by Vicki Delany
“I’ve been fortunate enough to obtain the services of a photographer.”
“A photographer.” Her bosom heaved, and the froth of many-times-repaired lace at the neck of her blue gown quivered.
“I’m anxious to obtain some background information about Dawson and its people.” Ireland took Irene’s arm. “Perhaps you can help with my research.”
Ray pushed the onlookers aside. “Can I walk ye to the dressing room, Irene?” he asked.
She looked at Jack Ireland. Well dressed, well-spoken, sophisticated. A newspaperman. She looked at Ray Walker. A Dawson barman. Scraggy, skinny, with an accent so sharp she sometimes couldn’t understand a word he said.
“Thanks, Mr. Walker. But Mr. Ireland here’s offered. Haven’t you, Mr. Ireland?”
“It would be my pleasure.” The American tossed my partner a look of such superiority that I wanted to slap him. Ray’s face closed as tightly as the shutters on the windows of Mr. Eaton’s Toronto store on a Sunday afternoon.
Ray and I watched Ireland guide Irene through the crowd. She clung to his arm as if she couldn’t possibly navigate the route without his help.
“Don’t worry about it,” I said to Ray. “She’ll empty his pockets, and then he’ll be gone.”
My partner glared at me. “For God’s sake, Fiona, change that dress. Ye look like me uncle Cameron after a night sleeping the drink off in the gutter ’cause he’s afraid to face me granny.”
He went back to the bar, elbowing a drunk aside who dared to step into his path. Someone shouted in the gambling hall, whether because he was winning or losing, impossible to say. It was almost eight o’clock, time for the dance hall to open. My wrist hurt, and I stamped my foot in frustration. Where was my son with my supper and my ripped up petticoat?
As if mentally summoned, Angus arrived, clutching a bundle to his chest. Close on his heels came Constable Richard Sterling.
Angus handed me the package, and I accepted it with one hand. It was still warm.
“Good evening, Constable,” I said. “Mrs. MacGillivray.” He’d changed into a fresh uniform, shiny buttons done up to the neck, a clean hat straight on his head, every wild curl forced into submission. “If your arm’s bothering you, perhaps you should see the doctor.”
“No need, Constable. I’ll be fine. If you’ll excuse me, my son’s brought my dinner.”
Graham Donohue was next though the doors. He laughed heartily as he walked through the room, slapping men on the back in greeting.
“Nice dress, Fiona.” He looked me up and down. “Is that the latest fashion in Europe?”
“Oh, shut up,” I said. “I hear there was some excitement out on Front Street earlier.”
“Sam Collins saved the Vanderhaege sisters,” Angus told him, delighting in being the spreader of good news. “Mother helped him.”
Graham looked at me, his head cocked to one side in disbelief.
“I didn’t help matters in the slightest. You missed a great story.”
“Luck of the job. I’ve been hearing about it all over town, came in to see if Sam’s here. All of Dawson’s talking about him.”
“Constable Sterling was a hero, too,” Angus said. “He saved Miss Vanderhaege. The older one.”
“A hero also,” I corrected.
“That’s what I said.”
“Never mind.” Graham looked at Sterling.
“So I’ve heard. Well done, Constable. I suppose they’ll give you a medal. Or something.”
“All in the line of duty, Donohue. Not something you’d know much about. Angus, if you’ve given your mother her things, get out of here. If you’ll excuse me, Mrs. MacGillivray.”
He turned and was swallowed up by the crowd. Men clutching drinks in hands filled the space he’d vacated.
“I gave Sam the rest of the day off,” I said as one skinny young fellow trod on my foot. I threw him my most ferocious glare, and he retreated into the safety of the pack.
“That was kind of you,” Graham said. “Must be a first. No, I’m wrong—that was Helen. You’ll be applying for sainthood soon enough, Fee.”
“If you’ll excuse me…”
“How are the Misses Vanderhaege doing, Mr. Donohue?” Angus asked. “Have you heard?”
“I’ve just come from the infirmary. The doctor says they’ll both be fine. Anna Marie is suffering from smoke in her lungs, and Anike has burns on her back and legs, but they’ll heal. We’re lucky the whole street didn’t go up in flames and take the town with it.”
I shrugged. “Too darn wet.” The package was cooling in my hands. Bread by the smell of it, and fresh. “I want to eat and tidy up. Angus, tell Ray I’ll be down shortly and then go home.”
“Yes, Ma.”
I spun on my heels. “What did you say?”
“Yes, Mother.”
“That’s better.”
Chapter Ten
Angus made his way towards the bar. Richard Sterling was standing with his back to the wall, underneath a painting of a lady wearing nothing but stockings and a bonnet, watching the men. Ray was behind the bar; his hands never stopped moving, but his eyes remained focused on the door leading to the gambling room, and the dance hall beyond. Something was bothering the little Scotsman: not hard to guess what. Everyone in town knew that Ray carried a torch taller than himself for Irene. The Savoy was busy tonight, and with Sam Collins off and Ray distracted, the two newer bartenders were having trouble keeping up.
Angus looked back to see his mother carrying her parcel to the stairs leading to the second floor, moving slowly under the weight of her mud-encrusted skirts. Only once, as she reached out to grab the banister without thinking about it, did her composure slip and her face twist in pain.
Graham Donohue slapped Angus on the back, and they walked towards the bar together. A man sporting a tangled grey beard so long that it almost touched his belt offered to buy the boy a drink. Angus’s ears flushed, but the miner winked at the watching policeman.
“I’ll take you up on that offer, George,” Donohue said with a laugh.
“Be a frosty day in hell before I buy you a drink, Graham Donohue. Which reminds me, I hear you got beat out by the newcomer.”
Donohue stopped smiling. “What newcomer might that be?”
“American fellow. Name of England or France, some foreign country.”
“Ireland?”
“Yeah, that’s the one,” the miner said, enjoying himself enormously. He ran one dirty finger over the rim of his glass. “He was here when it all happened, weren’t he, Angus? With a fellow taking pictures and all. Interviewed old Sam Collins right on the spot. Ain’t that so, Angus?”
Angus nodded. “He took a picture of Ma, too. She wasn’t at all pleased, not with mud on her face and her hair in a mess.”
“Your ma’d be the most beautiful woman in Dawson even if she’d been swimmin’ in mud, son.” The miner sighed.
Donohue’s face was turning red, and the veins in his neck had suddenly doubled in size. “Are you telling me that bastard, Ireland, had a photographer out in the street when the bakery was burning?” The words came out as an angry hiss, spoken through clenched teeth.
“Watch your language, Donohue,” Sterling warned. “Boy here.”
The miner tugged at his beard. He grinned, showing a mouth empty of teeth. “Guess that’s what I’m sayin’, all right.”
Donohue shoved the man aside and pushed his way to the bar. Angus steadied the miner, who was now chuckling heartily. “That got under his skin right enough.” The old man downed his drink. A few drops spilled out of the corner of his mouth and disappeared into the bushy beard.
“I don’t think you should’ve told Mr. Donohue that, sir,” Angus said. “He looks real mad.”
The miner wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “Stir the pot and see what rises to the top, lad. Best fun to be had in this miserable town.” He went to the bar, still chuckling.
“Great fun for some,” Sterling mutter
ed so that only Angus could hear. “But it makes work for the Mounties. Have you got some reason to be hanging around?”
“My ma gave me a message for Mr. Walker, sir.”
“Deliver your message and get out of here. Or I’ll have to take you in.”
Angus grinned, the prospect of a night in jail speaking more of adventure than hardship.
Sterling smiled back. “Hurry up, son.” Generally, the men who’d come through so much and travelled so far from home looked fondly on the few children in town. They slapped Angus’s back and tried to talk to him about their own family. He was too polite to push them aside. When he stopped for a second time to look at the photographs that a young cheechako had pulled out of his jacket pocket, Sterling yelled, “Angus, deliver your message and go home!”
Angus bolted, and the would-be prospector stuffed the photographs back into his pocket as if they were about to be confiscated and used as evidence.
“Ma’s gone upstairs, Mr. Walker, to clean up. She’ll be back real soon.” Angus shouted across the last few yards to the bar as he dashed for the door.
“Hold up, just a minute, Angus,” Sterling said. He caught up with the boy out on the boardwalk. The traffic streaming up and down Front Street was heavy. Horses and carts struggled through the mud; women crossed the street on the duckboards, lifting their skirts in an attempt to keep them clean. A few doors down, the building that had once been a bakery was a blackened shell. “I spoke to Sergeant Lancaster this afternoon.”
“The boxing champion?”
“The very one.”
“What did he say? Will he teach me?”
“He’d like to meet you. Then he’ll decide.”
“Can we go now?”
“No, I’m on duty. Tomorrow’s Saturday. How would that do? Saturday morning.”
“That would do fine, sir.” “Good. Come to Fort Herchmer at eight. You can meet Lancaster then.”
“We have to keep this a secret from Ma, right?”
“I won’t lie to her, Angus. If she asks me what’s going on, I’ll tell her.”
“I guess.”
“But if she doesn’t ask, then there’s no need to bother her, now is there?”
“No, sir!”
“See you tomorrow at eight.”
Angus walked down the boardwalk, almost skipping. He passed a young woman, dressed in a well-worn and heavily stained calico dress, topped by a limp hat, which looked as if a dog had enjoyed an afternoon romp with it. Angus touched his cloth cap politely and skipped happily on his way.
Boxing lessons. Time to become a man.
The door to the Savoy burst open, and the house musicians spilled out into the street. There were four of them to provide the music in the dance hall for the rest of the night and long into the early hours of the morning. One man tucked a violin under his chin, another picked up his clarinet, and the trombonist put his instrument to his mouth. The caller, who normally played the piano, took up his bullhorn and announced to all that the Savoy, “the finest establishment west of London, England”, was open for their entertainment. As the caller shouted out the wonders to be found inside, the orchestra played “Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight” loudly, and none too well. All along the street, musicians and callers were setting themselves up to advertise the pleasures to be found inside their own dancehalls. It made quite a racket, not at all what Richard Sterling’s mother would have called a “joyful noise”, although it was joy, to be bought and paid for, that they were advertising.
Eight o’clock on a Friday evening in Dawson, Yukon Territory. The dance halls were open for business.
Chapter Eleven
“He lose much?” Sterling asked.
“’Bout five thousand,” Jake said, his face showing not a glimmer of emotion as he gathered up chips. “Fellow’s been in here since opening. That last bet musta wiped him out.” Jake was nattily dressed in a stiff white wing-tip collar, a colourful silk neck piece and sharp bowler hat. His enormous black moustache curled up at the edges. Turning his attention back to the job, he spun the big wheel. “No more bets.”
“What a fool,” Sterling mumbled. But he wasn’t surprised. He’d seen as much, more, lost and won in one hand of poker or one throw of the dice.
The dim space of the gambling room always reminded Sterling of the shack of a church his father had preached in all the years of his childhood. The walls were cheap wood, the floorboards no better, the kerosene lamps much too dim. Men crowded into the room as eager to make their fortune at the tables as Reverend Sterling had been to save the souls of his flock. The results would be the same— disappointment and despair.
The smoke in the poorly ventilated room was so thick, it was difficult to see the far side of the room, where a serious poker game was underway. Mouse O’Brien sat at the table: the game would be nothing but serious. O’Brien was a giant of a man, not much off seven feet tall, with a chest the size of that of an ox, and shoulders and thighs to match. He kept his hair cut short and his moustache neatly trimmed and wore custom-made suits, starched white shirts, and a diamond stick pin in his perfectly folded cravat. He always carried a bag containing a pair of spare shoes to put on in place of his muddy boots whenever he walked through any door. He was called “Mouse”, a nickname he accepted with good grace—recognizing that he had no choice in the matter—ever since he’d been heard to squeal, as loudly as a pigtailed schoolgirl, when a tiny brown field mouse had crossed his path on the trail to Bonanza Creek.
Stacked in neat rows on the green-baize table in front of Mouse was a pile of chips. His big hands dwarfed the cards he held, and the only man left in the game, of the table of four, sweated heavily. Johnny Jones, who had more money than skill. Or nerve. Sterling stood behind Jones. The dealer’s eyes flickered, but he said nothing.
Jones had a good hand—three tens. Good but not great. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his brow. Mouse looked up from his cards and spoke to one of the men watching. “Get me a drink, will you, friend. I can’t leave the table right now. I’ll make it worth your while.”
Jones folded. The edges of Mouse’s lips turned up as he raked in the pot. Sterling would have bet a month’s wages that the big man’s hand had been garbage.
“I’m finished.” Jones got up from the table, moving heavily. “Holy Christ, I’m wiped out.”
“Language, Johnny,” Sterling cautioned.
Jones threw him an ugly look. Sterling braced for a confrontation. It wouldn’t be the first time a heavy loser had looked for someone on whom to take out his anger.
“Good game, Mr. Jones,” Mouse said, as he checked his gold pocket watch. “Thank you for the sport, and let me offer you this.” Mouse held a small gold nugget between his fingers. “Get yourself in another game.” Jones considered the offer, pride struggling with greed. He snatched the gold and headed for the faro table.
“That wasn’t necessary, Mouse,” Sterling said. “He wouldn’t have taken me on.”
Mouse shrugged his shoulders, like glacier ice shifting on the mountains. “Boy can’t play worth a damn…doggone… but he can’t give it up either. A man’s gotta feel sorry for him. Game’s over, boys. Time for my favourite lady to give me a song.” The giant gathered up his winnings and lumbered into the dance hall.
Sterling followed as Ruby’s thin, quaking voice struggled to the end of its song.
Like all the dance halls in Dawson, the one in the Savoy was considerably less than advertised. The tiny stage had been roughly carved out of green wood by workers who didn’t know or care what they were doing, and in a big hurry to get it done and move on to the next job. There were no windows, and the kerosene lamps smoked badly, but no one ever complained. Complaining in Dawson never got a man any further than out the door.
Flags—crossed Union Jacks and Stars and Stripes—had been draped above the stage and used to decorate the private boxes on the second story. Below the boxes, rows of uncomfortable benches, filled with cheering, st
omping miners, surrounded the stage in a horseshoe pattern. The room was tightly packed with sweating bodies and clothes gone too long without a wash; cheap lamp oil and dancers’ cologne mingled with the generously applied scent of the toffs and the stink of the labourers. Over it all lay the smell of male anticipation and scarcely restrained excitement.
Ruby’s voice was nothing short of terrible, and the song she sang sickeningly sentimental, but some of the older men wiped away a tear or two as she dragged out the last, painful note.
The audience applauded wildly as Ruby curtsied, allowing the front of her low cut gown to hang temptingly open, and departed the stage. The men shifted in their chairs, sat just a bit straighter and whispered to their neighbours. Fiona MacGillivray stood at the back of the room, close to the wall. She had wiped most of the mud off her dress and her arm was bound in a sling of purest white cotton. Her thick black hair was pinned into a storm cloud behind her head, but stray tendrils caressed her temple and the back of her neck. Her dark eyes never stopped moving across the room.
Ray Walker stood beside Fiona, but unlike hers, his eyes were still, fixed directly on the stage. He could afford to take a break: at the climax of the stage show, the bar would be quiet for a few minutes.
A hush fell over the shabby room, lasting only as long as it took for a heart to give one beat. The orchestra held their instruments still, and the audience—grizzled old miners, tender-footed gold-seekers, hard-hearted gamblers, ruthless businessmen, Indian fighters with nowhere left to go, and one Scottish bartender—held their collective breath.
Irene stepped out from behind the curtain. Her gown, trimmed with fake jewels and sequins and tattered feathers, wouldn’t stand a close look, but no one was close enough, or concerned enough, to give it a thorough inspection. She held her arms out in front of her and began to sing. Her voice sounded rich and pure, and she sang the song from the depths of her heart while the orchestra struggled to keep up. Light from the kerosene lamps flickered across her face and cast her sharp cheekbones into high relief. Grizzled old miners listened to her with their hands held to their hearts and tears falling down their faces into their beards. Mouse O’Brien held a snowy white handkerchief to his eyes.
