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the mister here and we'll be on our way," one of the crewmen told her.
"And have you bury poor Henri at sea against his specific requests? Never! Did I tell
you, dear Miss Lovelace, that Mr. Lamour had a particular aversion to water?"
The Norwegian mourner, who had been standing apart from us but close enough to
hear the commotion, shouldered his way to the casket. He patted Sasha awkwardly
on the shoulder. "You wait here, lady. Too many lost at sea dis time, I tink. Egil
Larsson will get your boat and take your man ashore."
Small though our deception was, his concern shamed me. So I was very glad when a
boat with a pair of Indians seemed oblivious to the other passengers shouting for
their attention and rowed straight to the rail beneath us, indicating with sign
language that we were to load Mr. Lawson aboard.
These miraculous Indians also owned a sledge and oxen and, without instructions
or the payment of extra funds, began, once ashore, to load our belongings along
with Mr. Lawson aboard their sledge.
Sasha Devine lowered her eyes at the stares of our fellow former passengers who
envied our good luck. But the smile beneath she gave me was smug. "My admirer
seems to have foreseen our difficulties," she said.
"How do you know it is he who sent them? Perhaps they simply picked us out as two
lone women in desperate straits," I said. Though my nature is as charitable as the
next person's, I felt it unwise to be unduly trusting so soon after arriving in a new
country.
"Dahling, what do you flunk? That they will take advantage of us in the middle of
this crowd? Burdened like that?"
"They could rob us," I said, now feeling foolish at realizing how silly my suspicions
sounded. Still, there was something too pat and too convenient about them showing
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up so suddenly when everyone else was having to rough it.
"If they tried such a thing, we wouldn't even have to resort to the Royal Canadian
Northwest Mounted Police, with whom no one, forgive me, fornicates. You see these
boys? I personally could organize a lynch mob in two shakings of a sheep's tail "
"Three shakes of a lamb's tail " I muttered.
"No matter. As I say, they must have been sent by Mr. Lawson's partner. And even if
not, packing is a very good business here from the looks of it. Why ruin a good
thing? It makes no sense to steal a few dresses and things from inbound travelers
when miners rich with gold are coming the other way and could be robbed so much
more profitably." She sounded almost as if the notion was giving her inspiration for
business opportunities.
She insisted that the packers lash the coffin round several times with rope lest they
fall and Mr. Lawson be dislodged from his resting place. I couldn't see what
difference it would make of all the people in our party who might be damaged in a
fall, Mr. Lawson was the least likely to suffer. But he was our ticket to Dawson, so
Sasha was as solicitous of him as if he were a first-class passenger on a luxury liner.
The Indians were very responsive to her manner, being positively reverent in the
way they handled the casket.
I had taken time to repack my belongings, extracting my riding skirt, boots, and a
few other items. The stove and groceries stayed packed. Neither of us knew how to
cook anyway.
I carried my valise strapped to my back and Sasha Devine had a similar small pack.
She also produced one additional item for the journey. "My alpenstock," she said,
wielding a canelike wooden stick with an elaborate silver handle.
The packers left hours ahead of us while we partook of nourishment in the form of
beans and cornbread served from a tent kitchen. We then got in line for the long
trek up the Chilkoot trail.
Even my by no means modest narrative skills cannot sufficiently explain how
demoralizing it was to tramp behind Sasha Devine up the steep incline of the
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Chilkoot Pass, where men and women had died before us, where the less surefooted
horses all but filled the valley with their rotting carcasses. The wheel-barrowing I
had done up and down the hills of home while procuring our goods had hardened
my sturdy San Francisco calves and ankles to iron. Many of the men fared less well,
used to flat cities and lesser burdens than they now bore. But Sasha Devine put us
all to shame. Restored to the full bloom of radiant good health, she climbed
surefootedly, even after dark, when we were a third of the way up the mountain and
others turned back. She all but danced up that pass, and little wonder, I suppose.
Not only did she live and walk in San Francisco, she danced the cancan three shows
a night, six nights a week, besides her other terpsichorial activities.
I was glad I had brought the extra clothing, for we were almost at the top of the pass
when an avalanche occurred, injuring two men and killing three others who had left
three hours ahead of us. We waited, nearly freezing, for night was upon us now. The
only consolation was that night would at least be a short one. Even in late August
the nights are foreshortened compared to San Francisco. We still had light as late as
nine P.M. We should have it again by five in the morning.
Meanwhile, a path was carefully cleared by those nearest the tragedy, and though it
seemed like forever, it was really only about three hours before we were able to pick
our way
Cast the debris. I tried to look neither to the right or left, but as the sun rose, it
glinted off a metal object. I bent to one side to investigate.
A crucifix silver but much worn and inscribed on the back with initials perhaps a
confirmation gift or a graduation present. Another Roman Catholic had died here
then perhaps a fellow child of Erin. Nothing else remained of the wearer, who was
probably pushed over the steep edge of the precipice by the force of the slide. I could
throw the crucifix over the side, or I could keep it with me until I could learn the
identity of the victims and perhaps by surname or description decide to whom my
discovery belonged and return it to the family. I stuck the sad artifact into my
pocket, and the line moved on.
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