The Great Alone (94 page)

Glory had never ventured into the interior of Alaska before. The wild beauty of it stunned her—the grandeur of its rugged mountain ranges, the vibrant color of whole mountain slopes forested with stands of birch, their golden autumn leaves still clinging to the branches. She hadn’t realized how much she missed seeing trees, even though they weren’t the towering cedar and spruce of her Sitka home. Wild animals abounded—moose, bear, caribou, wolf. And away from the coast, she discovered, the sky was usually clear instead of shrouded with clouds much of the time. At night, a multitude of bright stars lighted the sky. It rarely seemed dark, and the northern lights frequently performed their dazzling dance. The weather was relatively mild, though the nights were cold, but there wasn’t the incessant wind blowing damp and cold off the water.

Fairbanks sat on the flatland along the banks of the Tanana River, a tributary of the Yukon. Glory noticed the first day that it didn’t have the atmosphere of the typical gold camp. The saloons, gambling halls, and red-light district were all there, but the usual bands of opportunistic swindlers and thieves were absent. The new town had been settled by experienced sourdoughs, too canny to be taken in by such types.

The gold found in the region wasn’t “poor men’s diggings” as in Nome; rather it was a “rich man’s placer,” contained in a stratum of gravel some hundred feet down, close to bedrock. Shafts had to be sunk to locate the gold-bearing gravel, then tunnels dug to follow the pay streak. It would take years to get the gold out of the ground, and men would have to be employed.

Judge James Wickersham had chosen Fairbanks as the site for his courthouse. A new two-story schoolhouse had been built. Miners and merchants had brought their wives and families. As Glory and Deacon and Ace walked through the streets of Fairbanks to familiarize themselves with the town, women spoke to her and smiled at the young boy holding her hand, and men tipped their hats to her. Ever since they’d left Nome and boarded the riverboat, traveling as man and wife, she had been treated like a respectable lady by the people she met. No one had familiarly draped an arm around her or made suggestive comments, not even the few who recognized her. She had never objected to such attention in the past. In her profession, it was expected. Now Glory found that she liked the respect being shown her.

In Alaska, as she already knew, people were much more tolerant. When a prostitute married and gave up her old way of life, that was that. She wasn’t haunted by her past. As long as she behaved like a proper wife and mother, she was treated as one by those around her. There were simply too few women in Alaska for it to be otherwise.

At the end of the first week, Deacon took Glory to see a saloon he had found that was for sale. “It’s not as big as I would like, but maybe next spring we can enlarge it. We won’t have time this year to do it before the snow starts. It’s not worth what he’s asking. And I know the upstairs isn’t what you’d like. But nothing else is available right now. So what do you think?”

“If you’re satisfied with it, Deacon, go ahead and buy it. But there’s something you should know.”

“What?”

“I’ve decided I’m not going back to work. This is a new town, a place to make a new start. I’ve been thinking about that a lot since we arrived here,” she admitted. “Ace is four years old. Soon he’ll be going to school. Deacon, I don’t want him to be ashamed of me or what I am.”

“If that’s what you want, it’s all right with me. But … Glory, what are you going to do with yourself?” He briefly shook his head. “I’m sorry, but I can’t see you staying at home cooking and cleaning. What will Chou Ling and Matty do?”

Glory took a deep breath and plunged in. “I already have that figured out.”

“Oh?” His eyebrow shot up.

“I want to build a boardinghouse. Chou Ling can do the cooking and Matty can help with the cleaning. I’m thoroughly experienced at playing hostess and keeping the accounts. As a matter of fact, I think I’ve found the perfect location.”

“Where is that?” Deacon smiled wryly, realizing the full extent of her planning.

“There’s an old shack on the edge of town that sits right on the pack trail to Valdez. As Fairbanks grows, that trail will become a well-traveled route.”

“How much is it?”

“That’s the only thing I haven’t found out yet.”

“That’s a surprise,” Deacon said. “For a minute there, I thought you’d already bought it.”

In addition to the saloon, they bought the lot for Glory’s boardinghouse. All winter long, she worked on the plans for it, deciding on the number of rooms, the size of the kitchen, dining room, and parlor, the arrangement of the living quarters in the rear, and the linen, dishes, cookware, and silverware she’d need. She planned menus, chose wallpaper, and selected curtain materials.

Construction on the boardinghouse began in the spring. By Ace’s fifth birthday, they had moved in, and Glory had her first boarder two days later. Ace started school that autumn, and Glory decided it was time they all began attending church on Sundays.

The following year work was begun to install a telegraph line and to improve the trail from Fairbanks to Valdez, south of Fairbanks, a port that was ice-free year-round. Much of the news coming up the trail was for the Alaska Syndicate, a conglomerate formed by J. P. Morgan, the Guggenheim mining family, and others. As the Kennecott Copper Company, they bought the mile-long claim to the copper cliffs in the Chitina River Valley—cliffs that contained sixty to seventy percent copper. Construction had begun on a railroad to carry the mined copper two hundred miles to the sea.

Not satisfied with its rich copper mine and railroad, the syndicate had acquired control of Northwestern Steamship Company and the Alaska Steamship Company, which gave them a monopoly on all shipping to and from Alaska. Plus they owned a dozen salmon canneries, along the coast. Rumor was they had their eyes on the abundant Alaskan coal deposits, even though President Theodore Roosevelt had placed them off limits to private development.

By 1910, the road from Fairbanks to Valdez, called the Richardson Trail after the president of the Alaska Road Commission who had authorized the work, was finished. A regular stage service was in operation, with travel by horse-drawn sleds in the winter and stagecoach in the summer, a journey that took about a week one way.

The Cole boardinghouse was only a block from the stage stop, and Glory’s business flourished, rapidly becoming one of
the
places to stay while in Fairbanks. Deacon’s saloon was doing well, too. And Ace’s teacher told them both what an intelligent son they had. They were respectable citizens of the town now, attending church services regularly and donating to worthy causes. Glory sang in the church choir and Deacon joined the Masonic Temple. Matty had married a half-breed Eskimo whom Glory had hired to do odd jobs, both at the boardinghouse and Deacon’s saloon. Matty and Billy Ray Townsend built themselves a small cabin on the back of the property.

Life was good, and it seemed destined to stay that way. In 1912, a bill introduced to the United States Congress by delegate James Wickersham, the former judge at Fairbanks, was passed, officially making Alaska a territory of the United States, although limiting the power of its territorial legislature. Finally, forty-five years after Alaska had been purchased from the Russians, it was a territory, with the right of self-government and representation in Congress.

The following year, Glory saw the first automobile come up the Richardson Trail, traveling all the way from Valdez, a distance of some three hundred and sixty miles. Then in 1914, the Fairbanks newspaper announced that survey work to select a route for a new railroad had begun.

An ice fog blanketed Fairbanks, reducing visibility to almost zero—a fairly common winter phenomenon that occurred when the temperature plummeted well below zero and the wind was calm. As Glory had learned, Fairbanks was a place of extremes; temperatures in the summer could soar into the nineties, and in the winter fall to sixty below zero.

She had long ago decided there was no such thing as perfect weather anywhere in the world, and if there was, a person would soon get tired of it. Personally, she didn’t mind the freezing cold or the occasional ice fog, much preferring them to the depressing rain and constant wind of the coast.

On this dark, gray winter morning, her half dozen boarders had been served their breakfast, the dishes cleared, the beds made, and Chou Ling had begun lunch preparations. This lull in the day’s activity was her time to take a short rest. She sat at the walnut dining table in their private living quarters. Yesterday’s newspaper was in front of her and a cup of coffee nearby. A cigarette smoldered in the ivory holder between her fingers. Glory confined her smoking and her occasional nip of alcohol to the privacy of their own rooms, never indulging in her little vices in front of anyone outside her small tight circle.

As she absently patted the large amber comb to make certain it still held her pompadour-styled hair firmly in place, she noticed Deacon pace to the window for the fourth time. She started to suggest that he sit down and have some coffee with her, but there was something about his edginess that prompted her to hold her tongue.

Her glance lingered on him as he took out his handkerchief and blew his nose. Although his clothes fit him well, Glory knew how little flesh there was on his bones. His hair was almost all gray now. He looked older, older than he really was. She noticed the sheen of perspiration on his face when he turned from the window, and wondered if he was catching a cold. But her inquiries about his health invariably drew a sharp response, so she didn’t ask. She avoided his glance and quickly switched her attention to the newspaper in front of her, skimming the article relating the war news of the European conflict.

“The paper thinks the United States will have to become involved in this war with Germany,” she remarked, although it all seemed much too far away to concern her.

Her comment elicited no response from Deacon. When she looked up, he was back at the window. The connecting door that led to the front of the boardinghouse opened and Ace walked in, a tall, gangly fourteen-year-old with sandy-brown hair and an engaging smile.

“I got that old Victrola working for Mr. Hammermill,” he announced proudly.

“I don’t know how you managed it.” Glory marveled at his ability to understand the workings of mechanical things, then fix them. He was always tinkering with something it seemed, whether it was a kitchen gadget of Chou Ling’s or a light switch. Every time he saw anything new, he wanted to take it apart and see how it worked. Usually he had managed to put it back together.

“It wasn’t hard.” He shrugged. “The arm was broken and I just had to come up with something that would work in its place. If there isn’t anything you need me to do, Mr. Cheevers has challenged me to a game of checkers.”

“Go ahead. But try to remember he’s a guest and don’t trounce him as badly as you did last night.”

“I’ll try.” Ace grinned.

As he left the room, she glanced at Deacon. He still faced the window, his shoulders slightly hunched forward and an arm curved around his middle. Glory took a sip of her coffee and went back to reading the newspaper.

“I don’t believe this.” She reread the story that had caught her eye. “According to this report, the route being recommended for the new railroad will use Seward on the Kenai Peninsula for its ocean terminus and extend north only as far as Nenana. They’re planning to terminate it some fifty miles short of Fairbanks. How can they do that?” she protested. “Have you heard about this, Deacon?”

“Yes,” he answered abruptly and swung from the window.

“It doesn’t make sense for them not to run it to—” She suddenly realized that he wasn’t listening to her as he strode across the room to the back door. When she saw him yank his coat and hat off the wooden coat tree, she rose quickly from her chair in alarm. “Deacon, where are you going?”

“I need to go to the saloon.”

“Now?” She frowned when he almost doubled over, as if stabbed by some sharp pain that passed quickly. “It’s early. There’s no need for you to be there yet. At least wait until the sun comes up. It’s foolish to venture out in that freezing cold and fog. You can barely see your hand in front of your face. Later it might improve and—”

“Glory, if it wasn’t important, I wouldn’t be going,” he snapped impatiently. “I’ve waited as long as I can.”

“Deacon, please …” She paused as he began buttoning his coat, realizing that none of her arguments were making any impression on him. “If you must go, at least dress warmly.” She pulled the wool scarf off the coat tree and started to put it around him, but he took it from her and twined it around his neck, raising it to protect his face. “Do you have your gloves?”

He nodded affirmatively and bent down to pull on his mukluks. He stamped his feet into them, then drew the heavy fur-lined mitten gloves from his coat pockets. “See you later.”

Glory shivered at the chilled air that swept in from the short passageway to the outer door, a kind of insulating airlock between the frigid outside temperatures and the warmth of the house. She heard the outer door shut, then slowly turned to walk back to the table.

Something wasn’t right. She simply didn’t understand what could possibly be so urgent that Deacon had to venture out in this weather, especially when she could see he wasn’t feeling well. She remembered the rivulet of sweat that had trickled down his temple, and the pain that had shown in his face. She wondered if his arm was bothering him that much. And if he was in pain, why hadn’t he taken some morphine before he left?