[Yukon Quest 01] - Treasures Of The North (10 page)
‘‘She’ll pay soon enough,’’ he said, grabbing a brush to adjust the ebony wave of his hair. Grace Hawkins would hardly be so high and mighty when he dumped her in a hovel in his hometown of Erie and left her to fend for herself. Oh, he’d visit just often enough to threaten her and see to it that she stayed put. He’d alternate his visits so that he never arrived at the same time of day. That would keep her guard up constantly and wear her down more rapidly. She’d always be watching and waiting, never knowing for sure when he might return. He’d use her and abuse her as he willed, and when he was completely finished with ruining Frederick Hawkins, he’d return her to her father—a broken woman, a mere shell of the beauty she’d once been.
Delighted by his own deviousness, Paxton went downstairs to breakfast. The day was young and promised great reward.
Cooling his heels in Frederick Hawkins’ study, Martin Paxton was not happy when word came that Grace was ill and would not be receiving visitors.
‘‘I find your daughter’s lack of cooperation disturbing,’’ Paxton told a rather ashen-faced Hawkins. ‘‘She’s refused to attend parties with me, denied me the pleasure of her company for dinner or other outings, and now, not but two days until we are to be married, she is too ill with a headache to see me.’’
‘‘I cannot force her to get up out of bed for a social call. You want her well for the wedding, don’t you?’’ Frederick replied rather angrily.
Paxton raised a brow. ‘‘Be careful how you address me, good sir. I might find myself forced to divulge information that you would rather see forever silenced.’’
The effect of his words was clearly noticeable as Hawkins took the seat behind his desk. ‘‘You’re getting what you want, but still I have no guarantee that you won’t deceive me and tell your tales anyway.’’
Paxton smiled in great satisfaction. ‘‘No. You don’t have any guarantee. You are completely at my mercy, and the sooner you accept it, the better off you’ll be.’’ He got to his feet and narrowed his gaze. ‘‘I will be here tomorrow at precisely four o’clock. Tell Grace to be ready for a carriage ride in the park. Tell her I will not brook any nonsense.’’
Hawkins nodded, and without another word Martin Paxton turned and left the house. A slow, burning anger stirred memories that he would just as soon have left in the darker recesses of his mind. Clenching his fists as he reached his carriage, Paxton vowed that nothing would keep him from bringing this fine family to the ground. He would leave them completely demoralized and penniless. They would have nothing but the clothes on their backs and the shoes on their feet, and even that, in Martin Paxton’s opinion, would be too much kindness.
Back at the hotel, Martin let the strain of the day leave him. He studied a bundle of letters that had arrived with the afternoon post. One in particular caught his eye. Opening it, he read,
Dear Martin,
It was our pleasure to hear from you once again. I cannot
say the times have been kind on this most westerly coast of
America. Here in San Francisco, shipping has seen both increase
and decrease, and with the rapid growth of the rail lines,
I worry that it will somehow fade altogether and Colton Shipping
will be no more. Many of our dear friends have suffered
grave financial setbacks, and some have even fled California for
more lucrative promises back East.
The family is well; thank you for asking. I think often of
you and your dear mother. I was truly sorry to hear of her
passing. Please know you are welcome anytime in our home
and please let me know if there is anything that we might do
to help you.
Your servant,
Ephraim Colton
Martin refolded the paper and smiled. Ephraim Colton had been the only truly selfless person he had ever known. The man had shown great kindness to his mother and her family. In fact, at one time the two families had been the best of friends. Long before Martin had been born, the Coltons and Paxtons had shared a common interest in shipping on the Great Lakes. When Ephraim had moved his wife west in order to take over a San Francisco shipping firm, Martin had genuinely mourned the loss.
With barely a dozen years between them, Martin had looked to Ephraim as a father figure and older brother. Martin’s own father had died when Martin was just a few months old. His mother blamed it on typhoid, but it was rumored and later confirmed by Ephraim that there had been trouble of a different kind. Martin Paxton, Sr., had been given to great bouts of drinking. It was far more likely that alcohol had killed his father rather than typhoid.
Over the years, Martin had done his best to keep in touch with Ephraim. But in this recent correspondence, he didn’t like the tone and worried that perhaps his friend was suffering his own financial setback. Ephraim would never be one to ask for help, but Martin knew his mother would expect no less from her son.
He contemplated the situation for a moment. Never one to give handouts, Martin knew the situation with the Colton family was unique for him. He didn’t really care if the Coltons succeeded or failed in business, but if he helped them, he just might help himself as well.
Thoughts of the gold rush once again came to his mind.
There shouldn’t be a ship on the West Coast that isn’t benefiting
from this rush,
Martin thought.
Railroads can hardly take people
north to the Alaskan shorelines. They need ships
.
He quickly penned some thoughts related to Colton Shipping and arranged for a runner to deliver a message to the telegraph operator. He would do what he had to in order to see the Coltons back on their feet. If it benefited him in the process, so much the better. After all, he was a businessman.
Martin glanced at his watch as soon as the message was on its way. He had agreed to meet with a Mr. Jones in regard to selling him a warehouse near the docks. When a knock sounded on the suite door, Martin nodded, glad to see that the man was punctual.
‘‘Come in,’’ he called in a loud, booming voice.
The man, a few years Paxton’s senior, bounded into the room. ‘‘Have you heard it, Mr. Paxton?’’ he questioned enthusiastically. ‘‘Gold! Imagine gold nuggets as big as dogs.’’
‘‘Are we talking poodles or wolfhounds, Mr. Jones?’’
Jones stopped for a moment as if considering the question, then laughed. ‘‘Who cares, so long as it’s real and worth a fortune!’’
‘‘So you’ve caught the fever, eh?’’ Martin leaned back in his chair, already knowing the answer.
The man nodded. ‘‘I’m selling everything and going north. I plan to make my fortune and live out life as a wealthy man.’’
‘‘Do you know anything about gold mining in the Yukon?’’
Mr. Jones could not contain his excitement. ‘‘It’s really rather simple. The stuff is spread atop the ground for the taking. I’ve already heard tell that you just walk about picking up the gold until you’ve collected your fill. It’s in the creek beds and the rivers, it’s on the mountainsides and in the streets. Why, one man said the natives use the stuff to make fences and to line their wells.’’
Paxton would have burst out laughing had the man not been so pathetic. ‘‘So you’ve come to sell me your warehouse?’’
‘‘That’s right. I want to have traveling money. I plan to go in grand style.’’
‘‘And just what style would that be in this situation?’’
‘‘I’ll take a ship all the way around Alaska. A man can pay a pretty penny for it, but there are steamers to be had out of St. Michael that will take you east along the Yukon River and eventually land you in Dawson City. None of that strenuous hiking for me. I’m no billy goat to be climbing over mountains.’’ He laughed in a grating manner that set Martin’s nerves on edge. ‘‘No, sir, I’ll stay aboard the ship until I reach the land of milk and honey.’’
‘‘I thought it was all made of gold,’’ Martin chided.
‘‘And so it is,’’ Mr. Jones replied. ‘‘And I intend to see my name assigned to a good portion of it.’’
‘‘Very well,’’ Martin replied. ‘‘Then let us get down to business. I’d hate to delay you further.’’
‘‘Well, ladies,’’ Aunt Doris began, ‘‘it appears we have arrived.’’
‘‘Do you suppose anyone will be here to meet us?’’ Karen questioned, stretching across Grace to look out to the depot platform. ‘‘I suppose what with this craziness to go north, we’ll never get out of here.’’
‘‘What did the paper say about the gold rush?’’ Doris questioned. ‘‘Is it happening near Skagway?’’
‘‘No, the gold is much farther north. However, Skagway is the stopping-off point for northbound ships. The paper said the two towns are hardly more than tent cities, but that they are sure to grow with the popularity of the routes they offer. I remember mother’s letters saying there was little more than a trading post and a Tlingit Indian village in Dyea and nothing of value in Skagway.’’
‘‘Your sister stated that the ship they’ve booked us on will dock in Skagway. Do you suppose there is transportation to Dyea?’’ Doris questioned.
‘‘I’m sure there must be. Both towns afford a passageway over the mountains and north to the Yukon, but apparently the trail is shorter or better out of Dyea. The papers don’t give much information on it, but my deduction from personal accounts would seem to suggest that one route is superior to the other,’’ Karen replied.
‘‘My, my,’’ Doris said, shaking her head. ‘‘Such a fuss. Greed. That’s all it is, pure and simple.’’
Karen knew it to be true, but her heart was heavy nevertheless. With so many people vying for positions on the northbound ships, there would be no hope of privacy. On the other hand, with such a crowd they would not be easily remembered. What bothered her most, however, was how they would find her father with thousands of people pouring into the territory on a weekly basis.
‘‘It looks rather frightening,’’ Grace said, turning her pale face to Karen.
Karen smiled and clutched her friend’s gloved hand. ‘‘Think of it as an adventure,’’ she said. ‘‘An adventure that is certainly better than the one planned out for you back in Chicago.’’
Grace nodded. ‘‘I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful.’’
‘‘You didn’t,’’ Karen reassured. ‘‘Just remember what awaits you back there, and the future can’t seem half so frightening. In this case, the evil we know is far worse than any supposed trouble we might conjure to mind.’’
At least she hoped that was the case, because given her own vivid imagination, Karen could conjure quite a few unwelcome thoughts.
SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA
ABOARD HIS SHIP,
Merry Maid
, Peter Colton pulled off his bandana and wiped it over his sweat-soaked hair. The day had been nothing but trouble. First he’d had to deal with torn cargo nets and a broken hoist. Then there was a mix-up of invoices and lack of cargo to load once the nets were replaced.
Nothing was going right. In fact, not much had gone right in months.
Retying the scarf around his neck, Peter snugged a blue cap over his damp hair and wondered what he was going to do about getting the hoist repaired. He gave the bill of his cap a quick solid yank to shield the sun from his eyes and squared his broad shoulders. He’d have to reason it through later. Surely an answer would come to him.
‘‘Captain, this message came for you,’’ a scrawny-looking teenager announced. He thrust a piece of paper into Peter’s hands before heading back to his original task.
‘‘ ‘Come home at once,’ ’’ Peter read aloud. The script was clearly his father’s handwriting. Fearful that something worse than a broken net had befallen his family, Peter barked out orders to his men, then hurried in the direction of home.
At nearly twenty-seven years of age, some thought it rather strange that he should still live at home with his father, mother, and younger sister, Miranda. But in truth, with the shipping business he was so often away that he thought it completely unreasonable to consider marriage and a home of his own. Not that he didn’t long for a wife at times. There were always quiet moments when Peter silently wished for a companion with whom to share his ambitions and dreams. There were even moments of longing for the passionate touch of someone he could love. But he always put such notions aside. The shipping business was failing. His father’s lack of direction and interest had cost them dearly. Bringing a woman into his life at this point would only complicate matters.
Besides, women were of a queer state of mind these days. They were more outspoken and demanding—so unlike his demure little mother who lived to serve her husband and children. So unlike his sister who, at four years his junior, worshiped the ground he walked on and sought him without fail for advice. In fact, his entire family looked to him for advice and wisdom. Even his father recognized that Peter had a certain gift for working a matter through to a more positive benefit and often yielded his own authority to Peter. That kind of adoration was hard to find in anyone, much less a wife.
Hiking up the dock to the embarcadero, Peter hailed a ride with a passing freighter and jumped off several minutes later. He was still a good six blocks from his family’s three-story home, but he crossed the distance in brisk strides. He tried not to worry. The note did not necessarily denote a problem. Knowing his family’s high regard for his opinion, they might just as well need him to make the final choice in some purchase. He breathed a little easier, sure it was nothing worth fretting over.
His home came into view. Sandwiched between and connected side by side with other town houses, the Colton home was not anything to brag about. It was clean and well kept by the women who loved it, but Peter knew there were repairs that desperately needed to be made. A broken step, a cracked window, and a desperate need for paint and a new roof were all listed in a ledger Peter kept. These, along with a dozen other minor problems, were enough to keep Peter on the ship as much as possible. There was no money to see to the upkeep of their home, and he hated that his family should have to live in such disrepair. But like the problems of his ship, Peter buried his concern in order to focus on the matter at hand.
