by Vicki Delany
We tramped the length and breadth of Scotland and England, and after two years we set up camp outside London for the first time. I was excited about seeing the great city. Euila’s governess, Miss Wheatley, had been a proud Englishwoman and had gone on at enormous length as to how London was the centre of the world. She’d described all the wonders to be found there: Buckingham Palace, Westminster Abbey, St. Paul’s Cathedral, High Park, Pall Mall. As much as I hated Miss Wheatley, her enthusiasm was so great I’d always wanted to see the city.
We set up our tents at the rim of a Travellers’ camp. There were about ten other families and we girls were very much looking forward to songs and talk and laugher around the communal fire.
Yuri puffed on his pipe and watched the boys erect the tent. It was late November, so the boys worked hard to protect the tent against harsh winter winds. It had been six months since that afternoon in Oxford when Jock tried to rape me — I had no doubt that had been his intent — and if anything, his anger at me was only growing. I was thirteen now, my body taking shape into curves, my long gangly limbs coming under some sort of control. Jock was over twenty. He was short and scrawny but hard-muscled after a life outdoors and days full of manual labour.
On occasion his mother tried to talk to him about marrying soon, and he would growl and tell her to shut her mouth. He watched me across the flames of the cooking fire, and if I happened to look up and catch his eye, he would draw the pad of his index finger very slowly across his thick lips and give me a slow wink that had my spine turning to ice.
Mary was always making comments and tossing out suggestions, actively encouraging Jock to court me. She told me Jock would be the head of the family one day, and if I was his proper acknowledged wife, I’d have status in the travelling community. They were hoping, she told me, to find a husband for Moira, and I would have to either marry Jock or leave. I didn’t think they were going to keep me on forever did I?
Considering that I made more money than all the rest of them put together, I did think they were going to keep me forever.
I didn’t know how I felt about that. It was probably just the way things were going to be.
Who knows what would have happened, how my life would have turned out, had Jock been a bit kinder, not so openly vicious when no one else was around. I was only thirteen years old, and although Yuri’s family fed me and housed me, I was emotionally alone in the world. I might have been persuaded by charm and good manners.
Instead, I feared him.
He had a cruel streak and directed it not only at me. Since the day he’d attacked me and had been punished by his father, he turned his hostility onto the younger ones. He tripped little May one day as she was passing the fire. She fell forward, hands outstretched to break her fall. Fortunately, Davey was there, and quick-witted, as he grabbed May’s arm and wrenched her away from the open flame.
We never did get to join the dancing and singing around the communal fire that night outside London. As Donald turned to pronounce the tent ready, Yuri gave a strangled cry and fell forward.
He was dead before he hit the ground.
When the funeral was over and the other travelling families had returned to their own camps, Jock got to his feet and stood before our fire. We sat silently, waiting for him to speak.
He looked everyone in the eye, one after another.
“I’m head of this family now.”
Murmurs of agreement.
“Mum and Mary, you’ll move into the tent with the girls.”
“Aye,” Mary said.
“And you,” he said to me, “will move into my tent. Tonight. Get your things.”
Moira studied her feet, May and Polly shifted. Donald laughed and Davie grumbled. “You got something ta say aboot that?” Jock asked him.
“No.”
“See ye don’t. What are you waiting for woman? I said now.”
I got to my feet, very slowly. I felt the weight of the knife in my belt. I looked at the faces around the fire. No one was looking at me.
“No,” I said.
I heard breath being sucked in. Jock approached me. He was not much taller than I, yet he was fully grown and I had several more inches to come. “You’ll do what I say, girl, or you’ll feel my fist.”
“What a charming proposal,” I said, exactly as Miss Wheatley would have addressed him. “Nevertheless, I am forced to decline. I will not be your wife. I will not sleep in your tent.”
He glanced at the faces around the fire. No one moved, no one said a word. Jock lifted his arm and swung his hand, palm open, at my face.
Jean yelled, “No,” and Moira screamed. One of the girls began to cry.
I read his intent long before he even began to move. I danced out of the way and the blow went wild. He cursed me. The knife was in my hand, blade out, without conscious thought. When Jock came at me again, I was ready. The blade gleamed in the firelight before it sliced into Jock’s arm.
He yelled in shock and stared at his arm. The cut wasn’t deep, but deep enough. Blood leaked through the cloth of his shirt.
I spoke to the women, but focused on Jock, his eyes wide with surprise and shock. “Time for me to be moving on, I believe. Ladies, I bid you a very good day.”
I had almost nothing in the way of possessions: a couple of skirts, a blouse, a hairbrush and some ribbon. A knife.
I dared not go into the confined space of the wagon to get my things.
I walked away from the traveller’s camp, heading toward the lights of London, far in the distance. An orange glow in the night sky.
I did not look back.
Chapter Nineteen
My head hurt. I was lying on something very rough, and something was digging into the small of my back. A horse whinnied not far away, and I could hear the wind moving through the trees and water rushing over rocks. A twig snapped and a man mumbled.
For a very brief moment, I thought I was back on Skye, that it was the first morning I’d been with the Travellers and they were breaking camp, readying to move on. But I caught no scent of oatmeal bubbling over the fire, heard no chattering women or laughing children, and did not smell heather or grouse or the barren hills of the Highlands. A cool breeze blew against my cheek, a breeze that had drifted through boreal forests of pine, spruce, and birch. It brought with it the scent of scrub and decaying vegetation and fresh water racing for the frozen sea.
Taking care not to move, I opened my eyes. I was looking up into a tree, a rather scruffy, stunted old pine. The sky above was blue, and white clouds drifted overhead.
I heard the strike of a match and a muttered curse and then turned my head, very slowly.
A man was about ten feet away. His back was to me, and he crouched over a pile of twigs. He struck another match and a puff of wind playfully blew it out before it could touch the wood.
Beyond the man and the fire pit, a brown horse munched on grasses at the banks of a river, its tail constantly moving as it flicked flies away.
I felt something land on my hand, a fly or a mosquito, but I didn’t move. I took inventory of my body. I was lying on my back, a rough blanket tucked around me. My right cheek was throbbing and the back of my head hurt. I wiggled my toes and felt blood flowing through my legs. I was not wearing shoes. I remembered a fight, falling down.
Then I remembered it all.
It was Paul Sheridan trying to light a fire in the wind. The sun was high overhead. Other than the wind and the trees and the horse and Sheridan, not a sound could be heard. We were nowhere near town, where the racket never ended, nor the Creeks, where people were coming and going at all times, day or night, nor the Yukon River where an armada of boats crowded with excited people headed for Dawson.
I had not the slightest idea how long I’d been unconscious or where we were.
I felt a sting in my hand and knew the mosquito had bitten me. Still, I didn’t move. I could probably get to my feet without disturbing Sheridan, his head bowed, intent on his task. I’d make
a noise getting to the horse, and the animal itself would react. It didn’t have a saddle and wasn’t standing near a convenient boulder. Difficult to mount, and even if I did get on, almost impossible to control. There were three packs stacked beside a tree, fastened shut. My new hat rested on top of one. I could see nothing I could use for a weapon. A rifle leaned up against a tired old spruce, but it was on the far side of Sheridan. He’d get to it before I could.
About all I could do would be to quietly get to my feet and hope to make cover of the trees before he noticed my absence.
And then what?
I had absolutely no idea where I was or where I should go. I didn’t have a knife or a gun. I was in stocking feet, wearing an evening gown. By the feel of it, my hair had broken away from its pins, so it was unlikely I even had a hairpin to hand.
Nevertheless, I would try. Surely we couldn’t be too far from town, and the Indians around here were not hostile. Once I was away from Sheridan, I’d yell and scream as I walked, and someone would find me.
Hopefully a person before a wolf or bear. Or Paul Sheridan.
I kept my eyes on the man, now trying to make a windbreak of his body while striking a fresh match, and tensed my arms and legs. I rolled slowly onto one side, but as I lifted my head, a pain as sharp as if a hatpin had been driven through it had me taking a gasp.
Sheridan looked up. “Ah,” he said, “You’re awake. Good. I was starting to worry.” He rose to his feet with a groan.
I pushed myself up. The trees wobbled and I closed my eyes. When I opened them again, the trees were standing still and Sheridan was smiling. “Hungry? Let me get this fire going and I’ll have the coffee on and fix us something to eat.”
“I don’t want coffee, nor food,” I said. “Unless it’s in my own home.” I walked toward the horse, keeping my head high. Something was wrong with these woods: the trees were faded and blurry around the edges. “I hope this creature knows the way back to town. Where’s the saddle?”
“No saddle,” Sheridan said. “We came by cart, but it won’t be taking us any further.” He looked over my shoulder and I turned. At a bend in the river, a makeshift contraption lay on its side. It was about the size of a barrow a gardener might employ, with a single wheel at the back and excessively long poles lashed to the front. The wheel hung at an unhealthy angle. “I made something for the horse to pull, thinking you’d prefer to ride as long as you could. Didn’t expect it would get far. Least you had someplace to sleep. It’ll be the rest of the way on foot, I’m afraid. The horse’ll carry the bags.”
“Mr. Sheridan.” I placed my hands on my hips. “I am returning to town, thank you very much. You may accompany me or not.”
“Fiona, why are you being so difficult?” He threw up his hands, and genuinely looked confused. “I’ve told you my plan. I’m gonna make you the richest woman in the world.”
“I’m going nowhere without my son.”
“Well, I’m right sorry we had to leave without him, but that was your fault, you know. If you’d come along like I told you to, Angus would be here, wouldn’t he?”
I couldn’t argue with that. Then again, there didn’t seem to be any point at all in arguing with Mr. Paul Sheridan. I shook my head, trying to look defiant while refocusing my vision. Slowly, Sheridan merged back into one person.
“I’ll send word for the boy,” he continued, “soon as we’ve arrived and I’ve staked the claim to the mountain and valley.”
“Mr. Sheridan,” I said, opening my eyes wide and touching my hands to my chest. “You must understand. I appreciate your offer very much, I am honoured to have been chosen to be your ... companion.” I was not going to say queen — that would be almost lèse majesté. There is only one Queen in the Empire. “However,” my eyes filled with tears, “I am not yet ready to remarry. You see, Mr. MacGillivray has only been dead less than two years.”
He studied me. And then, to my surprise, he broke into laughter. “You really are a piece of work, aren’t you?” I blinked. “Oh, yes, the dainty English lady with your nice dresses and accent and charming smile. But you were quick enough and clever enough to get yourself out of Soapy’s reach lickety-split. I’ve seen you in the Savoy, listened to talk around town; everyone knows it’s you who’s in charge, not Walker. Tell you the truth, Fiona, you almost had me convinced. I learned the hard way outside the Savoy Saturday night. You fight like a man. Didn’t learn that from your governess, did you? I’m sorry I had to hit you, but you shouldn’t have fought me. Now I’m gonna get this damn fire lit and make us coffee. And then we’ll be on our way. Got it?”
“Mr. Sheridan ...”
“Paul.”
“Mr. Sheridan. All that may, or may not, be as you say. But I’m not going with you. I wish you the best on your journey.” I lifted my skirts.
“How far you gonna get, you think? You’ve had a blow to the head and been unconscious for a long time. Can you see properly? Or are you trying to make everything stand straight? I see how you keep squinting and shaking your head. Do you know where we are? Do you know which way’s town? Go running off helter-skelter you won’t get far. For all your manners and business sense, I doubt you can live off the wilderness.”
He wasn’t entirely right about that. I’d walked the wilds of Skye with my father, and lived with Travellers for two years. That, however, had been on the sheep-filled hills of Scotland and among the neat hedgerows of England, where one was never more than a few hours walk from some village or hamlet or just a crofter’s cabin. Not much my father or the Travellers taught me would be of use in the wilds of the Yukon. And Sheridan was right about one thing. If I moved my head too quickly, my vision swam, and that hatpin was there, ready to stab me behind the eyes.
Would Sheridan kill me if I tried to get away?
I looked into his face and did not know.
No matter. The man had to sleep and he couldn’t watch me constantly. I’d wait until my head cleared and bide my time.
Besides, surely someone would come looking for me.
Wouldn’t they?
I let some of the anger fade from my face.
“Good girl. Now you sit right there, where I can see you while I get this fire going.”
He’d gathered rotting logs and piled them into a circle in the clearing. The wind was strong, coming straight across the river.
The river. If I followed the river, it should take me ... somewhere. I had no idea what river this was or in what direction it flowed. For all I knew it would only take me deeper away from civilization. Hadn’t I heard somewhere that the rivers here flow north to the Arctic? I couldn’t remember. Miss Wheatley had not instructed us in geography. I cursed the oversight.
“Mr. Sheridan,” I said. “You need a windbreak. Even if you get that fire lit it will not last long. Collect rocks from the riverbank and place them in a circle. Inside the circle you can place your kindling. The logs you’re using are too big. Use twigs and dead needles. Put the logs on once the flames have taken. Didn’t anyone teach you to make a fire?”
“Not out-of-doors,” he said.
I’d suspected as much. His speech wasn’t too rough and his hands were uncallused. He’d been brought up in a city, and had no doubt always made his living by following the orders of Soapy Smith or his ilk.
Following my instruction — I was certainly not going to do the work myself — before long he had a cheerful blaze going. He walked over to the packs and pulled out a tin coffee pot and frying pan. I eyed the packs. They were rather small for taking two people into the wilderness.
“How much food did you bring?”
He opened the corned beef using the little key attached to the can, dropped a spoonful of lard into the pan, and tossed the beef on top.
“Enough. I can hunt,” he nodded to the rifle, “to supplement our rations. Anyway, we’ll be there soon enough.” He tapped his chest. “The map’s been right so far. Tomorrow we follow this river, then cut inland. Couple hours ’till we get to
the old Indian trail and straight all the way.”
I didn’t bother to hide a sigh. The man couldn’t light a campfire, but he thought he could hunt for our food?
In that I would not be able to assist him: I have never handled a firearm. I eyed the rifle.
How quickly could I learn?
Chapter Twenty
Angus MacGillivray sucked on the end of the pencil and studied the sketch. He was aware everyone was gathered around, leaning over him, willing him to finish the drawing. He added a line. Back in school, he’d loved geography best of all the subjects, learning how to read a map and the wonders of the world it opened up.
“I’m pretty sure that’s it, sir,” he said.
Everyone in the room leaned back in disappointment.
“Why, it could be anywhere,” Sergeant Lancaster said.
“Not really,” McKnight replied. “You can see where the Klondike and the Yukon Rivers meet. Here’s the Klondike moving off due east. I have a map of the territory in my office. We might want to compare.”
“And then what?” Graham Donohue said. “The rest of this map is nonsense. It doesn’t show Grand Forks or the trail to the Creeks or Forty Mile or anything recognizable. There must be more to it, Angus. What are you forgetting?”
“I’m not forgetting anything. This is it. The map Mr. Sheridan showed me.”
“Man couldn’t find his way to his ass following this map,” Donohue said.
“That Mr. Sheridan is labouring under an illusion is not in question here,” McKnight said. “I’ve heard the stories. There are hundreds of them. Gold beyond imagining. A valley where fruit trees grow and rivers never freeze. No one can ever explain why, if this place is so special, even the Indians haven’t found it by now.”
“It’s hidden. Secret,” Lancaster said. Angus looked up at the man. His eyes were unfocused. “Part of this world yet not.” Lancaster, Angus knew, had been a champion boxer in his youth. He suspected the sergeant had been hit on the head a few too many times. He’d recently proposed to Fiona. She politely turned him down, but the man continued to live in hope.
