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  Jo’s Journey

  Nikki Tate

  Copyright © 2006 Nikki Tate

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or

  transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,

  including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and

  retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in

  writing from the publisher.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Tate, Nikki, 1962–

  Jo’s journey / Nikki Tate.

  (Orca young readers)

  ISBN 1-55143-536-5

  1. Cariboo (B.C. : Regional district)—Gold discoveries—Juvenile fiction.

  I. Title. II. Series.

  PS8589.A8735J64 2006 jC813’.54 C2006-901017-X

  First published in the United States: 2006

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2006922288

  Summary: Fourteen-year-old Jo is determined to

  follow her dream of finding gold in the Cariboo.

  Free teachers’ guide available. www.orcabook.com

  Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support

  for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies:

  the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry

  Development Program (BPIDP), the Canada Council for the Arts,

  and the British Columbia Arts Council.

  Typesetting and cover design by Lynn O’Rourke

  Cover & interior illustrations by Emily Carrington

  In Canada:

  Orca Book Publishers

  www.orcabook.com

  Box 5626 Stn B

  Victoria, BC Canada

  V8R 6S4

  In the United States:

  Orca Book Publishers

  www.orcabook.com

  PO Box 468

  Custer, WA USA

  98240-0468

  09 08 07 06 • 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Printed and bound in Canada

  Printed on 100% recycled paper.

  Processed chlorine-free using vegetable based inks.

  For my father.

  Without your encouragement,

  Jo would never have left home.

  And for Jane.

  Who else could have survived

  Utah Territory with the likes of my

  old horse and me?

  As always, there are so many people to thank and my methods of record-keeping woefully inadequate. A big thanks is due to all the people at Orca. In particular, I must thank Sarah Harvey for getting on Jo’s case.

  Thanks to Emily Carrington for creating such a great cover and interior illustrations. Staff at the Royal British Columbia Museum were immensely helpful, and Rod at Galleon Books in Sidney went above and beyond the call of duty to help me find the information I needed.

  Chapter 1

  “Bart? Do you ever miss Utah Territory?”

  I tossed a forkful of straw and horse manure into the barrow. Bart grunted as he dropped hay into the manger at the other end of the horse.

  “What does that mean?” I asked.

  “I suppose I miss the money,” Bart said. He unhooked the water bucket and dunked it in the rain barrel.

  “The money? That’s all?”

  Bart and I had become friendly during the time we worked with the Pony Express. Course, he didn’t know I was a girl—and I was glad of that. No doubt that would have changed things some.

  After the telegraph line came through and the Pony Express stopped running, we traveled to San Francisco and found work at Finnigan’s Livery. It wasn’t exciting work, but our bellies were full and we stayed dry at night. But now, after a quiet winter in the city, restlessness stirred in my bones. I couldn’t believe Bart didn’t feel it too.

  “So you don’t miss anything else?”

  Bart hooked the full bucket in front of the horse and shrugged. “What’s to miss about Utah Territory? Snow? Sun hot enough to bake a man’s brains? Robberies?”

  The last point was for my benefit. I’d prevented a mail robbery, and memories of that adventure still kept me awake some nights.

  I moved on to the next horse. “I know all that,” I said, surprised at the sudden pang of sadness I felt. There was no way to go back, not really. I waved my hand at the two long rows of horse backsides stretching away from me inside the stable. “Even you have to admit that this is boring.” The horses farther along the row nickered, anxious to eat.

  “I’m coming,” Bart called back.

  “Are you planning to grow old in here so they mark your grave with a picture of a pitchfork?” I wanted to rile him up.

  With his arms full of hay, he chuckled.

  “You’re a funny one, Joe,” he said. “Always looking for something different—like different is always going to be better. That ain’t always the case.”

  “Just for that, I’ll leave you behind when I go!”

  “Go where?”

  I opened my mouth, but had no good answer. “Somewhere,” was the best I could offer. I had no plan, no place to go, and for the rest of the morning, I kept my thoughts to myself.

  A week or so later while I was waiting for Bart outside the Red Bar Saloon, I recalled our conversation. The thought that it was time to move on would not leave me alone. “How much?” I asked Bart when he emerged from the saloon.

  “Four dollars—a little more,” he said with a wink. Bart had the magic touch when it came to any kind of gambling—cards or dice or the faro table.

  When Bart had a pocketful of winnings he liked to buy a good meal for both of us. He tucked away the rest of his money for safekeeping in his poke, the leather pouch he always kept close by.

  Bart was always excited after winning in the gambling houses and he moved fast, his boots clumping along the wooden boards of the sidewalk. I was grateful for my long legs and the fact I wore trousers. Even unencumbered by skirts, I reminded myself to swagger a little and throw my shoulders back. I caught a glimpse of my reflection in a shop window as we barreled past. Lanky. Skinny as a beanpole. Pockmarked face. No chest to speak of—thank goodness!

  “Took a little longer than I thought,” he said. “You keep busy?”

  He turned down a side street and strode toward the docks.

  I had been busy. “I read the front page of the paper four times.”

  Bart laughed. “And? Any interesting news?”

  “Gold! You know—that yellow stuff that makes men crazy?”

  “I know what gold is. What about it?”

  Gold.

  The word was splashed across the front page of the papers every day and on the lips of near enough everyone in San Francisco. Men from all parts crowded the docks, looking for passage north. Gold. “Joe? You ain’t thinking about going north —”

  I shrugged. North, in the Cariboo, that’s where everyone said the gold was.

  “I might find my brothers —”

  Bart made an odd noise—a sharp laugh that sounded like a bark. “Your brothers may be dead, for all you know.”

  “And they may be picking up nuggets of gold as we speak,” I shot back.

  “Joe,” Bart said, grabbing my arm and pulling me to a stop. “You’re wasting your time looking for those two. And I only say that ‘cause you’re my friend.”

  I wanted to defend my brothers, but as always, sorrow and fury twisted my tongue into silence. When my brothers left me in Carson City at the Home for Unfortunate Girls, I know they thought it was for the best. They might have gone back to collect me, for all I knew. They had no way to know where I had gone or that I’d cut off my hair and run away, changed my name from Joselyn to Jo. But I could hardly explain all that without giving away my
secret.

  “Bart Ridley—“my voice wavered and I looked down at my boots. “You’ve got no right to tell me what to do.”

  “Joe—all I’m saying is, it’s best if you get on with your life.”

  “Like you?” I spat the words out, unable to stop myself, furious with Bart for touching a grief I worked so hard to keep buried. “Get on with my life so I can shovel —”

  “Joe —”

  We glared at each other, my fists clenched at my sides, his palms open and facing me.

  “Don’t get so testy,” he said. “You got some savings. You got no reason to be so restless.”

  A small part of me agreed. It was true that I still had some of the reward money from the Pony Express. With talk of a stage line running down to San Diego and more and more folks arriving all the time, settling in California wasn’t such a bad idea.

  But like my pa, God rest his soul, used to say, “Settling is for mud in the bottom of a river, not for a man with dreams.”

  “What if we did go to the Cariboo?” I asked.

  “We? Why would I want to go to the Cariboo?”

  “Why wouldn’t you? You’ve heard what they’re saying. There’s a fortune to be made in those mountain streams. All we have to do is get there.”

  Bart shook his head. “Good way to lose a lot of money, I’d say.”

  “What kind of gambler are you, anyway? If anyone should know you don’t win wagers you don’t make, it’s you.”

  “That’s different,” he said, but not quite so strongly.

  I talked faster, sweeping aside sad memories with a gush of happy plans. “We’ve got time to go this year—if we leave right away. We could be rich. We could run a livery stable, not just work in one. Be honest, you don’t want to work there for the rest of your days—do you?”

  “No.”

  “All I’m saying is, you don’t have a good reason to stay, do you?”

  “Well —”

  “Well, nothing. I say we go. What do we have to lose?”

  Bart didn’t answer. But something told me he would come along if I pushed a little harder. And suddenly, it was as important to have him with me as it was to go at all. I played my final card.

  “And you can’t say for certain that I won’t find my brothers. If you had brothers, don’t I know you’d look for them?”

  He let out a long slow breath and stared straight at me. He didn’t have to say anything. He was just as alone as I was.

  It took three whole days for Bart to say aloud that he would travel north and no time at all for me to buy steamship tickets.

  And so, early one morning in the first part of June 1862, two years after my father had died, we found ourselves aboard the ship Sierra Nevada, steaming north, following hundreds of others determined to seek their fortunes in the British colonies.

  Chapter 2

  “The name is Emerson.”

  We had scarcely found our sea legs when a portly gentleman wearing a fine waistcoat approached us on deck and extended his hand.

  “Where are you boys headed?”

  “Fort Victoria,” Bart said.

  “And beyond that?” Mr. Emerson asked.

  “Antler Creek,” I said.

  “Antler Creek?”

  Bart and I nodded. We’d heard that was where the best prospects were.

  “I’m headed that way myself.” Mr. Emerson grinned, revealing a flash of gold in each of his front teeth.

  “You boys got plenty of money?”

  It seemed a strange question to ask a couple of boys. “We aim to have plenty of money,” I said, not wanting to admit we both had a few dollars saved. San Francisco had its share of scoundrels and thieves, and I knew enough not to trust a fellow just because he wore a good suit.

  “I ask,” Mr. Emerson said, taking the end of his mustache and giving it a little tug, “because I know how expensive it is for a man to finance an expedition such as this.”

  He took in a deep breath as though he were puffing himself up.

  “I myself have some experience in these matters.”

  He paused as if we were expected to ask for advice. When neither of us did, he continued, “I know how difficult it is to search for gold. Long hours, backbreaking work. I’m a young man no longer. I could offer you both jobs—unless, of course, you’ve already made other arrangements.”

  “What kind of jobs?” I asked.

  Mr. Emerson smiled and nodded. “What did you say your name was?”

  “Jo. Jo Whyte.”

  “Well, Joe. I like a boy with good sense.” He smiled and nodded.

  Bart stared down at his boots and stayed quiet.

  “Here’s my offer. I’ll hire you two boys to help get our gear to the diggings at Antler Creek, or thereabouts. You can be the first employees of the Emerson Mining Company. Your young legs and strong backs will buy you each a share in the claim I’ll stake on behalf of the E.M.C.—soon to be famous the world over. Staking a claim is expensive.”

  He waited until I nodded before he spoke again.

  “I’ll pay all your expenses, and you’ll stand to make a healthy profit once we start collecting gold.”

  He stopped again to smile and tugged out his pocket watch.

  “Nearly time for dinner. Why don’t you boys let me know what you think after that? I doubt you’ll get a better offer. Because if you aren’t interested, I’m certain I can find someone else who is.”

  He slipped the watch back into his pocket and touched the brim of his hat before turning on his heel and heading for the dining room.

  “I don’t like him,” Bart said when Mr. Emerson had gone.

  “Who says we have to like him?”

  Bart had no answer to that.

  “He’s right about a lot of things,” I added. “What money I’ve got won’t last forever—and I know you don’t have a whole heap.”

  Bart didn’t argue with that. He hadn’t been too happy when the time came to pay for his ticket.

  “So what harm would it do to let him pay our way?”

  “And if he don’t pay us? What if he lies about his share of the gold? Seems to me, a lot can go wrong.”

  “Seems to me, we could run out of money real fast and then what? If he isn’t fair, we can work for someone else. I like the idea of using that blowhard’s money to get ourselves to the diggings.”

  Bart’s brow crinkled. “I suppose you got a point there.”

  “So it’s settled?”

  Bart shrugged. “Like you say, if things get bad we can work for someone else. But I tell you now, I don’t like him.”

  “You don’t have to like him. You just have to work for him. We can do that.”

  “All right. But if things do go wrong, don’t say I didn’t tell you so.”

  I nearly threw my arms around him but caught myself. Instead, I punched Bart lightly in the shoulder, my cheeks aching from grinning so hard. “We’ll be all right, as long as we stick together.”

  That got a smile out of him. “Us orphans—that’s all we got. Each other.” Then he added, “We should have said yes quicker. That way we could have been eating in the dining room instead of grubbing around for what’s left of that bread we brought along.”

  I laughed. “Remember that the next time you take too long to jump on a good opportunity.”

  Chapter 3

  The eight-hundred-mile trip from San Francisco to Victoria took four days. Bart and I spent the time in a state of excitement, not quite able to believe we were on our way north. Mr. Emerson planned to stay in Fort Victoria for a couple of days to purchase some provisions before continuing, and this suited us very well, for we were thrilled to visit a new town in a new country.

  The Sierra Nevada didn’t dock right in Fort Victoria but at the nearby port of Esquimalt, some four miles away. Porters crowded the dock, accosting new arrivals with shouted promises. “Fine service! Reasonable rates!”

  A tall black man caught Mr. Emerson’s attention even befo
re we had left the boat.

  “Leave your baggage with the porter,” Mr. Emerson directed, throwing his own bags onto the dock. Calling my sack baggage seemed highfalutin’, but I took Mr. Emerson’s advice and offered up my bag.

  “To the Colonial Hotel,” Mr. Emerson said as he set off at a brisk walk. “As your first official job in my employ, you two boys can carry the purchases I make in Fort Victoria,” he said, breathless and sweaty. How a man with such an ample stomach was going to withstand the rigorous journey ahead was beyond me.

  Bart must have thought the same thing, because he winked and made the shape of a big tummy in the air in front of him. I choked back a laugh when Mr. Emerson turned around and said, “Look at all those gold seekers! That’s our competition right there.”

  As we walked toward town, dozens of men, some with horses, donkeys or mules, others laden with heavy packs, made their way in the opposite direction, back toward the docks we’d left behind.

  The sun was high above us when we arrived at the jumble of wooden houses that made up Fort Victoria. Wagons of every kind filled the streets. Men and boys hurried this way and that, carrying packages, pushing carts or jostling into lineups outside some of the busier shops.

  Mr. Emerson bustled past everyone, heading for the Colonial Hotel. Even there, a lineup stretched out the door and onto the wooden sidewalk.

  “Wait here,” he said, gesturing to the end of the line. Then he disappeared down the street, tipping his hat and nodding to anyone who paid him any attention. Bart and I waited in the sun until the line crept into the hotel. We were nearly at the front desk when Mr. Emerson finally reappeared.

  “I don’t think there are any rooms left,” I told him.

  “Nonsense.”

  “Just before you came back, I heard the clerk say —”

  “Good day.” The clerk at the front desk greeted us with a tired smile.

  Mr. Emerson strode forward as if I hadn’t spoken.

  “Three beds for a couple of nights,” he said.

  “Not here, I’m afraid.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Mr. Emerson drew himself up tall and tugged at the end of his mustache.

  “We’re full. Not a bed to be had.”