Gold Digger. Vicki Delany

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СКАЧАТЬ and I, on Sundays when the Savoy was closed, could read or simply enjoy a moment of peace.

      I shook the sawdust off my pillow, as a light sheen had accumulated since I’d left my bed only three hours before, and I washed my face and hands in the cool, fresh water Mrs. Mann, the landlady, had left in the basin on the dresser. I hung my hat on the hook behind the door, pulled my day dress over my head, unlaced my corset, dropped it to the floor to join dress, stockings, over-corset, drawers and petticoats, and crawled into bed. I fell asleep to the sound of hammering from the property next door. Someone was squeezing an addition onto a house that was already falling over because it had been so badly erected a year before.

      Chapter Three

      Angus MacGillivray, overflowing with as much enthusiasm as a puppy watching his owner pick up a ball, bounced through the door of the tiny town detachment on Third Avenue.

      “Good morning, sir.” He stood to attention in front of the desk, his arms stiff at his sides, spine straight, eyes facing directly forward.

      Constable Richard Sterling of the North-West Mounted Police looked up. “Morning, Mr. MacGillivray. What brings you here this early?”

      Angus’s face fell and his shoulders slumped; the puppy’s owner had taken the ball and gone inside. “You said I could come on your rounds with you today. Don’t you remember? Sir?”

      “Oh, right.” Sterling could never decide whether he should be encouraging the lad’s interest in the Mounties, with the aim of turning the fatherless boy into a productive citizen, or discouraging the somewhat annoying heroworship. “Give me a couple of minutes to finish this report.”

      Angus perched on the edge of the only spare chair in the small room as Sterling bent his head to concentrate on the paperwork. “What’s your report about, sir?” The boy’s blue eyes shone with anticipation. A lock of too-long blond hair fell over his forehead. Angus’s huge feet were planted so solidly on the floor that no one else would be able to squeeze into the room. Must cost his mother a fortune in footwear, Sterling thought. Not to mention food. The fair, sturdy Angus looked almost nothing like his dark, fineboned mother: only the generous mouth and strong chin suggested a contribution by the maternal genes.

      “My report? A theft. A sourdough befriended a Yankee newcomer who’d passed out from drink, and when the Yankee woke up, he stole the old-timer’s mining gear.”

      “Did you catch him?” “Oh, yes,” Sterling said, with a touch of satisfaction.

      “Fool went to the nearest supply store to sell the goods. Harold contacted us straight away. He, the Yankee, not Harold, will be contributing to the warming of the constabulary this winter.” Police resources were so limited in the Yukon that there were only two punishments meted out for miscreants: a blue ticket expelling one permanently from town or a time in custody chopping wood for the ravenous NWMP stoves.

      A steamship whistle blew out on the river. Sterling stood, picked up the distinctive broadbrimmed, pointed hat, and placed it properly on his head. “Time to go. Not a lot happening this early in the day.

      The real action gets going around midnight.”

      “Yes, sir.” Angus leapt to his feet, all awkward arms and gangly legs.

      They walked down to the waterfront as the steamship Queen Victoria pulled into the makeshift harbour. The port, such as it was, consisted of not much more than rows of boats pulled up onto the mud flats and tied together. In an attempt at some sort of civility, a few planks had been laid to the steamships.

      Dawson produced nothing but gold. No food, no clothing, no mining equipment. Everything the town needed arrived by steamship or on rough rafts powered by poles of newly-hewn wood and men’s aching backs. A goodsized crowd could always be expected to show up at the docks in anticipation of anything that might prove of interest. Or of profit.

      Sterling and Angus stood to one side of the pack, nodding to the townspeople. The river was thick with makeshift boats bringing newcomers from all over North America, from all over the world.

      “What we’re doing, son,” Sterling explained, “is watching. See who gets off the boat and make sure they’re not here to cause trouble.”

      At first Angus stood still, only his eyes moving as he tried to follow the stream of humanity disgorging from the steamship into the milling crowd. But before long, his legs started to get stiff and his right foot fell asleep. He shook his leg to bring some feeling back.

      The constable laughed. “A policeman’s life isn’t always exciting, son. Boring, more often than not.” He stopped talking as someone caught his attention. Aged about sixty, the newcomer was a good deal older than most people who came to Dawson, but still not as old as some. He was welldressed, although his wool suit could do with a good laundering, and his grey-streaked beard and hair needed trimming. He stood solidly beside a pile of nearly-new luggage, negotiating porter’s fees with men who’d rushed to the docks to offer their labour.

      Sterling wandered over; Angus trotted behind.

      “I want the finest hotel in town.” The newcomer signalled to two of the workers to pick up his bags. The crowd pushed and shoved around him. Angus took an elbow in the back and lurched forward. He would have fallen had not the press of men on either side propped him up.

      The man saw Angus stumble. “You, boy,” he said. “I’m here on behalf of the San Francisco Standard, and I’m hoping you can tell me the name of the best place in town for a fellow to hear the local news.”

      “Paper’s called the Klondike Nugget, sir,” Angus said in a low voice, his cheeks turning pink. “You go down…”

      “Don’t want a newspaper, boy. A reporter doesn’t get his stories from the newspaper office. I’m asking where’s the best place to hear the news from them that’s making it, and I’ve got a dollar if you can tell me.”

      Angus held out his hand, apparently forgetting that he was pretending to be a Mountie. “The Savoy, sir. The finest, most modern establishment in London, England, transported all the way to the Yukon.”

      The reporter pressed a tattered American dollar bill into Angus’s hand. “And where is this Savoy?”

      “Front Street, sir,” Angus said, stuffing the note into his pocket before turning to point. “Just past Queen Street. Right over there. Big sign out front. “

      Sterling stepped forward. “Come to write about our town have you, Mr…”

      “Ireland, Jack Ireland. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Sergeant.” The man held out his hand. Sterling took it. They sized each other up.

      “Constable Sterling. North-West Mounted Police. Welcome to Dawson, Mr. Ireland.”

      “I’d say it’s a pleasure to be here, Constable. But I’m not yet sure that’s the truth.” The reporter looked around, taking in the press of men and boys openly listening to the conversation, the naked hillsides, the mud. Everywhere, the mud. He swatted a mosquito that had settled on his fleshy neck. “But it sure is a relief to come to the end of that miserable trip. This Savoy of yours, boy, is it a hotel?”

      “No, sir. It’s the finest dance hall, bar and gaming house in Canada. Maybe in the world.”

      Ireland СКАЧАТЬ