And that was just the first load, Liza realized. Her mother turned to her, the resolve she’d clung to up until that moment draining from her eyes.
“Stay here, Agatha,” Liza’s father said. “I need you to watch over our things.”
Liza was tempted to suggest that perhaps they needed two people to watch their things, but she knew she couldn’t. In the back of her mind she could still hear the desperation of the men who had been heading home, and if she’d learned anything from them it was that her family would need everything they had brought if they were to survive the journey ahead. But they’d have to move fast if they were going to get it all off this ship.
This time, Liza didn’t question the folly of it as she reached for the ship’s rail and threw herself over, and her brother and father followed. Every time they brought another load, the barge sank a little lower, until water covered the toes of Liza’s boots and her hands and feet grew numb. When everything was finally loaded, her father spoke to their pilot, who shoved off towards shore.
“Ha!” her father exclaimed. “Now that was exciting!”
They looked at him in disbelief, then Liza’s mother gave an unladylike snort, which set Liza off. One by one they started to laugh, though Liza wobbled on the edge of tears. When they eventually reached the beach, Liza dropped off the raft, stifling a gasp as she sank ankle-deep into the sand. Cold, muddy water seeped through her boot seams.
“Tide’s rising fast, folks!” their pilot announced, clearly anxious to go back for another fare.
Everywhere on the beach, men were hauling crates away from the creeping water. Some hollered prices as they went. “Don’t want to lose your things now, do you?” they called. “Only fifty dollars! Right here! Fifty dollars is worth it to keep your powder dry!”
Liza’s mother pressed up against her. “Fifty dollars? Just to carry our things to the end of the sand?”
“I don’t see any other way, Mother,” she replied, shivering. “We’ll lose everything if we don’t get help.”
Her father was already down the beach, counting out money to one of the working men. When he looked back at his family and gestured towards a horse and wagon, Liza just about cried with relief. She swept rain-drenched hair off her face, hoisted one of the smaller crates from the sand, and lugged it towards the wagon.
“Quickly, quickly,” her father sang in passing, his arms full.
How could he be so cheerful? Liza wondered irritably. After moving so many boxes and bags, her arms ached from the tedium of lift, carry, load, lift, carry, load, and hunger was making her dizzy. She watched with amazement as her mother resolutely picked up yet another bag and slung it over her shoulder. This had been a difficult voyage for her, and yet she wasn’t stopping. Nor would she, Liza resolved, as she curled her ice-cold fingers around the edges of the next crate.
A startled horse screamed close by, then Liza heard a giant splash followed by the sound of a man wailing with grief. When she spun towards the noise she spotted the man from the ship—the one who said he had been watching her—slumped at the water’s edge, his head in his hands. From what she could tell, the flailing horse nearby had tripped, then panicked, falling over in the water and overturning his barge. It appeared most of the man’s supplies had been submerged instantly, and Liza didn’t see even one other traveller coming to help him retrieve his things. Their energy was already being spent on avoiding their own near catastrophes. Unnerved, Liza hurried towards her family’s wagon. She had never heard a man cry so desperately before.
“Poor fellow,” her father said, taking the crate from her. “He will have to return to Victoria now. By the time he replenishes his stores, it will probably be too late.”
“Come on, Liza!” her mother called. “One more load!”
After she’d set her final box on the wagon, Liza started up the beach, relieved that the rain was letting up. Of course she was already soaked through, her unwieldy skirts twice as heavy as before, but as the sky cleared she was able to focus her attention on the landscape before her instead. The mountains were no longer a faraway apparition. They were all around, owning the sky and the land beneath. Liza was no longer simply an observer. She was part of this magnificent wilderness, and that fact took her breath away. She was here.
From her father’s map, she knew their ultimate destination—Dawson City—was hundreds of miles past those forbidding peaks. On paper the trip had seemed arduous but straightforward: sail to Dyea, climb the Chilkoot Trail, proceed down the other side of the mountain, then travel by boat up the Yukon River to Dawson City. Seeing the journey stretching in front of her now, she had no doubt there would be many trials ahead, and yet with every uncomfortable, sloppy step she felt more drawn in by the land’s power. It seemed to be infusing her body with its strength. Apprehension made way for an unexpected sense of anticipation.
“I am in the Yukon,” she said, loud enough that only she could hear. “And I am going to walk to Dawson City.”
Ben
FOUR
It didn’t matter how clean Ben was at the beginning of his rounds, he wasn’t going to end up the same way. The cold, late September rains had turned Fort Macleod into a giant, slushy mud bath. The day before, the outpost had received a couple of reports from farms a number of miles away, so Ben and his partner, Constable Bob Miller, had set out early that morning, tugging their Stetson hats low over their brows to shield them from a light but stubborn drizzle. After an hour, both men were soaked through and their boots were caked in mud. Neither had stopped Miller from chattering on beside him.
In the month since Ben had been stationed at the Fort, he and Miller had got along well enough, though on Ben’s first night at the Fort Miller had had a little fun, trying to unsettle him as they sat around the supper table.
“You’ll see all types out there,” Miller had warned, watching for a reaction. “Some of the Blackfoot aren’t too friendly with us. That worry you?”
“No.” Ben knew the Blackfoot pretty well, but he didn’t bring that up.
“Maybe it should.” Miller chuckled. “Well, if it’s not them, I bet we can find something else that’ll give you a fright.”
Ben didn’t bother to argue. He didn’t doubt Miller and the other Mounties had had their share of adventures, even times when they’d been afraid, but he had a feeling Miller didn’t know real fear. Not like Ben did, anyway. After his life on the farm, Ben was fairly confident nothing could frighten him anymore.
Still, Miller seemed a good enough fellow, with a headful of brown curls and a hundred-dollar smile. He was from Ontario, with a year’s seniority over Ben, and he talked enough for both of them, but that was all right with Ben.
By the time the two of them reached their first stop, the rain had ended and sun was high in the sky. That was a blessing, since the rancher needed help searching the fields for four cows, all of which were set to drop calves any minute. It wasn’t the most alluring of missions, but Ben and Miller headed in opposite directions, riding through messy coulees and behind patches of brush. Ben had just about given up hope when he found one of the cows, and he got there just in time to help her tiny calf into the world. In the end, all four cows and a total of six calves—including two sets of twins—were located, and Boyd was so pleased that he insisted the Mounties go away with a package of moose pemmican: dried cranberries, Saskatoon berries, and meat, stuck together with moose fat.
The taste of it took Ben back five years, to when he’d briefly lived with a group of Blackfoot. They had introduced him to this staple, and the greasy snack had kept his belly satisfied when there was nothing else to fill it, which had happened a number of times before he joined the Mounties. He was just finishing off a slice as they approached their next stop: Jerry Barlow’s place.
Jerry was a well-known drinker in the area, according to Miller. The day before, Jerry’s neighbour had come to the outpost on his way out of town to ask the Mounties if they would check on Jerry and his wife. He was con
cerned because nobody had heard from the pair for a couple of weeks.
“Do you smell that?” Miller asked.
“I’m glad we’re upwind,” Ben replied.
The meaty stench of decay clung to the air, and if the day had been any warmer they’d have heard flies. As it was, they tied kerchiefs over their mouths before they opened the door to the Barlow house, and Ben suppressed a gag as he stepped inside. Barlow was lying flat on the floor, dead as a doornail but much messier.
“Drowned in his own vomit,” Ben said, taking in the rest of the filthy room. “Based on all these empty bottles, I’d say he never knew what happened.”
Behind him, Miller’s boots crossed the floor towards the only other room. “Wife’s long gone,” he reported. “Her things ain’t here, and there’s a good layer of dust.”
That explained Barlow’s binge, Ben thought sadly. He’d never met the couple, but the sight of Jerry’s dead body in front of him made him wish he had known there was trouble out this way, because maybe then he could have done something to help before it was too late.
Between the two of them, Miller and Ben carried the body outside. When they were far enough away from the house, they dug a grave and buried the man.
“Good day’s work, I’d say.” Miller leaned on his shovel. “Considering the mud and the calving and this fella, I don’t think we could get much dirtier than we are now. Let’s get back. Could do with a drink myself.”
Ben eyed him. Drinking wasn’t an option for members of the North-West Mounted Police except in a few sanctioned cases.
“Joking.”
“Sure you were,” Ben said wryly, but Miller’s comment had managed to lighten the mood and he was grateful for that.
When they finally passed through the gates of Fort Macleod’s timber walls, the faint aroma of fresh bread in the air greeted them, and Ben’s stomach grumbled. Supper wouldn’t be for another couple of hours—the pemmican would have to tide him over.
“I’m off to see Red, get him to take a little off the top,” Miller said, reining his horse towards the barbershop. “See you later.”
Ben continued on past the Fort’s various buildings to the stables. He figured he’d better clean up both the horse and himself before he did anything else. After the general store and the blacksmith, he passed the pristine white house where the Reverend lived, right beside the church. Ben had never had much time for religion. Whenever he saw that place, with its imposing steeple reaching towards the heavens, he thought of his mother and her desperate prayers. When it came down to it, God hadn’t seen fit to save her. Pushing memories to the back of his mind, Ben nudged his horse to pick up the pace.
At the stable, Ben cleaned and groomed the horse, then he returned to the barracks to do the same for himself. When he felt presentable, he headed into the dining hall for supper. A dozen of his fellow Mounties were already sitting around the table, and Ben knew all but one: a man with a heavy beard sitting on his own. When the stranger didn’t introduce himself, Ben leaned over to Miller and whispered, “Who’s that?”
Miller kept his voice low. “Sergeant Eb Thompson. You’ll want to stay on his good side.”
Ben waited for him to elaborate, but he didn’t, which was odd in itself. Miller rarely held his tongue on any subject.
Instead, Miller asked the room, “Inspector joining us tonight?” through a mouthful of stew. “I wanted to speak with him about a run-in I had up at the railway a few days back. Missed him at his desk.”
Ben noticed Sergeant Thompson raising his head at the mention of a railway matter.
“Something happen?” someone else asked.
“More of the same,” Miller replied, swallowing another bite, “but it’s a lot more. A whole lot of Americans with guns, liquor, and attitude, all of them heading north with their hearts set on gold.”
At this, Ben leaned in, eager to hear more. Ever since he had arrived at Fort Macleod, he’d heard tales about the gold fever that had sent thousands of stampeders to Canada’s North, hoping to carve a shiny fortune out of the earth. Ben glanced towards Thompson, who was resolutely rubbing his beard as if he had something to add to the conversation, but after a moment the man’s gaze returned to his bowl.
“Gentlemen!” Inspector Wood said as he entered the room, and Ben rose along with the others. “Be seated, please. We are honoured this evening by the presence of ‘D’ Division’s commanding officer, Superintendent Samuel Steele.”
Ben hadn’t yet met the renowned Superintendent, but he’d heard a lot about him. Steele’s name was always spoken with a kind of reverence even though Ben had the impression that some of the Mounties thought the Superintendent demanded too much of his men. He supposed he was about to find out if that was true or not.
“Superintendent Steele’s military and policing reputation spans decades and covers a vast territory within the Dominion,” Inspector Wood told them. “He’s set the gold standard for the rest of us, having done everything from defeating whisky traders to policing railway construction to keeping the peace. He almost single-handedly defeated Big Bear and snuffed out the Métis Rebellion twelve years ago. The Superintendent deserves our utmost respect, and I expect each of you to make a positive impression.”
Tables were immediately cleared and uniforms straightened, and when Steele entered the room Ben jumped back to his feet. He wasn’t sure what he’d envisioned, but now that he saw him, Ben thought the tall and barrel-chested Superintendent looked exactly as he should. Before he said a word, Steele regarded the group sharply, holding each man’s eyes for a long moment before moving on to the next. When his attention shifted to Ben, the weight of his examination felt like more than a mere observation. It was as if, he thought, he’d been given an order before it was even spoken.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” Steele said as they resumed their seats. “I trust that what I have to say tonight will not come as too much of a surprise.” He cleared his throat. “The time has come for me to call for volunteers for the Klondike.”
Ben’s ears pricked at the night’s second mention of the gold rush. He’d wanted to know about it, and no one had more inside information on what was happening in the North than the Superintendent.
“Inspector Constantine and Staff Sergeant Brown are presently in the Yukon with some of our hardiest men,” Steele said, “and they are in need of reinforcements now that the gold rush is in full swing.” He raised one eyebrow. “I’m not going to lie, gentlemen. This is a tough job. Not only is there a lot of work to be done up there, but it’s damn cold. Damn cold. And even after we add a couple dozen Mounties to the area, the stampeders will still outnumber us by at least a thousand to one.” He paused. “Because of this, I will only be sending men who feel they are hardy enough to be of assistance in an extremely challenging climate. If you choose not to go, you will be neither penalized nor judged.”
“You make it sound like fun, sir,” joked one of the men in the back of the room.
Steele’s piercing eyes were on the clown before Ben even figured out who had spoken. Nobody dared glance back at the offender. Steele didn’t react, just stood silent and forbidding as granite for a full minute. When he eventually resumed speaking, there was a collective exhale in the room.
“The Yukon is breathtaking but treacherous,” Steele continued, “and the stampeders are an interesting mix of naive greenhorns and hardened criminals who do not take kindly to answering to anyone but themselves. Until the Force took over a few years ago, the miners, with their gambling houses and saloons, ruled themselves. Now we have better control, but the population is swelling exponentially, which means we have to increase our own numbers just to keep up. We will absolutely not allow lynch mobs and gangsters to rule over these people. Not in Canada.”
A new sense of purpose swelled in Ben. This was his chance to do some real good and be part of a grand adventure.
“I am sending a contingent of forty Mounties from across the Force to the Klondike, including th
ree men from this post. One of those will be Sergeant Thompson.” The Sergeant responded to Steele’s address with a respectful nod. “Sergeant Thompson has experience travelling in that part of the country as well as dealing with the people living in those regions. He is well qualified to lead this mission.” Steele considered the rest of the men one more time. “So I am looking for two more. If you are inclined to embark on a mission of this magnitude, please see me in the morning.”
That night, Ben lay on his cot and contemplated the ceiling for what felt like hours, indifferent to the snores rumbling around him. As a child, he’d slept under a rotted hole in the roof of his childhood home, and when he was too afraid to stay in the house he’d watched spiders working their way across a beam in the barn’s loft. At Depot the ceilings had been uniformly white, and here at Fort Macleod he saw sturdy timber. The Yukon’s night sky, he imagined, would have no ceiling at all. In his mind it would be an endless black sprinkled with stars, a wide-open opportunity for a new life, and one where he could make a difference. It was exactly what Ben needed.
The next morning he dressed before reveille, determined to be the first at Sam Steele’s door.
“You are quite new to the Force,” Steele noted, his head bent over a couple of pages. Sergeant Thompson sat at the Superintendent’s side, scrutinizing Ben as Steele went through his file. “But you do have an admirable record. I see you’ve made excellent progress in a very short period of time.”
“Thank you, Superintendent.”
Sergeant Thompson sat at Steele’s side, scrutinizing Ben as Steele went through his file.
“Why do you want to go to the Klondike, Constable Turner?” Steele asked.
“I want to go where I’m needed most, sir. I’m not afraid of hard work.”
“You are a strong-looking chap,” he agreed. “But you’re also quite young. The Yukon will demand a great deal from you. Do you have the discipline?”
At the Mountain's Edge Page 4