Promises of Gold
Promises of Gold
After the devastating 1964 Alaska earthquake and resulting tsunami in Valdez, a family seeks to salvage items that survived the tumult.
The remnants at Grandpa’s sixty-year home reveal the reasons for young adventurers to escape their roots in Sonoma County and San Francisco to chase the allure of the Alaska territory during the Klondike Gold Rush, the dangers faced and challenges endured to get there, and the overwhelming costs and rewards of making - and keeping - promises of gold.
Chapter 1 - Aftermath
Valdez, Alaska. April 3, 1964
The lone road to Valdez offered a slow, meandering journey in the pre-dawn haze. Sand and salt remained on the road since the last attempt to clear snow, adding to the mini-landslides which encroached from abruptly carved hillsides onto the broken pavement. New tires regularly flung little pebbles into the wheel-wells, making the tink-tink that punctuated the foreboding silence of the occupants inside the rental car.
Not an hour after sunrise, the 1963 Buick Riviera crept to a stop facing a wall of muddy snow and debris. Toppled cars, sections of buildings, out-of-place rowboats, and other rubble glistened in the mounds. It looked as though a giant child had shoved all of its playthings into piles.
Ben stared at the aftermath, heaved a sigh, and turned off the motor. “We’ll have to walk the last block.”
He trudged around the front of the car, dragging his fingers, leaving streaks of miniature Diplomat Blue rivers cutting through the grit on the hood. He opened the door for his wife, Gloria, who offered a manicured hand to her husband. A smile played on the cherry-red lips that matched her fingernails, expecting a compliment or term of affection. When Ben blankly turned to open the back door for Grandpa, she huffed a cloud of fog into the chilly air and pulled a pair of soft kidskin gloves from her purse to wave the vapor away from her face.
Gloria scowled at the surroundings. “I don’t see how an earthquake could make all of this mess.”
“It wasn’t the earthquake,” replied Ben. “It was the tidal wave.”
Chapter 2 - Excelsior
San Francisco, California July 14, 1897
A disheveled figure in a brown flannel shirt and tattered denim trousers burst through the door of the Excelsior Establishment. Three men at the corner table of the wood-paneled room looked up from their cards to take stock of the newcomer. Unimpressed, they returned their attention to the game.
Dim chandelier light cast an eerie glow on the stranger’s face, rendering his appearance mysterious, if not dangerous. He strode to the mahogany bar, dropped a well-worn haversack at his feet, and ran his hands over the countertop as if caressing a lover.
The barkeep barely looked up, intent on wiping glasses. “What can I get for you, stranger?”
“A Plantation Special.”
Pierre froze, trying to remember the last time he heard such a request. He hastily cast an eye over the man, then looked to the laundry maid who had just stepped in, bringing clean bar-rags from upstairs. An inquisitively raised eyebrow and tilt of his head toward the scruffy customer silently asked, “Do you know him?”
She anxiously twisted the corner of a towel as she surveyed the overconfident fellow leaning on the bar. He was terribly thin. His ragged clothes hung on his bony frame. Not out of the ordinary, these days. She couldn’t see the face from the doorway. Hesitantly, she moved closer to Pierre, handed him the linens, and shrugged her shoulders.
Pierre turned back to the stranger. “That drink is not known by many.”
“Pierre. Do you not recognize me?” The man smiled at the bartender and then at the girl in her forest green dress and gray apron. “Jennie, I was here when your father bought this property for ten dollars. We celebrated his good fortune! Your brother, Charlie, and I helped.” He spread his hands wide across the solid mahogany. “This very counter, and this brass foot bar…we built this! It is me…Jacques!”
Jennie scrutinized him while the clock on the wall ticked louder than the mumblings around the room. A grin slowly unfurled, producing small dimples in her porcelain cheeks. She nodded at Pierre.
The barman scowled and studied the bedraggled face until his eyes suddenly widened. “Jacques! What has happened to you? You have changed, ami.”
“Oui.” Jacques whispered, eyes dimming as a dark memory filled his mind. “I survived.”
If you would like to read more, please join the email list.
From Chapter 7- The Umatilla
San Francisco, July 25, 1897
Buck and Seth were waiting at the wharf as planned. They were among a sea of people. Some were trying to bargain for any possible spot on the ship. Offers of money, pleas for help, and threats were launched at well-dressed travelers accompanied by large trunks and servants.
Screams rang out when someone’s butler was shoved to the ground. A grubby man picked up the fallen satchels and insisted that he would carry the bags for the wealthy couple who were gaping in shock at the audacity of it all. Officers soon apprehended the man, dragging him away, writhing and sobbing.
Jennie found her companions trying to hide inconspicuously in the line. Their simple clothes and lack of luggage kept them from being targeted by the mob of desperate people. When Buck took her canvas sack and tried to kiss her on the cheek, she jerked back. Double layered dresses and undergarments weighed heavily, making her movements slow and awkward.
“Thank you, dear brother,” she said, checking the crowd for anyone who might recognize her. She was holding her breath.
They waited quietly for the crewman to find their names on the long passenger list under “Johnson,” and they boarded the Steamship Umatilla. The ship was designed to accommodate up to 200 passengers. It would take over 300 on this voyage.
Room numbers were painted on each door. Theirs was in a dark passageway on the third level. Bunks hung at chest and knee height from the walls on either side, leaving a narrow walkway from the door to the sink basin below a small port window. A metal water pitcher hung by the handle on a hook below the bowl, above a pail on the floor.
Normally, four men would occupy this room. For this journey, there were seven people. Buck and Seth, accustomed to sleeping in pews, shared one of the narrow beds. Each put his sack at opposite ends to serve as a pillow. Jennie took a lower bunk.
They settled into the compartment with a young German family. The mother and children huddled across from Jennie while the father took the upper bunk. Pleasantries were gestured in an awkward mismatch of languages, then everyone kept to themselves.
The tiny window offered little relief to the stuffy cabin. Buck and Seth went out to get their bearings, find the head, fill the water pitcher, and survey the passengers on deck. The German gentleman left, as well.
Jennie smiled at the children, moved toward the sink, and took the opportunity to remove some of her layers, placing them in an extra pillowcase that she brought along for just such need. It served nicely as her pillow.
Safely on board and unbound from the extra garb, she could finally breathe.
From Chapter 12 - Scoundrel
Skaguay, Alaska, August 1897 (Spelling did not become Skagway until later in the year)
“Welcome to Skaguay!” Buck called his usual greeting to the steady line of passengers, offering his hand to assist any ladies along the narrow gangplank to the dock.
When the seas were calm, steamers arrived from Vancouver, Seattle, and Port Townsend in only a couple of days’ time. But when the weather soured, or the wind was up, the waters rebuffed the vessels for the duration of the journey, slowing them to a merciless week of turbulent jostling.
On stormy days, passengers arrived disheveled, green, and sometimes covered in vomit. Those ships carrying livestock, horses, and dogs had to wait until the seas calmed enough to tie up without both ship and slip being battered apart.
Buck was grateful his own travels to this place had been smooth, and even more grateful that he had built a bench on the dock for those who needed time to get their land legs under them. Not a few people stumbled like drunken sailors trying to get to solid ground. Some cursed just as badly, too.
He directed folks when receiving inquiries about lodgings or entertainment, just as instructed. There was obviously some arrangement between Captain Moore and the proprietors, but they were decent hotels and saloons, so Buck didn’t mind sending people to them.
“Where do I find the town purveyor?” asked a deep voice with a slight drawl.
Turning to greet a man in a cowboy hat, Buck stuck out his hand and smiled. “Buck Johnson. Pleasure to meet you. What is it you’re wanting?”
The skin on the man’s hand was smooth. The handshake was firm. “Jefferson Smith. I’m looking to acquire lodgings and plots for myself and my men.”
“You’ll want to begin with Mr. Hill, sir, most often found at the general store.”
A group surrounded the man, including a young woman in a torn, frilly dress that nearly bared her bosom. She cowered like a beaten dog; afraid to be seen, yet afraid to be too far away from any of them. Buck tried hard not to stare at her exposed cleavage.
Two of the men bantered about, shoving each other in a mock fight, until they knocked a case off the dock into the cold canal. They laughed at the bent figure, cursing and shouting objections from the bench. The elder was still too unsteady to pose a fight or even retrieve his belongings from the water.
Jefferson studied the situation, noting Buck’s gaping response to the fracas. With a smirk, he pulled a coin from his pocket and handed it to Buck, nodding toward the old man. “For your trouble.”
Buck’s stomach turned and kneaded as he watched the unruly entourage head directly toward the mercantile to find the person he had described. Once they were out of view, he grabbed a gaff hook, fished up the travel bag, set it on the dock at the man’s feet, and held out the coin. “I hope this will ease the cost of whatever might be ruined in there, sir.”
“Thank you, son. You keep it.” The gentleman slowly stood. “Something tells me I’ll lose much more ere winter.”
“Can I help you to a hotel, sir?”
“If you just point the way, son, I’ll manage.”
Buck pointed toward town and named the upstanding hotels. The old man collected his dripping case, rolled his shoulders back, nodded his thanks, and shuffled off.
If you would like to read more, please join the email list.