Mary Brock Jones (6 page)

“Young
M’sieur
Ward, I take it. Jean-Claud, at your pleasure.”

“Jean-Claud who, sir?”

“Jean-Claud,
le Canadien
. Everyone in these mountains knows who I am. Now, don’t you worry about the young lady’s well being, m’sieur. Word’s gone out from a man who’s a good friend to the packers. She will be safe.

“Thank you kindly, sir,” was all Nessa could think to say.

“
Alors
” added the big man, “having someone round here to tell us what these
batards
of English are saying will be a great relief to many of us.

There was only one person Nessa could think to thank for this. A big solid man, with a smile that promised all she had ever hoped for. John Reid.

Suddenly she looked at her surroundings and saw that the sun was shining, the air was full of the sound of laughter and excited calls, and the men around her might be strong, big and rough, with dirt on their arms and boots, but they were also men who smiled in warm welcome and pressed forward—yet not beyond the restraining arm of the French Canadian giant.

“In line,
mes amis
.
La mademoiselle
, she cannot hear you. Now, mademoiselle, you speak a number of tongues, no?”

“
Oui, monsieur
. French, German, Greek, Spanish, Italian and Turkish, a smatter of Russian and a few other dialects. If that is of any assistance?”

Of any assistance! Never had Nessa said anything more foolish. Jean-Claud had no sooner called out her words to the crowed than shouts rang through the air in every language she knew and many she did not. Fluttering scraps of paper were thrust forward, clutched firmly in brawny fists, eager for attention. Jean-Claud’s mighty arm was all that saved her from drowning in a sea of miners. The giant packer took swift control, shoving bodies into a queue, pushing forward first one then another.

“Off to the hotel,
mon fils
, the one with the red banner,” he ordered Philip. “I will protect
la petite mademoiselle
, have no fear.
La chere
Madame Rosie will prepare you some dinner and a bed for tonight if you need.”

Her brother had stood stiffly beside her through all the big man’s orders. Nessa could feel him bristling and this final command was the last straw.

“And leave my sister alone? I think not, sir.”

Jean-Claud looked down at him in some surprise, but Nessa also caught a hint of approval before the man turned to a young boy in the crowd. “Jimmy, to Madame Rosie’s. Make everything ready for our new friends.”

The boy scuttled away and Jean-Claud turned back to Nessa. He ignored Philip, still standing at attention behind her, but Nessa didn’t fool herself into thinking the big man wasn’t aware of everything her brother did. She had a feeling he was as relieved as she that Philip chose now to keep silent. Jean-Claud trusted the mood of this crowd no more than did she, it seemed.

He turned back to her now. “Give them but an hour now,
s’il vous plait, mam’selle
, and tomorrow you can name your price.

All Nessa could do was nod. The first man thrust a grubby square of paper under her nose, clutching it tight in his fist as if it were made of gold. It might as well have been, she saw. It was a miner’s licence, the key to the future for each man here, if only he could find the plot that hid his El Dorado. An anxious voice interrogated her in broad German. A farm boy, she guessed, a blond, blue-eyed lad younger even than Philip, lost in a foreign-speaking land far from home. An agitated finger poked at words. She answered, her own German the language of the towns and wealthy parlours, but the familiar words brought tears to the boy’s eyes and the secret fear in the depths of his eyes faded. Carefully, she took him over the legal words spelled out on the paper, repeating them over and over in German till the boy knew them by rote.

“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.

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,” she 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.”