Before the Barstons left that evening, John made arrangements to buy the beautiful log house fully furnished with everything needed for setting up housekeeping, including the books, for seven hundred dollars. All George wanted to keep were his personal items.
As they all shook hands on the deal, George said, “I take comfort in knowing that our house is in good hands. I know you’ll love it just as we did.”
“We surely will, George,” John said.
“Knowing it was yours and that you built it makes it very special to us,” Violet added.
Walking back to the hotel, Violet watched the sun dip below the mountains. She glanced at her watch pin. “Wow! It’s already ten o’clock, and the sun is just now setting.” She slowed and scanned the sky as pink and lavender deepened to rose and purple.
John grabbed her hand. “We mustn’t dawdle! Here come the mosquitoes!”
As the high-pitched hum surrounded them, they swatted furiously at the swarm and dashed down the street.
Back in their room, safe from the maddening mosquitoes, Violet mused aloud. “I came here to work for George. Now, we’re buying his house.”
“God works in mysterious ways, doesn’t He?” John drew her into his arms. “But however He did it, I’m sure glad He brought you to me.” He lowered his lips to hers and kissed her.
The next few days sped past as John and his crew prepared the Belle for their first trip of the season. Maintenance, repairs, and caulking were first done to the hull, after which a coat of paint was applied. The Belle had been jacked up for the winter and now had to be jacked down onto the sliders, which would take the ship into the river sideways.
“The launching itself will take two days,” John told Violet. “It’s pretty interesting how they do it. You might want to come by and watch for a while.”
The first day, when Violet arrived at the shipyard at the foot of Main Street, she heard the yard boss blow a whistle. “That signals the yardmen to simultaneously turn their jacks one turn,” John said. “This process continues until the ship settles onto the sliders.”
The actual launch took place the second evening as John and Violet watched. “The skidways have been lubricated with a mixture of tallow and grease,” John said. “The heat of the day melts the tallow and facilitates the slide.”
“I’ve heard the term, ‘grease the skids,’” Violet said. “Now I see where it comes from.”
While the crew got the steamer into tiptop condition, Violet cleaned and transformed the captain’s cabin into a homey retreat. It was larger than the other cabins but sparsely decorated. Two-toned green carpeting with pastel floral motifs complemented the pale green wainscoting that paneled the walls. A polished wooden platform bed on one side was six feet long and barely wide enough for two. Violet splurged on a deep green, velvety bedspread she found at the mercantile to cover the ship’s basic wool blanket and added the hand-crocheted throw her aunt had crocheted for her before she got sick.
Opposite the interior entry door, another door with a large window and a wall window of equal size opened onto the railed passageway alongside their room on the topmost deck, called the Texas deck, allowing observation of the spectacular scenery they would sail by. Using the treadle sewing machine at her new home, Violet sewed up two pairs of curtains in dark green fabric that matched the bedspread. These could be drawn to provide privacy or to block out the long, bright twilights for sleeping.
Violet unpacked their clothes and placed them in the chest of drawers that stood in one corner. She added her dresses and John’s uniforms to the wall hooks next to the dresser. A rolltop desk sat below a shelf for books. On the wall, Violet hung the tintype of her parents’ wedding and their own wedding photograph, beautifully framed, that had just come via George from Brother Paul’s wife.
At a secondhand shop, Violet found a circular, hand-crocheted lace tablecloth to cover the little round table. There, she set out two of Aunt Mabel’s china teacups and saucers she had packed so carefully in her trunk when she left Boston. When John asked her about them, she said, “They remind me of happy times before Uncle Chester’s death forced Aunt Mabel and me into poverty. I hope they bring us good fortune in our new life together.”
“‘Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, and cometh down from the Father . . . ’” John pointed up. “The events in your life in Boston brought you to me. God makes even the bad things ‘work together for good to those who love Him.’” And John gathered her into his arms and kissed her tenderly. “When I drink from these cups, I’ll remember how He gave me a wonderful gift.”
“I have a surprise for you,” John said the morning before they sailed. “Close your eyes and keep them closed.” He led Violet out of their cabin into the inner passageway. A few steps later, she heard a door open. John spun her a quarter turn. “Okay, you can open your eyes.”
A chorus of men’s voices behind her shouted, “Surprise!”
Violet opened her eyes, and there in front of her was a door opened to a beautifully decorated, fully equipped washroom complete with a clawfoot bathtub and a toilet.
“Since the head on this deck is for officers and crew only, they didn’t think it fitting that the captain’s wife should have to take the long trek down to the public ladies’ water closet on the passenger deck, so they constructed this private washroom adjacent to our quarters.”
“We wanted to do something to honor the captain’s bride,” the purser, Mr. Edwards, said.
Violet clasped her hands to either side of her face as tears filled her eyes. “Thank you! Oh, thank you! This is perfect! You couldn’t have picked a better wedding present.”
She went to Mr. Edwards to shake his hand, but he bent down and pecked her on the cheek. Violet felt the blood rush to her face.
John lifted his hand in protest. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Mr. Edwards waved John away and laughed. “We weren’t at the wedding, but isn’t it customary for the groom’s friends to kiss the bride?”
John acquiesced, and one by one each of his crew stepped forward and circumspectly kissed Violet on the cheek.
When the crew members had all returned to their jobs, Violet reached up, laid a hand on either side of John’s face, and pulled it down to her level. “That was such a thoughtful thing they did for us. They must really love you, sweetheart.”
“I know they respect me, even though I am young enough to be a son to some of them. They know I care about their welfare. But I can see they care about you too. You treat them with respect.” John wagged his head. “Some captains’ wives are a bit hoity-toity with their crew members.”
“I never will understand the way some people look down on others.” Violet shrugged. “I know what it’s like to be rich and how quickly one can become poor. I’m still the same person inside, no matter how much money I have, what I wear, or what job I do.”
By the time the Barstons left on their first trip down the Yukon, the things Violet had brought for Jenny were safely stored in their new home. George would live there until he left Whitehorse, but he gave Violet the go-ahead to add a few books from his bookcases to the narrow shelf of books John already had in his cabin. She could swap for others as she read them.
Before they left, Violet wrote a long letter of sympathy to Mrs. Henderson, telling of her trip, how she’d learned of Jenny’s death, and her subsequent marriage. “The evening gown you insisted on purchasing for me became my wedding gown. How thankful I was for your foresight!”
She concluded,
I’m very sorry for your loss. I was so looking forward to meeting Jenny. Although I never did have the opportunity to meet her, you told me so much about her that I felt like I knew her. In spite of his deep grief, George has been very good to John and me. I’m sure you will be happy to have him back home with you. Thank you for choosing me for this mission. It didn’t work out as we planned, but I know God will continue to work on your behalf as He has on mine. Let’s keep in to
uch.
Love,
Violet
Chapter 12
THE DAY THE YUKON BELLE departed dawned clear and bright. Even though it was late May, the landscape sparkled with frost. Violet shivered and wrapped her coat securely around her as she stepped out of their cabin on the Texas deck. Lifeboats were located there as were the cabins reserved for the ship’s officers, including the captain’s. Today it lived up to its nickname, the hurricane deck, because it was windier than below. She kissed John before he headed down to the main deck—where the firebox, boilers, engines, cords of firewood, crew quarters, galley, and loads of freight were located—to make final preparations.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “By noon, you won’t need your coat.”
Late that afternoon, with the sun still high overhead, Violet stood beside John in the pilothouse atop the Texas deck as the steamer pulled away from the dock to head downriver toward Dawson City and other points along the way. She still thought it strange that downriver on the Yukon headed north.
The ship’s amber-hued, wooden pilot’s wheel, recessed into a slot in the floor to connect with the giant rudders at the stern, stood as tall as John. Violet scanned the large, square windows on three sides that afforded an eagle’s eye view of the river, land, and sky. She noted the purple drapes hanging in the corners ready to be drawn to block the sun when needed. The walls were painted the same grass green that she had noticed on most of the walls throughout the Belle. In front of the wheel, a Persian area rug covered the polished wood flooring. The aroma of coffee wafted from the pot sitting atop a round, black wood stove with a tall chimney.
Once they were underway, Violet handed John a mug of coffee. He took a sip and began to explain the ship’s routine: “At six, our two licensed pilots will begin the six-hour watch rotation. The watches change at six a.m., noon, six p.m., and midnight, giving them six hours on and six hours off.”
“I guess it doesn’t matter when a pilot sleeps here,” Violet said. “It will be light around the clock, won’t it?”
“Yes, until mid-August. We’ll hire Native pilots as we go. Because they live along the Yukon year round, they are the ones who best know its ever-changing conditions.”
Violet nodded. “That makes sense.”
“Sometimes I’ll spell the pilots, but I’ll always be on call,” John said. “I oversee all the operations of the Belle. Whenever I’m at the helm, you’re welcome to join me in the pilothouse anytime you like.”
“I’d like that. I like to watch you work.”
She didn’t tell him that his captain’s hat, which he wore at the helm and whenever he walked through his ship, made her feel safe—or that he looked oh so handsome in it.
John turned to her. “So, how do you like Monkey Island?”
Giggling, she asked, “What did you say?”
He repeated the question.
“I thought that’s what you said.” She slanted her head his way and looked at him over imaginary glasses. “What do you mean?”
“The pilothouse on sternwheelers is called ‘Monkey Island.’”
With a straight face, she asked, “Does that make you the monkey?”
“I guess you could say that.” He grinned boyishly and chuckled. “The wheel at the bow is linked to steering rudders on the stern of the boat. When I turn the wheel a certain direction here, the steering rudders turn the same direction.”
“Oh! Like ‘monkey see, monkey do’?”
“Yep! That’s why the pilothouse on sternwheelers is called Monkey Island.” He patted a spoke of the pilot’s wheel. “Actually, we only use this in case of emergency.” He nodded toward his right hand resting on the tiller. “This is easier to use.”
The steamer’s vibrations accentuated the anticipation thrumming through Violet as the Belle rounded the bend and Whitehorse disappeared behind them. Out in the middle of the river, the Yukon, swollen by the spring runoff, gurgled and sputtered like water boiling in a teakettle under the steamer’s flat-bottomed hull. Everywhere, whirlpools hissed, tossing up debris, logs, and driftwood. Violet gasped when a whole tree torn up by the roots raced alongside them.
“Don’t worry,” John said. “The hull is strong.”
They passed a submerged island with only a few treetops visible. “The river is very high right now due to the spring runoff,” John said.
“How long will it take to get to Dawson?”
“The trip downriver to Dawson City is nearly five hundred miles and will take about forty hours unless—” He stopped abruptly and did not elaborate further.
Violet felt a tremor of apprehension. What was he not telling her? Then she recalled Captain Kid’s comment that John was an expert on the Yukon and that she was in good hands. And yes, as John had prayed that very morning, they were in God’s hands too. What better place to be? She would not borrow trouble but would just enjoy the journey.
She climbed up into the tall chair near the wheel. From there, she could still easily see the river roll by like a wide ribbon twisting continuously as it unwound from its spool against the vast, silent backdrop of an achingly beautiful landscape devoid of people and civilization. Wispy columns of smoke rising occasionally from isolated cabins tucked here and there along the banks elicited feelings of loneliness. How could they stand to be alone so far from civilization?
Violet studied the huge map hanging on the back wall of the pilothouse. She saw that the Yukon River rolled and meandered two thousand miles up to the Arctic Circle and across central Alaska to the Bering Sea. Although the general direction they were traveling was north, she often had to shade her eyes from the glare of the sun as the Belle swung east or west. Around one abrupt hairpin turn, the compass showed that they were actually traveling due south.
John frequently transmitted commands from the pilothouse to the chief engineer by means of the tall, brass telegraph standing next to the wheel.
“How does that thing work?” Violet asked.
“It’s connected by a system of cables and chains to a similar one in the engine room,” John said. “When I move the brass lever on this telegraph dial to indicate the speed I want, the engineer’s telegraph moves to a corresponding position. I can also speak to him through the voice tube.”
At six o’clock, one of the ship’s pilots arrived at Monkey Island to relieve John. He took Violet’s arm. “I usually eat with my officers and first-class passengers to get acquainted with them. If you wish, though, we can eat our other meals in our quarters.”
“Oh, I’d like interacting with the people.” As an afterthought, she added, “Maybe we could eat breakfast in our room, though, so we can read the Bible and pray together.”
“We can do that. I’ll arrange it with Jonesy later.”
They descended to the second deck—the saloon or passenger deck. It had a large observation area overlooking the bow. The “saloon” was not an actual bar but the dining room, which ran down the middle of that deck with passenger cabins flanking it all the way to the stern, where there was another large common area, the smoking saloon, for men only.
The dining room tables were covered with white tablecloths and set formally. The seating was assigned. Stewards, clad in white shirts, bow ties, and white waiter’s jackets, distributed printed menu cards, which offered a surprising variety of choices.
Each meal included a salad of Yukon radishes, green onions, and leaf lettuce plus a choice of clear consommé or cream of oyster soup. Entrées included Baked Marsh Lake Whitefish with Sauce au Dam, Boiled Brisket of Pelly River Beef with Sauce Tantalus, Macaroni au Gratin and Pineapple Fritters, Stuffed Haunch of Carmacks Veal, Roast Loin of Stewart River Moose with Jelly. Accompanying vegetables included Mashed Moosehide Potatoes, Mazie May Garden Peas, and Sunnydale Spinach. A dizzying list of desserts made choosing just one difficult—Bonanza Plum Bread Pudding with Hard Rock Sauce, Sourdough Blueberry Pie, Cheechako Apple Pie, Assorted ’98 Cakes, Golden Fruit with Nuggets of Cheese, or Christie’s Crackers were all s
erved with either Hudson’s Bay Tea or Five Fingers of Coffee.
“We follow the gold rush theme,” the steward explained to the passengers. “The choices are all named after places made famous by the Klondike Gold Rush.”
John stood and addressed everyone, welcoming them aboard. “If there is anything you need, just ask a steward, and he will direct you to the appropriate officer.”
John seated himself, and the stewards took their orders. Violet selected the baked Marsh Lake whitefish for her entrée and Bonanza plum bread pudding with rock hard sauce. “I like the catchy name of that dessert.” John chose Stewart River moose.
After dinner, John escorted Violet back to their quarters and made rounds. Shortly after ten o’clock, as the sun skimmed below the mountains surrounding Lake Laberge, he rejoined her at the railing outside the door of their cabin to watch the sunset. The high clouds first turned to pink fairy floss, the spun sugar some people were beginning to call cotton candy. Soon, the wisps deepened to shades of cerise and purple. The snow-covered peaks looked like scoops of strawberry ice cream on purple mountain cones.
“You’ve read Robert Service’s poem about Sam McGee, haven’t you?” John asked.
“Oh yes! Uncle Chester bought his book. We had great fun reading it.”
“‘The Cremation of Sam McGee’ was set along the shores of this vast lake, only Service spelled it ‘Lebarge.’ The story goes that the steamer Olive May was en route to Whitehorse in the fall of 1898 when it got stuck in the ice on the flats at the head of the lake and became frozen in. The Mounted Police at Tagish received a report that a man down there was sick with scurvy. Doctor Sugden was sent down to provide medical attention and bring the man back. The doctor found the man already dead.”
“Oh no!”
“With no one else around, the ground frozen, and no tools to bury the body, instead of taking it back to Tagish, the good doctor placed it in the firebox of the Olive May, cremated it, collected the ashes, and took them back as evidence to his superiors.” John turned to Violet. “Service and Sugden lived together in a cabin at Whitehorse one winter, so you can see the connection to the poem.”
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