A Trail of Broken Dreams

by Barbara Haworth-Attard

  A couple of the men found a field of potatoes and helped themselves to a few. Mr. Hunniford protested that it was stealing, but then shrugged. We’ve all changed out here. We had the potatoes with fish for supper and relished both!

  September 9, 1862

  Fraser River — Again!

  We are again on the raft, with Indian guides to take us to Quesnellemouth. We soon came upon rapids and as before, I and Talbot and many others walked around them, but the raft made it through safely. As Joe recounted the exciting ride on the raft through the rough water, Talbot turned pea green with envy at missing such an adventure, and stomped off to be on his own.

  John accidentally dropped one of Thomas’s packs into the river when we unloaded the raft. Thomas said he was good for nothing and clipped him on the side of the head. John fell to the ground and Thomas went to hit him again, when Mr. Dyer stepped forward and said, “That isn’t called for. It was an accident.”

  John got to his feet and shot a murderous look at Thomas. It left us all upset. They are really disagreeable people.

  We’re camped tonight near a party of Chinamen. I’ve never seen a Chinaman before and find them quite fascinating with their pigtails and yellow skin, and the chopsticks they use to eat with rather than fork and knife. The Chinamen are working sand and gravel bars for gold. I wanted to ask them if they knew Father, but Mr. Dyer said it was not seemly for me to talk to them. Confound seemly!

  September 11, 1862

  Quesnellemouth

  We are at the mouth of the Quesnel River! In Cariboo! But all are low in spirits. It’s a rude place this; the buildings are slapped together. Two stores have provisions, though they are quite dear. There is an eating house, Indians’ huts and a gambling tent. They’ll find us poor customers.

  Most of the men ate their meal off a table for the first time in nearly four months, but I did not have the money to pay for a bought meal — bacon and beans cost $2.50! I made my meal of dried meat and a biscuit before my own small fire. I feel at times like a hen, scratching, scratching for my living.

  What has caused the men’s low spirits is the fact that there are miners here — all returning empty-handed from the gold fields! Where are the riches? Now I am afraid that I will have missed Father. That like these miners, he might have left Cariboo. I never thought of this before. I leapt before I looked! What if he became disillusioned and decided to return while I came west! I went quickly among the miners, giving Father’s name, but none had heard of him. Talbot told me it was to be expected, as there were thousands of miners working the gold fields. I know he meant it to comfort me, but it only made me realize the foolhardiness of my journey. As Mama would say — like finding a needle in a haystack. I should never have come.

  September 12, 1862

  More rafts have arrived. We hear of the death of two more canoeists, one very eerie indeed. Mr. Carpenter left a note on shore that others found after he had already left in a canoe. It said: Arrived this day at the canyon at 10 a.m. and drowned running the canoe down. God keep my poor wife.

  Joe was quite bug-eyed to know how Mr. Carpenter knew he would die. Talbot told him he didn’t know for sure, he probably just had a feeling in his gut. Then Talbot got quite red. “Stomach, I mean,” he said quickly.

  “I do know what a gut is,” I told him. Joe was very quiet for a while, then clutched his stomach. I asked if he was unwell, and he said he was just seeing if he had a feeling in his gut that he was going to die. He looked so scared, I reassured him he was going to live a long, long time. Henry was quite disgusted and told him not to be so daft. Even though they’re friends again, Joe and Henry still bicker.

  Late afternoon

  After a day of talk, talk and more talk, most of the men have decided they are tired of travelling and will continue to the coast and Victoria for the winter, rather than the gold fields. Mr. McMicking complained that now that he has lugged his miner’s tools all the way over the mountains, they are the only things he does not need.

  I am like Joe today, clutching my stomach to find a feeling to tell me what to do, but there was no help there. I cannot afford the time, and I have no money to go to Victoria. My brain is in a burning turmoil. I need to go to the gold fields, but I’m scared. This is a rough place. We hear of terrible things and it’s hard to tell what’s true and what are tall tales. I heard one story — told three different ways, each one more dramatic than the one before — of a murder of a miner for his gold. Talbot said one of the Wattie brothers and Mr. Fortune plan to go on to the gold fields to take a look before winter settles in. I will ask to go with them.

  Late

  Talbot has been arguing with me most of the evening. He does not think I should go, but I told him I didn’t travel for months over mountains and rivers to get within 60 miles of my goal and not finish my task. Joe and Henry sat with us, smoking their pipes, but saying nothing.

  “Why don’t you and your father come with me?” I asked Talbot.

  Talbot shook his head. “Father’s illness took a great deal out of him. He wouldn’t survive the winter out here.”

  I immediately felt ashamed I’d asked, because it was more for me than him I wanted him to come. I also know Talbot is bursting to go, yet feels his duty to his father.

  I asked Henry and Joe whether they weren’t eager to see the gold fields. But Henry said they would go to Victoria for the winter, too. They need provisions and a rest. Henry joked that the gold would still be here when they came back next spring.

  “But don’t you want to start finding your riches now?” I asked.

  John was suddenly there, unpleasant as usual. “Riches? You’ll still be doing laundry when I’ve my pockets weighed down with gold nuggets, Harriet. You might even be doing my laundry.”

  I told him I would never do his laundry even if it meant a horrible death by starvation! He laughed and moved off.

  I asked Henry whether he knew what the Drummonds were doing. He said they hadn’t decided, but that whatever they did, he wouldn’t be sorry to see the last of them.

  “You bet your gumboots no one will miss them,” Joe added. “Always up to scurvy tricks.” (He’s started to talk like the miners he has met, all grub and scurvy tricks and gumboots, much to Henry’s disgust.)

  Then Talbot pleaded with Henry to tell me it wasn’t safe for me to go to Cariboo.

  “Can’t change a woman’s mind once it is made up, boy,” Henry said. I sat up straighter at that — a woman.

  But then Talbot, as usual, spoiled it! “A woman’s mind! Stubborn, that’s what she is. Worse than a mule,” he grumbled. How flattering to be compared to a mule!

  He then told me that if I kept wearing my boy’s clothes and didn’t talk much, no one would know I’m a girl from my looks. I glared at him and stomped away! Honestly! I can’t help it if I’m skinny and don’t have my woman’s figure yet. I’m half-starved from climbing over mountains!

  September 13, 1862, midday

  More goodbyes. There is a lump in my throat, dear diary, as I write this, as there has been all morning. Parting from Joe and Henry, Mr. Dyer, and yes, even Talbot (though I’m still mad at him) was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Even harder than leaving Luella and William, but that is because I didn’t have much time to think about leaving them, and I know I’ll see them again, but I doubt I’ll ever see Talbot and the others again. Joe gave me a huge hug and said he had a feeling in his gut I would find my father. “You bet your gumboots. You’ll find him.” I hugged him back extra hard for his feeling. Henry solemnly shook my hand and said. “You’re a fine lass.”

  Even writing that makes me start crying, and I don’t want Mr. Wattie or Mr. Fortune to see me weeping like a baby! I told them I’d be no trouble. But my heart is so sore.

  I will tell of leaving Talbot, because that certainly will dry my tears! Talbot stood nearby all the time I said my goodbyes, digging his toes into the dirt. When it came his turn, he said. “I didn’t mean you don’t look like a girl,
I only meant, you look like a boy in boy’s clothes. But I know you are a girl, even though you don’t exactly look like one …”

  Henry groaned, and the men standing around snickered, making me all embarrassed and mad and sharp-tongued. “Oh, do be quiet!” I snarled and left without saying goodbye to him. Now I feel bad about that.

  Evening

  My legs feel about to drop off! The walking is difficult, as the trail is much-travelled and muddy. It sucks at my feet, and my new boots don’t help. My old boots cramped my toes — I guess I’ve grown — and my moccasins were worn to shreds, so I had to part with the last of my money for a second-hand pair of boots that were dirt cheap. They are iron heeled with inch-thick soles full of round-headed nails that dig into my feet. No wonder they were so cheap!

  We barely made 15 miles today on our way to Cottonwood Wayhouse. I had thought I was done with crawling over fallen trees, slipping on loose rock on steep slopes, and wading through swamps, but here I am at it again.

  We have an ox with us to carry our packs, mine mostly being made up of provisions and cooking utensils. I have no clothes left but the ones I wear, as the last of my laundry money went for bacon, beans and flour. I won’t even allow myself to think about what will happen if I don’t find Father. No matter how destitute I become, I swear I will not do laundry for John!

  The trees are dripping icy rainwater down my neck. You’d think I’d be used to the wet by now after months of travelling, but it’s still uncomfortable. I am very lonely, dear diary. Mr. Wattie and Mr. Fortune are kind, but they’re not Talbot or Joe or the Schuberts. I had hoped to have news of the Schuberts before leaving, but nothing has been heard. I think of the men drowned in the rapids, and hope she and the children are safe.

  September 14, 1862

  Cottonwood Wayhouse

  Such a sight I never have seen before, nor will ever likely again. We have passed pack trains of mules, but this was a pack train of camels! Yes, camels! What strange looking animals with their long noses and humped backs. And the stink! Our ox shied away from them, tossing its head and acting much disturbed until Mr. Fortune led him off the trail while the animals passed. The camels were originally brought from Russia to the United States when gold was discovered in California, one packer told us, and then came up here. The men with them said a camel can carry upwards of 700 lbs. and does not need the feed or water that oxen do, but it bites and kicks and scares mules! Then they hoisted me up on one! Very unlike riding a horse and I soon scrambled down.

  September 15, 1862

  Talbot is here! Shortly after we set off this morning from Cottonwood Wayhouse, there was a great commotion behind us, and a voice shouted, “Harry! Harry!” It was Talbot.

  “You’ll never sneak up on anyone,” I told him.

  It seems Mr. Dyer couldn’t stand Talbot’s long face, and told him to go see the gold fields for himself, then meet him in Victoria for the winter — though I did not hear Talbot’s entire story as I was trying to clean myself off! I was so surprised to see him that my foot caught in one of those infernal roots on the trail and I tumbled face first into a mud pool. Talbot collapsed laughing when he saw me covered from head to foot in the stinking stuff, but at least he didn’t rush to my rescue like I was a girl or something. As I struggled to free myself, I slipped backwards and fell again. Now that I think of it, how could Talbot sit there laughing and not help me up!

  September 16, 1862

  The men thought I was sleeping and were talking amongst themselves. I heard Talbot tell them that he also came because the Drummonds had decided to go directly to Cariboo to find gold rather than winter in Victoria, and Talbot wanted to stake his claim, too, fearing there would be none left next spring. I didn’t like hearing that John and Thomas were around.

  We shared a fire with a returning miner last night. He told us that many of the creeks are yielding gold: Keithly, Antler, Harvey, Snowshoe and Grouse were some of them — so many! I’m not sure how I will ever find Father. The miner said he ran out of supplies and money before he could find his riches, like so many others, so he was forced to pack out. Then he told us about Williams Creek, named for William “Dutch Bill” Dietz, who made a gold find there. And how a man named Billy Barker located an even bigger find below the Black Jack Canyon. Some people take out anywhere from $40.00 to $300.00! A day!

  September 17, 1862

  We passed a group of Indian packers. Even the women carry heavy loads of food and tools on their backs, more than we carry. We left our ox with a herd of cattle and now carry our provisions ourselves. The men each carry 40 lbs. of flour, beans, rice, bacon, tea, salt and sugar, a tarp, bedroll, axe, pick, shovel, gold pan and firearms. My pack is considerably lighter as I don’t carry miners’ tools, and little food and no firearms.

  September 18, 1862

  We are in the gold fields! But now that we’re actually here, I have no idea where to go.

  September 19, 1862

  Williams Creek — Cariboo!

  We are at Williams Creek. Talbot and I decided to stick with Mr. Wattie and Mr. Fortune, who wanted to come here. Gold fever has struck them all hard. Talbot’s brain is completely addled. He bought a gold pan from a miner, paying a ridiculously high price for it, and immediately stuck it into the creek. A man came running, gun in hand, and shouted at him that it was his claim and to clear off. (I have, dear diary, used much nicer words than the man really said.)

  Evening

  How on earth will I ever find Father here? Never have I seen such a sight as Williams Creek! Every foot of ground is staked. Men scurry about everywhere. They seem somewhat leery of newcomers. Mr. Wattie carried his rifle in plain view today. Chinamen scratch around on old gravel bars that have already been worked. All day long we heard the sounds of saws and axes, men’s shouts, the creak of what the miners call Cornish wheels, the splash of water, the ringing strike of metal pick on stone, and trees falling. Even as we sit here before our evening fire, the din continues. As I look out, I see fires lining the creek, lanterns carried by shadowy figures, illuminating men still bent over their shafts. We’re told they work around the clock to get the gold out.

  The hillsides are stripped bare of trees, and the land has great cracks running through it. Shanties and tents — with great dumps of dirt and gravel behind — and rockers, sluices, and windlasses line the creek. And the talk of gold is everywhere! I swear it is part of the air we breathe.

  September 20, 1862

  You won’t believe this, dear diary, but I have caught gold fever! All along I thought it foolish that men left home and family — that Father left us! — to seek gold. But I begin to understand why, now!

  A miner showed us around his claim. He has a partner, but he’d gone to Richfield, a few miles away, for provisions. While it is true some of the men here are secretive and unwelcoming, others are friendly, and once they know we do not mean to steal their gold, proudly show off their stakes.

  The miner showed us how they diverted the stream with sluices to the side of the creek to leave the gravel exposed. Then he took a pan and handed it to me, and dumped a shovelful of dirt and gravel into the pan. He told me to lower it into the water and move it in circles. At first it felt quite clumsy, but I soon got the rhythm of the motion. I broke up the gravel with my fingers and tossed away the larger stones. On my third shovelful, the miner leaned over the pan and pointed at a speck of yellow. “You got some colour there,” he said.

  “You mean — gold?” I asked.

  “Yup.”

  And that was all it took. My heart pounded with excitement.

  Talbot turned pea green that I was the one who first touched gold.

  I wanted to keep panning, but had to give the pan back.

  The man then showed us a rocker and a wooden cradle into which gravel and dirt are shovelled. Water is added from the diverted stream and as the cradle is rocked, the gold collects on the riffles — ridges on the bottom of the cradle — while the dirt washes through. He offer
ed me a job for a few days rocking the cradle until his partner returned. I desperately need the money, but the nights are cold and longer now and I must find Father before winter sets in, so refused. Talbot refused, too. He wants his own claim. Before I left I asked the miner if he knew Father, but he didn’t. He did tell us that he used to be a clerk in a printing office in San Francisco.

  September 21, 1862

  I am tired and hungry and desperate-feeling. Talbot, though, is in high spirits, excited by all he sees. It is very vexing.

  We went down the creek below the canyon. Here the men dig deep shafts into the creek bed. We got a closer look at the huge Cornish wheels. They look similar to our water wheel at the mill at home, and are used to drive pumps to remove water from the shafts. Even when the creeks freeze up, the shafts can still be worked in the winter, though we hear that only a few hardy miners stay on their claims, as most of the men head south to Victoria or New Westminster. We came upon two men who had been digging for two months without success, yet at the claim next to them, the men are taking gold out of the earth at a fierce rate. That is how it is out here.

  I watched as one man was lowered in a bucket into the shaft by a windlass. The rope is wrapped around a large wooden pole with a handle that is built over the shaft. Another man turns the handle to raise or lower the bucket. At times the men use ladders to go into the shafts. I wonder that they can keep digging day after day and find nothing. I would soon be disheartened.