Blood and Iron

by Paul Yee

  When Pretty Boy’s hand swelled up, Big Uncle pierced it and let the pus ooze out. Then he sprinkled Iron-Hit powder on the wound. Everyone shouted out advice but Pretty Boy told us to leave him alone.

  May 28

  We met five workers from downriver. I remembered them from the same boat that brought us to this site.

  We saw one another and burst out laughing because we looked exactly the same. Thin and tired. Filthy clothes. Dirty bandages. Cracked boots. Tangled hair sprouting from furry foreheads. Straggly beards. I had no stubble, but grime covered my chin.

  They were looking for a runaway co-worker, a man who had been spooked after an accident killed his friend. But these lazy visitors were hardly searching. They carried jugs of rice wine, bought from a Chinese merchant rafting down the river. We said if they should see the wine merchant again, they should send him to us.

  “Do you have any money?” they asked.

  “Do you?” we asked.

  We laughed again. Their bookman advanced cash to them from their wages. Our bookman is too lazy.

  Later the Sto:lo men from earlier brought us a dead deer. In return, Cook gave them all the tea he had. Cook had no idea how to butcher the animal, but Gambler had worked as a butcher in China. So Pretty Boy got some hearty soup to drink.

  May 30

  Limp Leg slept in camp yesterday but today he came with us. His cough was not better but he did not want to miss work.

  We got new pickled vegetables with our rice and dried fish. Cook said they had arrived with the firewood on the steamer a few days ago.

  “Why didn’t you serve it earlier?” growled Gambler. “I was going to murder you in your sleep last night!”

  May 31

  One minute Slant Mouth Bing was working and the next minute he was dead. I still cannot believe it.

  A thick slab of tree split off and dropped on him, crushing even his timepiece. Then we saw how the tree was black and soft, rotting from the inside. Crew Boss shook his head sadly. We were all grim and quiet except for Limp Leg, who moaned and wailed.

  Bookman told us to bury Slant Mouth Bing right away. Big Uncle protested, “Our contracts say our bodies will get shipped back to China.”

  “Otherwise his family will think he was sold into slavery,” chimed in Mouse.

  “Are you stupid?” retorted Bookman. “Forty to fifty days on a ship? The coffin will be full of maggots by then.”

  Instead, he wrote in his book about Slant Mouth Bing dying on the job. He asked three men to sign the page as proof that the truth had been told. I looked away but Wong Brother pointed to me and said, “He knows words.”

  I wrote my name and home village. Wong Brother saw my age and his eyes widened in surprise. Bookman wrote Slant Mouth Bing’s real name: Wong Jee Jeung. His father had wanted him to be an army general.

  To my surprise, Bookman took a shovel and helped with the digging.

  Chapter 4

  June 1882

  June 3

  We took rice and a whole cooked fish to Slant Mouth Bing’s grave. Helper lit candles and incense sticks. When the men asked where the fish had come from, Cook pointed to me. Yesterday I took my hook and line and went to the small stream. Bookman pulled out a jug of rice wine, and poured it over the grave. It felt strange to be bowing here. It was like being back in China.

  The forest hung over us like storm clouds. It made me think of Hell. An iron road is madness, I thought. It’s a road to nowhere! How could Ba come back here for such miserable work?

  These days, with every swing of my axe, I glance up at the tree, to make sure nothing might drop onto me. I screamed and jumped back once, but it turned out to be just a dead branch. I felt very stupid.

  June 4

  Wong Brother and Big Lump followed me as I left the camp.

  “Going fishing?” asked Wong Brother. He grinned and held up a hook and line. “Remember, my father was an iron road worker too,” he said. “Like yours.”

  Wong Brother and Big Lump are distantly related, so they kept naming people they might know in common. They talked about getting a map, and marking the spot where Slant Mouth Bing was buried. They want to be able to come back here and remember him.

  We brought back five fish, each of them good-sized. Cook and Helper grumble that I make more work for them, but at least the workers have fresh meat.

  June 6

  Today Money God and Big Lump felled the biggest tree yet. Its trunk was eight feet across. Money God counted over six hundred rings. This tree was from the Yuan dynasty! Big Lump said the Company should be building the iron road to go around such trees instead of chopping them down. That way, train passengers can have impressive things to see.

  June 9

  They were lifting timber when Gambler slipped. The log landed on his foot and left it swollen and red. His boot had to be cut open to free the foot. Big Uncle said the gods were punishing him for shouting at Limp Leg. Gambler retorted that every crew member had been injured at least once. I never knew so many accidents had happened. He asked for needle and thread to save his boot.

  June 10

  When we returned to camp, Limp Leg was gone. He was in no condition to go anywhere! Cook said the boat delivered supplies, and Limp Leg boarded it for Yale. Big Uncle did not believe this but Cook swore it was the truth. He said Limp Leg did not want to cause more trouble here.

  This is terrible. If Limp Leg dies, it will be our fault. All of us will have his blood on our hands. We chased Limp Leg away because we feared his sickness. The situation worsened a few days ago when Gambler, Buck Tooth and Little Uncle moved out of Limp Leg’s tent. They didn’t want to get ill. Mind you, not everyone was cruel. Pock Face and Mouse stayed with Limp Leg, and neither one of them is sick.

  Limp Leg rested for a day and returned to work yesterday. Big Uncle advised him to rest but he would not listen. In the middle of the morning, he collapsed, coughing blood. For the remainder of the day, he sat against a tree with his eyes closed. I gave him water. Big Uncle asked Bookman to send Limp Leg to Yale, to the Chinese doctor. Limp Leg said he had no money. Big Uncle offered to lend him some. Limp Leg refused it. Little Uncle, Gambler and Buck Tooth got angry. They demanded Bookman send Limp Leg to Yale whether he wanted to go or not. They shouted that another death in the crew would bring bad luck to all of us. Limp Leg begged them to let him earn a living. He was crying.

  I should have spoken up, and called for kindness to be shown to sick people. But I am the youngest in this crew, and no-one listens to me.

  June 11

  I should have gone fishing, but the mosquitoes are especially thick around the mud. The rain and swamps breed large amounts of bugs, much more than at home.

  Bookman handed me a letter, from Ba. I read it and dropped it into the fire. He didn’t say a word about coming to fetch me, or where his camp was. Should we not be together? What kind of a father is he? We are an ocean away from home! He should be watching over me! I came to work for the sake of the family, but Ba hardly treats me like family. Well, I am fine without him!

  Then I felt like a bad son and tried desperately to recall his words. Day and night, he said, he worried about me. He had tried to leave the first boat and find me. But the crowd around him was too thick. The boss of the Chinese company told him I would be safe as long as I stayed with a gang. Lastly, Ba said I must work hard and watch my expenses.

  I think the real reason he does not want me with him is he knows how much I hate gambling.

  June 13

  This morning, Big Lump went into the woods to squat. He crawled back, blood streaming from his chest. A big dark animal had sprung up and slashed him so hard that he flew through the air. He heard a loud roar and waited for the beast to eat him. But when he looked up, the animal was gone. We would not have believed him if he had not been bleeding so badly. Everyone plans to stay closer to the camp from now on. It is going to stink terribly!

  June 14

  Men are still joking about today’s ba
d accident. I cannot believe they are so hard-hearted.

  Pock Face was chopping at a tough soggy tree root when his axe sliced his foot. He howled with such drama that everyone ran to him. When I arrived, the axe was still stuck in his foot, its handle poking into the air. Blood seeped through the cracked boot. Pock Face’s muddy hands fumbled at the blood, as if trying to scoop it back into his foot. Two men held Pock Face as Money God yanked out the axe. Pock Face screamed like a pig being slaughtered. Then the men held his leg high as Big Uncle pressed on the cut. When the bleeding stopped and got cleaned up, the wound looked smaller than expected. The thick boot had provided good protection, but it will be many days before Pock Face can walk again.

  This happened when we were clearing the ground. We had done all we can for the new camp, so Crew Boss used explosive powder to remove the tree stumps. Bookman took us deep into the woods. We heard a thud, and then another and another. Bookman listened carefully and counted, and then he led us back to the site. It looked as if a typhoon had swept through. Stumps were overturned and uprooted. Wood chips and timber pieces lay everywhere. Wet earth clung to the trees. We broke down the larger stumps and dragged them away.

  Big Lump was upset too, at missing the explosions.

  “Nothing to see,” we told him. “No pretty colours, no fireworks.”

  June 15

  Big Lump got up this morning to work. At breakfast, he gasped and bent over in pain. When he lifted the cloth from his wounds, his entire chest was flaming red. Greenish pus leaked from the cuts. IronHit powder was no use. Big Uncle called for cold boiled water to wash him and to cool him down. We walked quietly to work. We had all assumed Big Lump would recover quickly because he was one of the strongest men in the crew.

  June 17

  We had a visitor: Bookman’s boss, the contractor. He is a Chan, from Lian Chang Company. He came to pay respects to Slant Mouth Bing. The crew followed him to the grave, where he lit candles and burned incense and spirit money. At the clearing, he praised us for working hard. The iron road was Canada’s biggest undertaking, he said, and we were lucky to be working on it. The iron road would change the face of the land. Then he hurried off to talk to Crew Boss.

  Money God cursed and muttered, “Lucky? What’s he talking about? People are dying!”

  Big Uncle chased Chan and mentioned Big Lump’s injuries. Chan promised to see him but when we got back to camp, Big Lump said no-one had visited him.

  June 18

  Bad news from far away smothered us like the black fog of bugs in which we live. We brooded for the entire rest day. Chan told Bookman yesterday; he waited for morning to talk. America has passed a law stopping Chinese workers from going there.

  Buck Tooth panicked right away, claiming that Canada will slam its door too, even kick out the Chinese who are already here, people like us. Big Uncle says not to worry because Canada needs workers to build the railway. Gambler asked for wine: he wants to stop thinking.

  Everyone has relatives in America. We hear of how the Red Beards want to drive out the Chinese and keep the country for Westerners only. Now America’s government is moving in that direction. Cook worries that the police and army will no longer protect the Chinese. Pock Face’s grand-uncle and twenty others were killed about ten years ago when Red Beards attacked the Chinese living in an American city.

  We know the Red Beards here do not like us. But we are doing a good job building the railway, aren’t we? That makes me sad, to think that no matter how hard we work, the Red Beards still dislike us.

  June 20

  At breakfast Pock Face came running. “Gone,” he panted. “Not moving. He’s dead!”

  Big Lump was curled into himself, like a child. Big Uncle felt for a pulse. He shook his head and sent everyone out.

  “Are you sure?” demanded Mouse, who slept in the same tent. “Could he be sleeping deeply? Could he be getting better right now?”

  We carried him to the forest, to a spot near Slant Mouth Bing. Bookman came by, writing in his notebook, so we could not dig as deep. Wong Brother swore under his breath at Bookman. The rain made the digging even harder.

  So far, two men in our crew have died: Slant Mouth Bing and Big Lump. Limp Leg may be dead too, but we are not sure. I went through my journal and counted eight accidents (almost one per week!), but I only recorded the serious ones.

  June 21

  I counted twenty-six work days since last payday and took care not to spend a single penny on ANYTHING. Still, I didn’t get $26, not even before my deductions. A half day was deducted for paying respects to Slant Mouth Bing, for following Boss Chan to Slant Mouth Bing’s grave, and for digging Big Lump’s grave. When I protested, Bookman replied, “One, you should have paid respects to Slant Mouth Bing on the rest day. Two, no one said you had to walk with Boss Chan. Three, it didn’t take twenty men to dig a grave.”

  “What about Slant Mouth Bing’s grave?” I sputtered. “You helped dig that one.”

  Different deaths, he explained. Slant Mouth Bing died while working, but Big Lump injured himself on his own time.

  I hate these bosses. If only the mosquitoes could suck out all their blood. My expenses totalled $12.47 so I earned $13.53, only half of what I had expected. I had no idea how all my daily costs added up!

  I hear other men grumbling, but I don’t want to discuss my problems with them.

  June 22

  At breakfast, everyone asked, “Did you hear? Did you hear?”

  We all heard a human baby calling. It must have been an animal, for there was no other explanation. On the way to work, we all walked close together.

  June 23

  On the third day after Big Lump’s death, only a few of us watched the candles and incense burn. Cook provided no extra food. We used our own lunches. Wong Brother poured wine. He said just before Big Lump left home, his wife had given birth to a son.

  Before we left the grave, Wong Brother handed out coins to everyone there. It was a Canadian 25-cent piece!

  “Big Lump was an ordinary man,” Wong Brother called out. “Buddha teaches us to be charitable, so both Big Lump and his wife want his life and work to help make your life and work a little easier. If Big Lump owed any of you money, I will be glad to settle the account. And if any of you owed him any money, that debt is hereby cancelled.”

  We all nodded gratefully. On the way back, Wong Brother told me that Big Lump had good points and bad. These final acts of generosity would smooth his way into the afterlife.

  I asked Wong Brother why he had taken this on. Usually it was the deceased’s sons who did that.

  “Big Lump was my kin,” said Wong Brother. “Here, we should all care for one another.”

  At our clearing, Toothpick lay flat on the ground. His arm was pinned under a heavy tree. They had been rolling it away when it stopped. Toothpick went to see what was underneath. He stuck out his axe and then his hand, and the ground gave way and the tree rolled over his arm.

  Big Uncle muttered, “If he had gone to pay respects, he’d be fine right now.”

  And he would be 25 cents richer too!

  We all pushed the trunk, even Crew Boss and Bookman. Luckily, Toothpick’s arm had sunk into soft earth.

  June 24

  Big Uncle was moving a log when it crushed his left foot. This had happened to his right foot before. Now his left toes were bleeding and turning black.

  Bookman took Big Uncle’s water jug and smashed it against a tree. It was not water, but rice wine. Back at camp, Bookman found more liquor in Big Uncle’s tent. He shouted, “Fool, I warned you, drink your wine only on the rest day. If you drink at work, you are a danger to all of us.”

  He smashed all the jugs on the beach. From the steady way that Big Uncle spoke and worked, I never imagined that liquor affected his judgement.

  June 25

  I went to the stream. Wong Brother was there, sitting against a tree. He spoke without opening his eyes. “I’m running off soon.”

  I had
nothing to say. He told me he would look for gold upriver. He would look for Seto and Soo.

  “Is it so bad here?” I asked, hoping to change his mind. Those two old miners had been here for twenty-two years, and still had not struck gold. How could Wong Brother possibly succeed? I reminded him that if he ran off, then he would lose the wages he had earned.

  “No so bad?” he snorted. “People are dying! Getting maimed! The bosses think only of money. Land, sky and water, they hate us too! They entrap us. If we stay, we will die!”

  I suddenly saw how very angry he was. It made me wonder about myself. Why was I not furious about the men’s deaths? Because I believed that if I did not like a job, then I should quit. Yet, here Wong Brother wanted to leave, and I did not like it. What was the matter with me? Was I afraid to lose this friend? Or was he afraid of this work?

  “I’m no coward,” he said, as if he had read my mind. “I cannot die or lose an arm here. No one else in my family can work. Do you understand?”

  Of course I did. My earnings were badly needed at home too. I had earned $17.05. Grandfather could use it to get back his store. Too bad it all depended on how fast Ba could repay our debt. I had been furious at Ba and Grandfather’s gambling, which had dumped me into this danger. This work wasn’t meant for a boy my age! I didn’t want to die or be maimed for life! Maybe Wong Brother was right to direct his anger at the bosses. They were the ones standing back and watching us get injured!