by Vicki Delany
“Sam healed and fattened himself back up. He was a hero. He’d been captured because he refused to leave a wounded man behind. He tried to carry the soldier back to Confederate lines. He would have escaped, if he’d left the man to die. A man he’d never set eyes on before. But Sam couldn’t leave him. The fellow died in the prison camp because the Yankee soldiers wouldn’t send for a doctor to tend to him. When the war ended, the Confederacy was broken, and its heroes weren’t recognized. Not like the Union soldiers. They got medals for waking up in the morning.
“But despite all that happened to Sam, we were luckier than many. Sam’s cousin Jake never did make it home.
Then the carpetbaggers came.”
It didn’t take a genius to assume that the carpetbaggers were not nice people. I shook my head in disapproval at their actions. Whatever those actions might have been.
“They took the farm, so we left for California. But luck didn’t come with us, Mrs. MacGillivray. We’ve had a hard life. But I’m not sorry for a moment of it, except for what those Union bastards—excuse me, Mrs. MacGillivray, Helen—did to my Sam.”
“Did you ever hear from your family?” “Only once. I wrote to my mother, two years after Sam was taken prisoner. I told her all that had happened. I said I missed her. She never received the letter. My father sent it back, with ‘Confederate Traitor’ written in big black letters across the envelope.”
“And you never wrote to your mother again?”
“There didn’t seem to be much point.” I thought for a moment of Margaret’s mother, waiting anxiously for a letter, day after day, year after year, as more than thirty years passed. And her husband defacing and returning the one letter that did arrive.
“Floor’s dry, if’n you want to go upstairs, Mrs. Mac,” Helen announced.
“It’s been nice talking to you, Margaret,” I said as I stood up. Now there was a trite comment. In neither the overflowing streets of Seven Dials nor the drawing rooms of Belgravia—not even in the comfortable homes of Toronto —did one encounter such human emotion nakedly displayed. This really was the New World, and I didn’t quite know what to make of it. I’m much more comfortable hiding behind a civilized façade of good manners and polite indifference than being confronted by this strange American habit of revealing one’s innermost feelings to almost-perfect strangers.
As a nation, they won’t get anywhere as long as they continue to display such tolerance to the relaxation of common decency. Not compared to the fortitude of the peoples of the British Empire, for which I had not the slightest bit of affinity, but felt a certain not-quiteunderstood pride nevertheless.
As I trudged up the stairs to my office, it occurred to me that I had gone a whole half an hour without giving a thought to the whereabouts of my wayward son.
I worked on the books, making several mistakes when my mind wandered, and I found myself thinking more about Angus than the columns of figures I should be concentrating on.
It couldn’t be easy for Angus, being my son. We’d had a nice life, in Toronto. I’d rented a beautiful home in the best part of town. Angus had gone to a good Episcopal school, in the company of boys from the best families. The sons of bankers, lawyers, men of business and blue-blooded aristocrats who’d come to Canada when their bloodlines outlasted their family fortunes. His schoolmates invited Angus to skating and tennis parties; he spent weekends at near-palatial summer homes on Stony Lake. Then one day, I arrived at his school in the middle of the night, forced the night porter to rouse my son from his bed, informed the headmaster, still rubbing sleep out of his eyes and wearing a hastily tied dressing gown, that Angus was leaving, and ordered my driver to toss his trunk into the cab. We caught the next train out of Union Station heading west. The boy looked out the window and didn’t even complain that he hadn’t had a chance to bid his friends goodbye.
Finally, I decided the ledger was accurate enough and took our earnings to the bank. But despite the fact that I had enjoyed all of a half-an-hour’s sleep the previous night, I didn’t want to go back to Mrs. Mann’s boarding house for my usual nap. Not that Angus normally hung around during the day when I rested, but the place would be so lonely without him.
Mrs. Mann had promised to send word the minute he got home.
“Still here, Fee?” Ray stuck his head around the door.
“How long does it take to get to the Creeks, Ray?”
“I don’t know. Less than a day, maybe. Why?”
Less than a day. No doubt by the time they found this…whatever his name was…it would be too late to head straight back to Dawson. So I could expect Angus home tomorrow. Probably shortly after lunch. He’d have eaten all the food he took with him and would be ravenous. Angus could eat a prodigious amount.
“Everything all right, Fee?” Ray asked. “Angus has run off. Gone with Richard Sterling to the Creeks on some stupid police investigation. He didn’t even tell me was he was going.” At last I started to cry.
I never cry. Some women can cry with grace, so they still manage to look dewy-fresh and perfectly lovely. Not me. Crying makes my nose red and my eyes all puffy, and the skin on my face turns white and lumpy like a batch of bad dough.
Ray stared at me in horror, whether at the news of Angus or my tears, I didn’t know. “Is the man mad? Ta take a twelve-year-old lad on police business?”
“I’d guess Sterling didn’t have much to say about it.” Through my tears I told Ray the story. Dawson and the New World were having an effect on me: now I was the one pouring out my heart.
“They’ve gone looking for Johnny Stewart, my pal from Glasgow.”
I fumbled in the depths of my sleeve and brought out a handkerchief. It was well laundered and many times mended. Someone had embroidered JPD in perfect, tiny blue stitches in one corner. I didn’t remember knowing anyone with the initials JPD.
Ray came around the desk and patted me on the shoulder with as much awkwardness as if he were trying to soothe a rattlesnake. “There, there, Fee. If Angus is with Sterling, he’ll be okay.”
“But I don’t know if he found Sterling,” I blubbered shamelessly. “Maybe he went after Sterling but didn’t go in the right direction. Maybe he’s lost in the wilderness, set upon by Indian barbarians.”
“Now you’re letting your imagination run away, Fee. No one can get lost in the wilderness round here. The trail leading from Dawson to the Creeks is better marked than the road from Glasgow to Edinburgh, although a mite rougher in places, I hear. And as for Indians, they take one look at Angus, and they’ll be more than happy to bring him home, expecting a fat reward.”
I got to my feet and turned to look out the window. As usual, a horse was floundering in the mud: the mud too thick, the horse too ill fed, the cart too heavily loaded. And, as usual, the driver screamed until the veins in his neck were about to pop and flailed at the emaciated beast’s flanks as if that would do any good. Better if he got behind the cart and pushed, or better still, unloaded the cart. The Vanderhaege sisters’ bakery was back in full operation, the burnt-out shell torn down and a new one replaced in a day. Graham Donohue walked by, keeping to the far side of the street. He glanced at the Savoy but scurried away. Something was bothering him. If I’d been less worried about my son, I might have found time to worry about what had spooked our intrepid American newspaperman so much since the murder of Jack Ireland. But right now, Graham’s guilt, or innocence, was nothing more than a niggling thought in the back of my mind, sort of like thinking about a pesky mosquito when one is confronted by a hungry grizzly bear.
“You’re right, Ray,” I said. “But how can I not worry?”
“Did you speak to anyone?”
“No.”
“I’ll go ’round to the fort. Say I’m looking for Sterling. That he owes me money or some such. Ask when he’s due back.”
I turned and gave Ray a weak smile. “Thank you. I’d appreciate that.” I blew my nose in a completely unladylike manner into JPD’s handkerchief.
&nb
sp; “Angus is a smart wee lad, Fiona. He won’t go far if he’s by himself. And if he’s caught up with Sterling, then the Constable’ll look after him. You know that, don’t you?”
“Yes, Ray. I do know all that.”
“I’ll see that the boys are ready for the day, then I’ll be off to the fort. Nose around a bit. Maybe someone saw Angus. Now you, Fee, you should go home and have your nap and tidy up. Won’t do yourself any good, not sleeping.”
“Yes, Ray.” We both looked up at the sound of footsteps in the hallway, followed by a discreet cough.
Sergeant Lancaster stood in the doorway, clutching his hat to his chest. I’d only left Lancaster a couple of hours ago. I could imagine him wandering through the darkened streets gazing at the moon like a love-struck fool.
I was not in any mood to pretend to be polite. “Yes, Sergeant. Can I help you with something?”
Of course, like a love-struck fool, he didn’t pick up anything in my voice or manner that he didn’t want to. “Is this man bothering you, Mrs. MacGillivray?”
Ray swallowed a laugh. “Certainly not. I am…distraught…and Mr. Walker is reminding me of my responsibilities.” I hated being caught in a naked display of emotion. Like an American. I glared at Lancaster.
Lancaster glared at Ray, and Ray could hardly hide his smirk. “Guess I’ll be off then, Fee,” my partner said. “Unless you need me to hang around. A chaperone, like.”
“Go away.” He left, still chuckling. Ray loved Angus. His belief in my son’s safety gave me a good deal of comfort. I turned to Lancaster. “Now that you’re here, Sergeant…”
“I don’t care for that man,” Lancaster said. “I don’t think his intentions towards you are entirely honourable, Mrs. MacGillivray.”
More honourable than yours. I sat down with a thud. Most unladylike, to make a sound when seating oneself.
“Mrs. MacGillivray.” Lancaster rounded the desk and stood looking down at me. His eyes were on fire, his breath rough and uneven. “Fiona. My dear. Surely you must understand that in this place your precious, God-given reputation is open to any man’s evil thoughts. Think of your late husband. He must be looking down from Heaven, so dreadfully worried about you.”
That did it. Time to get rid of the overbearing Sergeant Lancaster, even if I did myself and my business an injury. I opened my mouth.
“Think of your dear son.”
I closed it again. What if something did happen to Angus? Since Ray’s lecture, my fears were receding, but suppose Angus never caught up with Sterling. Or perhaps they were set upon by bandits. Although no one had reported bandits operating in the Yukon. If something terrible came to pass, I would need all possible assistance, and the good will, of every member of the NWMP. And, according to Sterling, Lancaster, useless as he might be, had the respect of his fellow officers. I cocked my head to one side.
“Please, Sergeant Lancaster. I appreciate your courtesy, but I need some time alone.” Taking a chance at appearing too theatrical, I touched my forehead with the back of my hand. “I am feeling quite unwell.”
Lancaster blushed, with considerably less charm than young McAllen had earlier. I had touched upon a feminine matter—a matter of some delicacy. Enough to have most men running for the hills (or the bars) in terror. I wondered if Lancaster had ever been married. If he had, he’d probably bored Mrs. Lancaster to death. I didn’t even know, nor did I care to find out, his first name.
“Pardon me, my dear. I apologize.” He stumbled backwards, bumping his fleshy hip on the corner of my desk. “When I saw you standing at the window, looking so lovely, I thought you might be in need of assistance.” He backed his way out of the room. I fluttered my fingers to say goodbye.
Once I heard the heavy tread of his boots on the stairs, I jumped up, slammed the office door shut, and burst into another round of tears.
I could take almost anything life could threaten me with—I’d proved I could. But I needed my son. If anything happened to Angus, it would be more than I could bear.
Chapter Thirty-Five
If it were possible, Mary’s restaurant was even more unappealing than Ruth’s Hotel. Mary claimed that she hadn’t seen the men Sterling was looking for, which came as no surprise to Angus: if Stewart and his companions hadn’t liked the look of Ruth’s, they wouldn’t eat food served up at Mary’s.
They spent the rest of the day wandering through Grand Forks, asking after anyone matching Stewart’s description. Most of the men they stopped looked at them with a shake of the head and continued on their way. One miner told them he’d seen a man matching Stewart’s description working a sluice box close by. They followed his directions to find a Scotsman who had arrived at the Creeks only recently. But he stood a good six foot six, with the weight to match and a head overflowing with curly red hair.
“This is hopeless,” Angus said. His feet hurt and his pack was rubbing the skin off his shoulder blades. By the time he crawled into his bedroll, if ever that marvellous occasion happened, he fully expected he’d be able to see bare bone. “There must be ten thousand men here. Stewart could be anywhere.”
“This is police work,” Sterling said, “and we’ve only just gotten here. But it’s time to call it a day. It’s looking to be a nice night, so we can take our chance out in the open ’cause there’s no trees to string a covering from, or we can try back at Ruth’s hotel.”
Angus shivered. “My ma catches sight of that hotel, she’d have a thing or two to say about it.”
“If you ever become a Mountie, Angus, you won’t want to tell your mother about some of the places you have to visit. Or the people you meet. There’s level ground over there. It should do.”
They unpacked their bedrolls. Sterling fed and watered Millie before starting up the tiny travelling stove he’d pulled out of his pack.
“That’s nice,” Angus said.
“The men told me there’d not be much firewood up here. Do you have anything to cook?”
Angus shook his head. “I brought bread and cheese and cold meat and stuff.”
“You can have some of my bacon and beans, and tomorrow I’ll have some of your bread and cheese. How’s that?”
“Good, thanks.”
“Hot food’s important, for the spirits as well as the belly.”
Angus lay down almost as soon as they finished eating. He thought he’d never be able to get to sleep, what with the rough patch of ground he lay on and the noises all around him, but the next thing he knew, Sterling was shaking him awake, Millie was pawing at his chest, and the sun was over the hills to the east.
“Why don’t we have some of that bread and cheese for breakfast?” Sterling said. “No need to start up the stove. We can buy coffee someplace.”
They trudged through the gold fields all day, making their way up Eldorado Creek. They didn’t find a trace of Stewart. Tomorrow they’d backtrack and travel down Bonanza Creek.
That night, as Angus’s weary eyes began to close, he watched Sterling sitting wrapped in his blanket, looking out over the mines to the purple hills in the distance, puffing on his pipe, scratching behind Millie’s ear. He fell asleep wondering if his father had ever owned a dog.
A man came to their rough camp on the morning of the third day, while Sterling was starting the stove to make breakfast, and Angus was eyeing dark clouds gathering overhead. A day of rain and this hillside, stripped of all
vegetation, would turn into a river of mud. He wondered if he was prepared to spend a night in a hotel like Ruth’s and decided that he preferred to endure the mud and the rain.
“Heard you’re looking for Johnny Stewart,” the man said. He was a Scotsman, his accent deep but with a touch of education smoothing out the rougher edges. His face was battered, and his nose flattened as if he’d been a prizefighter, many years before. “What’ve you got to offer for information about him?”
“Nothing,” Sterling said, opening the can of beans. “The NWMP doesn’t deal in bribes. It’s your duty to gi
ve me what information you have.”
The man spat. “But I can promise you that I’m not interested in Stewart. He’s in no trouble. It’s about a friend of his. I only want to talk to him.”
“Care for a biscuit, mister?” Angus said, holding out Mrs. Mann’s tin. The scones were getting stale, but he didn’t think this hard man would object to that.
“Why thank you, lad, that’s mighty kind of you.” The man took the scone and bit into it. A look of sheer pleasure crossed his fight-ravaged face, and he devoured the rest in one bite. “Just like my mum used to make, back home in Inverness.” Angus would have sworn that the corner of the man’s eye was suddenly wet. “Johnny Stewart. Working the Number 44.” The man walked away, licking crumbs off his fingers.
“Her Majesty’s North-West Mounted Police do not offer bribes, Angus,” Sterling said, trying to sound stern. A grin touched the edges of his mouth.
“Sorry, sir. I thought he looked sad. Did I do wrong?”
“No. He was sad. A long way from home and wondering what on earth he’s doing in this miserable place. Like all the rest of them.” He stirred the beans. “When my mother makes beans, she puts in a huge lump of pork fat and plenty of molasses. She cooks them all day long, then she puts a pan of corn bread in the oven. She always served me up the biggest bit of pork and a slab of cornbread cut from the edges of the pan. Does your mother make beans, Angus?”
“My mother? She doesn’t cook. Even on the trail, one of the packers or me got the meals.”
Sterling shook his head. “Sorry. Forgot who I’m talking to for a moment. Well, these seem to be ready. For what it’s worth. Eat up, and we’ll find out what your biscuit bought us.”
There were no signposts pointing to this claim or that, so they had to ask all the way. After three days on the Creeks, all the men they spoke to were starting to look the same to Angus. Worn out, dirty, tired, interested in nothing. They came across a group of men taking a break, smoking their pipes, on the top of a slag heap. They were slightly less dirty than most of the others, and the hope hadn’t completely faded from their eyes. The men looked up as Sterling, Angus and Millie approached.