Zachary's Gold (35 page)

THE DAY-AND-A-HALF JOURNEY TO CLINTON
was straightforward—even restful after the excitement of my previous week—and I arrived in that sleepy little junction hamlet with an easy, optimistic attitude.

I sold the horse that had belonged to Jack Evans and joined up with a commercial waggoner and his helper who were travelling to the lakehead at Lillooet. It was about a forty-five-mile journey, traversing mountain slopes that reached four thousand feet—a hard trip at the best of times, particularly so late in the year, with snow already beginning to accumulate higher up. I was glad to have the assistance of the men with their wagon to transport my heavy goods, although I thought it best not to socialize too closely with the good fellows.

I gave my name as Hector Pinkus and claimed to have lived at Quesnelle Mouth with my wife for the past three years. I purported to be a minister, and claimed that my wife had been a schoolteacher. She had recently died, I explained. Overcome by grief, I was returning to the south with two suitcases full of heavy books. The two teamsters evidently believed me and for the most part left me to my sullen grieving.

I acted out the part satisfactorily, which took some care and concentration, for inwardly I was relaxed and self-satisfied. Remembering the start of my journey south, when I was full of suspicion and constantly bickering with Rosh, I could not help but marvel at the contrast between that mood and my present one. It felt a bit strange now to be on my own, without a companion, but I was sure I would get used to it. I had always been a solitary sort of man.

The route down the lakes was in many ways just as arduous as the road down the canyon, and after the first overland section, I was pleased and relieved to board the steamship
Champion
at Lillooet and ride it south down Seton Lake. During this passage, I introduced a new facet to the story of my life as Hector Pinkus. I allowed that my wife had died of a strange, very painful fever while reading her schoolbooks. From that time forward I felt confident that no one would be likely to touch my baggage.

It meant, of course, that I had to load and unload my own burden for each overland stretch of the journey, and there were many of these. At the south end of Seton Lake, a mile-and-a-half road had to be travelled to reach Anderson Lake, where the
Marzelle
met us. After this a thirty-mile stretch was negotiated by wagon to Lillooet Lake, where the vessel was called
The Lady of the Lake
. At the lower extremity of the lake, another road began—this one thirty-eight miles, leading to Harrison Lake and Fort Douglas.

Once past Fort Douglas, I felt that I had made it back to civilization, and it was indeed only a couple of days before I was safely installed in a private room in a hotel in New Westminster, the capital of the colony. I was forced to remain there for several days, since bad weather had halted steamship travel across the straits to Fort Victoria. During this time I purchased a recent newspaper and discovered my own name therein. The publisher seemed remarkably well informed and up to date, and he told his readers that one Zachary Beddoes had managed to create a sensation with crimes and disturbances ranging all the way from Barkerville down the Fraser Canyon to Fort Hope. Beddoes had stymied all attempts to capture him on charges of kidnapping, robbery, suspicion of murder, and much more.

I kept my head well shaven at all times and managed to procure a bible the same shade of black as my suit. To be on the safe side, I remained in my hotel room except when I took my meals or when I walked to the docks and enquired about weather and possibilities for passage. I heard no more mention, however, of Mr. Beddoes and his misdeeds, people here on the coast being mostly unconcerned with the wild and foolish things that went on inland, so by the time I crossed to Fort Victoria a week later, I had begun to relax.

The imminence of winter was befouling the weather, and once again I was forced to find a hotel and wait before I could travel farther. I chose a place called the Prosperity Hotel
,
owned by a middle-aged Chinese man named Ho. The hotel was clean and quiet, it was close to the waterfront, and there were no questions asked when I paid my bills in raw gold or when the dark stubble began to grow on my face and head.

I found Fort Victoria quite a pleasant little city, and I was in no hurry to risk leaky vessels and winter storms to escape it. I still enjoyed walking along the docks, but purely for the pleasure of seeing the great sailing ships rocking at anchor, redolent of mysterious, faraway places. More than once, in a dockside public house, I watched captains and navigators deep in conversation as they encircled a table and pored over charts and maps. These were great maps—covered with strange names and tantalizing blank spaces—but as I looked at the men themselves, I doubted that I could trust them to pilot me across unknown seas. I chose instead to enjoy the amenities of Fort Victoria.

In the evenings I played cards with my landlord, Mr. Ho, winning and losing a dollar or two in a night. It was an enjoyable pastime, and the amounts wagered were a pittance to either one of us, but of course as we gambled we joked about our terrible losses and how we would soon be ruined. I specifically remember Ho telling me once between gales of laughter that before long, I would own everything—his hotel, his wife, and his daughter included.

Our gambling saw no great sums of money change hands, but by the New Year I had used a portion of my capital to become Ho's business partner. We soon spoke to builders and made plans to expand our hotel and its services.

On the last day of January, I proposed to marry his daughter, and on the last day of February, we were married. She now wears the ring I found in Dead Ned's booty. Some questioned the brevity of our courtship, and I marvelled at my own temerity at the time, for we knew little about each other. When required to fill in documents, I was forced to guess at the spelling of her name, and wrote it as
Sue,
although I knew that was inaccurate. Our union has proved to be harmonious and contented, though. As I once mentioned to Jack Evans, I seem to be fortunate in my choice of partners.

I do not have enough interplay with Occidental society here to know whether they are scandalized by my marriage to a Chinese woman, and frankly, I do not care. We are expecting our first child sometime around Christmas, and we are both, of course, very excited. If it is a girl, my wife will decide what she is to be called, but if it is a boy, I have already chosen his name.

STAN KRUMM
was raised about fifty miles from the historic town of Barkerville and was intrigued by Canadian history from a young age. After taking over the family business as a jeweller/goldsmith, he took inspiration from the forest surrounding his home on the Quesnel River and wrote
Zachary's Gold
. The year of its original publication,
BC Bookworld
called
Zachary's Gold
the summer fiction “book to read.” Stan lives in Quesnel, British Columbia.

Copyright © 2011 Stan Krumm

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written consent of the publisher or a licence from The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (
ACCESS
Copyright). For a copyright licence, visit www.accesscopyright.ca.

LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION
Krumm, Stan, 1954–
Zachary's gold [electronic resource] / Stan Krumm.
Type of computer file: Electronic monograph in HTML format.
Issued also in print format.
ISBN 978-1-926971-60-5
I. Title.
PS8571.R82Z33 2011a C813'.54 C2011-904168-5

Proofreader: Sarah Weber
Design: Pete Kohut
Cover images: Cowboy, Sad444, istockphoto.com
Barkerville image, Glenbow Archives
NA-674-45
Author photo: Tim Reeve

  

We gratefully acknowledge the financial support for our publishing activities from the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund, Canada Council for the Arts, and the province of British Columbia through the British Columbia Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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