by Herbert Ashe
Jack held his gaze steady. “When?”
“This morning.”
“I see.” His mouth was suddenly quite dry.
“He will report for San Francisco Examiner.”
“Yes. Of course,” Jack said awkwardly.
The gardener caught the look on Jack’s face. “I will get water. Please wait here.” With another quick bow, he walked into the house.
Jack sat on the front step, staring down at his feet. A long trail of black ants traced their mysterious way through the dirt, carrying tiny white eggs and an assortment of dead insects in a frantic line.
He began playing through a number of desperate scenarios in his head. Maybe he could ride the rails up the coast to Seattle, and try to find passage from there? But once there he would be faced with the same problem he had here: expensive and overcrowded ships, and no money to pay for either tickets or supplies. Besides, Jack suspected that the rails would be overrun by gold-seekers, just like every other mode of transport was.
He’d heard talk of overland routes to the Klondike, but they seemed slow and dangerous. Insane, actually, when you thought about them at any length. How could anyone possibly stand a chance on a journey of two thousand miles through unknown and wild terrain? It was hopeless, like walking to the source of the Nile in Africa.
No, he needed to somehow get aboard one of the ships heading to Alaska.
But how? Become a stowaway? A crazy image came into his head: he saw himself sneaking aboard one of the ships at night, and somehow staying hidden for the duration of the voyage at sea.
As Jack knew from his days aboard the Sophie Sutherland, life at sea operated by different rules. At sea, the Captain was King, the final arbiter between life and death. He could administer the harshest justice known to Man: he could keelhaul you, flog you with the cat-o’-the-nine-tails, make you climb high into the rigging, or scrape the hull free of barnacles. Stowaways were the lowest rung on the ladder, and, after being caught, were often chained up, abused, or given the dirtiest and most dangerous jobs on board the ship.
Still, if Jack thought he had a chance, he would be willing to try. But he knew it wouldn’t work. The ships would be too crowded to escape detection for long. And what would he eat? For a moment he was nearly overwhelmed by despair.
The gardener returned with two wooden cups. He handed one to Jack, then sat down beside him, and took a sip of his own. “Every day is an adventure, and the adventure itself is home,” he said.
Jack gulped down a large mouthful of the cool, clear water. “What was that?” he asked, when he’d finally had his fill. He wiped his lips on the back of his hand.
“A famous poet from my country wrote that. Basho. In his book, Narrow Road to the Deep North.”
Jack blinked. “What’s your name?”
“Yone Noguchi.”
“I’m Jack.”
They shook hands.
Jack was curious. “How about you?” he asked, after a moment. “Will you head North too?”
Yone shook his head, and smiled. “I am already rich,” he said. “I grow things and have a view of the sea.”
Jack studied the gardener’s handsome profile for a moment.
They sat in silence for a few minutes, listening to the wind in the trees and looking out over the streets of Oakland, which shimmered and danced in the afternoon heat. Beyond them, across the Bay, was San Francisco. In the distant haze Jack made out the forms of the steamboats down at the docks, and—faintly—a plume of black smoke still rising from Chinatown.
Just to the North of the city, he could see the Pacific Ocean through the Golden Gate, beckoning ceaselessly to him with the call of the wild.
He had rested enough. He stood, thanked Yone, and wished him the best of luck in America. Then he got on his bicycle again and began coasting back down the road.
He let his speed build and build, fighting the urge to use the brakes, until everything was a blur and he was fully committed. If he fell or crashed now he would be badly injured, or even killed.
Overhead, a lone condor circled endlessly, riding the warm air rising off the scrubland hills.
* * * * *
As soon as Eliza saw Jack dismount at the curb, she came out of the front door towards him. She could tell from his eyes that it hadn’t gone well.
“Listen Jack,” she said. “We need to talk…”
“I know.” Jack began walking the bike up towards the house, resigned now to his fate.
He knew what she was going to say. He’d heard her speech about becoming a postal worker before. Her theory was, with so many men leaving for the North there would be a shortage of applicants, and that Jack could get in somewhere.
Truth be told the prospect of delivering mail door to door wasn’t all that bad. Yes, if he could get the job, he’d probably be able to lead a nice, stable life. A humble one, sure, but who was to say that humble lives weren’t the best kind?
Except that Jack knew his stubborn pride would never accept it. The thought of other men going and having tremendous experiences in the Northlands, while he remained at home, drove him crazy. They would always have that over him.
But maybe he no longer had a choice. Someone had to provide for the family. It should be him.
“I didn’t get it,” he told her, unable to keep the disappointment out of his voice. “Look, I’ve been thinking about what you said…”
“Never mind all that right now.” She grabbed his hand and pulled him towards the house.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, suddenly worried.
“You’d better come inside.”
He leaned his bicycle against the side of the house, and they went inside, making their way back to the library, where they found Captain Shepard poring over his map of Alaska. Newspapers were spread out all over the place, and the air was thick with tobacco smoke.
Captain Shepard looked up excitedly as they walked in the room. “We can take the Umatilla to Port Townsend, and then transfer to the City of Topeka bound for Juneau. From there we will unload our outfits at Dyea beach, and have them carried across the Chilkoot pass. The hard part will be building or buying a boat at Lake Bennett for the five hundred mile journey downriver to Dawson…”
Jack was caught completely off guard. “We?” he repeated.
“Yes, my boy. We. We!” Captain Shepard’s face was flushed with excitement. He was practically jumping up and down like a schoolboy. “Eliza and I have been talking… If you agree, we will form a partnership, today, just the three of us. We can put up the money to buy your outfit and steamer fare. This way, you get to go, and I get to come with you…”
Jack couldn’t believe his ears. He looked over at Eliza. She smiled back at him, a little cautiously.
“I re-mortgaged the house this afternoon,” she said simply.
She told Jack how she’d gone into the bank first thing that morning, and had waited in line for over three hours—apparently many people had the same idea—and finally managed to borrow a few thousand dollars against the value of her house.
Enough to buy two first-class outfits, and passage to Alaska.
Raw excitement flowed through Jack’s body. Just a couple of minutes ago he’d been so sure that he didn’t have a chance. But Eliza had come through for him. Again. Just as she always did, supporting him in his crazy schemes against her better judgment.
Jack turned back to Captain Shepard. “But your health…” he began.
“Oh, pshaw!” Captain Shepard said, with a contemptuous wave of his hand. “We are men, aren’t we? We can do this. We really can. Besides, I haven’t felt this healthy in years! All I need is the open road, adventure…” The ends of his well-oiled moustache curled upwards as he smiled. “I will put up some of my earnings from Shepard & Company, and along with Eliza’s investment, there should be enough money to get us there and keep us fed through the winter.”
Jack looked at Captain Shepard’s flushed face. He was now sixty years old, and almost certai
nly had a serious heart condition. But it wasn’t totally beyond belief that the open road would do him some good, even help whip him back into shape. They had all read of men older than Captain Shepard heading North. Even “Lucky” Baldwin—the famous local veteran of the great rush of ‘49—was leaving behind his string of lucrative hotels and estates to grubstake in the North at the age of seventy-one.
“I will only agree to this on one condition,” Eliza said. “You have to promise to bring my husband back safely.”
Jack grabbed her into a big bearhug, lifting her off her feet.
“Jack!” she squealed, playfully swatting at his shoulders. “I’m serious!”
“Of course.”
He put her down, and kissed her on the cheek. Jack looked at them both solemnly. “Partners, then,” he said. They all shook hands formally, sealing the deal.
Captain Shepard walked over to his bottles of bourbon. “We have a lot to plan, and not a lot of time. The Umatilla leaves in three days…” He turned to them both with a grin.
“Now who wants a drink?”
* * * * *
Jack stayed for dinner at Eliza’s and the three of them made plans to take the ferry across to San Francisco the following morning to buy tickets and outfits.
It was after 9 pm when he left.
When he arrived back at his mother’s house he saw candlelight flickering in the parlour window, and knew that his mother was engaged in an evening séance. He wheeled his bicycle into the yard and snuck in the back door as quietly as he could, not wanting to disturb the paying customers.
His mother’s sessions seldom brought in much money, though they frequently caused Jack much embarrassment around town. Flora, a well-known medium, claimed to be able to channel the spirit of a dead Indian chief named Plume. People came to her to ask and answer questions of the dead, usually a recently deceased loved one: a mother, or husband, or daughter.
Jack had observed his mother’s possession by Plume many times since he was a young boy. He was convinced it was all a sham. As far as he was concerned, there was no such thing as the spirit or soul. In fact, his mother’s silly obsession with all things supernatural had turned Jack into an ardent materialist.
As far as he was concerned there was only matter, hunger, and time.
As he walked quietly up the stairs to his room he could hear his mother’s distorted voice echoing through the parlour door. “Constance…” she warbled, in her strangled voice. “Constance… Constance…”
Jack could hear table rattling and strange knocking sounds—sure-fire signs of the end of the performance.
When he reached the top of the stairs he glanced down the hall and saw that the light was still on in John’s room, so he went over and lightly knocked on the door.
He pulled it open and found his father in bed, dressed in his blue nightshirt. It looked like he had dozed off reading the Morning Call.
“What’s the word?” John said, waking when he heard the door open. He struggled a little to sit up. His face looked particularly dried out, as if it had been somehow drained of blood. Everyone knew John hadn’t been the same since his accident, but Jack had noted a deterioration in his vitality over the past few weeks. It wasn’t clear how long he had left.
Jack went over and sat lightly on the edge of the bed. “I sail with Captain Shepard in three days…”
“Oh!” John clapped his hands together. “Thank God!”
“I haven’t struck gold yet,” Jack said with a shrug. But his cheeks were more than a little flushed with excitement.
“You will. One way or another.” Suddenly there were tears in John’s eyes. “Flora worries about you, of course, but she just can’t see it yet. Trust me, I tell her, that boy will be a big deal someday. He’ll come out all right. You watch his smoke! And now here we are…”
They talked for a minute or two more, mainly about the outfits Eliza wanted to buy, but soon John began to fade. His watery eyes struggled to remain open. So Jack said goodnight and went to his room.
He’d just crawled into bed when he heard a sharp knock on his door. Jack knew it was his mother. For a moment he considered ignoring her, and hoping she just went away. But she knocked again, louder this time, so Jack got up.
He opened the bedroom door. Flora looked tired: the dark circles under her eyes were plainly visible through her thick foundation.
“Captain Shepard and I will sail on the Umatilla,” Jack said, cutting straight to his big news. They had nothing else to talk about, really.
“Good.” She nodded, looking relieved. She chewed on her nails. “Good.”
It looked like she might leave it at that, and wish him good night. But instead she walked into his bedroom. She went over to his crowded bookshelf, picked up his copy of Herbert Spencer’s First Principles, peered absently at its cover for a moment, then put it back down. She looked around at the cramped room, with its peeling ceiling-paint and dingy yellow wallpaper.
“I know this has been hard on you,” she began. “You are so much better than this. We both are…”
Jack looked around. It wasn’t much, he’d admit, but it sure beat sleeping in prison, or out rough in the rain…
“Are we?” he asked, and immediately regretted it. He didn’t want to argue.
He’d heard her rant about their origins a hundred times before: how they were descended from Thomas Wellman, a Puritan who’d settled in the Massachusetts Bay Colony in 1635, and fathered a line of patriots and heroes who’d fought and bled for their country during the Revolutionary War.
Flora shook her head sadly. Jack had never understood the importance of their lineage, not in the way that she did. To her, their honour was everything.
But she didn’t want to argue either, so she bit her tongue, and walked back out of his room, turning at the door to face him.
“You must never stop writing, Jack,” she said. “Do you hear? Promise me.”
“I promise.” Say what he might about his mother: she was the only one in his family who really believed he could make it as an author.
She kissed him on the cheek, then turned to go.
“Our day will come, Jack,” she said. “You wait and see.”
* * * * *
Flora and John were still sleeping when, just after dawn, Jack snuck out the back door.
As he cycled through the empty streets back towards Eliza’s house he listened to the sounds of the sparrows chirping in the early morning light. He felt at peace. For the first time in a long time, he’d slept soundly the night before. He hadn’t woken up in the bleak hours between 2 and 4 am, feeling like a failure, with an anxious knot twisting in his stomach.
Now that he knew he would be travelling again, he felt giddy, almost drunk with happiness. He thought of all the new sights and sounds that awaited him on the road to the Klondike.
All the people he did not know yet, but would, and soon.
When he arrived, Eliza prepared the three of them a quick breakfast of pancakes and black coffee. They buzzed with nervous excitement as they ate.
Flipping through the morning papers, they read aloud several in-depth interviews with Dick McNulty, William Stanley, and Clarence Berry: rich prospectors who’d arrived aboard the treasure ships. Besieged by reporters, con-men, and long-lost relatives, they were now holed up in various fancy hotels downtown, where they hid out in luxurious suites making plans for the future.
Big plans.
It all seemed so unreal. Jack found it more than a little hard to believe that, in just a couple of days, he and Captain Shepard would be on their way, attempting to find their own destiny amid the wild headlines.
After Jack had finished his second cup of coffee and Eliza had written out a list of what they needed, they walked down to the ferry and—paying twice what it had cost Jack the day before—crossed over to San Francisco. The ferry was overloaded, sitting a foot or two deeper in the water than usual, and people everywhere were remarking upon the craziness of the times.<
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But nothing could prepare them for the madness they saw when they arrived at the Ferry Terminal.
Even Jack—who thought he’d seen much of life and knew the score on most subjects—was astounded by the change from the day before.
The wharves and piers were crawling with people of every description.
People from all walks of life—men, women, children—wandering around in a daze, as if drugged. Jack spotted at least three baby carriages among the crowd.
It was as if the steamers, by virtue of being vessels by which a man could deliver himself to the untold riches of his dreams, possessed a strange gravitational force that drew the inhabitants of the Bay Area down to the docklands.
Whole families had come out to picnic amidst the mayhem. They sat on blankets and ate crackers and fruit from little dishes while watching the shipping cranes working overtime, loading hundreds of tons of cargo into the creaking holds of a dozen large steamers and other assorted boats. Children ran around in swarms, gawking at the variety of tugs and fishing yachts that had been pressed into service, and were being hastily retrofitted for Northern waters.
As soon as they disembarked from the ferry, Eliza pressed ahead into the crowd, walking purposefully towards the offices of the main steamship lines. As they fell in behind her, Jack’s eyes searched through the crowd intently.
His imagination began to race. The faces he saw began to blend into each other, one after another. For a long, strange moment he saw that the people were little more than marionettes, puppets strung with invisible wire, jerking along unconsciously, as if under the control of a vast yet invisible machine. For a minute or two he thought this realization was full of significance.
But soon, pulled in a million directions by the sights and sounds, his mind drifted on. He recognized a number of his former classmates from Berkeley’s lecture halls amongst the crowds, and briefly wondered if summer courses had been suspended amidst all this excitement. After all, what kind of man could stand to be stuck in a lecture, listening to some dried-out professor drone on while all this momentous activity was taking place? While fortunes were being made and lost, and a man’s destiny hung on the whims of an hour?