Gold Fever

by Vicki Delany

  I paused for a moment, wondering what it would be like to wash clothes all day long. I never allow myself to forget how I was able to escape the filth of Whitechapel and Seven Dials and men who would control my fate. If not for a proper education, good bone structure, and most of all a generous helping of luck, I might now think myself fortunate to spend the day in Mrs. Mann’s laundry shed.

  I looked out over Front Street towards the swiftlymoving brown river and the tent-dotted hillside beyond. And there she was: Chloe, standing on the sidewalk, watching me. She made no gesture, no movement, didn’t wave or smile or even pull out a gun. She only watched me, her face expressionless.

  I stepped off the boardwalk, ready to confront her and demand to know what she thought she was doing. A heavily laden cart clattered past, going much too fast for the road conditions. Did the driver think he was on parade in Pall Mall? I shouted abuse at him, and he shouted back over his shoulder, not even watching where he was going, flicking the reins to make the horses go faster. They clattered down the street and disappeared around a corner. Damned fool. He’d be lucky if he didn’t kill someone, or get one of his horses injured. Judging by the condition of the horses—if I’d had enough time, I could have counted every rib—he didn’t care over much about them.

  When I looked back across the street, Chloe was gone. She could be anywhere—ducking between tents on the mud flats that served as the centre of commerce; lost in the teeming crowd surging up and down Front Street; doubled back and slipped up an alley; heading for the docks and the next steamboat out of town, if I were lucky.

  “You know that…lady, Fiona?” I whirled around, startled. “Graham Donohue, do you always have to sneak up on me?”

  He grinned most charmingly. Graham at his handsome best. “I wish I could, my dear.”

  I tried to look stern. “Don’t be naughty.” “Seriously, Fiona. That woman was watching you, and not because she was admiring the cut of your dress. Have I ever told you it is the most handsome dress?”

  “Every time I have worn it, but you needn’t stop. As for that woman, I fired her recently. She was drunk on stage. I’ve seen her, more than seems coincidental, several times today. You’d best step back quickly, Graham.”

  The orchestra came spilling out of the doors of the Savoy, and Graham scooted out of their way, conveniently putting one arm around my waist to guide me to one side. They weren’t much in the way of musicians, my orchestra. A violinist, a clarinet player and one trombonist. Inside we had a piano, but the pianist could scarcely carry that out to the street, so he acted as caller. I stood in the doorway, flashing a gracious, welcoming smile while the three instruments played a few tunes. Graham didn’t remove his arm, and I allowed it to remain, enjoying its warmth. All down the street, the dance halls sent their musicians out. It made a considerable racket: talent was no requirement for a musician’s job in Dawson. Eventually my men shuddered to a halt, and the caller lifted his bullhorn to announce to the entire population of the Yukon Territory that the Savoy, “the finest establishment west of London, England”, was open for their entertainment.

  The orchestra gathered up their instruments and trooped back inside, followed by an eager pack of customers. I smiled at Graham. He tightened the arm around my waist and bent forward. His lovely hazel eyes moved under their heavy lashes. “Fiona, I…” “Show time,” I said cheerfully, wiggling out of his grip.

  “Let’s go and see what trouble Dawson can get up to tonight, shall we?”

  His face twitched above the generous moustache that overpowered his boyishly handsome face. “Yes, let’s do that.”

  I nodded to Ray, who was standing behind the highly polished mahogany bar pouring rivers of whisky. He gave me a wink, indicating that all was well. Graham and I were waylaid by an old miner named Barney, eager to relate another story of his pals Snookum Jim, Taglish Charlie, George Carmacks, and the discovery at Bonanza Creek. Barney, bleary-eyed, badly dressed, scruffy as could possibly be, stinking to high heaven, had, for a brief time, been one of the richest men in Dawson. He’d been prospecting at Forty Mile when news of the strike spread and he’d had made it to Bonanza Creek in time to stake a good claim. As for almost everyone else, those who’d struggled up from San Francisco, Seattle, Edmonton, maybe even London, Amsterdam or Johannesburg, the good claims were gone before they’d so much as booked passage. Barney quickly spent all of his fortune, most of it in the saloons and at gambling tables. He loved to treat everyone, particularly the stage performers and dancers, when he was in the money. Now he occasionally bought the odd bit of mining equipment and talked about going back to re-work his claim, but mostly he hung around bars, telling tales in exchange for a glass of whisky.

  “Why don’t you buy Barney a drink, Graham,” I suggested. “He’d love to tell you stories about the discovery that you can write for your newspaper.”

  “Ain’t never been a day like it, let me tell you, lad,” Barney said, dragging Graham towards the bar. Graham tossed me a filthy look. The first time he’d heard this story, he’d dutifully written his copy and sent it to his newspaper. When the story appeared, his paper, the New York World, had the best single-edition sales in its recent history, and the name of Graham Donohue became synonymous with “Klondike Gold Rush” to eager readers. The following hundred times Barney related the story, Graham ignored it. He didn’t look happy at a hundred-and-one. I wiggled my fingers at him, leaving him to it.

  I liked Graham a good deal. If I were looking for a husband, I might cast my eye his way. He was good-looking, charming, well groomed, and highly successful in his profession. But I wasn’t looking, so that was the end of that.

  I went into the back, to the performers’ dressing rooms. I’d meant to arrive early and get a chance to speak with Irene, but the broken corset had put an end to my plans. The girls were a hurricane of preparations as they put on stage costumes, applied make-up, checked hair and stretched limbs.

  Irene was pulling on a pair of long red gloves. Tonight she was going to do King Lear. For reasons unknown to me, the men loved Shakespeare. Particularly as, in a considerable switch from historical precedent, it was all acted by women. The vaudeville performers were onstage, warming up the audience and giving the girls time to dress and get ready for the first act. A lively chorus-line dance, while Ellie belted out a song, would precede King Lear. It was perhaps not as Shakespeare imagined it, but it was the way Dawson wanted it.

  Satisfied everything was under control, I ducked to avoid a flicking red boa and glanced at the watch I kept pinned at my waist. Almost eight thirty. I didn’t hear gales of laughter coming from the front of the house. I didn’t even hear snickers. The vaudeville comedians were supposed to be in the middle of their act. I slipped out of the dressing room.

  They were onstage all right, in front of a stony-faced audience. The two men ran about, tripping over their own feet and shouting lines of dialogue at each other. No one was laughing. Miners and cheechakos will laugh at almost anything, I have found, and they’ll weep buckets of tears at the worst song cranked out by the worst voice you’ve ever heard, but they weren’t laughing at this show.

  I walked to the back of the room and leaned against the wall. Lots of running around on stage, lots of shouting. One of them fell over a chair—that earned a round of chuckles.

  “Where on earth did you find those two, Mrs. MacGillivray?” Constable Richard Sterling stood beside me.

  “They brought letters of recommendation from theatres in the east.”

  “I should arrest them for impersonating comedians,” Richard said.

  I lifted one eyebrow. “I believe that’s the first time I’ve heard you tell a joke, Constable.”

  “I wasn’t joking, Mrs. MacGillivray,” he said, but the gold streaks in his brown eyes twinkled with something approaching mirth.

  Together we watched the show. The next skit involved the mother-in-law of one of them arriving at a dig and setting about organizing the mining activities. The au
dience chuckled at first, and before the end they were roaring with laughter. The mother-in-law character insisted on inspecting each piece of gold with her white gloves, and one miner fell off his bench in appreciation.

  Richard chucked, then his voice dropped, and he was once again all business. “How’s Mary doing?”

  “Fine.”

  “She worked at the laundry today?”

  “All day long.”

  “I don’t mean to interfere…”

  “Then don’t.”

  “She can’t make a life for herself in Dawson, you must know that.”

  “She will be safe with Mrs. Mann and me.”

  “Fiona.” He turned to face me, full on. His eyes were now dark and serious. “You mean well, but I don’t know if you understand what it can be like for the natives. No one will accept her, at least no one other than Joey LeBlanc and her customers.”

  “Precisely my point. I hope these fellows’ second act is better than the first. Perhaps I’ll see you later, Constable.”

  I edged my way through the rows of chairs as the vaudeville performers left the stage to a round of boos, and the chorus line danced on to a round of enthusiastic hooting.

  I didn’t worry about the boos. The audience always booed the male performers and cheered the females.

  Chapter Ten

  Angus peeked through the door of the Savoy. Mrs. Saunderson often gave him a second breakfast or an after lunch snack; he visited his mother regularly, and sometimes he did his school work in her office. He considered Ray Walker to be a good friend and knew most of the dancers, bartenders and croupiers by name. The older of the dancers in particular seemed to like patting him on the head or pinching his cheeks while murmuring, “Isn’t he such a dear.” And as long as he wasn’t working for the establishment, drinking or gambling, the NWMP didn’t mind him being there, although Constable Sterling would sometimes roar for Angus to get out if things were getting a mite wild.

  Tonight he was with Miss Witherspoon, and he had a feeling his mother would not be pleased, even though he was earning money escorting the English lady.

  Miss Witherspoon paused at the doorway and took a deep breath. She’d changed into something approaching evening dress, although not what Angus was used to seeing his mother and the dance hall girls wear. Angus knew enough about women’s clothes to know that her dress, with its enormous bustle and tight sleeves, was very out-of-date. His mother hadn’t worn a bustle since they’d lived in Toronto. The dress was a dark, rich plum, draped with lace across Miss Witherspoon’s majestic bosom and around the high collar and the hem. Matching lace and plum silk and a cluster of fake plums made up an enormous construction of a hat. She wore spotless white gloves that climbed past her elbows and gripped her overlarge and quite out of place brown leather bag (into which she had stuffed notebook and pencil) in quivering hands.

  “Here we are, Angus dear. Let us go in.” She marched into the Savoy with firm steps, looking neither left nor right. All conversation stopped as everyone watched them make their way across the room. Miss Witherspoon walked up to the bar as the crowd parted politely. She hesitated only for a moment when she caught sight of the two nudes that hung on either side of a portrait of Her Imperial Majesty.

  Her steely gaze fixed resolutely on her equally steely Queen, Miss Witherspoon called for a whisky. If her voice broke, perhaps only Angus, pressed up against her bustlebound rear end, heard it.

  Ray abandoned the customer he was serving and stepped around Murray. “Angus,” he said, “is this lady a friend of yours?”

  “Yes, sir,” Angus mumbled. Ladies were not supposed to be in the bar, but on that matter, as so much else, the NWMP kept quiet for the sake of keeping the peace. Miss Witherspoon in her ancient plum dress and tattered hat, gazing at her Queen to gather courage, was about as out of place as a grizzly bear who’d wandered in and ordered drinks all around. “This is Miss Witherspoon, sir. She’s a writer.”

  Miss Witherspoon leaned over the bar and grasped Ray’s hand. “Pleased to meet you, sir. From Scotland, are you? I can always tell. My grandmother was a Scottish lady, a Miss MacDonald. More than a few Miss MacDonalds in Scotland, I dare say.” She laughed heartily. “I trust you have proper Scottish whisky. I’ll have one of those, please. And a lemonade or something for my young companion.”

  Ray poured the drinks and slid two glasses across the surface of the bar.

  Miss Witherspoon swallowed her whisky in one gulp. She gasped, her eyes welled up with tears, and she coughed. Angus patted her discreetly on the back.

  She slapped her glass back on the counter. “Another,” she croaked. Ray raised one eyebrow to Angus but obligingly poured. The entire room watched Miss Witherspoon.

  “Can I help you with something, miss?” Ray asked politely. This time Miss Witherspoon raised her glass cautiously and sipped. “I am a writer,” she explained. “I am here to collect material for a book about the Klondike and this uh… establishment looked like a promising place to begin.”

  Miss Witherspoon didn’t appear to have a single idea about how to begin. Angus cringed in embarrassment and looked over his shoulder to see if he might make a quiet escape. He was hemmed in by a solid mass of humanity, either pushing forward for a drink or to hear what the lady newcomer had to say for herself.

  His mother’s friend, Graham Donohue, watched them, a bemused expression on his face. “Mr. Donohue,” Angus waved frantically. The newspaperman made his way through the crowd. He leaned against the counter and rested one boot on the footrest running the length of the bar.

  Angus made the introductions and suggested that perhaps Mr. Donohue could help Miss Witherspoon with the gathering of information.

  Miss Witherspoon nodded with enthusiasm, the basket of plums on her hat wobbling dangerously.

  Donohue stroked his moustache as his eyebrows drew together in concentration. “See, Angus, it’s like this: a good newspaperman doesn’t reveal his sources. If I told everyone and his brother who was giving me the best information, then I wouldn’t have any exclusives for my paper, now would I?”

  “The heck with that nonsense, Donohue.” A huge man stepped forward. He was almost seven feet tall, with chest and shoulders to match and an enormous moustache waxed to turn up at the ends. He was perfectly dressed in a custom-made suit with a showy red cravat pierced with a stickpin made up of a gold nugget the size of the end of Angus’s thumb and a grey hat with a white headband. He carried a bag containing his outdoor boots. It was Mouse O’Brien, who always changed his shoes whenever he came in off the street. He was called Mouse not because of his size but in memory of the time a field mouse had darted across his path on the road to Bonanza Creek. The big man had screamed in terror and practically flown into the branches of a nearby tree. When his companions stopped laughing, they’d anointed him with the name. “Everyone in town knows where you get your stories, Donohue, those you don’t make up at any rate.” He politely doffed his hat and nodded to Miss Witherspoon. “Welcome to Dawson, ma’am.”

  He raised his voice. “Barney, come and meet this here lady.” Various drinkers propelled Barney off his stool. He burped through a mouthful of whisky and rotten teeth.

  Miss Witherspoon tottered but managed to maintain her composure.

  “This here is Barney, ma’am,” Mouse bellowed in his normal speaking voice. “There’s nothing happened in the Yukon in the past ten years that Barney don’t know. He’ll help you, won’t you, Barney?”

  Barney grinned and burped again. “I come north in ’86,” he said. “Weren’t like it is now…”

  Mouse nodded to Miss Witherspoon. “Don’t you let the likes of Graham Donohue tell you anyone’s stories are private. Stories in Dawson are like gold—just waitin’ to be dug up.”

  “I was only joking,” Donohue protested. “I’m late tonight.” Mouse stroked the ends of his moustache. “I’ve probably missed hearing my favourite girl sing and all. If you want to talk to me one day, ma’am, most folks know w
here to find Reginald O’Brien. Not that I’ve got stories like these old-timers.”

  Mouse tipped his hat, bowed graciously and took his leave.

  Miss Witherspoon blinked in astonishment, watching Mouse’s head and shoulders pass above the crowd of drinkers. Several of the men filled the space he’d vacated and shouted that they’d be happy to talk to her too.

  Angus realized it was time to earn some of his pay. He straightened up. At twelve years old, he was already taller than a good many of these undernourished, poverty-raised men. “Miss Witherspoon’ll be interviewing Barney this evening,” he said. “But if you’d like to make an appointment with me, we can accommodate everyone who has a story to tell.” He pulled out a sheet of paper he congratulated himself on having had the foresight to bring.

  Miss Witherspoon was still blinking. Barney had stopped talking and was staring at her hat. He wasn’t holding a glass, and his fingers twitched.

  “Perhaps we could find a table,” Angus suggested.

  “A table?”

  “A place to conduct the interview and make appointments for later?”

  “A table! An excellent idea,” Miss Witherspoon blinked one last time and focused on Angus. She leaned over to whisper in his ear. “Who was that remarkable man?”

  “They call him Mouse O’Brien, ma’am. I’ve never heard anyone call him Reginald. He’s here most nights. I’ll ask him if he’d like to make an appointment, if you like.”

  “An appointment?”

  “To be interviewed by you?”

  “An appointment. Yes. An appointment.” She almost visibly shook herself. “Time to get to work then. Secure us a table, young Angus. You, bartender, I don’t think I want the rest of this drink. I’ll have a lemonade instead.”

  Ray, who’d been listening throughout the entire exchange, because everyone else was listening and no one was buying drinks, grinned and slipped the full glass of whisky under the counter to have once her back was turned. He poured a glass of what passed in Dawson as lemonade, rather horrid, terribly sweet, canned stuff, the colour of dog piss.