“Next,” yelled Jean-Claud, recognising sufficient enlightenment in the boy’s face. He cut short the lad’s profuse thanks, shoving him unceremoniously to one side and hauling forward the next man. A student from Milan, guessed Nessa, as the educated and overly wordy Italian poured forth into her ears. But Jean-Claud was not about to have any such time-wasting. “Ask your question,” he growled. The fierce look on his face needed no translation.
It was both the licence and a list of the regulations governing the field thrust at her this time. Thick pages of it. Jean-Claud plucked the sheaf from her fingers. “This, le chien does not get free,” he pronounced, thrusting it back at the man. “Tell him you will arrange for a full translation of the regulations later, and you will charge for it according to the time required,” he told her.
Nessa could only nod agreement. Her life seemed to have been taken out of her hands. But the crowd in front of her no longer scared her, thanks to her unlikely ally. Rough in appearance, the French Canadian packer had turned a threatening mob of miners into a throng of willing customers—and not for the usual service provided by women in these parts. For that alone, she was eternally grateful.
Even at the end of the agreed hour, a long line of men waited. Jean-Claud strode forward again. A few choice words and a promise that La Mademoiselle would be open for business on the morrow was enough to break up the queue. As the last reluctantly trudged off, Jean-Claud again pointed out Madame Rosie’s where they could eat if they wished, then led Nessa and Philip over to a patch of land.
“Your new home, mam’selle.”
It would get the first warming rays of sunshine, Jean-Claud assured her, and was far enough back from the river to be safe from floods, yet close enough that she could fetch water easily.
“And here, all will be able to see the sign my friend Padraic will make for you.” Shortly afterwards, with a gruff farewell, he set off, seemingly well pleased to have safely settled her in to the commercial life of the Arrow diggings.
Nessa watched him go, then suddenly realised she had forgotten to ask the most important question.
“Wait.” She ran to catch him, uncaring of how she looked. “Wait, m’sieur.”
“Mam’selle?”
“Why? I mean … thank you so much for your help. I don’t know what we would have done without you.” She paused, pushing a wayward strand out of her eye, worrying it back into the severe, plaited knot on her head. Then could restrain her good manners no longer. “Why have you done this for us?”
“I was asked to,” the big man said simply, as if that explained everything.
“By whom?”
“Monsieur John, of course. He is a good friend to the packers, and we? We remember our own.” With which he turned away, having obviously said all that was necessary on the subject. Nessa could only stand and watch him leave. How she felt, she could not even begin to say.
She sighed and turned back. Philip was erecting their small tent and she must help him set out their belongings. She set a foot resolutely forward. Did she want to know what it was she felt? Whatever it was, there was a warm glow in her heart. For now, it was enough.
Chapter 5
By nightfall, she was exhausted. It had been mid-afternoon already when they arrived at the Arrow and, despite Jean-Claud’s words, a constant stream of men had besieged their tent as soon as they were set up, all asking her to translate for them. Word of her skill had spread quicker than she could have imagined through the rough tents and nearby mining camps. It was not till she could no longer stifle her yawns that they left her in peace. She and Philip had energy only to quickly add up her earnings and eat the remaining cold bread and mutton from their saddle bags before turning in.
She was so tired, she should have been able to sleep through anything. Or so she thought. The streets of the rough town had been crowded during the day, but night brought miners flocking in from every crevice in the stony hills surrounding them, it seemed. Each time her eyelids dropped closed, a raucous shriek or a deep-voiced shout pulled her awake again.
Soon they will go to sleep. They must, she hoped drearily. But the noise never stopped, and she crawled out of the tent next morning feeling worse than when she had crawled into it. Philip merely gave a grunt and rolled over to sleep again.
The streets of the town were blessedly quieter than yesterday. The sun had just risen, and men still filled the streets, but they barely spoke as they set off to the diggings with shovels and pans slung over their shoulders. The few women around were doing the same as she: setting cooking fires, picking up billy cans and heading down to the river for water.
The banks were jammed with miners already at work, washing the gravel in rocking cradles or pans, seeking the bright gold. She had to push through to find a patch of still water for her billy. She pulled it back and then stopped, looking around her for the first time since coming into town.
It was like nothing she had seen before. So far in their travels, they had passed through little mining townships and stayed in rough encampments, but never before had she seen the real diggings. Here were the miners at work—and work it was. Hard, gruelling and tedious. Standing in cold water, shovelling the rich gravels into the wooden cradles, to then rock them steadily side to side, again and again, until the heavy gold-bearing silt settled on the cloth below.
The river ran swiftly here, turning a corner as it emerged from the mouth of the steep-sided, narrow gorge opposite to flow around the small beach at the base of the hill and cut through the flats behind the township. Everywhere she looked, men washed, dug, rocked and washed. So many men, all full of the same hopes and dreams that drove her brother. She had seen much in her life, but nothing the equal of this.
Shaking her head in wonder, she turned to head back to her own campsite. The track was uneven, broken by heaps of gravel dumped behind the claim sites from the hundreds of cradles rocking by the river’s edge. It was not long before she stumbled on a suddenly sliding pile of stones.
“Watch out there, love,” A strange arm snaked around her waist, as a man’s hand plucked her still full billy from her hand. “My, aren’t you a pretty one. How ‘bout bringing that billy over to my claim here?”
She stiffened, cringing from the smell of unwashed clothing and the rough hands. “Let go of me this instant!”
“Now then, sweetheart, that’s no greeting for a hard-working digger. How about a friendly kiss? And if it’s a new protector you’re looking for, there’s good washings in my claim and a warm bed at the end of the day. What do you say?”
“Let me go.” Her hands scrabbled uselessly at the strong arms holding her, and pushing at his chest had no effect. Not even stamping on his feet achieved anything. The thick mining boots protected the man’s toes. Her heart began to beat fast. She dare not call out for Philip. The stranger was far bigger than her young brother. Nor could she hope for help from the other miners, she found.
“Got your hands full there, Charlie?” one called out cheerfully.
“Need some help taming her?” said another.
Even, “Give you a good nugget for an hour with her when you’re finished.”
She struggled harder, feeling the strong hands hold tighter and begin to roam repulsively freely over her body. Then one of the men caught sight of her face.
“Hey, Charlie, let her go. Now! She’s a friend of the packers. You want us off side with them?” And suddenly the mood changed. Charlie’s hands stilled and pulled back fast. “She and her brother came into town yesterday. It was Jean-Claud himself gave her his protection.”
“Mon Dieu! C’est la mademoiselle who speaks the languages. Let go, m’sieur, unless you wish to face us.”
“Come on, Charlie. Go up the Royal if want some skirt. This one’s out of bounds. And I hear she’s spoken for—by John Reid at Bald Hill Flat.”
Charlie’s face was now as white as a sheet, and he stepped back, apologising profusely.
“Please don’t mention it,” sh
e mumbled, desperate to cut him short. She snatched back her billy and hurried up the track, head down to avoid any knowing faces and praying madly none would follow her to explain what happened to Philip.
She was in luck this time. They were young and as thoroughly ill at ease as she was. She made it back to camp alone. By the time Philip scrambled his way out of the tent some time later, the tea was made, their morning porridge ready, and she could greet him with her usual contained placidity.
It did not make her forget what had happened, her mind a cauldron of conflicting thoughts. So many had warned them the fields were no place for a young woman. But she had grown up in places not suitable for a young lady. Always before, her clipped English accent and self-contained aloofness had protected her. It had never occurred to her that this place was different. And Philip? She had been looking out for him for so long. Now, it seemed she must count on his protection.
No. He was too young.
She was lucky, then, that the packers had given her their protection. She had the proof, too, of the power of their word. The miners had left her alone as soon as they had recognised her. Mr Reid had given her a rare gift in this place, it seemed. Safety. She smiled, remembered warmth glowing in her heart.
Then thought again. How safe could anyone here make her? She remembered a time as a girl, seeing a troop of soldiers camped in the same small town they lived in, prior to shipping off to the Crimea during that sad war. They were all young, high-spirited and full of hope and adventure. Just like the young miners here. Even her father had stirred himself to lead the family away from town on that occasion.
Fortunately, she was given no time to let her anxieties grow. As soon as she had finished clearing the breakfast dishes, men started to arrive.
Her first customer was a thin, sandy-haired young man with a glittering hunger in his eyes that she was to come to recognise. It was the stare of a man with nothing to his name but hope, and that was eternal.
“What time are you opening for business, bitte fraulein?”
Soon she had a long queue outside the tent, and Philip was pacing crossly. “I thought this nonsense would have been finished yesterday,” he muttered, forgetting already the handy sum they had made. “I’ll give you today Nessa, while I get my supplies together, but tomorrow I have to be up the river finding a good spot for a claim.”
She nodded absently, barely hearing him over the begging crowd in front of her. Someone brought her two of the slabs of rock that she had already found were used for everything around here from cooking to furniture. They made an ideal stool and table, and she was soon engrossed in spelling out the wording in one claim after another to puzzled owners, whose faces suddenly cleared as they found out exactly what they were able to do on their claims.
By mid-morning, she was already weary. She stood up, stretching her back and excused herself while she took a quick walk and helped herself to the now warm water in her billy. Philip was not back yet, but she did see Sergeant Garret coming towards her tent. She had met the police trooper briefly yesterday and had been impressed with his calm good sense. He needed it. He was all that served as law around here, one of the miners had told her at the time.
“Good morning, Sergeant,” she called in welcome. There was something very reassuring about the tall, square built officer.
“Miss Ward. Business seems to be going well.”
She nodded, smiling wryly at the queue of men still patiently waiting.
“Your brother not here yet?”
“No. He’s off getting mining supplies, but should be back soon.”
“I’ll come back later then. I need to speak to you both.”
She watched him go, wondering what that was all about. Then sighed. She would just have to wait till the man was ready to talk and, in the meantime, she was building up a regular stream of gold, cash and tradable goods from her customers. What she was going to do with a daguerreotype of Paris she had no idea, but hadn’t the heart to refuse the desperate young man who had tendered it to her.
Maybe the Sergeant could find a way to get it back to him without ruining the man’s pride.
It was not till near lunchtime that the policeman returned—not long after Philip arrived, which made her wonder whether the man had been keeping an eye on her. She had only cold cheese and soda bread to offer him, but he munched through the simple fare with as much sign of enjoyment as if eating a full banquet, all the while asking Philip about his morning’s doings. Nessa waited. The man had not come merely to pass the time of day.
“So you intend heading up the river tomorrow morning, young man?”
Philip nodded.
“And your sister? She’s going with you?”
“Well, yes, of course,”
“Philip and I have travelled widely all our lives,” put in Nessa, “and in places as nearly wild and primitive as this.”
“Maybe, Miss Ward, but among folks like here? I doubt it.” He took one more bite, then put down the crust with a look of regret. He leaned forward, broad arms planted on his knees. “Let me be blunt. There are thousands of miners on the fields, most of them young men, and very few young women. Certainly not single, respectable young women, such as yourself, Miss Ward. So when a young lady sets up in camp with only her young brother for protection … No offence meant, Mr Ward, but I would guess you are not yet twenty. Nor are you used to the kind of persons often found here.”
Philip was about to object, but the man gave him no chance, eying them both sternly. “In short, your presence upriver in an isolated spot with only rough miners … it’s a recipe for trouble. We’ve had claim jumpers and worse in this area, and I can’t be everywhere. I can’t keep you safe, Miss Ward.”
“But the packers have made it clear that my sister is under their protection.”
“And that’ll keep most of the miners under control,” agreed the Sergeant. “If the packers blackball a man here, he starves. Simple as that. But it won’t keep the criminal type away.”
The man only said what Nessa had already thought and pushed away into the dark recess of her head. Philip was a different matter. “I can keep Nessa safe. We’ve always travelled through strange and rough places.”
“Places where most of the population are young, healthy men who haven’t seen a young woman for some time?”
Philip was young and foolish, but that didn’t mean he was stupid. “You think she should stay in town?” His arm took in their surroundings: the false fronts, the garish hotels, boldly spilling their trade onto the streets from the rough canvas-sided buildings, the raucous calls of traders, miners, shysters and rogues filling the streets. “She’s safer here?”
“If Miss Ward would care to follow my suggestions, yes.”
Nessa moved uncomfortably, the word ‘command’ hidden under his voice.
“There is a miner’s wife at the end of town, a Mrs Johnston, who takes in boarders from time to time. I’ve had a word with her, and she would be happy to give Miss Ward a home while you, young Ward, seek your fortune up river.
Philip looked as stunned at the idea of her staying in the township as she felt.
The police officer smiled. “I do have a selfish reason for offering you this. You would be doing me a favour.”
“My mother used to try to hide cod liver oil in a spoonful of honey when I was a child. It didn’t work then either,” said Nessa.
The policeman shrugged. “Let me speak plainly.”
“If you please.”
“You, Miss Ward, are both a Godsend and a problem for me. On the one hand, someone with your skill in languages is very badly needed round here. Anything that stops the kind of misunderstandings that lead to fights is a big help.”
“And the problem?”
“You’re too pretty, too young and too damn single, Miss Ward. Excuse the language,” he added, not very sincerely. “Not even the packers and the name of John Reid will keep you safe in those back country gullies. I want you in town where enough pe
ople know who you are to keep you free from harm; and I want to know where you are and who’s with you at all times. You can live with Mrs Johnston and her clan, and there’s a small space next to the assay office where you can set up in business. Both are far enough away from the hotels to give me at least a chance of sleeping nights.”
“You exaggerate, Sergeant,” said Philip. “My sister is obviously a lady. No one would trouble her.”
Nessa watched the sergeant turn and rake his slow gaze over her brother. “You have no idea of the kind of riff-raff we get here, do you young man?”
“Well. They are a bit rough,” blustered Philip.
“Some of the men here are about as bad as you can find in this world, and don’t you forget it, Ward. Why you had to bring your sister here, I have no idea.”
“There was nowhere else for me to go,” said Nessa quietly. “He had no choice.”
That silenced the Sergeant. There was a touch of approval in his eyes. All she could see when she looked at Philip was his embarrassment, and a kind of hope hidden in his eyes. He was not ready yet to stray too far from the comfort and security she provided, but the sergeant’s offer gave him a perfect compromise. He could come back frequently but still tell himself she was safe enough. Not for the first time, she was forced to realise her baby was growing up. She sighed inwardly.
“Forgive us, Sergeant. Your suggestion is eminently sensible. I will come with you as soon as it suits, to make the arrangements.”
Which was how Nessa came to be standing in front of a small cottage that afternoon, in the far corner of the township and set against a small hill south of where the Arrow River swung sharp left into the hills.
The sergeant had described the cottage as a “substantial home, with all modern comforts”. Nessa looked at the small canvas- and slab-sided hut and thought of quite different words to describe it. Mrs Johnston, though, turned out to be a warm-hearted, big woman who dealt with her brood of young children, the difficulties of caring for a family in this primitive place and the rough courtesies of the goldfield with a ready laugh and unflappable calm.
Mary Brock Jones Page 5
