Rivers of Gold (23 page)

Walking the short distance to the hospital, Miranda lifted her face to the noonday sun. The warmth was minimal, but it was wonderful nevertheless. The breakup of the ice on the river was impending, and daily there were reports to relay the situation on the Yukon River. She’d heard it rumored that the government had plans to load the winter garbage atop the ice floes just prior to the breakup and that way, what the river didn’t claim as its own, the ice would carry away downstream. Miranda couldn’t imagine those folks who lived downstream appreciating the gesture, but she had no say in the matter.

The hospital tent had been purchased by Teddy from a local man. In fact the structure was actually two tents fixed side by side. Miranda entered the structure and found an unoccupied desk and chair at the opening. Beyond this were rows of cots where writhing, pain-filled patients waited for some form of care.

Just then a young man of medium build passed by Miranda. “If you’re looking for a patient, just take a walk down the aisle. My bookkeeper has gone off to purchase more bandages.”

“Are you the doctor?” Miranda questioned.

The man stopped and turned on his heel. “I am. Is there a problem?”

“Not at all. My husband is Thomas Davenport. He sent this package of herbs for your use.”

“Oh, that’s a relief,” the man said, stepping forward to take the offering. “I’m beyond myself in trying to treat these poor men.”

“Teddy, my husband, wondered if you had another list of needs? Herbal or otherwise,” she added quickly.

“I do indeed. Let me step over to the other tent and get it.”

Miranda nodded and watched as the man hurried from the room. The moans of the men filled her ears, and without knowing why, Miranda turned her attention to the occupants of the tent. Slowly she walked down the aisle, looking first at this one and then that one. She prayed silently for each man, hoping God would be merciful. By the time she reached the patient at the end of the first row, Miranda could not suppress a gasp.

“Crispin?” she whispered his name, but it was enough to make the man open his eyes.

“Miranda,” he breathed. “An angel come to take me to my death.”

“No,” Miranda tried to assure him, “you’re not going to die. Not yet.”

His eyelids flickered. “Are you really here? You’re dead. You can’t be here.”

“I didn’t die, Crispin. I fell overboard but was rescued.” She knelt beside his cot and took hold of his bandaged hand. He was burned—badly. And for the first time, she wondered if she’d given him false hope in her statement regarding death.

“You didn’t die? But we were certain.” His raspy voice struggled to form the words.

“God watched over me and brought me safely to Dawson.”

“I’m so glad,” Crispin replied.

He closed his eyes, and for a moment Miranda thought perhaps he had passed away. Tears formed in her eyes. How awful to find him like this. “Oh, Crispin, I’m so sorry you’ve been hurt. Where are the others? Are they here with you?”

He rolled his head slowly from side to side. “No. We separated when we came to this place. I couldn’t bear to stay on. I kept thinking of you—how I had failed you.”

“Oh, but you didn’t. Please don’t think such a thing.” She kissed his bandaged hand.

Crispin’s breathing grew very ragged. Miranda feared he was nearing the end, and she knew that she had to talk to him about Jesus. “Crispin, where are you going?” She hoped he would understand exactly what she was asking him.

He looked at her and shook his head again. “I don’t know. Can you show me the way?”

“But of course I can. Jesus said that He is the way, the truth, and the life. You have only to put your trust in Him and repent of your sins. He will do the rest. He will guide your way.” She touched his forehead, noting the cold, clammy feel to his skin.

“I’m sorry that I doubted God. I was foolish. I thought I would never need such a thing in my life.” He fell silent and once again closed his eyes.

Miranda wiped her tears with her free hand. For several moments she heard only his ragged breathing and the moans of those around her. The smell of death was thick on the air. Why hadn’t she noticed it before? Unable to bear the thought, she finally offered, “I can pray with you, Crispin. If you want me to.”

“No need,” he whispered. “ ’Tis done.”

“I’m so glad. Now I shall see you again in heaven,” Miranda said, trying to keep from sobbing. She couldn’t believe the emaciated man, so burned and scarred, was the handsome Crispin Thibault who had wooed her with his charming intellect and stories of faraway places.

Crispin opened his eyes and looked up at her. “Thank you so much for coming. I told God I would be glad to do the right thing—only I didn’t know what the right thing might be. I only wanted to go home, but I had no home to go to. I prayed for an angel and here you are.”

He wheezed and struggled to breathe. Miranda turned to see if the doctor had returned. She felt frantic to find him. “I’ll go for the doctor,” she told Crispin.

“No,” he whispered. “I shan’t be here when he comes.” He drew a ragged breath and added, “I have never stopped loving you.”

With that he closed his eyes and surrendered his life. Miranda burst into tears and fell across him, knowing now she could do nothing to help him.

“Mrs. Davenport?” the doctor called her name, reaching out to help her to her feet. “Did you know him?”

She nodded, wiping her eyes and trying so very hard to regain control. “He was a friend.”

“I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do?”

Miranda nodded. “Yes. Please don’t send him away to be buried in some unmarked grave. My husband and I will pay for his burial. Please do what you must, but call the funeral parlor to care for him. I’ll make the arrangements.”

“All right,” the man said sympathetically. “I’ll send my man when he returns.”

“Thank you. Now if you’ll give me your list …”

“Oh, of course. Here you are.”

Miranda squared her shoulders and pulled her wool cape close. With one last glance at Crispin, she hurried from the tent and nearly ran all the way back to the hotel.

Once inside the sanctuary of Teddy’s hotel, Miranda darted up the stairs in an unladylike manner and rushed into their room. The sight of her husband caused her to break into tears anew. “Oh, Teddy. Something awful has happened!” She collapsed in his arms, her tears dampening the front of his shirt.

“What is it?” Teddy asked, his tone betraying his concern. “Are you hurt? Did someone bother you?”

Miranda lifted her face to meet his gaze. “No. No one bothered me. I found my friend Crispin Thibault at the hospital. Oh, Teddy, he’d been horribly burned.”

“I’m so sorry.” His expression of worry melted in the wake of her declaration. “Is he going to make it?”

“No. He died while I was with him.” She sniffed back tears. “He was waiting for someone to come tell him what he needed to do in order to go to heaven. What if I’d not taken the herbs to the doctor? What if I’d come too late?”

“But you didn’t, my dearest. Remember, God is never too late. He knew your friend’s heart was ready to receive the truth. I’m so proud of you for sharing with him—for helping him in his final moments.”

“But imagine all the others, Teddy. What if they’re waiting, too? What if they’re dying to know the way home, just as Crispin was?”

He nodded. “It’s a possibility that we should seek to rectify. No one should die without knowing Jesus Christ and the gift He offers them.”

Miranda put her head against his shoulder and let Teddy hold her close once again. No matter what happened, she promised God, she would see to it that each of the injured had a chance to know the truth about salvation. She didn’t know how she might accomplish it, but she felt the inspiration of certain purpose course through her veins. She wouldn’t let them die without knowing that God loved them and wanted to give them a home in heaven.

—[CHAPTER TWENTY ONE]—

THE WARMTH OF MAY brought with it the thaw. The excitement built toward the last of the month when the ice finally began to crack and pop. Then loud moaning and muffled thunder rose from the frozen water, signaling the arrival of spring.

Daily, Miranda walked back and forth from the hotel to the charity hospital. And daily she sat for hours beside the various patients’ beds. She listened to their stories, prayed with them, and offered them bits of hope laced with love.

Many of the patients died slow, painful deaths. There was little anyone could do. Some had originally come because of the fire, but after being evaluated it was clear they were dying for other reasons. Scurvy, cirrhosis, malnutrition, and a variety of other desperate conditions claimed more lives than the smoke and burns. They were the downtrodden and poor wretches of society. They were the forgotten of the gold rush—those souls whose lives could offer nothing of value— so no one cared to know where they had gone or what had happened to them along the way.

But Miranda cared. Her heart broke over the neediness of them all. She felt sorrow in their passing and attended their burials faithfully. If they had even the remotest family member still living, Miranda wrote their final letters and promised to mail them. She was an angel of mercy and love—an angel offering a light to guide them home.

“They tell me,” Miranda said as she sat by the bed of an elderly man, “that the river is open and new arrivals are expected within the week.”

“Tell ’em all to go back where they came from,” the old man said. “Tell ’em the abundance of gold is a myth perpetuated by the devil hisself.”

Miranda smoothed back the old man’s white hair. “They wouldn’t listen. You know that.” She smiled and tenderly pulled his blanket to just under his chin. “You get some sleep now.”

“Will you come again tomorrow?”

“Of course,” Miranda whispered, not at all certain that the old man had any tomorrows left.

Peter Colton felt a sense of urgency as he stepped down the gangplank of the steamer. It was like a hunger driving him forward. He saw it in the faces of those around him, only they were in search of gold and he was in search of flesh and blood.

Sunlight poured down upon him like golden rain. It radiated around him, giving him hope. He had to find Miranda. It was all that he could think of. She would be alone and scared, no doubt, and he desired only to offer her comfort and to take her home.

“Lord, please help me to find my sister,” he prayed in a hushed breath. All around him the crowds trudged through the muck and mud streets, eagerly chasing after invisible goals. The gold was all they sought. The gold was what they thought they needed.

From the moment he’d first stepped onto the steamer, Peter had heard nothing but tales of getting rich and fat on Yukon gold. He’d heard tales of the Klondike before, but these rivaled most he’d known. The frenzy of the early days, so questionable and uncertain, had been replaced by a passionate confidence that drove men to the gold fields. They were noisy, desperate witnesses to the age-old story of men who would sell their souls for the taste of wealth.

Peter’s patience for the entire lot had worn thin. This greed and hunger for power, the desire for overnight fame and fortune, was all such a waste of time and effort. Peter could see that now. In light of his recent inheritance from Grace’s estate, Peter knew that the money he’d worked so hard for all his life meant nothing. It was so very unimportant without the woman he loved.

Checking in first one store and then another, Peter asked each clerk or owner if he knew of or had seen Miranda. He produced a picture, several years old, but still bearing a strong resemblance to his beloved sister. When he stopped in at the government house to check with the mounted police, he got his first break.

“I believe I have seen that woman,” the sergeant told Peter. “She looks like the lady who helps at the charity hospital.”

“Where would I find that place?”

The sergeant gave Peter directions and wished him well. Peter, excited and grateful for the news, hurried off to his destination without even thinking to thank the man. His long-legged strides seemed slow compared to his usual gait. Peter knew this was only his imagination. He wanted so much to know that Miranda was safe and well. The months and miles that had separated them could no longer stand between them, and Peter thrilled to know he would soon be reunited with his sister.

Coming through the opening to the tent hospital, Peter met the youthful yet haggard man who sat as guard at the door.

“Yes, may I help you?”

“I certainly hope so,” Peter replied. “I’m looking for Miranda Colton. She’s my sister and I was told I might find her here.”

“She was here earlier,” the man admitted. “I think she’s gone back to the hotel where she lives.”

Peter frowned. “Can you direct me?”

The man pointed out the way. “It’s just down the street,” he said, walking Peter to the door. “The Dawson Lucky Day Hotel. You can see it from here.”

Peter nodded and this time remembered to thank the man. He hurried down the street, feeling ever more sure of his reunion. She was really here. She was only a few hundred feet away.

Initially impressed with the elegance and grandeur of the Dawson hotel, Peter sought out the clerk, giving little regard for anything else. He was grateful to know Miranda wasn’t staying in some run-down madhouse.