“I’m scared,” she said, growing serious. “What if I’m not strong enough for this?”
He turned to her then, his earlier anger gone. “Don’t worry. I’ll help you,” he said.
“I’m really glad to hear you say that,” she said, taking a deep breath. “Because to tell you the truth, I’m afraid that every single thing about this journey is going to be very, very difficult. And I know without a shadow of a doubt that I’d never be able to do it on my own.”
Ben
SIX
Ben leaned against the blade of the wind, straining to focus on the Constable in front of him, who constantly appeared and disappeared within the twisted corridor of snow and forest. The blizzard was so thick that even when the twenty soaking-wet Mounties finally broke free of the smothering trees and entered a clearing, Ben barely noticed the difference in the view. It wasn’t until a gust of wind sheared through, shoving the driving snow to the side, that he caught sight of a flagpole bearing a faded but wildly flapping Union Jack.
It had taken the better part of two months, but Ben, Sergeant Thompson, and Miller had finally made it to Fort Constantine. The three of them had ridden from Fort Macleod to Calgary, then travelled by train to Victoria. Two separate steamships later, they arrived at the town of Fortymile, and from there they’d picked up a number of other Mounties and begun the hike to Fort Constantine, the first North-West Mounted Police outpost established in the Yukon.
As remote as a man can get, Thompson had said before they’d set out. Now that they’d made it, Ben didn’t think Thompson had been exaggerating one bit. At least here, they’d been told, they might rest awhile, which was something everyone in their party sorely needed.
A shout cut through the storm, and a bulky shape lumbered towards the men and spoke with Thompson before turning back to the Fort. Stumbling through the snow, the line of Mounties followed their guide, and the dark outline of a building finally emerged from within the blizzard. Dazed with exhaustion, Ben had to blink hard to convince himself it wasn’t an illusion. Then the Constable from the Fort yanked the door open, bracing it against the wind, and they filed in, stomping their boots and dripping onto the floor.
It wasn’t much warmer inside than it had been outside. Cold air seeped through the dirt floor, and the post stoves burned green wood that didn’t put out much heat. Despite his congestion, Ben could smell the stink of pelts softened by humidity and the sweat of unseasoned timber walls. Their wet group wouldn’t improve things much, he thought. They’d barely washed in weeks.
At some point along the trail Ben had caught a vicious cold that had drained what was left of his energy, and the last steps of the trail had seemed almost impossible to take. Now, the walls around Ben seemed to sway. Not for the first time, he hoped he had what it took to survive out here, for there was no going back.
But he didn’t regret his decision to come. Everything about this voyage was new to Ben. He’d never imagined riding either a train or a boat in his lifetime, and since their Calgary departure he had seen so much that fascinated him, from the bustling port of Victoria to the first signs of gold mining. The scrawny, filthy prospectors had been so absorbed in their work their hungry eyes barely touched on the Mounties passing by. They amazed him, the way they survived by squatting in ragged tents or cutting hollows into the riverbanks for their meager shelter. If all the miners were like those, Ben figured his job would be more about taking care of them than enforcing any laws.
Along the way, Ben and the others had also met some of the Hän, and though their English was practically non-existent and Ben’s limited Blackfoot meant nothing to them, they were able to communicate about some things. With the Hän’s guidance, the Mounties made woven dip nets to catch spawning Arctic grayling, and Ben learned the hard way that he needed to be cautious of the sharp dorsal fins when he picked one of the fish up. On the bright side, when a grayling was roasted over a fire, it only took a couple of minutes before the soft white flesh was cooked to perfection.
“Like trout,” Miller had noted, picking a bone from between his teeth. “Delicious. Brings me back to when I was a boy, fishing with my brothers. I remember a time when . . .”
Throughout the journey, Ben and Miller had shared a tent. In the beginning, his partner’s constant chatter had been a kind of comfort on miserable nights, but Ben had quickly tired of it. By the end of the day, when they collapsed into their sleeping bags too weak for conversation, he was grateful for the dull grumble of Miller’s snores. Now that they were inside Fort Constantine, Miller was energized and back to his old self: talking out of turn, demanding to know how soon they would eat and what the meal would be, subjecting their guide to the same string of complaints he had made throughout their journey.
Other than Miller, the men were in no mood to speak. They staggered through the corridor to the dining hall, where they sank wearily onto benches, melted snow flowing like streams from their coats to the floor. Ben focused on the table, imagining a plate full of food before him. But even more than food, he craved sleep.
A Sergeant Ben didn’t know suddenly shot to his feet and introduced Inspector Constantine just before the big man strode into the room. All the men jumped to attention, and Ben stood as straight as he could manage.
Constantine is a very important man, Thompson had told Ben a few weeks before. He has three titles now: Commanding Officer of the NWMP in the Yukon Territory, Chief Magistrate, and the Home and Foreign Secretary.
Ben couldn’t fathom what all that meant, but it seemed like a lot of responsibility for one man. How does he do it? he had asked.
Admiration lifted Thompson’s mouth into a rare smile. Rumour has it he keeps three separate desks in his office just to keep all his duties straight.
Like Superintendent Steele, Constantine was a legend. Two years earlier, he and the twenty Mounties under his command had been responsible for the establishment of this very Fort, creating order out of chaos. Now he stood stiffly before his men, wearing a beaver fur cap and a bison coat draped over his red serge. The dim light of the room turned his silver hair a flickering gold.
“Gentlemen, welcome to the Yukon,” he said. “I trust your journey was swift and uneventful, but I know you must be tired, so I shall keep this brief.” He reached inside his coat and produced a clear bottle as tall as one finger. “This is the cause of all the fuss.” He shook the bottle, as economical with his movements as he was with his words, then placed it on the table beside a lantern. The light brought the bottle to life, and the glittering treasure within danced like fire. “This, gentlemen, is Klondike gold.”
Constantine passed the bottle to the first man on his left, then waited as it was handed around and examined. Ben handed it to Miller, who turned it in all different angles, enthralled. When Miller reluctantly gave it to Thompson, the Sergeant barely looked at it before handing it off again.
“Gold comes in all shapes and sizes,” Constantine continued, “but the currency in the Yukon is mostly the dust, which must be weighed to be evaluated. In every town you visit, the saloons and shops will have scales on their counters for measuring the gold’s weight and value. One ounce of gold dust—when it is pure—is worth about sixteen dollars right now. That’s also about what most working men in Dawson City are paid in a day.”
Ben stared resolutely at the gold, but he could feel Miller’s eyes on him. The Constables back at Fort Macleod were paid only fifty cents a day. Since he and Miller had volunteered to go to the Klondike, they were now receiving a full dollar a day. A far cry from sixteen.
“Gold itself has no magnetic properties,” the Inspector said, “and yet it draws people just as powerfully. The prospectors you saw along your journey here are only the beginning of the migration. Tens of thousands will follow on their heels.” He frowned. “The unfortunate truth is that many of these people are unprepared for the conditions they’ll face. Even before we factor in the perils of snow so deep a man could be buried within hours, the terrain i
tself is harsh and unfamiliar. Starvation, broken bones, and illness are common. But every one of these travellers already has a fever; gold has lit that fire in them, and they are very, very ill from it. The North-West Mounted Police supplies the medicine they require by maintaining sanity in the middle of madness.”
Constantine walked purposefully to the window behind the men, and they all turned to look. Through the foggy panes, Ben could see the blizzard was dwindling, the snow and ice pellets softening to sleet.
“Our laws are not popular with American prospectors, who make up a large percentage of the men coming here for the gold. Many have lived in areas like Skagway in which thievery, assault, even murder are common occurrences. They are desperate men living in desperate times in a desperate place. We must always be on guard.”
He faced them, hands behind his back. “Remember the motto of the North-West Mounted Police. Maintien le Droit. Uphold the right. And that is what we are here for. We defend the law and protect the people, and we command a great deal of respect in this wild place. I expect you to be proud of that, and I expect you to make me proud.”
In that moment, it felt as if Constantine was speaking directly to Ben, and a fresh wave of loyalty rippled through him. Long ago he had recognized his own need to do better in this world, to take his father’s example and turn it upside down, but no one in the NWMP had so clearly outlined what was being asked of him until now. The call was invigorating, but when Constantine left the room the last dregs of Ben’s energy went with him. Fortunately, the arrival of a hearty caribou stew with a side of fresh bread brought him back, and as the men tucked into their meal a contented hush fell over the room.
By the time they were done eating, the storm had melted into a frozen fog. Ben left the building to set up his tent—there wasn’t enough space in the barracks for everyone—then he walked to the river and took a seat on a fallen log, letting his mind wander over what lay ahead.
Ben had been assigned to a detachment that would soon hike the forty-eight miles to Dawson City to build a barracks. According to Constantine, the rough and reckless rabble of Skagway were moving into Dawson, and until the Mounties took control of that town there would be no law. That, Constantine had stated, would be accomplished within a few weeks. After that, two detachments would be sent on to the summits of the Chilkoot Trail and the White Pass. Those men would construct two more outposts from which they would collect customs and monitor the feckless travellers coming to the goldfields. Ben hoped to be in one of those detachments as well.
“How you feeling?”
Ben looked up, surprised to see Thompson standing behind him. He hadn’t heard him approach.
“Better. Thanks,” Ben replied, though his throat felt as if it were lined by broken glass. “I feel almost human again. Whatever the Hän put in that tea you gave me the other night really helped.”
Thompson lowered himself onto a log across from Ben and reached inside his coat for his pipe and tobacco. “Best thing you can do on the trail is get advice from the locals.”
“We could have starved if we hadn’t met them.”
“We’d have been all right, but they did make it easier,” Thompson agreed. “They figured out folks like us a long time ago, and I find if you treat them with respect they’ll do the same with you.” His expression was thoughtful. “The people up here have been trading with the Hudson’s Bay Company for about fifty years now, but I don’t know.” He shook his head. “I have a bad feeling this gold rush and all these travellers are going to change things for them. It’ll at least force them to move.” Thompson lit his pipe and squinted at Ben over the puffs of smoke. “You grew up around the Blackfoot, didn’t you?”
Ben’s stomach sank. He’d forgotten that Thompson had seen his file. Ben purposefully hadn’t told the NWMP anything about his father when he’d signed up. He didn’t remember mentioning the Blackfoot, either, but he’d been pretty nervous during the interview. He must have, for Thompson to ask. Now that it was out, Ben supposed it didn’t matter that he knew, really. He hadn’t been with the Blackfoot for all that long, just on and off after his parents had died. But he’d been there long enough to know they had been far better parents than his own. They never judged him, beat him, or pointed a gun in his face. They trained him to hunt, to fight, to ride, to live off the land, and, most important, to believe in his own strength. All things his father had never bothered to teach him.
“Some,” Ben replied. “Did some cowboying, too. I kind of went wherever the wind blew me.”
Fragrant pipe smoke filtered through Thompson’s beard, then veiled his face. “I married a Blackfoot woman. Sinopa was her name.” His voice softened as he spoke. “We had a son, Chogan.”
Ben and Thompson had gotten to know each other a little around campfires along the trail, but he wasn’t used to the Sergeant talking about himself.
“Had?” Ben asked tentatively.
“They both got sick with la grippe a ways back. Influenza.” Thompson let his breath out slowly. “After they died, I joined the Force. Needed something to keep me busy.”
“I’m sorry about your family.”
Thompson nodded. “What happened to yours? You had no kin on your application.”
“They died,” Ben said, dismissing the story with a one-shouldered shrug. He didn’t want any part of that life messing up the one he was living now.
Thompson frowned. “Yeah, I got that much. They got sick?”
The sound of the river rushing past seemed suddenly louder to Ben, and he unconsciously raised his voice a little. “I don’t really like to talk about them.”
Thompson tilted his head. From the way he was regarding Ben, he thought the Sergeant was probably taking a good look at his scar. Ben looked away. The man was perceptive. Ben would give him that.
“Apologies,” Thompson said. “I didn’t mean to pry.”
“There’s nothing to tell,” Ben lied. He hated being forced into a corner. “It’s just—”
“Good evening, gentlemen,” Miller announced as he settled onto the log beside Ben. “Constantine says tens of thousands of people are coming. Think he’s right?”
For once, Ben was glad of Miller’s interruption. “Sure. I believe it,” he replied.
“Me too. What about the gold? Think we’ll get a chance to dig our own fortunes up there? It’d be a shame to miss out on this opportunity, since we’ve come all this way.”
Ben wondered that himself. He glanced at Thompson, but the Sergeant wasn’t offering anything.
“I imagine we will,” Ben said, “But who has the money to buy a claim? I sure don’t. Maybe a half claim.”
Miller grinned. “I reckon I’ll do whatever I have to to find the money if it means I’d be making sixteen dollars a day.”
“You do realize this ain’t all about the gold, right?” Thompson snapped. His tone was almost always harsh when he spoke to Miller, regardless of what he was talking about. “We have to get to Chilkoot first, and that’s gonna be the toughest thing you’ve ever done. Up there, nothing breaks the wind. There’s no shelter at all. Up there, we’re the trees. Don’t get cocky, Miller.”
Miller’s jaw flexed. “Some of the boys are going to visit the saloons across the river,” he said, ignoring Thompson’s rebuke, “and I hear Constantine’s looking the other way tonight. You know, as a kind of welcome. You interested, Turner?”
Despite the pull of sleep, Ben had a feeling there wouldn’t be many more chances to enjoy themselves that way once they got back on the trail. “Yeah, I think I am.”
Thompson surprised him by heading down the bank with them and climbing into their canoe, but as soon as the three of them stepped inside the first saloon Thompson spotted someone he knew and left them on their own. Ben and Miller edged towards the bar, and when their whiskies arrived, Ben inhaled, letting the alcohol fumes clear his stuffed nose before he took a sip. The liquor burned at first, but the tingling numbness that followed was soothing on his throat.<
br />
“I’m looking forward to Dawson,” Miller said after he drained his first glass. “I miss civilization. I miss the noise and the women.”
“Dawson doesn’t sound like civilization to me,” Ben replied. “More like a whole bunch of crazy people fighting over a dream.”
“A dream? Haven’t you read the papers? People are making boatloads of money up there.”
“Sure, but if thousands are already there, why do we only hear about a few lucky ones striking it rich? What happens to the others?”
“That doesn’t concern me.” Miller held up a finger, and the bartender brought him another whisky.
“You’re a Mountie,” Ben reminded him. “That means it is your concern.”
“We’ll see,” Miller said, appraising a woman as she crossed the floor. “Something tells me things are gonna be a whole lot more exciting in Dawson than they have been so far.”
“I guess we’ll find out.”
Over the next week, they spent their time training in preparation for the next leg of the journey, and by the end Ben could hardly wait to get moving. The drills had grounded him, and his good health had returned.
But on the night before their departure, Ben couldn’t sleep. An odd beam of light shone through the ceiling of his tent, and after an hour of tossing and turning he threw open the flap and stepped outside to see what was going on. The sight took his breath away, and he stared in wonder as a thick green ribbon of light curled and swayed across the cloudless sky, winding around flickers of white, pink, indigo, and every shade in between. As he watched, the colours shrank as if they inhaled before rolling back across the heavens like a great, flowing sheet. Ben was hypnotized. Along the route north he had caught glimpses of the aurora borealis, but the magic was so much more tonight, as if the heavens were consoling the isolated men with this gift before they set off again.
At the Mountain's Edge Page 6
