The Great Alone (84 page)

The principle of the rocker was simple: The water washed the lighter sand through the hopper and out the bottom; the gold, being heavier, would be caught in the riffles in the bottom of the rocker; the finer flakes of gold would be trapped by the mercury-coated copper plate in the bottom.

Despite the cool breeze blowing off the sea, sweat rolled from Glory’s skin. As Matty waded into the surf to refill the metal bucket, Glory propped the shovel against the rocker and straightened, pressing a hand against the ache in the small of her back. She felt the stiffness of her muscles and realized just how long it had been since she’d worked in her aunt’s garden. She wiped at the perspiration trickling down her cheek with her hand and felt the fiery sting in her palm from a broken blister. She tore off a strip of material from the hem of her nightgown and wrapped it around her hands for protection.

“I should have gotten some gloves,” she said to Matty when she returned with a full pail of water. The sight of the water sloshing in the pail made her realize how dry her mouth was. “I should have brought some water to drink, too.”

“Missy want me get water?”

“No.” Glory swallowed with difficulty. “We can’t stop now.” She wagged her cloth-wrapped hand, motioning for Matty to pour the water into the rocker. “Later. We’ll rest later.”

The summer sun stayed to watch the gold-crazed scramble on the beach below, sometimes hiding behind a cloud to laugh at a world gone mad. All up and down the stretch of coast outside of town, men lined the beach, digging up the sand in their search for gold. Some were wizened, bearded prospectors—sourdoughs—longtime victims of gold fever, experienced and seasoned to the patience and back-breaking labor required to separate the shiny stuff from the sand. Others were merchants, tradesmen, gamblers, professional men—lawyers and the like—men who rarely held a shovel in their hands or got dirt under their fingernails. All manner of tools were employed in their frenzied efforts to extract the gold from the sand. Those without shovels used their hands to scoop up the gold-bearing sand. Large tin cans took the place of buckets to haul the water from the sea. The ones who didn’t have rockers used the old standby gold pans or substituted washboards to trap the gold in their metal ripples. A few hammered together sluice boxes.

As the summer sun began its downward slide to the lowest point on the hazy horizon, Glory slumped to her knees beside the wooden rocker. Her arm muscles quivered in exhaustion from constantly shaking the rocker and shoveling sand. Weary and aching, she didn’t trust her trembling hands and fingers to remove the gold trapped in the cradle’s riffles.

“I need to rest a minute,” she told Matty, who seemed untouched by the fatigue that claimed Glory. She licked her dry lips, her breath coming in deep, labored drafts. “Matty, why don’t you go back to town and get us some food and water. Bring back some blankets, too. We’ll sleep here tonight.” She didn’t want anyone stealing their equipment in the night.

After Matty had set the bucket by the rocker and left for town, Glory let her body slump onto the cradle’s wooden frame, taking a few minutes to catch her breath and get her strength back. Resting her cheek on the rough wood lip of the rocker, she gazed at the gold trapped in the bottom. It glittered and gleamed, almost seeming to wink at her. She had dreamed of this from the time she was a child when she’d been awed by the shiny gold and silver ornamentation that gilded the interior of St. Michael’s Cathedral, and had heard the prospectors’ tales and seen the sample of gold ore.

Straightening, she reached in her pocket and took out the lace handkerchief that held her gold. She laid it in the bottom of the rocker and carefully untied it. Her hands were steady as she painstakingly transferred the grains of gold caught in the bottom creases to the small pile in her handkerchief. When it was once again securely knotted, she held the precious bundle tightly against her breastbone. Tears filled her eyes as she laughed and cried at the same time. She had wanted gold. Now she had it.

A hand clamped onto her shoulder. In panic, Glory grabbed for the shovel propped against the rocker and swung it at the thief who would steal her gold. “It’s mine!” she cried.

The man grabbed hold of the wooden handle before the shovel struck him. “Glory, for God’s sake, it’s me!”

“Deacon.” The shovel suddenly felt heavy, and she let him take it from her hands and set it aside. “I thought—” It was obvious what she thought and she laughed in relief. “I’m glad it’s you. Where have you been?”

“Looking for you. I ran into Matty and she told me where to find you.” He crouched down beside her, sitting on his heels, and brushed the grains of sand from his trouser legs. “You don’t have to worry about meeting the paperhanger. He’s somewhere out here in this insanity.”

“There’s gold, Deacon. Gold right here in this sand. Do you realize how many times we’ve walked along this beach? And it’s been right here under our feet all this time.”

“Do you have any idea what you look like?”

Glory started to brush at the granules of sand that coated her wrapper, but there was too much. The action drew attention to the soiled strips of cloth wrapped around her hands and the dirty, frayed lace trim of her nightgown that extended beyond the velvet cuffs of her wrapper. Her unbound hair lay about her back and shoulders in a grimy, windblown tangle.

“I am a mess,” she conceded.

“A mess.” He mocked her understatement and lifted one of her hands, drawing a wince from Glory as his grip put pressure on a broken blister. “Look at your hands. Your fingers are all red and scratched. Your nails are chipped and broken, and no doubt these rags are covering blisters. Your face is wind-burned. I could go on …”

“My hands will heal. A bath will take care of the dirt. And
this
will buy all the new clothes I need.” Defiantly she held up the knotted handkerchief containing her gold.

“How much do you have there?” He snatched it from her hand.

She made no attempt to grab it back from him, and instead, watched anxiously as he held it in his palm, testing its weight.

“Fifty dollars, probably less.” He tossed it onto her lap. “Is that all you’ve gotten?”

“So far.” Her gold find was a thing to celebrate, but Deacon was ridiculing it.

“How long have you been at this?”

“Since a little before noon.”

“You’ve labored for more than ten hours for fifty dollars.” He shook his head in disgust. “Glory, you make more than that a night lying on your back.”

She wouldn’t look at him. Suddenly Deacon—who had never treated her roughly before—grabbed her arm and pulled her to her feet, then jerked her around to face the crowded beach.

“If it’s gold you want, Glory, there it is—in the pockets of those fools out there digging in the sand like a bunch of crazy clams! Do you know what they’re going to do with their gold? They’re going to spend it. They’re going to have the wildest time they’ve ever had in their lives—drinking, gambling, and whoring! And when that gold’s gone, they’re going to come out here and dig some more, and do it all again! I’ve never met a rich prospector yet, no matter how big his strike. Maybe there’s one out of a thousand who doesn’t die broke, but the rest do.”

He swung her around, his fingers digging into her aching shoulder muscles. Glory fixed her gaze on his black tie, unable to meet the piercing glare of his hard blue eyes.

“One way or another I’m going to have the Palace open for business when they hit town to celebrate—if I have to hang the damned paper myself. I’m going to make sure they have a place to spend their gold. It’s going to take a hell of a lot of work. Are you going to help me?”

She was conscious of the gold-weighted kerchief in her hand; it was the fulfillment of her dream. “You don’t understand, Deacon,” she insisted. “It’s my gold.”

Abruptly he released her and pivoted away. She fought back the tears of frustration and resentment as she watched him leave. She looked down at the lace handkerchief in her hand and curled her fingers more tightly around it.

CHAPTER XLVI

After a few hours of fitful sleep, wrapped in a blanket on the sand, Glory awakened so stiff and sore that any movement was torture. But the gold waited. All up and down the beach, there was activity, some of the men moiling through the twilight hours of midnight. She wakened Matty. Someone along the beach was boiling coffee and frying bacon. Glory could smell it, but she settled for some stale water and a chunk of sourdough bread left over from last night’s meal, and shook her head at the strip of blubber that Matty offered to share with her.

As soon as she had washed down the last of the dry bread with a swallow of water, Glory started to work. Her muscles protested each time she lifted the shovel to scoop sand into the rocker or grabbed the rocker’s wooden side to shake it. She finally traded places with Matty and started hauling water for the rocker. For a time that was easier, but eventually the bucket full of water seemed to get heavier and heavier.

The bucket’s wire handle cut painfully into her blistered palm despite the rag bandage tied around it. As Glory tried to switch the bucket to the other hand, she accidentally stepped on a trailing piece of her nightgown’s torn hem. Her legs tangled and she fell, spilling the water.

Frustrated, tired, and sore, she knelt there. She felt gritty all over. Her clothes were so stained and impregnated with sand that they’d never come clean again, even if the rips could be mended. The sea water had ruined her leather shoes. Her hair was so tangled she knew she’d break half a dozen combs trying to get the snarls out of it.

Matty dropped the shovel and hurried over to her. “Me help.” She slipped her hands under Glory’s arms.

“I can’t do it.”

She didn’t think she had the strength to stand. All she wanted to do was collapse on the sand and cry. Yet Matty had worked as long and as hard as she had, and never once complained. Driven by guilt, Glory struggled to her feet, aided by Matty’s supporting hands. When Matty reached down to pick up the overturned bucket, Glory stopped her.

“Leave it. Let’s take out what gold we’ve gotten so far,” she said and forced her leaden legs to carry her to the rocker.

Yesterday, she had cleaned out the gold in the riffles after nearly every shovelful of sand had been washed through. Today she had done as the miners around her were doing, letting the gold accumulate in the creases. The beach sand held no nuggets, only fine “flour” gold, as it was called. Carefully, she scraped it from the wooden riffles and added it to the gold dust in her handkerchief.

She stared at the tiny mound of yellow flakes in dejection. “It’s no use. All this work and we’ve probably got only eighty dollars. Deacon was right, Matty.” She looked at the surrounding strip of beach jammed with men panning, sluicing, and rocking for gold. “The gold in Nome is in the pockets of these men. That’s what we should be mining instead of this sand.” She stood up, cupped her hands to her mouth and shouted, “Hey! Would anybody like to buy a rocker and a shovel? Mine’s for sale!”

Heads turned in her direction. Soon a dozen would-be miners were swarming around her, mostly townspeople without the proper tools, or the knowledge or skill to build rockers or sluice boxes out of the driftwood on the beach. Glory auctioned off everything—the rocker, the shovel, the rusty bucket, the vial of mercury, and even the blanket—getting twice what she’d initially paid for them … in gold dust.

As the buyers moved in to carry away their purchases, Glory linked her arm with Matty’s. “Let’s go to the Palace. Deacon should be there. Then I want a bath and a hot meal.”

“Hey! Wait a minute.” A shaggy-bearded man ran up to her.

“Sorry, mister. You’re too late. Everything’s been sold.” She kept walking.

“Marisha, wait.”

She halted at the sound of her given name. No one knew it except—She turned and stared at the unkempt prospector. A dirty and faded slouch hat covered hair that had grown long and curled about the collar of his plaid shirt and dirty jacket; and suspenders held up the baggy trousers, crudely patched at the knees. The full beard and mustache hid most of his face, making his age almost impossible to determine, but there was something familiar about his eyes.

“It is you,” he declared. “I knew there couldn’t be two women in Alaska with hair like that.”

“Justin,” she ventured tentatively. Only the eyes and the voice were recognizable.

He rubbed his heavy beard as if becoming conscious of his changed appearance. “I guess I’m not a cheechako any more. I look like a woolly old sourdough now, don’t I? You live through a couple winters in the interior, and it’ll do this to you. You get to where you don’t even look at what it is you’re eating to stay alive.”

“Yes.” She’d heard some of the stories of hardship told by sourdoughs—so-called because of the homemade starter they used as yeast to make their bread and hooch. Men who were old in experience but not necessarily mature.

Glory continued to gaze at him, conscious of the irony of the meeting. She’d always wondered whether Justin would recognize her. Yet the way she looked now—dressed in these soiled, shapeless clothes, her hair tousled, her face bare of makeup—she probably looked like dowdy Marisha Blackwood. If anything, she looked worse than when he’d last seen her. This wasn’t the way she’d imagined their meeting at all.