and glanced at the watch I kept pinned at my waist. Almost eight thirty. I didn’t hear gales of laughter coming from the front of the house. I didn’t even hear snickers. The vaudeville comedians were supposed to be in the middle of their act. I slipped out of the dressing room.
They were onstage all right, in front of a stony-faced audience. The two men ran about, tripping over their own feet and shouting lines of dialogue at each other. No one was laughing. Miners and cheechakos will laugh at almost anything, I have found, and they’ll weep buckets of tears at the worst song cranked out by the worst voice you’ve ever heard, but they weren’t laughing at this show.
I walked to the back of the room and leaned against the wall. Lots of running around on stage, lots of shouting. One of them fell over a chair—that earned a round of chuckles.
“Where on earth did you find those two, Mrs. MacGillivray?” Constable Richard Sterling stood beside me.
“They brought letters of recommendation from theatres in the east.”
“I should arrest them for impersonating comedians,” Richard said.
I lifted one eyebrow. “I believe that’s the first time I’ve heard you tell a joke, Constable.”
“I wasn’t joking, Mrs. MacGillivray,” he said, but the gold streaks in his brown eyes twinkled with something approaching mirth.
Together we watched the show. The next skit involved the mother-in-law of one of them arriving at a dig and setting about organizing the mining activities. The audience chuckled at first, and before the end they were roaring with laughter. The mother-in-law character insisted on inspecting each piece of gold with her white gloves, and one miner fell off his bench in appreciation.
Richard chucked, then his voice dropped, and he was once again all business. “How’s Mary doing?”
“Fine.”
“She worked at the laundry today?”
“All day long.”
“I don’t mean to interfere…”
“Then don’t.”
“She can’t make a life for herself in Dawson, you must know that.”
“She will be safe with Mrs. Mann and me.”
“Fiona.” He turned to face me, full on. His eyes were now dark and serious. “You mean well, but I don’t know if you understand what it can be like for the natives. No one will accept her, at least no one other than Joey LeBlanc and her customers.”
“Precisely my point. I hope these fellows’ second act is better than the first. Perhaps I’ll see you later, Constable.”
I edged my way through the rows of chairs as the vaudeville performers left the stage to a round of boos, and the chorus line danced on to a round of enthusiastic hooting.
I didn’t worry about the boos. The audience always booed the male performers and cheered the females.