Heartbroke Bay (6 page)

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Authors: Lynn D'urso

BOOK: Heartbroke Bay
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Nights are spent at anchor in small coves where the shores are dark with massed trees. In the cramped and crowded quarters, Hans rigs a curtain of blankets across the face of their bunk to separate them from the other passengers. Behind it, he introduces Hannah to the pleasure of slow, careful coupling, whispers, and the sweetness of two curled into a single pair.
The miles and days roll on. Islands and passages are noted in the ship’s log and left astern. In a copse of alder trees, the sagging longhouses of an abandoned Indian village, once peopled by proud warriors who outfought, outfoxed, and outbargained all others, only to be decimated by the limitless diseases and alcohol loosed upon them by European traders, fades into moss-covered ruin. For Hannah, coming from England where every meter of land has been deeded, spoken for, and titled since Charlemagne’s time, considering the mass and spread of unclaimed land around her creates at first a vertigo and weakness of breath.
Many aboard the
Pegasus
chafe at the length and idleness of the journey, unaware that the passing of time and distance is necessary, not for geographic reasons, but because it requires that they sit and watch for days on end, as a full thousand miles of coast unrolls before them, creating by the end of the journey a sense of proportion and an acceptance of the size and immensity of the land that makes the idea of going still farther, over endless mountain ranges and down great rivers into god-knows-where, acceptable. By churning their impatience into eagerness, it gives them false heart and a belief in themselves that will make it possible to go beyond all that they know or believe, into the wilderness that is the Yukon and Alaska. Outclassed and ignorant, they are as carpenters and sellers of shoes at a county fair, stepping into the ring with a professional boxer, and the length of the journey is the beer that supplies them courage.
The depth of ignorance suffered by the pilgrims is visible in the soft red and yellow pastels decorating the heights under which they pass, for these are the hues of deception. Here in the north, there will be none of the ribald autumn colors they know from the world they left behind, no warning that the alpine blush of August on these mountains is all the admonishment they will have that summer has passed and winter waits impatiently behind the peaks.
THREE
The prospectors arrive in Skagway on the twelfth of September. It is forty-two degrees Fahrenheit at noon, and the first gold the passengers see is painted on the autumn leaves of cottonwood trees scattered across the hillsides. Thousands of men swarm the muddy lanes and boardwalks in a slow, churning riot of shouting, pushing, and rushing that reminds Hannah of a shovel-turned ant hill. Many wear sidearms beneath their coats. The Nelsons have been warned repeatedly of robbery and thievery. Few women walk the muddy streets, and those who do seem evenly divided between those like Hannah, who dress with some severity, and those in brightly colored dresses that accent their bosoms and behinds. Hannah watches in shock as a drunken slattern attempting to climb from the rear window of a crib-sized hut behind a saloon slips and falls.
An unsure, troubled look seizes Hans’s eyes, and Hannah searches without success among the features of his face for some sign of the aplomb he has carried since Chicago. Frightened by the deflation she finds there, and the sudden droop in her husband’s shoulders, her voice erupts, a decibel too frantic, “Mr. Nelson, what shall we
do?
”
Hans stares at Hannah for a moment from behind a furrowed brow, digging for his confidence. Squaring his shoulders, he eyes the fevered crowd and grumbles, “This lot looks like it would steal us blind. It’s best if one of us stays with the gear.” Waving a gloved hand at the mound of their belongings, he says, “I’ll find a hotel. You keep an eye on the supplies.”
By nightfall the sky is growing overcast. A cold rain begins to fall, driven by rolling gusts of wind. Hannah digs an ankle-length oilskin coat from a pack. Hans returns late, wet and hungry. Dropping to a seat on a keg of nails, he blows on his hands to warm them, picks up a stick, and begins carving the mud from his boots.
“There’s not a room to be had anywhere, Hannah. Every bed has two or three men in it. They’re even sleeping on the floors.”
She hugs her arms to her chest to keep warm. “Perhaps we should return to the ship.”
Hans’s answer is to shrug and begin digging a folded tarp from the stack of supplies. “It’s gone. It left for Seattle two hours ago. We’ll have to stay here for the night.”
“Surely there must be some place we can go,” she says, glancing up at the darkening sky to emphasize the rain.
Hans bristles. “I said there isn’t anything. Do you think I haven’t looked?”
A flush of anger fueled by uncertainty courses through her. Why isn’t he taking better care of her? What of the promises he made in Seattle? She has never slept outdoors in her life.
It is almost as if Hans reads her thoughts, and he softens, saying, “I’m sorry, Hannah. I truly am. But no one was expecting this.” He waves a hand to indicate the squalor and the milling crowd. “For now we’ll just have to do the best we can.”
“And besides,” he adds as he begins shifting bags and crates to build an opening in the pile over which to spread the tarp, “there may be more of this sort of thing in the Yukon.”
He is right, of course. As she helps anchor the tarp, she imagines more cold, wet nights and must swallow against the throat-swell of tears as she concedes to herself how unrealistic her vision of a romantic tent life has been.
“Take this,” says Hans, handing her a rolled blanket. He lifts the edge of the improvised shelter and motions for her to crawl in. “Try to sleep. I’ll stand guard.”
It grows cold. Huddled beneath the blanket in the mud, she shivers amid fragments of sleep and broken dreams.
Morning arrives adorned in the glittering jewelry of winter. Fresh snow forms a pattern of lace on the broken cliffs above the town.
Again, Hans leaves Hannah with their boxes and bags and goes in search of a room or stable in which they may sort and pack their goods. They dare not leave the gear unattended for a moment. Shovels, cooking utensils, clothing—all are scarce in Skagway, and their supplies would melt into the hands of thieves as fast as the fresh snow is now disappearing into mud. The thin leather of Hannah’s boots is soaked through, and her feet are numb. Her skin feels filthy, and hunger and thirst make her dizzy. She gathers snow from the tarp spread over the equipment, compresses it in her fist, and puts it into her mouth. After sucking cold water from the snowball, she crawls under a corner of the tarp, wrestles her undergarments down, and performs an act of public indecency. In the darkness, the smell of her urine rises warm and rank to her nose.
Hans returns near the middle of the day with news of a tent village where others from
Pegasus
have set up camp. There are latrines close by, as well as a number of peddlers selling supplies at pillaging prices. “There’s room for us there and a standpipe nearby, so we will at least have water for you to cook with.”
“We’ll be glad of that,” says Hannah. Hans starts to say something then looks away. In the flow of mercenaries there are numerous men of the sort he labored with in the Hobbesian world of the Idaho mines, where bullies and thieves ate from the lunch buckets of weaker men. After a heavy snowfall and a derailed train left the operation short of rations, he had seen a Chinaman kicked and stabbed to death for an apple. After that, he had squirreled food away and eaten alone whenever possible.
Hannah watches as her husband feigns interest in a passing wagon, mystified by the struggle she sees in the flickering glances he throws in her direction.
After a moment he grumbles, “We’ll get moved and set up the tent. You can cook something. You must be famished.”
“Yes,” she agrees. She has had no food since leaving the
Pegasus
.
Hans hesitates, chews at his lip, and swallows, then puts his hands on his hips and straightens as if a decision has been made. “I thought you might be,” he says. “So I brought you this.”
He reaches under his coat and brings out a small parcel wrapped in newsprint. Folding back the paper, he holds out the remains of a sausage nestled amid a small litter of cold potatoes.
Dear Diary,
Disaster is complete. We have been turned back at the border of Canada for being inadequately supplied. Very distressed in our condition, for winter is upon us with rain, snow, and terrible winds. This canvas tent is our sole shelter and miserable. Many others in the same condition.
The Crown forces of Canada, in the form of a Royal Canadian Mounted Policeman, flips the tarp back over the pile of supplies and speaks bluntly, “Entry refused.”
Hans stands up straighter and speaks loudly to make himself heard over the yowling of sled dogs and shouts of men hoisting heavy packs to their shoulders as a string of prospectors prepares to depart for the Canadian interior. “Refused? Why?”
The Mountie folds a fistful of receipts and papers in half and holds the bundle out to Hans. Snowflakes drift through the air like ashes. Hannah feels their cool sting on her cheeks.
“Insufficient supplies,” says the officer, flicking his blue-eyed gaze across Hannah’s upturned face. Lowering his voice, he looks again to Hans. “Look, man, it’s really no place for a woman. Not a woman like her.”
Hans stares at Hannah as the Mountie goes on to explain. There have been reports of cannibalism and murder, with one gang of miners raiding another in search of food, and after several parties of ill-prepared prospectors starved to death, the Mounties enacted a requirement that each company carry a year’s worth of supplies. Beans, rice, salt, coffee, flour, lard, bacon, dried milk, sugar, and jam are unavailable in the Yukon, and a full ton of staples is required for each and every gold seeker wishing to enter Canada.

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