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  Dodge had a history, but it was basically a Midwestern town, and I was finding that I liked the people and the life in that part of the country. I won’t pretend that I didn’t miss the cultural advantages and sometimes-gay social whirl of Philadelphia, but we did have plays and concerts in Dodge, and truly exuberant parties.

  People didn’t lock their doors when they went out. If you were short of money, the grocer would let you keep track and pay when you could. If anyone were in trouble—even if he was not particularly liked—his neighbors would join forces to help out.

  Part of it must have been shared tribulation. After the hooligans like Bat Masterson and the Earp brothers moved on, Dodge settled into agriculture, chiefly cattle. Then the disastrous blizzard of January ’86 buried most of the cows in great shoals of snow, pushing them up against fences, to suffocate and freeze. The next year’s drought took care of most of what was left.

  So there was a quiet sense of people tempered by trouble, self-reliant but interdependent.

  Daniel didn’t share my comfort. The restlessness that had made him want Dodge was redirected, in his junior year, to the Yukon, when gold was discovered and thousands of men went north to make easy fortunes, or so they thought.

  I wouldn’t let him leave school, hoping that he would wake up and see the value of a college education (there was even a college of sorts in Dodge at the time). He was a sullen and dreamy student that last year, but he did stay in school, I think more for my sake than for his own ambition. A different kind of boy would have run away.

  Then in his senior year, ’97/’98, the newspapers started calling for Spanish blood, beating the drum for Cuban independence. In frozen February, the battleship Maine blew up and sank in Havana Bay. The saber-rattling grew more and more intense. Like most of his boy classmates, Daniel wanted to put on a uniform and go teach those Spaniards a thing or two.

  Those of us old enough to have had lives shattered by the Civil War—by “Bloody Kansas,” in Dodge—were not so enthusiastic about the adventure. War was declared in April, and I forbade him to join the army battalion forming up in Topeka.

  We had hot arguments about it, his manly blood aboil against my maternal protectiveness. I had been a mother far longer than he had been a man, though, and I won temporarily.

  In July, he would turn eighteen, and be in charge of his own destiny. “What about the Yukon?” I said, desperate, preferring that he face blizzards rather than bullets. He said that it could wait. The gold wasn’t going anywhere.

  The Fourth of July celebration was frenetic with patriotism and righteous bellicosity, beginning with the description of Theodore Roosevelt’s Rough Riders’ charge up San Juan Hill on July first. Then came word that the Spanish fleet had been totally destroyed at the Battle of Santiago.

  My boy was in agony over the thought that the war might be over before he could get to Cuba. That was my most fervent wish, of course, and for that reason I cheered as loudly as the rest.

  The fireworks were to give me nightmares, though. I dreamed I could see Daniel charging bravely through the enemy fusillade. Daniel lying torn and dying, dead, in the Cuban mud.

  The next day, at dawn, I gave him one of the golden eagles, but not my blessing, for his birthday. He went down to the station to wait for the first train to Topeka.

  Having gone to the safe-deposit box, I suppose the eagles were on my mind. But I had almost forgotten about the raven.

  I was watering the newly planted vegetable patch, trudging back and forth from the outdoor pump, when I heard wings beating and was startled to turn and see an oversized raven in my path. I instantly recalled the one who had stopped my flight in Philadelphia.

  It hopped twice and said, “No gold.”

  I think my heart actually stopped. “What?” It couldn’t possibly be the same bird.

  “No gold,” it repeated, and didn’t budge as I approached it.

  “But I have gold,” I said, feeling both moronic and terrified. “In the bank.”

  “No!” it screeched, and flapped up to eye level. “Gold!”

  “What are you? Are you a sign?”

  “No gold,” it said again, almost quietly. Then it flew a block down the street and perched on the flagpole in front of the bank. “No gold!” loud, twice, and it flew away.

  I stood there dumb under the baking sun, watching the bird disappear in the distance. Then I took off my sun hat and doused myself with well water.

  I went inside and combed my hair and changed into a church blouse. I had a cup of cool tea and then went down to the bank and put all of the golden eagles into my purse, doubling its weight. At home I put them in a paper bag and hid them in the rice canister. I didn’t know what else to do.

  When Daniel returned the next afternoon, I was ecstatic to see him not in uniform, but that was only a temporary state. The regiment had accepted him, but told him to go home for a week to “put his affairs in order.” I knew better than to suggest that he spend the week reconsidering his decision.

  I wasn’t thinking clearly myself. Of course he would have to use proper identification to prove he was of age; of course the army would send his name to various authorities, to make sure he wasn’t a criminal on the run. Including the Pinkerton Agency.

  It took until the seventh for Edward to catch up with us.

  We had moved into our own small house a couple of weeks before, which made all the difference. A large man knocked on the door, and when I started to open it, he pushed his way inside.

  “Pinkerton,” he said, and showed a badge. “You kidnapped the son of Edward Tolliver.”

  “I did no such thing.” He stepped forward, close enough to touch me, but I stood my ground. “I rescued my son from …”

  “From what?” he demanded.

  Saying the words almost made me vomit. “Sodomy. Incest.”

  “He said you had fantasies about that. You’re a dangerous woman. You belong in jail.”

  “If I belong in jail,” I said, “why don’t you have an actual policeman along with you?”

  “I have the authority—”

  I cut him off. “In fact, why don’t you and I go down to the sheriff’s office and talk about this? I’ve known him for some years. We sing in the choir together.”

  That was the last word of mine he heard. Daniel had crept up behind him with a poker from the fireplace, and brought it down on his head with great force. He fell like a tree, the back of his head spouting blood.

  “Daniel!”

  “I didn’t kill him. At least I don’t think so.” He turned the man over and put an ear to his chest. “Heart’s beating.”

  My mind was spinning, but I did fasten upon a plan, a mad plan. “Rope. Let’s tie him up and gag him. It could buy us enough time to get away.”

  We didn’t have coils of rope lying around the house. The man next door had horses, though, and wasn’t home, so Daniel “borrowed” a length of leather strap. We tied the Pinkerton man’s hands behind his back, and his feet together, and put a tight gag around his mouth. Then we dragged him to the unused bedroom and Daniel locked him inside by kicking a wedge of wood under the door.

  Daniel took his pistol. That would have interesting consequences.

  I sent him running down to the station to get a cabriolet while I stuffed our trunks with clothes and then got the golden eagles from their hiding place, whispering a prayer of thanks to the raven.

  The stationmaster was curious and concerned; I taught his son and daughter, and since this was Sunday, I would obviously be missing school for a day or more. I asked him to pass on word that I had a sister in Kansas City who’d had a stroke, and would telegraph as soon as I knew what was happening. Later I realized how flimsy that story was; the stationmaster had probably told the Pinkerton man where I lived, and then I suddenly showed up with all my worldly goods. Perhaps he didn’t like policemen.

  We wanted the first train to anywhere, of course, which meant Hays City, in ninety minutes. Daniel went ba
ck to guard the man while I waited at the station. It was only a five-minute bicycle ride for him; he would come as soon as he heard the train’s whistle.

  He told me he watched the man for an hour and he never moved. I never pressed him about it.

  I only booked us through to Kansas City, figuring that we’d be harder to trace if we bought one ticket at a time. Waiting for the train to Hays and K.C., I went through the timetables and made a list.

  Denver. San Francisco. Seattle. Sitka. Skagway. My boy would have his dream of the Yukon. Where Edward could never find him.

  If the man had freed himself and got a fast horse, he might have caught us waiting in Hays. When we got there, I sat on the bench outside the station, clutching the bag that held his pistol, not sure what I would do if he came riding up full of fury.

  At that time of my life, I was not sure whether I would be capable of violence. With the benefit of hindsight, I’m certain that I would have overcome loving kindness and fear of God, and blown him off his horse, or at least tried. But I was not put to the test. The train pulled up at Hays on time and we started to put on miles.

  Our most potent enemy was the telegraph. (It would be years before long-distance telephoning was common in the West.) If the Pinkerton man had gotten free, certainly his first action would have been to wire Kansas City, and have another agent waiting for the train.

  That would have been interesting. Daniel had his fantasies about shoot-outs, but they probably didn’t involve his mother on a train platform.

  Our deception began in Ellsworth, where I was fairly certain we wouldn’t be recognized. I sacrificed the tickets to K.C., bought under my married name, and as Vivian and Charles Flammarion we boarded the Union Pacific bound for San Francisco. We had to pay an extra dollar for Daniel’s bicycle, but he had read of people using them to get to the goldfields. I doubted that myself, but thought he might be able to sell it for a good profit in Skagway.

  Six of the golden eagles got us a sleeper—the Pullman strike a distant memory—and though we were ready to make use of it, the sun finally setting on a rather eventful day, we first went to the dining car, which was a pleasantly stupefying experience. Crisp linen and heavy silver and too much beef and claret—a novelty, since Kansas was technically dry, and female schoolteachers might know where to go for a drink, but they dare not show up there.

  We both slept through the change to Mountain Time and the little hamlet of First View, where we might have spied Pike’s Peak in the light of the rising sun. It was quite visible when we managed to stagger down to last call for breakfast.

  It was a pleasant three days for Daniel—excitement, rather than the anxiety of our first flight west. I treated him as an adult, even to the extent of letting him carry the Pinkerton man’s pistol in his coat pocket, though he acceded to my request that he not carry it, or any other sidearm, to the Yukon. We knew enough about the Wild West to know that fools with guns killed other fools with guns, and the safest thing was not to challenge them.

  In a way, I was terribly wrong. In the long run … well, no human will ever know the long run.

  Denver looked interesting, and under other circumstances we might have tarried a day or two there. But we had to be realistic. One of us an accused kidnapper and the other having assaulted a Pinkerton man and, technically, deserted the army. I was reluctant to get off the train until we could lose ourselves in the confusion of Gold Rush San Francisco.

  Likewise, we didn’t get off at Cheyenne, early the next day, which was the last regular stop for over a thousand miles.

  As we rose into the Rockies we were treated hourly to scenes of wondrous beauty. Mountains snowcapped in July. Boiling cataracts a hundred feet below us, as we crawled along trestle bridges that seemed none too substantial.

  I couldn’t properly enjoy the scenery, for my concern over what might be waiting in San Francisco. Daniel had stopped shaving in an attempt at disguise, but three days’ growth wasn’t going to make much difference.

  Chance favored us the second night. At dinner we were seated with two men, a father and son named Doc and Chuck Coleman, who were also headed for the Yukon. They were better prepared than we, having received two letters from a friend who was already there, and information from provisioners in Seattle.

  The Canadian government, they told us, wisely would not allow any prospector to enter the country unless he brought in a year’s worth of food, as well as necessities for panning. That’s a ton of supplies.

  Over coffee, after dinner, I made a copy of the list for Daniel, and later copied it into my diary:

  Food

  Bacon, 100–200 lbs.—Flour, 400 lbs.—Dried fruits, 75–100 lbs.—Cornmeal, 50 lbs.—Rice, 20–40 lbs.—Coffee, 10–25 lbs.—Tea, 5–10 lbs.—Sugar, 25–100 lbs.—Beans, 100 lbs.—Condensed milk, 1 case—Salt, 10–15 lbs.—Pepper, 1 lb.—Rolled oats, 25–50 lbs.—Potatoes, 25–100 lbs.—Butter, 25 cans—Assorted evaporated meats and vegetables

  Equipment

  Stove—Gold pan—Granite buckets—Cups & plates (tin)—Knives, forks, & spoons—Coffee/teapot—Picks & handles—Saws & chisels—Hammer & nails—Hatchet—Shovels—Drawknife—Compass—Frying pan—Matches—Small assortment of medicines

  Clothing

  1 heavy mackinaw coat—3 suits heavy underwear—2 pairs heavy mackinaw trousers—1 doz. heavy wool socks—6 heavy wool mittens—2 heavy overshirts—2 pairs rubber boots—2 pairs heavy shoes—3 pairs heavy blankets—2 rubber blankets—4 towels—2 pairs overalls—1 suit oil clothing—Assorted summer clothing

  They said you could buy an outfit all assembled for around a thousand dollars, but you could save money and probably get better quality if you shopped around, which was what they planned to do.

  Daniel stared at the list. “You can’t carry all this stuff from the boat to the goldfields on your back.”

  “Some do, partway,” Doc said. “About a hundred pounds at a time, maybe more on a sledge. You go up a ways and start piling it up, and go back for another hundred pounds. When you’ve got it all piled up in the new place, you start over.” He laughed at Daniel’s expression. “Not all the way. You get to the Yukon River and build a raft, and let the current take you to Dawson.”

  “Won’t somebody steal your stuff while you’re going back and forth?”

  “Heared not. I suspect it goes hard on someone who gets caught. Besides, everyone has about the same stuff anyhow.”

  “We’re hoping to get mules, too,” Chuck said. “They have lots of them in Skagway.”

  “Depending on what they cost. We don’t want to be flat when we get to the fields.” He gave his son a look that bespoke past arguments. “Man’d be a fool not to hold back enough to get home on. Not everybody pans out. It’s a gamble.”

  Chuck changed the subject. “Were you planning on going along with Charles, Mrs. Flammarion?”

  “Oh, no! This is his adventure.”

  “Wise decision,” Doc said. “Hear tell some’ve done it. Hard place for a woman, especially”—he looked down at the table—”one as handsome as you, you don’t mind me sayin’ it.”

  “I don’t fancy pulling a hundred-pound sled,” I said, “or even leading a mule through ice and snow. I’ll find a job in Skagway, and wait for … Charles to come back with his fortune.”

  “Skagway ain’t no church picnic, neither,” Doc said. “You might ought to stay in Seattle.”

  “I want to see him off. Make sure he’s got a good mule and his shoes are tied.”

  “Mom …”

  “But if Skagway is too rough, or I can’t find a good job, I won’t stay there. Go back to Juneau or Seattle.”

  “Not back home?”

  I’d been telling the lie so long it almost felt true.

  “Philadelphia, no. We left because there are too many sad memories there. My husband died recently.”

  “Oh.” Doc and Chuck exchanged glances. “Then we have that in common, too. After my wife passed away, I couldn’t bear living on the f
arm. So we sold it and decided to head for the Yukon.”

  “Neighbors said we were running away,” Chuck said angrily.

  “And if we were?”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “Where was the farm?”

  “Sedalia, Missouri.” He gave me a wry smile. “It ain’t Philadelphia. I took you for a city woman, Mrs. Flammarion.” He pronounced it “Flam-reon.”

  “Call me Rosa,” I said. “Everyone does.”

  “And I prefer Daniel,” Daniel said. “Never did like Charles.”

  “Me neither,” Chuck said.

  “Saw you get on back there. You got kin in Kansas?”

  Half a lie. “No, I took a temporary job teaching there. The school year’s over, and when Daniel graduated, he decided he wanted to join the stampeders. I came along to see that he got a good start—and to see this part of the world.”

  “Yeah …” He looked out the window at the vague shapes sliding by in the darkness.

  “Pop …” Chuck started.

  “Uh-huh.” He put his elbows on the table and looked straight at me. “Rosa, is your boy easy to get along with?”

  “I generally find him so.”

  He shifted his gaze to Daniel. “Son, Chuck and me, we were just talkin’ about takin’ on a partner or two, at least as far as Dawson. Cost everybody less that way.”

  “Dad and me don’t have ten years of school between us,” Chuck said, “so you could help that way. But we know a heck of a lot about mules and shovels and all.”

  Daniel chewed his lower lip for a moment. He didn’t look at me. “I would be glad to. Proud to.” He smiled. “I don’t know much about shovels.”

  Doc laughed. “Called ’em idiot sticks in the army. A stick with an idiot on one end and a shovel on the other.”

  I had a sudden cold feeling, but then realized Doc was only a few years older than me; he couldn’t have been a Union soldier.

  He saw my disquiet. “I wasn’t much of a soldier. Spent two years in Texas lookin’ for Indians; never found a one. Came back to farm and raise a family.”