The Brideship Wife

by Leslie Howard

  He ignored the men and offered Sarah and me his hand. “Jack Harris, ladies,” he said with a slow, flat drawl. “Out of California. And you are?”

  We politely introduced ourselves. He was handsome in a severe way, with tight skin over sharp cheekbones and a square jaw.

  “Where are you from and what brings you two lovely ladies to Barkerville?” he asked, his broad shoulders knocking against mine as the coach set off.

  “We’re from England and have offers of employment in Barkerville,” I said dismissively, glancing at Sarah. The truth was we had no idea what jobs Sarah’s father had in mind for us. We knew that options were pretty limited in a restaurant, none of them terribly interesting, but we were thankful for the opportunity to start somewhere new.

  “Don’t take my question the wrong way,” he said, his dark eyes holding mine in a cool, level gaze. Then he winked. “I didn’t take you for Hurdy-Gurdy dancers.”

  I had no idea who these dancers might be, but they didn’t sound respectable, and I tried to ignore Mr. Harris by focusing on the sights outside the window. After all I had witnessed, I planned on being cautious.

  The coach started its slow climb from the river valley up the canyon walls, and Sarah and I were forced to look away many times, as the sheer drop to the raging waters below got higher and higher. At one point, one of the horses stumbled, and the coach lurched. I let out an involuntary gasp. Beside me, Mr. Harris chuckled.

  “First time on this road?” he asked.

  Not wanting to be rude, I nodded. This was going to be a long journey.

  “I’ve come this way many times for business,” he said. “Don’t fuss. This road is an engineering marvel thanks to the Royal Engineers. Wait till we pass over the part built out on stilts.”

  “Stilts?” Sarah and I echoed in unison.

  “When they couldn’t find a way to blast a road surface into the granite, they built sections on wooden stilts.”

  When we passed over the wood-surfaced section an hour later, my stomach began a series of somersaults, and Sarah tightened her arms around Jacob. He sensed our tension and began to fuss. Turning away from Mr. Harris, I closed my eyes for a long while until we entered a long, dark tunnel.

  “Sometimes the engineers used dynamite to make these tunnels,” Mr. Harris said, continuing his commentary unfazed by the sheer blackness around us.

  The horses whinnied, fearful of what beast or reptile might lurk in the dark, dank shadows. Finally, we emerged into daylight once more, but the roar of water was so loud Mr. Harris had to shout.

  “Hell’s Gate,” he yelled, pointing down.

  Below were dizzying rapids. By some freak of nature, the deep canyon narrowed to a width of one hundred feet or so, forcing the white water through a tight channel, where, as if set to high heat upon a giant stove, it boiled and frothed furiously.

  At this first look, I bolted back into my seat and stared straight ahead. Sarah hugged Jacob, who had quieted, to her chest, refusing even to peer out the window, but Mr. Harris leaned forward, enjoying the view, and began telling us about the explorer Simon Fraser, the namesake of the river and its canyon.

  “He’s noted for saying that he and his men ‘had to travel where no human being should venture, for surely we have encountered the gates of hell.’ ”

  Sarah and I both shivered. I could not imagine men in canoes trying to navigate the rapids safely, but I knew it was often attempted, and many died.

  Jack Harris was clearly enjoying his role as a guide through the wilderness, and in spite of my resolve to keep my distance, I was drawn in by his storytelling.

  “What do you know of the gold rush, Mr. Harris?” I asked when the roar of the water began to subside.

  “Lots,” he said with a shrug. “It was in the sandy bars that skirt this shoreline where the first gold was discovered.”

  “When was that?” Sarah asked, obviously as interested as I was.

  “Only a few years ago. Those miners who chose not to go north to the Cariboo are still here, working their claims by panning the sand.” He pointed out signs along the roadway that marked the claims and spoke of the men who laid them: YANKEE DOODLE BAR, LAST-CHANCE FLAT, KANAKA BAR. “Kanaka is slang for ‘Hawaiian,’ ” he explained.

  I felt my heart beat faster, not from the sheer drop below us, but at the dangerous beauty of the scenery. Never before had I seen such a captivating landscape. England was gentle and rolling, but here, the countryside was both stunning and treacherous. The many sad-looking, white wooden crosses along the road were a testament to the perils the gold seekers faced.

  I thought about Simon Fraser, George Vancouver, and the men who had been determined to make a path through this great land. This was truly a land of new beginnings, and I began to feel the trauma and grief of the past year ebb away. Here was a place where my past and the shames of my family would not follow, a place where I could listen to my heart and live the life I chose.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  As we neared Barkerville, the stagecoach hummed with anticipation. Sarah in particular was brimming with excitement, and understandably so—she was about to be reunited with her father, whom she had not seen in five years, and she busied herself by changing little Jacob into his best clothes, a darling little sailor suit, for his first meeting with his grandpa.

  The stage came to an abrupt halt, and we were forced to wait for an endless hour while a group of men on horseback drove a large herd of cattle across the road and into the valley beyond. I fidgeted in my seat and strained out the window, recalling John’s talk of riding with the cowboys.

  “The Cariboo’s other big moneymaker,” Mr. Harris said, pointing to the cattle.

  “A profitable business?” I asked.

  “All these prospectors have to be fed, and many have the money to eat well. Cattle ranchers are as rich as the successful miners.”

  “Who controls the ranges?”

  “No one. The cattle are free to roam unless a landowner puts up fences. There’s more and more fences now that land is being given away to settlers.”

  Given away, I thought ruefully. Not quite. “But people can buy land as well?”

  “I guess, but why would they? The land is free to couples willing to settle and work it. All you have to do is be lawfully wedded to get the land.” He held my gaze. If he was flirting, I wasn’t interested.

  Outside the coach, the landscape began to change as evidence of prospecting was everywhere. I couldn’t help but think that it resembled a battlefield. Wooden flumes, giant waterwheels, and sluice gates crisscrossed bleak hillsides denuded of trees, and the smell of fresh-cut logs hung thick in the air, the fine particulates of sawdust tickling my throat. Heavy rains had caused washouts at various places, as rainwater rampaged down hillsides unchecked, carrying away with it precious topsoil. Caught up in a feverish quest for gold, these prospectors didn’t seem to care how they left the land.

  I remembered John telling me how the gold miners used chemicals like mercury that destroyed salmon spawning grounds, depriving the Natives of food. The decimation had taken just six short months.

  We passed a sign carved rather crudely into the shape of a man’s head. Underneath, in white paint, it read, WELCOME TO BARKERVILLE, POPULATION 5,000, THE BIGGEST TOWN NORTH OF SAN FRANCISCO AND WEST OF CHICAGO.

  “Who’s the head supposed to be?” I asked Mr. Harris, sure he would know.

  “Billy Barker, the town’s namesake. He’s a Brit, like you, and he discovered a rich vein of gold here only a year and a half ago. This whole town has sprung up since then. They say old Billy is spending his gold faster than he’s making it.”

  Evening was starting to set in, but there was still enough light to get a view of the town as we entered the main street, and Sarah and I hung out the window, curious to see all we could. Many men and some women were out walking in spite of the chill. They seemed friendly, with several small groups engaged in cheerful chatter.

  Along the main
street, there were twenty or so commercial buildings, many of which boasted elaborate, two-storey false fronts nailed onto rough shacks, and they were all several feet above road level and connected by wooden boardwalks. The reason for this was soon obvious: Main Street was a mud-filled bog.

  There was a creek in the distance, and running along it we could see rough wooden shacks and shanties stretching out willy-nilly in every direction, and behind them were white, single-pole canvas tents and a row of ten or so latrines.

  “Oh, look!” Sarah pointed. There was the Wake Up Jake Restaurant, one of the more solid and well-kept premises. She bounced Jacob on her knee. “You’re going to meet Grandpa very soon.”

  Farther down the street were Martha’s Sweet Shoppe, the colonial assay office, Blanc Photo Studio, the imposing Billy Barker Saloon, and the Theatre Royal.

  At the far end, the signs began to change, and I realized they were a mixture of English and Chinese and offered all manner of things. The banner outside Kwong Lee and Co. proclaimed, ALL KINDS OF CHINESE MERCHANDISE INCLUDING OPIUM AND DRY GOODS. I wondered what had brought these people to this remote spot all the way from China.

  Our horses picked up their pace as we approached our final destination, the BC Express office, a crude affair across from a gravel pit, where a small crowd had gathered. Once the coach came to a bobbing stop, the door was flung open and we emerged from its confines. I saw Sarah’s father right away. He was slighter than I had imagined, no doubt due to the poor treatment he received as a child slave. His thick black hair was interwoven with strands of grey, but I recognized his smile as Sarah’s. In a flash, Sarah and Jacob were in his arms, and her father clung to them both as if, having found each other again, he never wanted to ever let go.

  My heart ached at the sight before me at the realization that I would never share in an embrace like this one.

  “There’s someone I’d like you to meet,” Sarah said finally, pulling back from her father and gesturing for me to step close. “This is Charlotte. Charlotte, this is my father, Henry Roy.”

  Mr. Roy’s eyes were gentle and moist, and his firm handshake belied the grey streaks in his hair. “You are the dear woman who saved my daughter’s life and gave me my grandson. I’m in your debt. I can’t thank you enough,” he said. “Please—you will come and stay in my home with us. It’s the very least I can do.”

  “Are you quite sure? I wouldn’t want to be an imposition.”

  “An awful lickpenny you would think me if I pointed you in the direction of the hotel,” he said. “Consider it settled. You’ll stay with us.”

  In truth, it was a relief. After all this time, I didn’t want to be parted from Sarah, and the gift of accommodation would surely help me make a better start here.

  Louis handed down the luggage and placed ours in a small pushcart for the walk home. He whipped off his cap as he brought it to us. We thanked him, and Mr. Roy tried to offer a tip, but he waved it away.

  “Miss Roy?” he said, hustling after us. “I—ah, ah—was wondering if, I mean.” A red flush coloured his neck. “I’d like to come calling next Sunday afternoon. Perhaps we could take a walk together?”

  Sarah smiled and looked over at her father for a moment, who seemed delighted by the young dimpled lad in front of him. “I’d like that,” she answered politely.

  Louis’s face broke out into a wide grin, then he nodded and headed back to the stage. He looked back one more time, and I waved, but my hand hung in the air as Jack Harris, who stood waiting for his satchel, tipped his wide-brimmed hat to me. I quickly turned back to Sarah.

  As we shuffled along the boardwalk towards the Wake Up Jake, most of the locals we passed nodded pleasantly to us. Mr. Roy was clearly well-known and a respected part of the community here, a far cry from Victoria, where I had witnessed Sarah being treated differently because of the colour of her skin.

  The restaurant itself was a clean and wholesome place with ten wooden tables set with red-and-white-checked cloths and glowing coal oil lanterns. White gathered curtains accented the paned-glass windows, and a warm potbelly stove gave the room a welcoming warmth.

  “You have a lovely spot here, Mr. Roy,” I said. “How did the restaurant get its name?”

  “I bought the place from old Jake Franklin. He built it and ran it all by himself for years. He was always so exhausted by his long hours and hard work that the patrons had to yell, ‘Wake up, Jake,’ whenever they entered, and the name stuck.”

  I wondered if it was a tall story, and Sarah and I laughed and shook our heads.

  “The living quarters are back through here,” Mr. Roy said. “Follow me.”

  We passed through the kitchen, which was quite modern with a large, woodburning cooking stove and porcelain sinks, and then down a hallway to the living quarters. I noticed another, separate room off to the side. Glancing in, I realized it was a cardroom with five round poker tables, each covered in green felt and boasting a Tiffany lamp as a centrepiece on the table. It must have been a challenge bringing those delicate lamps with their coloured glass shades and stylish green fringes all the way here by wagon.

  The sitting room was sparsely furnished, but there was a comfortable-looking settee, two standing lamps, and a highly polished wood table crafted from what had to have been a massive cedar tree. My heart leapt at the sight of a handmade bookcase full of leather-bound books.

  As we entered the dining room, Sarah let out a gasp. “Father, this is beautiful.”

  A pine dining room table was set for tea with robin’s-egg blue Wedgwood china on a brilliant gold damask cloth. My mouth watered at the sight of plates of raisin scones and raspberry-jam tarts. I had come halfway around the world to end up in a place that truly felt like home.

  “This is too much,” I said to Mr. Roy.

  “I wanted to go to a little trouble for you, after your long journey,” he replied. “Now, let’s sit and enjoy what the cook’s prepared.”

  Over tea, I tentatively broached the subject of my future employment.

  “I hear from Sarah that you’ve experience in a tearoom,” Mr. Roy said.

  “Yes, I do.” I forced a smile. I expected as much, but I hoped for a job that offered a little more challenge and remuneration.

  “I’ve got plenty of work for both of you. Miss Charlotte, you can serve in the restaurant.” He turned to Sarah. “And you, my dear, can serve drinks in the cardroom after you put Jacob to bed in the evenings.”

  “Perfect,” Sarah said.

  “Cardroom?” I repeated, raising an eyebrow.

  Mr. Roy sipped his tea. “I run a high-stakes five-card-stud game in the room just off the restaurant most evenings. It is by invitation only. I tolerate no bad manners or cursing. The house takes five percent of the pot. It’s where I make my real money, not in the restaurant.

  I could see that Mr. Roy was a very astute businessman, and I knew I would never get ahead working as a server, so I took a chance. “Do you need a dealer?”

  Mr. Roy looked taken aback.

  “My mother loved cards and played games of chance with her friends. She taught me how to be a dealer. I’m confident I can deal cards at a professional level.” It was a lie—I had no such confidence, but I desperately wanted to try.

  He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I could use someone with an understanding of the game, and I won’t lie to you, a pretty young woman will give me an edge over the tables at the Billy Barker.”

  He was just being kind, I knew, but I smiled at his backhanded compliment. “I guess I could try you out for a bit, but if it doesn’t work out, it’ll have to be the serving job in the restaurant.”

  I nodded, crossing my fingers under the table. “I understand. Thank you very much. You won’t be disappointed.”

  Mr. Roy explained that the winner of each game tipped the dealer. I would have to work evenings, but my days would be free to do whatever I wanted. With the promise of tips, I expected I’d make more in an evening than in two weeks at my old
job. Mr. Roy suggested I practise my dealing skills in the morning, as the men would expect only the best and would be impatient with any delays.

  “I like your gumption,” he said. “A person needs it in this world. My whole life, people have talked in front of me like I’m not there. But I kept my ears open, and over the years I’ve heard a lot of things I shouldn’t. It’s because of who I am.”

  I wasn’t sure where he was taking this conversation, but I felt certain there was a lesson in it somewhere for me. He looked over at Sarah.

  “Sarah already knows this, but from my earliest days in Barkerville, people ignored me while I cooked and waited tables here. They figured I didn’t have the smarts or the wherewithal to act on what I heard, so they openly discussed business secrets. I used the information I overheard to invest, and after a while I bought the Wake Up Jake with my investment returns.”

  He’s a clever man, I thought.

  “Well done,” I said, my mind turning over all he’d just said. “I think I’d like to do something similar.”

  “What is that?”

  I hesitated. Was it too soon to give voice to my plan? Were there too many obstacles, and it would evaporate in a puff of smoke like all the others? “An idea has come to me in bits and pieces,” I said slowly.

  Sarah was helping Jacob hold a piece of a scone that he was trying to chew but was mostly spitting out. “Well, tell us!”

  “I want a life with animals, in the outdoors. I want to build a house and buy a cattle ranch. I’ll hire cowboys, and when we drive the cattle from one range to another, I’ll visit every village and offer training and vaccinations supplies to anyone who wants it.” I turned to Sarah. “Reverend Crossman gave me his equipment. And someday, perhaps I can open a clinic.” I thought of the duelling doctors in Yale. “So there is always help for anyone who needs it.”