Where Heaven Begins. Rosanne Bittner
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course, giving her body to a man someday only out of love and through God’s divine blessing. So far she’d not met one young man who came close to giving her even the slightest feelings of desire in that respect. And the night Reverend Selby had come into her room with his hideous suggestions only made the thought of being with any man repulsive. It would be a long time before she forgot that awful night!
She forced back another urge to cry as she smoothed her plain green dress with a tiny white ruffle at the high neck. It matched her small green pill bonnet. She wore black ankle-high button shoes and looked properly prim and respectable, certainly not the harlot the Reverend Selby had tried to convince others she was.
It was midafternoon. Neither the Reverend nor Mrs. Selby were home. Good. She’d not bother telling them or anyone else goodbye. She’d go to the church graveyard and visit her father’s and mother’s graves one more time. Oh, how it would make her heart ache to leave them and Christ Church behind, but she had no choice now. They would want her to be with Peter. Steamships left every day for Alaska; and she’d pay passage on one of them and leave.
She took a last look at the room she’d occupied since she was a little girl and shared with her mother for those last months of suffering. Then she straightened, hooking the strings of her handbag on her arm, a handbag that carried all the money she possessed in the world. She picked up her carpet bags and turned, walking out the door. This was it. There was no turning back.
Chapter Three
I am a stranger in the earth; hide not Thy commandments from me.
—Psalms 119:19
August or not, it was foggy and chilly today. Elizabeth was not unaware of the stares of the hundreds of men who milled about. She could not forget the letter she’d received just this past spring from Peter, in which he’d casually stated that any women who came unescorted to Alaska were generally considered to be there for prostitution, although a very few managed to open legitimate businesses such as eateries, or to find work as seamstresses.
Elizabeth had practically memorized Peter’s letters, of which she had only two. It was not easy getting mail out of Dawson and all the way down to San Francisco. She’d received one letter over the winter after his arrival last fall, and the more recent one this spring. She’d written Peter right away about their mother’s death, and it was possible he’d not even received that letter yet, let alone the letter she’d written two nights ago.
Now she stood on the wharf waiting for passengers to disembark the Alaskan Damsel, a steamer that had made numerous trips to Seattle and on to Skagway via the Inside Passage throughout the past two summers.
As she’d suspected would be the case, not many people left the boat, yet hundreds waited, ready to board. For most who made this journey, it was a one-way trip, and like most of them, she’d purchased a one-way ticket herself. Once she found Peter, she had no intention of ever returning to San Francisco.
She shivered from the damp fog, then jumped when the high smokestacks of the Damsel billowed black smoke, accompanied by three shrill whistles, beckoning all who intended to board her. She wondered if that included the three painted, gaudily dressed women who stood not far away batting their eyes at some of the men. It made her ill to think what such women did to make their money. Not far from them stood a group of Chinese, conversing in their strange sing-song tongue. The men’s hair was worn long and braided into tails at the backs of their necks. Other Chinese as well as black men worked at the docks loading and unloading supplies.
Different. All so different. Did God actually expect his followers to love people like that? She liked to think that she could, but if she actually had to associate with them…Oh, Lord, I fall so short of Your will. I am surrounded by heathens and harlots and men whose hearts are filled with a lust for gold and painted women. How can I truly love such people? I know that I am no better than they, and yet it is so hard to think of them as equals. Teach me how to love all people.
Perhaps if her father had not been murdered by people very much like these…. The memory still brought a stabbing pain to her heart. Her father used to come home and ask the family to pray for thieves and murderers, alcoholics and drug users, harlots and men who visited them. He’d truly been a man of God, for she believed he honestly loved these people in the way God intended. He’d died serving the Lord. The same people to whom he’d ministered had turned around and murdered him for a mere three dollars. They had even stolen his clothing, leaving him naked and disgraced.
To realize God meant her to love that kind of people brought a great struggle to her soul. The congregation mourned, but they also had repeatedly warned her father not to go to such dangerous places as the Barbary Coast, a section of this dock area not so far away from here. No one else in her father’s church, most certainly not Reverend Selby and the deacons, had anywhere near the courage of her father when it came to bringing God’s Word to the lost souls of the world. The remaining members of Christ Church had decided it was best simply to serve the current congregation and the surrounding, more civilized neighborhood. If anyone on the Barbary Coast wanted to find God, they were welcome to come to the church and be saved.
Only her brother understood what their father’s calling was all about. He was following William Breckenridge’s footsteps, heading into dangerous, wild country just to minister to those who would have no other source of hearing God’s Word.
She took a deep breath, praying she could drum up the same courage it would take to make this journey. Baggage and supplies were being unloaded from the boat, as well as several large, well-guarded crates that took several men to load onto wagons.
Gold ore? She’d heard that thousands, maybe even millions of dollars worth of the treasured ore arrived almost daily in Seattle and San Francisco, to be shipped to stamp mills. Her brother’s last letter revealed that stamp mills were already being built in the Yukon so that the ore could be processed there. Rumors of the value of the gold coming out of the mines in the Yukon abounded. It was difficult to know what to believe.
The crowd around her grew more excited as they watched the armed bank guards that surrounded the ore wagons. Men began shouting about gold and getting rich, whooping and laughing.
“I ain’t never gonna have to work again!” one man yelled.
“I’ll build my Sarah the biggest house in San Francisco!” yelled another.
Elizabeth began to see what the term gold fever meant. Why was being rich so important? She thought about how Christ had never owned a thing to His name but the clothes He wore and the sandals on His feet. If her brother were to, by chance, find gold, he would use it to build his church and help the poor.
The wharf gradually became even more crowded. The wagons surrounded by men with rifles rumbled past, and Elizabeth picked up both her carpet bags and made her way to a less-congested area, getting bumped and shoved as she struggled through the crowd, keeping the Alaskan Damsel in sight so she could get on board as soon as the boat took on its passengers. She’d paid the cheapest rate possible, deciding she would have to bear the discomfort of sleeping below deck using one of her bags as a pillow. She would need the greater share of her money once she arrived in Skagway for the clothing and supplies it would take to make the journey to the Klondike, or so she’d been told by the man who’d sold her the steamer ticket. He’d advised her not to make the trip at all, most certainly not alone, but she’d made up her mind and there was no going back. She might end up stranded in Skagway without enough money to go any farther, but at least there she’d be closer to Peter.
“God will guide me,” she’d told the man. Deep inside she struggled against fear and doubt, secretly praying almost constantly for the Lord to help her do this.
She removed one glove and ran her fingers over the buttons of the bodice of her dress, making sure none had come undone. Today she wore a simple gray frock with a black velvet shawl and black velvet hat, wanting to appear as plain as possible to make sure strange men realized she was a proper lady. Her hair was wound into a bun at the base of her neck, and she checked to be sure the pins were still holding it tight. It was so thick she always had difficulty holding it in place, whether with