chuckled. “Well, ma’am…what’s your name, anyway?”
“Elizabeth Breckenridge.”
“Well, Miss Breckenridge, it’s nice to have so much faith, but if I were you, I’d still be more careful of my money. And I’d find a guide of some kind. The trip to the Yukon is daunting for the strongest of men, let alone a woman on her own. You able to carry a thousand pounds of supplies on your back up a mountainside?”
Elizabeth swallowed. “Well, I…I’ll find a way. Perhaps I’ll find a guide once I reach Skagway…and a mule or a horse.”
“Mmm-hmm. And how are you going to know who to trust?”
She held her chin higher with pretended confidence. “I’ll know, that’s all. However, I doubt I have enough money to pay a man for such work anyway. Perhaps someone will take me for the cost of his own supplies…grubstaking, I think they call it.”
Brady nodded. “That’s what they call it.” He looked around the crowd as though watching for someone in particular. “Come on. I’ll walk you back to your bags, if they’re still there.”
“Oh, my goodness! I forgot all about them! What if someone has stolen them!” Elizabeth began a rushed walk back to where she’d left her things, and Clint Brady walked beside her.
“They’re probably all right,” he tried to assure her. “Believe it or not, most of the men headed for the Yukon are just common good men, a lot of them family men who respect proper ladies.” Elizabeth’s bags came into sight. “There, you see?”
“Thank you, Jesus,” Elizabeth said as she hurried up to the bags and picked them up. People were now boarding the Damsel. “I’d better get on board.” She looked up at Clint Brady. “Thank you again, Mr. Brady. I didn’t even ask if you’re all right.”
“Oh, I’ve been through worse, believe me.”
“Oh, my.” She glanced at his gun again. She wanted to ask more, but it might seem too intrusive; besides, there was no time. She had to get on board. She smiled nervously and nodded a goodbye, turning and climbing the wooden plank that led to the steamer’s wooden deck. The Damsel was one of the larger steamers available, painted bright yellow with white trim, three stories of expensive cabins looking inviting. Again, Elizabeth wished she could afford a cabin, rather than staying below deck.
Only God knew how she was going to reach her destination safely—or if she would reach it at all. She had to keep the faith. Whatever was God’s will for her, so be it. Fate, or more likely God, had led her this far.
She stood at the rail of the ship for several more long minutes, staring out at the hilly streets of San Francisco. So many memories there, mostly good ones until her father had been murdered. And Mama. Her eyes stung with tears. Mama! She might never again be able to visit her mother’s grave. Oh, how she missed her! She could not imagine finding happiness here ever again. Her only hope for that was to be with Peter.
Her heart rushed faster when the steamer again blasted three short whistles from its tall smokestacks. Several black men working along the wharf unwrapped heavy rope from around thick wooden dock posts and tossed them to the deck of the Damsel. Elizabeth noticed again what a montage of races mingled at the wharf, and that many of them had boarded the Damsel. Negroes, Chinese, painted women, a couple of men who looked Indian, perhaps even Eskimos. She realized that in all the years she’d lived here, she really couldn’t tell one Indian tribe from another. She only knew that most of the California tribes had become nearly extinct from war and disease. And, of course, there were many Spaniards among the crowd and several on board.
She realized that the members of Christ Church were nearly all white, and that many of them did not openly welcome other races. Her father would have welcomed anyone, and he’d died going out to find those who truly needed to hear God’s Word. Since his death the church had strayed far from what her father meant it to be. He would expect his children to love and welcome other races, for he’d often preached that Christ taught that all should love one another, no matter how different that other person might be.
She turned to glance around at those who’d boarded the Damsel, and there were those very three women! And standing there talking to them was none other than Clint Brady! She’d not even noticed him come aboard.
So, he, too, was going to Alaska. To look for gold? She suspected it was for some other reason. Why did he wear a gun at his side? She couldn’t remember seeing a badge on the man, but maybe he was a lawman. That would explain why he knew how to handle her attacker. He obviously had a good side to him, or he wouldn’t have helped her…but he also had a violent side…and apparently a sinful side, or he wouldn’t be standing there talking to harlots!
Why did that bother her? It was ridiculous to care. He glanced her way, and again she felt that little jolt to her heart, that little, uneasy feeling that Clint Brady had some kind of connection to her…some strange reason for coming into her life in such an odd way.
She turned away. How silly! Besides, the man might only be going as far as Seattle. Still, why did she actually feel relieved that he was on board?
Slowly the docks of San Francisco Bay began to disappear into the cold mist. The sound of other steamers’ shrill whistles pierced the thick fog that began to shroud the Damsel.
She was on her way. Stay with me, Jesus. I’m so afraid. My strength and courage come only from You.
Chapter Five
And the scribes and Pharisees brought unto him a woman taken in adultery; and when they had set her in the midst, they said unto him, Master, this woman was taken in adultery, in the very act…such should be stoned; but what sayest thou?
…Jesus…said unto them, He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her…. And they…went out one by one…. And Jesus said to the woman, where are thine accusers? Hath no man condemned thee? She said, No man, Lord. And Jesus said unto her, Neither do I condemn thee: go, and sin no more.
—St. John 8:3-11
Elizabeth studied her Bible by lantern light, the only kind of light available on the lower deck, although the cabins and upper decks had electric lights, for what that was worth. For the first two days of the trip men grumbled that the lights constantly dimmed or went out completely.
Elizabeth could barely sleep because of the deck’s vibration, due to the steamer’s engines rumbling directly beneath her. Added to that noise was the noise of others talking, particularly the painted women who were situated only a few feet from her. The first night they’d laughed and visited half the night, talking about things that made Elizabeth feel like a sinner just by hearing them.
Then last night the women had put up a makeshift tent made of blankets, and one of them lay inside the tent groaning in pain most of the night. The other two sat just outside the blankets whispering about something. Elizabeth assumed the woman groaning must be sick to her stomach from something she ate.
She fished through one of her carpet bags and took out a bottle of ink and a pen, as well as a notebook she’d purchased before leaving San Francisco. She had decided to keep a diary of her journey, partly to keep herself occupied so she wouldn’t think about all the frightening things that could happen to her, and also because if she died on this journey, someone might send the diary on to Peter as a keepsake. She began by writing a note as to what to do with the journal should she not make it to Dawson.
August
