Jason's Gold (2 page)

The old-timer would have regaled him with another story, but advice on practical matters was what Jason really wanted. “I've been scouring the newspapers trying to figure how much it'll cost to outfit myself for the Klondike once I get home to Seattle. Do you have any idea?”

The old man combed his newly shorn beard with his fingers. “Five hundred dollars. I'm hearing, will buy you everything—a thousand pounds of food, all your clothing, a sled, a gold pan, and a pick and a shovel. It'll even get you a ‘Klondike stove,' as they're callin' them little cookstoves, and saws and nails and oakum for boatbuilding once you reach the headwaters of the Yukon.”

Jason's heart almost burst with anticipation. “Five hundred is exactly what my father left me—my brothers
never let me touch it when I quit the cannery last September.”

“Took off cross-country, did you?”

“That's right. My brothers were sure I'd be back in two weeks, with my tail between my legs.”

“But here you are,” the old man said with a gravelly chuckle. “You and me, we're cut from the same cloth. Nope, you shouldn't miss the Klondike. So your father's deceased, is he?”

“He died four years ago, when I was eleven, from scarlet fever. Right after he passed away I started working in the cannery. My mother died before I could even remember her. So it's just me and my brothers now, but they're much older than I am. They work at a sawmill in Seattle, but the owner of the mill won't hire you until you're sixteen, so I could never work there. Too dangerous, he said. As if it was safe at the cannery! Once, a kid standing next to me lost two fingers.”

“What kind of hours you work?”

“Ten hours a day, six days a week. It was the best-paying job I could find, so I never quit. I helped pay the bills for three years, and I'm proud of that.”

“Here's to the exploiters of labor,” the old-timer declared with heavy sarcasm, hawking up a mighty wad of phlegm and spitting contemptuously out the boxcar door. “How much did the captains of industry pay you?”

“Ten cents an hour. I got to where I despised the work so much—the stink of fish too—every minute felt like an hour.”

“Don't blame you a bit.”

“I'm never going back to the cannery or any kind of factory. I'm going to be on my own, work for myself. That's why I have to strike it rich.”

“Maybe you will, kid, maybe you will.”

“A Klondiker needs to take a thousand pounds of food, you said? Can that be right?”

“It's an empty country up there. Got to take everything with you, sounds like. The entire outfit should weigh nearly a ton, they're saying.”

“How is anyone going to carry a ton of supplies over the mountains? I read that the portage is thirty or forty miles.”

“A little bit at a time, they say, or you hire packers if you have the money—Indian packers or horse packers. Or you bring your own horses.”

Jason's mind was spinning with calculations, and now he started talking it through to the old-timer. “My brothers each inherited the same as I did, $500. If they'd just stake me an additional $250 each, I'd have $1,000. That should be enough, don't you think?”

“I imagine it would be.”

“I would promise to cut them in for a third each of my fortune. Each would be risking $250 against the probability of hundreds of thousands in profits.”

“I hope they see it your way.”

“So do I. Our father hated gambling as much as he did drinking, but this would be an
investment
. I just have to convince my brothers to see it that way. They're like bumblebees in tar, sometimes. They get so stuck in what they're doing. If they don't agree, I'll just have to figure out how to get there on my own.”

The old-timer suddenly nodded off to sleep, and in a few seconds, he was snoring. Though exhausted, Jason couldn't sleep. As he watched the prairies roll by, his dreams and his worries simmered together in a mulligan stew.

One way or another, he would get there.

Jason lost track of the old-timer in the train yards of Helena, Montana. More and more men were converging on the trains headed west, and it was a mad scramble to find a place to hide.

As the train topped the Cascades and mighty glacier-capped Mount Rainier appeared on the horizon, Jason's imagination came to a full boil. He rode belly-down atop the mail car, with the forests and rivers flying by, cinders burning holes in his clothes. “Klondike or bust!” he was hollering. “Ho for the Klondike! Watch my smoke!”

 

It had taken him eight days to cross the continent. Late in the evening of July 25, the train pulled into the Seattle yards.

Seattle had been transformed. Despite the late hour, the streets were clogged with thousands of men, women among them, and sometimes children, too. Their supplies were stacked ten feet high along the sidewalks. Outside of every restaurant, there were long lines in the street. Steerers moved among the crowd, enticing people toward the stores, and every store window screamed the magic word
Klondike:
Klondike soup, Klondike boots, Klondike stoves, Klondike glasses, Klondike blankets, Klondike picks and shovels.

Confusion and excitement reigned.

Klondicitis!

With a high heart, Jason made his way to Mrs. Beal's rooming house. He was home from the road and his brothers would be home from the sawmill. In a matter of minutes he'd be meeting up with them. He was taller by
several inches than when they'd seen him last, broader across the shoulders, his voice was deeper. He would remember not to make big of himself, especially around Abraham, his oldest brother, who was always so serious and slow to give approval, slow to say much on any subject.

Abraham…tall and rawboned, like the legendary martyred president he was named for. Clean-shaven, though, except for a mustache. Jason remembered Abe's slight limp, and the story of how he came by it before Jason was even born. “Streetcar winged him,” their father liked to say, but Jason could never really picture it. The accident might explain Abraham's cautious approach to everything.

And then there was Ethan, who was said to favor their mother's side of the family. Dark-haired, the only curly-head in the family, with a full beard since he was sixteen. Ethan's impish green eyes came to mind, his hearty laugh. Ethan, always the teaser. You never knew if he was serious or kidding until he gave you the wink and the nod. Though he was as strong as a prizefighter, Ethan always deferred to Abraham in matters of judgment.

It was Jason who'd been born with the ferocious independent streak. “I can do it on my own!” had been his battle cry since anyone could remember. His brothers wouldn't be surprised when he told them he'd decided to be a Klondiker. They would realize he was perfectly suited to go north, and they'd back him all the way.

Jason knew he could find a way to make it happen. “Don't let anything stump you,” their father had always said. “You can do whatever you set your mind to.”

He couldn't dwell too long on his father, or he'd be teary-eyed the next second. His recollection of his father's face after four years was blurry at best, and that scared him. All he had in the world now were his two brothers, and he'd already run off on them once to prove he could make it his own way.

As he neared the boardinghouse, he was remembering a conversation they'd had nearly a year ago.

“Why didn't you tell us how bad it was at the cannery?” Abraham had asked soberly when Jason announced he was leaving home.

“Because he's stubborn as a halibut,” Ethan had answered. “You know he never complains.”

“We can find you another job,” Abraham insisted. “Or you don't even have to have a job. You like to read so much…maybe we could afford for you to go to school. Surely you don't intend to drift wherever the wind takes you.”

But Jason had held his ground. “The wind blows from west to east,” he'd told them, “and I intend to visit Gettysburg and lay my eyes on the Atlantic Ocean.”

Well, he'd done both of those, and learned something of half a dozen trades along the way. It hadn't been easy. So many times, lonesome and hungry and broke, he'd thought of turning heel, but he hadn't. And now he was returning home, no worse for wear, even though he had only two dollars in his pocket. He hoped his brothers would be proud of him.

Jason remembered with regret the harsh things he'd said when they tried to dissuade him from leaving. “You just have no imagination,” he'd told them, his words rushing out as if from behind a broken dam. When he saw the hurt on their faces, he'd wanted to call the words
back, but it was too late. Many times during these long days and months he'd been away, Jason had vowed he would show them, when he next got the chance, how much they really meant to him. They were everything to him, these big brothers. Now he would tell them in person.

Jason's heart was in his throat as he burst through the front door and straight into the common room.

They weren't there. The room was crowded with men, but his brothers weren't among them. The landlady, Mrs. Beal, was at her desk.

“Jason!” she cried. “You're back!”

“Are they in their rooms?” he asked breathlessly. “My brothers?”

“Lord no, Jason! They've gone to Alaska!”

He went dizzy, as if he'd been blindsided with a left hook. “My brothers? What? When did they leave?”

“The day before yesterday! So much has been happening around here so fast, it's impossible to keep up with!”

“I can't believe it.
My
brothers? My brothers went to
Alaska
?”

“Oh, everybody's got Klondike fever. They came down with a severe case, Jason. Made up their minds as they were watching the prospectors disembark from the
Portland
with all that gold, I'd guess.”

“They saw all that? They were there?”

“Even I was there. It was the most exciting thing I ever hope to see. It's a wonder the entire population of Seattle didn't drop dead from excitement. Here, Jason, they've left you something.”

Mrs. Beal reached into a drawer and brought out a letter.

Jason didn't know what to think. He was numb all over as he began to read.

Secure my approval? Jason wondered. This didn't sound like Abe. Why would his twenty-three-year-old brother be seeking his approval?

Oh no, Jason thought. They couldn't have. They wouldn't. Surely they didn't.

Jason folded the letter. He bit his lip. All the wind had gone out of his sails. What in the world was he going to do now?

At the verge of departure, the
Yakima
gave three booming blasts. Thousands on the dock sent up a resounding cheer, and five hundred Klondikers crowding the rails waved and shouted their brave good-byes.

Jason Hawthorn was aboard the steamer, but he was in no position to wave farewell. He was in hiding inside a canoe down in-the ship's cargo hold, where he'd managed to slip under a haphazardly lashed oilskin tarp and wedge himself amid a hodgepodge of gear. His right arm had gone painfully to sleep and his face was mashed against one of the metal buckles on his own canvas packsack.

Under the tarp, Jason couldn't see a thing, but he heard the mighty blasts of the ship's whistle and the muffled roar from the throng on the dock. Seconds later the ship lurched into motion, and the tumultuous send-
off outside was eclipsed by the din from the close-by steam engines and the terror of horses.

For hours he'd winced at their nervous nickers, their snorts and their kicks as they were being loaded. But this, as the engines came to full power, was unbearable. The horses were nearby in the hold, and it sounded as if they were being butchered alive. He thought that surely someone would do something to calm them: crew from the ship, their owners, anyone.

The plight of the horses stirred the sense of dread he'd been feeling during these long hours in the dark into a near panic of his own. His heart felt as if it had broken loose in his chest. He wasn't getting enough breath.

What had he been thinking? He was sailing for Alaska without a ticket, with only the ten dollars Mrs. Beal had given him, a packsack full of clothes and hard bread and cheese, his bedroll, and a book.

He'd bought the book for a dime from a pushcart peddler in New York, and finished it as the train clacked across Montana. It was called
The Seven Seas
and it was written by Rudyard Kipling. He was glad he still had it with him; he wanted to read it a second time. That book was full of adventure—and an adventure was unquestionably what he was having right now. He might be in a bad spot at the moment, but he had to keep his courage up.

Remember, he told himself. You're on your way to Alaska, and you're only three days behind your brothers.
You can catch them—
you're going lighter than they are. And you can get by for a while on ten dollars. That's all you left home with last September.

It was time to escape the canoe. If he didn't move, he'd be so cramped up, he'd never move again.

With all the noise from the engine room and the horses, Jason couldn't tell if there was anyone around. He wriggled out far enough to determine that the canoe had been placed in a corner atop large wooden crates. His vision was blocked by mounds and mounds of Klondike outfits on pallets and contained by rope nets. So many sacks of flour and beans he'd never seen in his life. Here was a strange contraption: a pair of tandem bicycles joined by two bars of iron, which supported a small skiff. Four people were going to pedal a boat over the mountains? Was that possible?

Jason freed his legs, reached silently back for his packsack. He still couldn't see anyone, but as he lowered himself from the crates, he spied someone not forty feet away, standing next to a trunk and opening a jackknife.

In the next moment, the man with the jackknife spotted him.

The fellow was no older than seventeen, Jason realized. Not one of the crew—he was dressed in an expensive wool suit and wore a derby hat. At first the young man had been startled, but now there was a smile playing at his fleshy lips as he folded the jackknife and slid it into his pocket.

With a confident sort of swagger, the fellow was walking toward Jason. He had a round boyish face, almost a baby face, pasty white, with the exception of a fresh scar over his right eye. The son of the ship's owner? Son of the captain? Not a Klondiker, it didn't seem.

Jason gathered up his father's old mackinaw coat, pressed his floppy black hat down on his head, and hefted his packsack over one shoulder. Best not to act afraid, whoever this was.

“Stowaway, eh?” the fellow said, his tone and his features immediately communicating a sense of power, that of the spider to the fly.

Jason didn't say anything. He was trying to get his bearings. The fellow was alone. What was the jackknife for? What was he doing in the hold? A common thief, is that what he was?

“So, what are
you
doing in here?” Jason replied.

“Ah, but
I've
got a ticket. Haven't you heard, anyone who can't show his ticket is subject to removal?”

Jason smiled. “They forgot to tell me that.”

“Frank Barker is my name. My friends also call me Kid.”

Jason thought about giving a false name. He'd never done it before, and he wasn't going to start now. He was proud of carrying his father's name. “Jason Hawthorn,” he said. “So, are you going to turn me in?”

“Not necessarily,” Kid Barker replied from the side of his mouth. “Let's get out of here. I'll show you around the ship.”

The slight British accent, Jason thought, was only an affectation.

At the door. Barker unlatched a heavy bolt.

“How'd you get in?”

“One of my vast array of skills,” the baby face said with a wink. “I'm sure you've got a catalogful yourself. You're a road kid, obviously.”

“Yeah, I've been on the road.”

Kid Barker poked his head out, said “Hurry” from the corner of his mouth. In a few seconds they were in a dark corridor.

“Will this packsack on my back give me away?” Jason whispered.

“You won't look suspicious,” Barker answered,
“unless you act that way. Half the people on this ship lug their things wherever they go. Untrusting souls.”

Jason could still hear the horses. He walked down the corridor toward the awful sound.

Kid Barker stayed close on his heels, like a shadow. “You're going the wrong direction.”

“Never mind.” Jason said. “There's something I have to see.” He pushed aside a swinging door, then gasped. There they were, rows upon rows of horses, stacked so closely that it would be impossible for them ever to lie down during the six-day voyage. And here were the ones who had it worst off, these closest to the heat and the clamor of the engine room. He watched for a minute. At every irregular or high-pitched sound amid the overall cacophony, they were thrown into a kicking, rearing, biting, halter-jerking panic.

“How many horses?” Jason wondered, shaking his head in disbelief.

“They say four hundred-some. At least on this ship it's the horses that have it bad, instead of the people. Down in Tacoma, there's a coal ship called the
Islander
that's being converted to passenger service for eight hundred people. We took a look at it. The horse deck is directly above the so-called first-class accommodations. The only thing between is planking, and there's nothing to stop the yellow rivers from those horses from obeying gravity, if you get my drift. That's when we decided on this ship. Now, let's get out of here. The smell is making me sick.”

Jason followed Barker above to the crowded top deck and discovered that the
Yakima
had some serious problems of its own. Every ticket, as he heard many a Klondiker angrily explain to the white-jacketed crew members, was supposed to guarantee a separate berth.
It was promised in black and white, right on the ticket. The passengers had been assigned ten to a cabin, but there were only three berths in each cabin, with floor space for two more at best to spread out blankets. “Where do you expect us to sleep?” people were demanding.

The answer always came with a shrug. “Take shifts.”