by Vicki Delany
“Fainted, eh?” came a familiar voice. “Word on the street is that a lady choked on a lump of meat, and your mother singlehandedly wrestled the offending piece out of her mouth.” Constable Richard Sterling fingered a rough flannel shirt as the old miner shuffled off, chuckling to himself, his bag of nails tinkling cheerfully. “This might do come winter,” he added.
“A lady fainted, that’s all,” Angus muttered.
Sterling smiled. “No doubt by midnight the lady will have been attacked by a pack of rabid wolves, and your mother will have driven them off with a single well-aimed shot between the leader’s eyes.”
Despite himself, Angus grinned. “That’s Dawson,” he said.
Sterling laughed. “I’ll take this shirt.” He pulled a few pennies out of his pocket. “Lesson day, isn’t it?”
Angus’s grin grew wider. “Yes, it is, sir.”
“Thought I’d walk over to the Fort with you, if you’re ready to go.”
This time Angus’s grin almost split his face in two. “That would be grand, sir.” He proudly pulled his watch out of his pocket. The watch had been owned by his mother’s father. It was the only thing of his grandfather, also named Angus, they had. She’d given it to him only the other day, having decided now that he was working, he was ready to carry it. “Mr. Mann, it’s five to one. Can I leave? Constable Sterling wants to walk with me to the Fort.”
* * *
Sterling hid a smile at Angus’s choice of words. It was no secret to him the boy worshipped him. A bit of hero worship never did a man’s ego any harm.
Mr. Mann came out of the back tent, wiping his hands on the front of his trousers. “Go. Have good lesson.”
The fact that Angus was taking boxing lessons from Sergeant Lancaster, the former, to hear him tell it, champion of Manitoba and contender for all of Canada, was a secret carefully kept from Angus’s mother by Lancaster, Mann and Sterling. If she heard of it, she would probably forbid it—so why inconvenience her by letting her know? Sterling could see the outline of sinew and muscle lying dormant under the lanky twelve-year-old frame, waiting to burst out into the sun like a hibernating bear at first signs of approaching spring. Angus was growing into a big lad, and before much longer, his bulk would be the target of men who needed to prove themselves and wouldn’t hesitate because of an unshaven face, friendly blue eyes and soft blond hair.
“Did Mary get settled in?” Sterling asked as they made their way east on Front Street, where the bars and dance halls were already doing a roaring trade, towards the NWMP’s Fort Herchmer.
“She showed up for work at Mrs. Mann’s on time.” “Mary seems like a nice woman.” “She is,” Angus said, with a touch of proprietary pride. Helen Saunderson, the Savoy’s cleaner, came out of the dance hall wielding her formidable broom and sweeping all before her. It was a hopeless job; the more Mrs. Saunderson swept, the more mud and dust seemed to get tramped through the Savoy’s doors.
She took a moment to rest her heavy bosom on the broom handle. “What’s this I hear, young Angus, about your ma gettin’ a woman’s heart started what had stopped from shock the moment she laid eyes on Dawson?”
Sterling and Angus laughed. “It was amazing, Mrs. Saunderson,” Angus said. “Why, Ma swept the goods right off the table in front of Mr. Mann’s store and sliced open that woman’s chest with a hunting knife that was for sale.”
“Are you making fun o’ me, Angus MacGillivray?” Sterling tossed her a wink. Mrs. Saunderson shook her head and chuckled through her mouthful of missing teeth before bending her head to her sweeping.
“Let’s walk down Paradise Alley,” Sterling said. “Make sure everyone’s behaving themselves.”
They cut down Queen Street, heading for Paradise Alley. As they turned into the Alley, they could see a crowd of men up ahead, laughing and jeering at something Sterling couldn’t see. The mood was vicious, ugly.
“Stay here, Angus,” he said. “If you think I need help, run for the Fort. Understand?”
“Understood, sir,” Angus said, his blue eyes wide.
“What’s going on here? Break it up! Move out of the way.” Sterling waded into the crowd.
“Nothing to concern yerself about, Const’ble,” a man said.
“No business o’ the Redcoats,” said another.
“I’ll be the judge of that. Move aside.” Sterling practically tossed a neatly dressed gentleman to one side.
A man lay in the roadway, curled into a ball, his arms and hands attempting to protect his head as two heavy-set dandies took turns kicking him.
“Hey!” Sterling shouted and grabbed the man nearest him, the one about to place another boot into exposed ribs. The dandy turned. His face was twisted in rage, and blood-lust filled his red eyes. Furious at missing his mark, he was prepared to strike at the new target that had suddenly presented itself. Sterling grabbed the oncoming arm and twisted. “You don’t want to do that, fellow.”
The onlookers shuffled back. The other man turned to see what was going on. Puffed up like the bully he was, he visibly deflated at the sight of the red tunic and broadbrimmed hat.
Sterling gave the wrist he was holding another firm twist. “Want to tell me what’s going on here?” he said pleasantly. He might have been inquiring about the weather.
“No concern of yours, Constable,” the second man said. He, like his friend, was well dressed, in black waistcoat and jacket and houndstooth trousers. A black bowler hat was perched on top of his head. He was considerably overweight and very pale—his small dark eyes looked like raisins in a bowl of Christmas pudding batter. When he held out his hands in a gesture of surrender, he showed nails perfectly trimmed and spotlessly clean. A brown wool scarf was draped several times around his neck. “Tom Jannis is the name. Sam and I are settling a private matter. Nothing to worry the law.”
“I’ll be the judge of that. Someone get this man onto his feet. Quickly now!”
The onlookers rushed forward to help the man they had only moments before happily watched being kicked to a pulp.
Sterling faced Tom Jannis.
“What’s the story here?”
“This fellow lied to us. Told us he knew where we could find a good whore, then brought me to this fat tart.” Jannis gestured contemptuously at the single woman in the crowd. It was the prostitute they called Fat Fanny.
“That weren’t no lie,” Fanny shrieked. “I’m a good whore, ain’t I, boys?”
The onlookers shouted their agreement.
The victim staggered to his feet. Sterling stifled a groan. He was drunk—and an Indian. Not much point in trying to arrest Jannis and his friend. As likely as not, the judge would only want to know who’d sold liquor to an Indian.
“You all right, fellow?” Sterling asked.
The Indian swayed. His eyes were unfocused, his long hair stiff with dirt and grease. Layers of stale vomit stained the front of his ragged shirt. He didn’t look like he’d suffered too much damage from the kicking; Sterling had probably arrived in time. The man would suffer more from a hangover than from the attempted beating.
“Drunken Indian,” the first man said, spitting into the dust. “Arrest him. He tried to cheat us.”
Sterling looked at Fat Fanny. “You know this man, Fanny?”
“Na,” she said. “Never seen him before.” “He bring these men to you?”
She looked at the crowd. She looked at the two welldressed men then at Sterling. Her thoughts passed across her face. She wouldn’t want to offend potential customers, particularly ones as well-heeled as this pair, by calling them liars. But then again, judging by what they’d said about her, they didn’t seem too inclined to bring their business her way. It didn’t do to annoy the police. A working lady might need the goodwill of the Mounties some day. “Na,” she said. “He were just standin’ here leanin’ up ag’in that wall, not doin’ nothin’ but bein’ drunk. And them two started in on him. Ain’t that right, boys?” She looked to the crowd for support.
&
nbsp; They gave it to her.
“The Indian weren’t even talking to them,” someone said. “And they started punching at him.”
Sterling raised one eyebrow and looked at Jannis.
“Stupid Indian wouldn’t get outta my way. Where I come from, an Indian doesn’t stand in a white man’s way, not if he knows what’s good for him.”
“Perhaps you should go back to where you came from,” Sterling said. “Now get out of here before I’m tempted to take you in for disturbing the peace.” The Indian was struggling to focus and looked as though he were about to settle back into the roadway. Sterling grabbed his arm. “You’d better come with me, buddy. You don’t belong here.”
The Indian groaned, and a tiny dribble of spittle leaked out of the corner of his mouth. He looked up at Sterling. He was a good deal older than the Mountie had first thought. It was the eyes that gave his age away—they’d seen altogether too much. Under the dirt, his hair was a snowy white, and deep lines were carved into his cheeks and through the delicate skin under his eyes.
He staggered, and Sterling caught him under the arms. A wave full of the smell of old drink, unwashed clothes and the weight of a tired old body washed over him, but he held on. “Let’s go,” he whispered. “Let’s get you some help.” He tossed the old man’s arm over his shoulder.
“Indian lover.”
Out of the corner of his eye Sterling saw the blow coming. Weighted down as he was by the old man, he couldn’t move fast enough to get out of the way. The man Tom Jannis had called Sam had pulled a metal bar out of his jacket, and with an angry shout swung it at Sterling’s head.
The bar never connected. Instead Sam dropped the weapon, clutched his lower side and crumbled to the ground, all in one smooth movement.
Angus MacGillivray stood over him, rubbing his right fist.
“Angus,” Sterling said. “Thought I told you to run for the Fort if there was trouble.”
“Didn’t think I had enough time, sir.” “Here, you help this gentleman, and I’ll take care of the other one.” Angus took over the support of the old Indian, and Sterling dragged Sam to his feet. “Assaulting an officer of the law. It’s a blue ticket for you, if I’m not mistaken.” He looked at Jannis. “Coming with your friend?”
Jannis shrugged his expensively-draped shoulders and straightened his cravat. “Never laid eyes on this ruffian before today.”
“That was quite the punch,” Sterling told Angus as they led the two moaning men, one carefully, one with much less consideration, to Fort Herchmer.
“To the kidneys, sir. He was wide open, lifting that bar up that way. Sergeant Lancaster told me a good solid blow to the kidneys will bring a man down every time.”
“Not very sporting.” “Sergeant Lancaster told me that too, sir. He said you never hit a man below the belt in a fair fight.”
“Well, that wasn’t a fair fight. You did good, Angus. But next time—if there is a next time—run to the Fort, will you?”
“Yes, sir. What will happen to these two now, sir?” “This one will get a blue ticket and be out of town by nightfall. Permanently. The old Indian? I’ll send someone to fetch one of the ladies from St. Paul’s. They’ll give him a hot meal and a bed in the church for the night and see he gets home to Moosehide tomorrow.” “But he’ll drink again. Why won’t he stop drinking?” “Don’t judge, Angus. The white man took everything from his people and gave them only disease in return. Alcohol is as much a disease for Indians as smallpox or typhoid. It takes longer to kill them, that’s all.”
Chapter Six
I was in a fine temper when I got home. A bird flew overhead as I crossed the yard. It was a tiny thing, lost and confused amongst the noise and bustle of Dawson, no doubt searching for a tree to nest in, but she was out of luck—the trees had all been chopped down for lumber and firewood.
I stormed into the laundry shed and stripped down to my bloomers—even my petticoat was filthy—right there and then. Mary and Mrs. Mann watched me with wide eyes. Huge vats of boiling water steamed over open fires, and acres of sheets were being rung out on a wooden press ready to go on the line, which was already filling the yard with men’s undergarments and shirts, billowing in the wind. The whole place smelled of a disgusting mixture of lye soap, filthy water and unwashed men’s clothes.
“If this isn’t the most God-forsaken town,” I shouted, bundling the dress into a ball and stuffing it into Mrs. Mann’s arms. Mary was holding the huge wooden paddle they used to stir the laundry in the hot water as if this were a tennis court and she were about to return my serve. “I might as well go to work in sackcloth and ashes. I expect you to take care of that dress, Mary. It has scarcely been worn.”
“Yes, Mrs. Fiona.”
I had to cross the yard to get back to the house. I snatched a clean sheet off the folding table and wrapped it securely over my corset, bloomers and stockings. “I’ll bring this back,” I snarled as I stalked out. I had once worn a sheet to an extremely daring party at Lord Alveron’s Welsh country house. The party was so daring, in fact, that it could only have been held as far away from London, and Alveron’s grandmother, as he could get. The sheet was supposed to represent a classical Roman toga. I wore an expensive set of pearls with the sheet—Alveron’s great-grandmother’s pearls.
They’d come in handy not too many months later when I’d sold them to secure Angus a place at a good school. The memory of my somewhat less respectable days did nothing to improve my mood, and I grumbled heartily as I stomped through the house to my rooms, tore off my hat and washed my hands and face. The water was cold, slimy with the residue of the morning’s soap scum; Mrs. Mann had not yet changed it. Fortunately my hat was unscathed. It had cost almost as much as the dress. I struggled into my old day dress with no easing of my temper. The dress didn’t go with the nice hat or the paste-sapphire earrings I’d carefully selected for the ensemble. Dawson was proving to be hard on my wardrobe.
If I ever sold the Savoy, I might consider going into ladies’ apparel. I bravely faced myself in the mirror as I tore out hairpins and attempted to repair my hair.
My anger began to dissipate under the slow, rhythmic action of the brush against my hair. I’d been afraid Euila would notice that my son carried my maiden name. I didn’t give a whit about my reputation, and most of the townsfolk of Dawson would care even less, but I had led Angus to believe I’d been married to his late father. When he was born, I didn’t even consider giving my son his father’s—if I weren’t a lady, I would spit on the floor—name. Angus MacGillivray had been my father’s name, and a kinder, gentler man I had yet to meet.
Fiona was my mother’s name. Sometimes, if I close my eyes and concentrate very hard I can hear my father’s voice saying “Fiona” in his rich Scottish brogue. He was full of adoration for my mother, full of fun towards me. Regardless of where I happen to be, whenever I hear that rough, beautiful accent, I fly through space and time back to our crofter’s cottage on Skye. It’s a cold winter’s evening, snow blowing outside, peat fire burning in the hearth, Father bouncing me on his knee and asking my mother if I weren’t the bonniest wee lass.
When I calmed down at last, under the steady stroke of my hairbrush, I realized I was worrying for nothing. Euila had probably never known my surname. Even the house servants only called me Fiona. Euila hadn’t met my parents in all the years they’d lived on her family property, other than to nod a polite but distant good day as she passed. There were people from London and Toronto who would no doubt still be searching for me—thus, I tried, most unsuccessfully, to keep a low profile—but none of them would be able to trace me through Euila.
I sighed happily. All would be resolved. I had recently joked to Richard Sterling that I expected everyone from the king of the Zulus to our own dear Queen to pass through Dawson one day. But I hadn’t expected Euila Forester.
I tucked the last strands of wayward black hair into their pins and chewed on my lips to bring up a bit of colour, deciding to drop i
n on Euila for old times’ sake. Although I wouldn’t go so far as to let my son anywhere near her.
I took the sheet back out to the laundry shed. A wave of steam erupted from a huge cauldron over the fire. “I’m returning the sheet I borrowed, Mrs. Mann,” I said, waving my hand in front of my face. “How’s my dress?”
She stepped out of the steam like the fairy maid of legend emerging from the mists of Avalon. Although Arthur’s Lady was unlikely to have had hands and face so red. “It will come clean like new,” she said. “With good soap.”
“Do you have good soap?”
“No.”
“Where would you get good soap?”
“Mrs. Bradshaw on Harper, near Seventh Avenue. She keeps a small supply of good soap for special customers.”
For special, read high-paying. “I’m late enough for work, I might as well walk all the way up to Mrs. Bradshaw’s,” I said with a heroic sigh.
“Good idea,” Mrs. Mann said, as if she hadn’t thought of it herself.
* * *
Seventh Avenue at Harper Street was uphill all the way. Grumbling, I made a quick detour and stopped at the Savoy to collect Helen Saunderson, who could ferry the precious soap back to Mrs. Mann.
“Heard ye had a wee bit of excitement down at Bowery Street this morning, Fee,” Ray said as I waited for Helen to hang her apron in the storage room-cum-kitchen which served as her domain. “Saved a lass from drowning by jumping into the river all by yourself.”
“Oh, shut up,” I said. Helen wanted to hear the whole story, so I related it to
her as we walked. I kept to the truth and put that way, it did sound rather boring compared to the tales that were flying around town.
It was past midday, and once we got away from the teeming waterfront, the streets were almost empty. All the respectable folks were at work, the layabouts snoring it off somewhere, the whores taking a well-deserved nap, the gamblers and drinkers back in the bars.