Jo's Journey Page 6

  “Joe?” His voice was scarcely louder than a whisper, and I had to lean close to hear him.

  “Bart! You’re alive! Thank you, Lord!” I hugged him to me and squeezed his sodden body as if I might wring him dry and make him better all at once. “Thank you!”

  But my thanks were taken too soon. Bart’s eyes closed and he slumped forward against me, a trail of spittle and vomit at the corner of his mouth.

  I wiped it away with a corner of my shirt and put my head to his chest again. His breathing was rough and uneven and as wheezy as an old man’s. But he was breathing, and as long as one breath followed another, there was hope he might survive.

  “I have to move you,” I said firmly, like it was nothing to talk to a half-dead boy whose lips were the color of blueberries. Getting behind him, I hooked my arms under his and wrapped my arms around him. I struggled backward under his weight, able to shift him only a little at a time. I swore when my ankle twisted under me but forced myself upright and kept pulling. Finally we were as far away from the water as we could get, between a fallen log and the sharp bank rearing above us. Trees grew right to the edge of the bank, and protruding roots afforded us the barest protection from the endless rain.

  Ignoring my own shivering, I tore off my coat and covered him. There was no sign of his pack anywhere. Bart let out a long sigh or moan—it was hard to say which. But again I took this as a good sign. “Bart, I’ve got to go up to the bridge for help. And my pack. So I can make a fire.”

  His eyelids flickered as I spoke and he moaned again. Then his arm moved.

  “What are you doing? Lie still.” But Bart would not be still. With a great effort he moved his arm again and pointed to his side.

  “Take it.” His voice was scarcely more than a whisper.

  “Take what?”

  “The poke.”

  His pouch of money was still fastened to his belt. “Take it. I ain’t got no use for it now.”

  “Bart—don’t talk crazy. I won’t be long. Then I’ll get a fire started and dry you out.”

  “Just take it.”

  A small voice inside started asking questions. What if he died before I got back with Mr. Emerson and the pack? What if he was hurt inside? I’d seen animals like that—they seemed to rally right before the end and then died anyway. What if these were his last words and I was too pigheaded to listen to them?

  “Bart—I won’t take your money. But if—and it won’t—but if something happens to you, do you want me to take the money to Emily Rose?”

  Bart’s breathing grew short and rough. “Emily Rose.”

  “What’s her father’s name? Where will I find her?”

  “In my dreams,” Bart said. “Only in my dreams.”

  A chill went right through me. It was as if he were talking about a ghost.

  “You’re talking nonsense. Tell me where she lives.”

  Bart opened his eyes and stared right into my very soul. “There ain’t no such person, Joe.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I made her up. Seemed you and everyone else had a dream to chase. I wanted one too.” With that, Bart closed his eyes and slumped back, his breath rattling in his chest.

  “Bart?”

  Nothing. I pulled my coat back over him. Would he wake up again?

  I was near torn in half. I wanted to stay crouched beside him as if just by watching the rise and fall of his chest I could make sure that he kept breathing.

  But every minute I sat there in the rain was another minute wasted that I could be building a fire and finding something for him to eat.

  My chattering teeth finally got me moving. I was soaked, and I knew it wouldn’t be long before there might be two corpses lying there beside the river.

  Chapter 14

  It took near enough two hours to work my way back upstream to the bridge. As I drew closer I called and called, but there was no reply. When I reached my pack, I could have screamed aloud. Mr. Emerson and Nigel had left only some tea and a few beans along with my panning gear and a blanket. Too heavy to carry, I thought with a bitter smile.

  Loose in the bottom of the pack I found a few more small items—my flint and steel, a stub of candle, a sliver of soap. Not much, but along with the folding knife in my pocket, it was all Bart and I owned in the world. With any luck, we might be able to get through the night.

  How could they have left us to perish? “Halloo?” I called one last time. But of course, there was no answer.

  I lifted the pack and retraced my steps along the creek until I drew close to the place where I had left Bart. The closer I got the faster I went, slithering and scrambling over rocks and fallen trees, splashing in and out of the water.

  What if I couldn’t find the place again? What if I was too late?

  “Bart?” I started calling when I recognized the final giant boulder before the eddy. “Bart! Answer me!”

  I hesitated before coming around the corner, hoping to hear Bart’s answering call. Nothing. No sound. No movement.

  “Bart?” I whispered, approaching the still form at the base of the cutaway bank. Even before I reached out to touch my coat, I could see it was soaking wet. The bit of hair that I could see past the coat’s collar was plastered to Bart’s head.

  Everything was completely drenched, sodden and muddy.

  Not wanting to see, I drew the coat back from Bart’s face. His skin was pale, his eyes closed. Soft rain fell over both of us. I leaned in close, hoping to catch a sound, a whisper, anything.

  When I felt the softest whisper of a breath against my cheek, I crunched my eyes shut so tightly my head ached.

  Bart was still alive—but only just.

  I tugged the coat back and replaced it with the blanket from my pack. I added the wet coat on top, and then I worked like a creature possessed. I snapped twigs, peeled back bark, and shaved the finest shards with my knife so the sparks had something dry to land on.

  Carefully I fed the tender flame, adding tiny twigs and small sticks one at a time, placing each just right so the fire did not collapse on itself.

  Soon flames jumped higher and stronger, and I risked leaving the fire for a few minutes at a time until I had a healthy pile of wood ready to burn and a blazing fire that easily held its own against the drizzle.

  Once or twice Bart moaned, but each time I went to his side he was just the same—still, pale and silent.

  I pulled Bart as close to the fire as I dared, noting with satisfaction when my damp coat began to steam.

  While Bart began to dry out, I boiled a little water in my gold pan. The men hadn’t bothered to take the mug tied to the pack, and the minute the water was hot enough, I made a cup of tea.

  Even without milk or sugar, the first sip was the most delicious drink I had ever enjoyed.

  “Bart,” I said, talking to him like he could hear. “You’ve got to have some of this.”

  I pushed the pack under his shoulders and held his head while I lifted the cup to his lips.

  He moaned.

  “Bart. Cooperate. You won’t get better if you don’t drink.”

  I tipped a little tea into his mouth. “Attaboy. Don’t spit it out. Drink it down.” I smiled when he took a sip. It wasn’t just the idea of the tea slipping down his throat that warmed me. A memory long buried came to me of my mother tending me during an illness. I must have been quite small, but I remember her lifting the cup to my lips, stroking my hair, touching my feverish cheek.

  I reached to smooth away the damp hair still stuck to Bart’s forehead, and it was almost as if my mother’s hand was guiding my own, helping me to save the boy who lay so close to death. “Good,” I murmured. “Have a little more.”

  When I laid him back down, it seemed he wasn’t quite as pale. I scraped together a thick mound of pine needles behind the fallen log and rolled Bart onto the crude bed. I propped the pack over top of him to help ward off the rain and piled as much wood as I dared on the fire. As darkness fell I wriggled into t
he narrow space between Bart and the muddy bank, then pulled my blanket and coat over both of us.

  The fire crackled and popped and, utterly exhausted, I heaved a huge noisy sigh. Bart mumbled something and shifted in his sleep. I put my hand on his shoulder and murmured, “Hush, Bart. All you have to do now is sleep.”

  And sleep is what we did until the noisy scolding of a squirrel woke me and the welcome rays of the sun touched my face.

  Chapter 15

  I sat up with a start. The fire was out. In my hurry to clamber out of my rough bed, I caught my boot on the log and crashed to my knees.

  “Careful. You’re likely to hurt yourself.”

  “Bart!” I spun around, beaming. “You’re awake!”

  He struggled to raise himself on one elbow, but the effort evidently caused him considerable pain and he sank back.

  “Where in tarnation are we?” he asked. “Where’s Emerson?”

  “You were right about Emerson,” I said, piling fresh twigs on the ashes from the fire.

  “I told you —”

  “Never mind. I know full well what you said.”

  We were both quiet for a minute, Bart lying back and catching his breath, me busy with the fire.

  I wondered if he was thinking about something else he had said—about Emily Rose just being a dream, not a real person at all. I didn’t want him to feel bad for the stories he had told. I wanted things between us to be right and honest, the way things should be between friends.

  “Bart—,” I ventured, my heart clamoring in my chest. “I won’t tell anybody about Emily Rose —”

  He closed his eyes and looked pained.

  “—if you don’t tell anybody about me.”

  His eyes opened and fixed upon me. He hardly blinked as I poured out my tale—how Ma died birthing my sister, Grace, who also died. How Pa was the next to leave this earth during our trip to California, and how that left my brothers to care for me. How they’d left me at the orphanage and I’d cut off my hair and run away to work for the Pony Express. I told him that my real name was Joselyn—but that it was all right for him to still call me Joe because it sounded the same as Jo.

  I was breathless and flushed by the time I was done. He regarded me seriously and then said, “You don’t do nothing by half measures, do you, Joe? I mean Joselyn. Jo. Your whoppers are a whole lot more interesting than mine.”

  Right then my stomach rumbled.

  “All we have is beans and tea,” I said.

  “Sounds mighty fine to me.” He gave me a broad wink and a big smile, just like always. Just like nothing had changed.

  After we’d eaten, I ventured a little farther downstream and was rewarded by finding Bart’s pack caught up in a tangle of roots hanging down into the water. Back at our crude campsite, I stoked the fire and spread out our meager possessions.

  Bart dozed on and off, waking only long enough to drink more tea or force down a little food.

  By the middle of the afternoon, I’d done all I could to make us comfortable and Bart had drifted off into a deep sleep. I knew that sleep was one way the body healed itself, and for a long time I just sat and watched the steady rise and fall of Bart’s chest, imagining each breath making him a little stronger.

  Eventually I tired of watching him and explored our tiny cove and the stretch of shore above and below our campsite. I gathered more firewood and tidied camp. I didn’t want to disturb Bart’s rest, so I crouched at the edge of the stream, scooped a little gravel and sand into my gold pan, and began to swish water and gravel around and around in the pan.

  “Well, I’ll be —”

  It wasn’t much, but at the very bottom of the pan lay a few flakes of gold, which I collected and added to my poke.

  I panned again and again, and though no one pan yielded much, each time I had swished out the water, gravel and sand, there was a little gold left behind for my troubles. Wouldn’t Bart be pleased when I showed him what a wonderful spot he had chosen to wash ashore!

  Each time my back or legs felt stiff or tired, I thought of how surprised he would be, how we would laugh over our terrible journey, and then I would try one more pan.

  I spent the rest of the afternoon collecting the lovely precious metal that glittered like hope itself in the palm of my hand.

  “Jo!” I nearly jumped out of my skin when Bart called out, his voice edged with panic. I realized he probably couldn’t see me.

  “I’m here!” I called back, standing and stretching, surprised at how stiff I was. “Look what I found!”

  I sat on the log beside him and shook the gold flakes into the palm of my hand.

  His eyes widened and he sat up. The effort left him panting, but he leaned against the log and let out a long low whistle.

  “We’ll call this place Joselyn’s Creek,” he said.

  I shook my head. “You’re the one who discovered this place. How about Bart’s Creek? Or Ridley’s?”

  Bart shook his head. “You have to be awake to discover something. It could easily have been Dead Man’s Creek—if you hadn’t —” His voice cracked and he blinked hard a couple of times. I studied the gold in my palm and then carefully tipped the flakes back into my poke to give him a chance to gather his wits.

  “Jobart’s Creek,” he said after a minute. “What do you think about that for a name, Miss Joselyn Whyte?”

  “I think my belly is good and ready for something to eat,” I said, but I couldn’t help smiling. Jobart’s Creek. I liked the sound of it.

  “Well, Mr. Bart Ridley, would you care for tea and beans or beans and tea?”

  “Yes, I would,” Bart said, and the sound of our laughter mixed with the chuckle of Jobart’s Creek.

  Author’s Note

  For those interested in learning more about the Cariboo gold rush, a visit to Barkerville during the summer is an invaluable pilgrimage. Astute readers will notice that some of the place names were spelled a little differently in 1862 than they are today.

  Books

  Art Downs, Wagon Road North: Photographs from 1863 of the Cariboo Gold Rush, 3rd edition, Heritage House Publishing, 1980.

  Art Downs, ed,. Pioneer Days in British Columbia: Volume One, Heritage House Publishing, 1991.

  F. W. Howay, et al., Cariboo Gold Rush, Heritage House Publishing, 1994.

  Meredith Bain Woodworth, Land of Dreams: A History in Photographs of the British Columbia Interior, Altitude Publishing, 1993.

  Richard Thomas Wright, Barkerville: A Gold Rush Experience, Winter Quarters Press, 1998.

  Websites

  British Columbia Archives

  www.bcarchives.gov.bc.ca

  Cariboo Gold Rush/Barkerville

  www.collections.gc.ca/cariboo/barker

  Historic Barkerville

  www.barkerville.ca

  Nikki Tate is the author of more than a dozen books for children, including Jo’s Triumph. Born in England, Nikki Tate lived in the U.K., Australia and various places in Canada before settling down on a tiny farm on Vancouver Island, where she is surrounded by horses, goats, birds, dogs, cats and koi. When she’s not writing or dreaming up ideas for new books or exploring far-flung corners of the world, Nikki works as a professional storyteller and writing workshop leader.