Jo's Journey (2 page)

“No.”

“All I'm saying is, you don't have a good reason to stay, do you?”

“Well —”

“Well, nothing. I say we go. What do we have to lose?”

Bart didn't answer. But something told me he would come along if I pushed a little harder. And suddenly, it was as important to have him with me as it was to go at all. I played my final card.

“And you can't say for certain that I won't find my brothers. If you had brothers, don't I know you'd look for them?”

He let out a long slow breath and stared straight at me. He didn't have to say anything. He was just as alone as I was.

It took three whole days for Bart to say aloud that he would travel north and no time at all for me to buy steamship tickets.

And so, early one morning in the first part of June 1862, two years after my father had
died, we found ourselves aboard the ship
Sierra Nevada
, steaming north, following hundreds of others determined to seek their fortunes in the British colonies.

“The name is Emerson.”

We had scarcely found our sea legs when a portly gentleman wearing a fine waistcoat approached us on deck and extended his hand.

“Where are you boys headed?”

“Fort Victoria,” Bart said.

“And beyond that?” Mr. Emerson asked.

“Antler Creek,” I said.

“Antler Creek?”

Bart and I nodded. We'd heard that was where the best prospects were.

“I'm headed that way myself.” Mr. Emerson grinned, revealing a flash of gold in each of his front teeth.

“You boys got plenty of money?”

It seemed a strange question to ask a couple of boys. “We aim to have plenty of money,” I said, not wanting to admit we both had a few dollars saved. San Francisco had its share of scoundrels and thieves, and I knew enough not to trust a fellow just because he wore a good suit.

“I ask,” Mr. Emerson said, taking the end of his mustache and giving it a little tug, “because I know how expensive it is for a man to finance an expedition such as this.”

He took in a deep breath as though he were puffing himself up.

“I myself have some experience in these matters.”

He paused as if we were expected to ask for advice. When neither of us did, he continued, “I know how difficult it is to search for gold. Long hours, backbreaking work. I'm a young man no longer. I could offer you both jobs—unless, of course, you've already made other arrangements.”

“What kind of jobs?” I asked.

Mr. Emerson smiled and nodded. “What did you say your name was?”

“Jo. Jo Whyte.”

“Well, Joe. I like a boy with good sense.” He smiled and nodded.

Bart stared down at his boots and stayed quiet.

“Here's my offer. I'll hire you two boys to help get our gear to the diggings at Antler Creek, or thereabouts. You can be the first employees of the Emerson Mining Company. Your young legs and strong backs will buy you each a share in the claim I'll stake on behalf of the E.M.C.—soon to be famous the world over. Staking a claim is expensive.”

He waited until I nodded before he spoke again.

“I'll pay all your expenses, and you'll stand to make a healthy profit once we start collecting gold.”

He stopped again to smile and tugged out his pocket watch.

“Nearly time for dinner. Why don't you boys let me know what you think after that? I doubt you'll get a better offer. Because if you aren't interested, I'm certain I can find someone else who is.”

He slipped the watch back into his pocket and touched the brim of his hat before turning on his heel and heading for the dining room.

“I don't like him,” Bart said when Mr. Emerson had gone.

“Who says we have to like him?”

Bart had no answer to that.

“He's right about a lot of things,” I added. “What money I've got won't last forever—and I know you don't have a whole heap.”

Bart didn't argue with that. He hadn't been too happy when the time came to pay for his ticket.

“So what harm would it do to let him pay our way?”

“And if he don't pay us? What if he lies about his share of the gold? Seems to me, a lot can go wrong.”

“Seems to me, we could run out of money real fast and then what? If he isn't fair, we can work for someone else. I like the idea of using that blowhard's money to get ourselves to the diggings.”

Bart's brow crinkled. “I suppose you got a point there.”

“So it's settled?”

Bart shrugged. “Like you say, if things get bad we can work for someone else. But I tell you now, I don't like him.”

“You don't have to like him. You just have to work for him. We can do that.”

“All right. But if things do go wrong, don't say I didn't tell you so.”

I nearly threw my arms around him but caught myself. Instead, I punched Bart lightly in the shoulder, my cheeks aching from grinning so hard. “We'll be all right, as long as we stick together.”

That got a smile out of him. “Us orphans—that's all we got. Each other.” Then he added, “We should have said yes quicker. That way we could have been eating in the dining room instead of grubbing around for what's left of that bread we brought along.”

I laughed. “Remember that the next time you take too long to jump on a good opportunity.”

The eight-hundred-mile trip from San Francisco to Victoria took four days. Bart and I spent the time in a state of excitement, not quite able to believe we were on our way north. Mr. Emerson planned to stay in Fort Victoria for a couple of days to purchase some provisions before continuing, and this suited us very well, for we were thrilled to visit a new town in a new country.

The
Sierra Nevada
didn't dock right in Fort Victoria but at the nearby port of Esquimalt, some four miles away. Porters crowded the dock, accosting new arrivals with shouted promises. “Fine service! Reasonable rates!”

A tall black man caught Mr. Emerson's attention even before we had left the boat.

“Leave your baggage with the porter,” Mr. Emerson directed, throwing his own bags onto the dock. Calling my sack baggage seemed highfalutin', but I took Mr. Emerson's advice and offered up my bag.

“To the Colonial Hotel,” Mr. Emerson said as he set off at a brisk walk. “As your first official job in my employ, you two boys can carry the purchases I make in Fort Victoria,” he said, breathless and sweaty. How a man with such an ample stomach was going to withstand the rigorous journey ahead was beyond me.

Bart must have thought the same thing, because he winked and made the shape of a big tummy in the air in front of him. I choked back a laugh when Mr. Emerson turned around and said, “Look at all those gold seekers! That's our competition right there.”

As we walked toward town, dozens of men, some with horses, donkeys or mules, others laden with heavy packs, made their way in the opposite direction, back toward the docks we'd left behind.

The sun was high above us when we arrived at the jumble of wooden houses that made up Fort Victoria. Wagons of every kind filled the streets. Men and boys hurried this way and that, carrying packages, pushing carts or jostling into lineups outside some of the busier shops.

Mr. Emerson bustled past everyone, heading for the Colonial Hotel. Even there, a lineup stretched out the door and onto the wooden sidewalk.

“Wait here,” he said, gesturing to the end of the line. Then he disappeared down the street, tipping his hat and nodding to anyone who paid him any attention. Bart and I waited in the sun until the line crept into the hotel. We were nearly at the front desk when Mr. Emerson finally reappeared.

“I don't think there are any rooms left,” I told him.

“Nonsense.”

“Just before you came back, I heard the clerk say —”

“Good day.” The clerk at the front desk greeted us with a tired smile.

Mr. Emerson strode forward as if I hadn't spoken.

“Three beds for a couple of nights,” he said.

“Not here, I'm afraid.”

“I beg your pardon?” Mr. Emerson drew himself up tall and tugged at the end of his mustache.

“We're full. Not a bed to be had.”

“Where do you expect us to stay?”

The clerk shrugged. “Ain't no bedchambers anywhere in town. Ships arrive near every day with too many to put up. Maybe you can pitch a tent outside town?”

“A tent! I should think not. Surely you must have a spare room somewhere.”

“Sir, I have men sleeping in the stable out back —”

“Damn it all, man—“Mr. Emerson banged his fist on the counter. “I am willing to pay good money for a place to sleep. I intend to leave a fair amount of money in this fine town and it behooves you to fulfill your role as —”

We never heard what Mr. Emerson felt the clerk's role to be, because at that moment another man emerged through a door behind
the clerk and muttered something in his ear. The clerk mopped his brow with a kerchief already darkened with sweat and said, “We may be able to help you after all.”

Mr. Emerson rocked back on his heels and gave his mustache a satisfied stroke. “I should hope so.”

“The owner of the hotel has just informed me that we have opened the billiard room.”

“The billiard room? What interest is that to me? I have no desire to play billiards. Or do you mean we are to wait there until a bed-chamber is ready?”

“What I mean is, you are to proceed to the billiard room, where you may unroll your blankets and sleep on the floor.”

“Sleep on the floor?” Mr. Emerson shouted out the very thought in my mind!

Sleeping in a dimly lit tent was bad enough, but the thought of bedding down with total strangers in a hotel billiard hall was downright terrifying. Despite the warm day and the press of people around me, I felt chilled. How on earth was I going to keep my disguise if I had to share a room with who knew
how many others? I closed my eyes. Had I made a terrible mistake?

“Payment in advance, of course,” the clerk said. I was shocked to hear that a place under a billiard table cost more than the posted value of a bedchamber.

“Sir,” I said, thinking quickly. “Bart and I can sleep in a tent. No need to spend so much— “I sensed Bart turning to stare at me, but I ignored him, watching Mr. Emerson's hand rise in the air as if to bat away my suggestion.

“Nonsense,” Mr. Emerson declared. “No employee of mine will be deprived of the finest accommodation available.”

His words sounded noble enough, but the red tint above his collar made me think he wasn't at all happy about having to pay. I should have kept my mouth shut.

But he'd made such a show of looking after us, he could hardly change his mind. The lineup behind us was long, and doubtless there would be men more than willing to pay for any accommodation that included a roof and a dry floor.

We were the first to find places in the billiard room, but it wasn't long before we had company. Men brought boxes of dry goods, tins, shovels, pickaxes, canvas tents, water buckets, gold pans and even two dogs, big surly brutes who planted themselves beside one fellow's supplies and growled whenever anyone looked in their direction.

As soon as we had staked out our places near the back of the room, Mr. Emerson said, “Boys—we have work to do.”

All afternoon we trailed behind Mr. Emerson, gathering the supplies we needed for our trip north to Antler Creek. The first
eight hundred miles had been easy, but we still had several hundred more to travel. Judging by the talk among the men, each mile would be difficult.

“I ain't never seen such horse-killing country,” one man said.

“They can't get a road built soon enough,” remarked another, who had spent the winter in Fort Victoria but who was keen to return to the diggings now that the weather was better.

“Gold is as plentiful in the Cariboo as it is anywhere,” said another, and the men crowded around to hear more about how much money could be earned each day by anyone willing to make the journey north.

We listened to the warnings, true enough, but what we heard were the promises of incredible wealth.

Mr. Emerson seemed above both kinds of stories and somehow appeared to know both the dangers and the promises better than those who had experienced them firsthand. In fact, Mr. Emerson knew everyone's business better than they did.
He shouted at merchants for their high prices. “Unreasonable! How can you expect a man to pay so much for tobacco?”

“You'll pay more at Antler Creek” was the ready answer, and Mr. Emerson had no choice but to buy as much as he could afford and we could carry.

And carry we did, until our backs and legs ached and we had a mountain of gear. “Careful you don't knock that over, Joe,” Mr. Emerson said as I crawled into the space between our piles of dry goods and the fat leg of the billiard table. “Might be the last time we see you!”