Davison opened the door and smiled. "You'll find plenty of blackberry vines down along that stream or anywhere near the Trinity River. They're mostly in bloom now, but you'll find a few ripe berries. Good to eat. Give you energy. Be careful about the thorns." He smiled, happy for having made this visit. "Leaves, stems and roots can be boiled year round.
"The laundry workers need your help before Bartow gets mad for having no clean shirts, or before the dysentery spreads to the general population. No telling what he'll do if that happens."
BY THE TIME SUN HAD peaked over the eastern rim of the mountain the next morning, SuLin and her father had pulled and stuffed the burlap sack full of blackberry vines. Her fingers had swollen from the tiny thorns. She hoped they'd picked enough.
She'd found a dozen ripe berries and had eaten them all. The green ones proved too hard to chew and tasted bitter, but the black ones tasted wonderful.
Her father spent a few hours boiling blackberry vines into a thick, syrupy tea with other leaves, roots, and mints from Davison, and had added selected herbs from his own medicine chest.
She wrapped an old garment around the pot to keep the lid tight and followed her father out the door.
The sun had already gone behind the treetops near the western rim of the mountains. It was mid afternoon and getting cold.
They reached the tent village of the Chinese community quickly and met Hazel, maybe twelve, the daughter of Wan LoFat. Some of the Chinese immigrants had been given English names, thinking they could better fit into this new culture. They called her Hazel Wan, putting her family name last instead of first. She'd been born here in America. She led them into the laundry.
Wooden posts held up the canvas roof covering the laundry, secured with ropes and staked to the ground. Canvas walls had been rolled up and could be let down in cold or windy weather. Two wood burning iron furnaces outside fed hot water into wooden sided vats inside.
About ten women worked with two men, their bosses. All of them, women and men, moved slowly, bent over from pain in their stomachs or intestines.
They gathered quickly around SuLin and her father. They all knew Chiang Po had come to help.
SuLin opened the pot, still warm from the fire, and her father told them to bring cups. They scattered and returned with tin cups, some dented, some newer; all clean, all with tin handles. One of the women looked healthier than the others and SuLin used her cup to fill the cups of the others.
The woman understood. She would wait.
Many rushed off by themselves and squatted over a nearby trench. They then returned for their cups of tea. By the time they'd emptied the pot, the sun had nearly gone behind the western ridge.
Her father led her out the other side of the laundry onto a gravel road near a two story brick building. The sign read, "Hocker House."
An American on the high front porch held a Chinese man by the back of his neck, showing him to mostly Chinese people who'd gathered on the road. Another American struck the Chinese prisoner across the face with closed fists again and again.
A third, bigger American walked onto the porch from inside and waited.
Upon seeing him, the other two took hold of the prisoner's arms and turned him to face the third. This bigger American kicked their prisoner in the chest and the others let go.
The very hard kick sent the prisoner into the air for what seemed a long time. He finally slammed onto the gravel road in a heap.
SuLin and her father rushed in and carefully turned him onto his back.
"Li ChinWok." SuLin barely recognized him behind the blood and swelling. It was hard to believe. They'd spent a week with him coming up from the Golden City.
Up on the high front porch of Hocker House, the third, bigger man stood between the other two, all with their long black coats spread wide, their thumbs hooked in their belts, all with silver pieces of metal pinned on their vests. The bigger man had a handgun holstered at the front of his belt, near his right hand. Everybody could see it.
One of the others had a gun stuffed in his belt on the left side with the handle positioned for his right hand. The shorter, well-fed man who'd been holding Li had no gun.
One of the Chinese crowded close behind SuLin and Po, trying to see Li.
Her father opened his medicine case and asked for clean water, but nobody moved. They all wanted to watch.
Up on the porch, the man in the middle said, "I've warned you Chinkies before, stay out of Hocker House. This here hotel is for Americans only." He pulled the gun and spun it once before gripping it, demonstrating his skill with this weapon. "Next time, me and my deputies won't be so friendly." He looked down at SuLin for a long time. His stare made her feel unclean.
Li ChinWok seemed not to be breathing. Why had he gone where Chinese were not welcome? Had he been asking questions about her uncle's gold, about the mining claim? How could her uncle have gambled in this place if Chinese were not allowed?
Why did this big American's stare make her feel dirty?
Chapter Seven
Since the death of her beloved husband, Matthew, Molly O'Brian had been unable to sleep well. Down here on the Barbary, living in her own boardinghouse, she always rose before the dawn.
What a dear, sweet man her late husband had been.
It was still dark out.
She lazed in bed, retracing days long past.
In 1846, the second year of the Great Irish Famine, after fifteen years of hardship, she'd moved to these Americas with her parents. They'd landed in the port city of Providence, Rhode Island.
Bless God.
Ten fast years had passed since. Mostly wonderful years, they'd been.
On arrival in Providence Town, her father had signed onto a whaling ship as a stoker for the vats, boiling blubber down to oil, and was gone to sea most of the time. Her and her mother had taken work at the fish market. It was there she'd first laid eyes on Matthew O'Brian, a well-dressed and handsome gentleman. Rumors said his job had been to inspect the docks for their fitness to hold cargo and harbor ships. A civil engineer, he was.
Their eyes had met one spring morning in 1847. They'd been married four months later in the Baptist Meeting House near the Brown University campus, from which he'd received his bachelor's degree.
Though a Baptist, he'd always respected her Catholic faith.
For three wonderful years they'd lived in a small apartment near the docks, close to his work. And, oh, how they'd tried to make a baby.
Lord.
She missed him so.
It was in 1850 that he'd started reading articles about rich gold strikes in California, reading some of them aloud for her benefit. She'd never received a good education. She couldn't read with what he'd termed a 'clear understanding.' He'd always read them aloud, the advertisements for civil engineers in this so-called golden city.
San Francisco had proved to be a wicked, murderous place. Her and her Matthew had seen nothing but hardship and hard work since they'd first arrived.
In the fall of 1850, they'd booked passage to Liverpool, from Liverpool to Cape Town, and from Cape Town to San Francisco. They'd arrived in the early spring of 1851 aboard Apollo and anchored near a makeshift dock. The entire crew had abandoned ship and rushed off to the gold fields to strike it rich.
Matthew had seized the opportunity. They'd salvaged materials from other abandoned ships to fashion a restaurant and pub aboard Apollo. The current dock and wharf system of the Barbary Coast had grown around their first business and had locked them in place. The constant flow of sailors, longshoremen, and carpenters passing on both sides of the ship had provided paying customers.
She and Matthew had taken turns cooking and feeding patrons, and serving them warm ale. They'd slept in shifts in the captain's quarters. During those days and nights, cash had flowed 24 hours a day and they'd saved money.
Only six months later, Matthew and four others had pooled their resources to purchase a piece of ground on what had since become Portsmouth Pl
aza, some of the most valuable land in San Francisco. After another six months, they'd opened Bella Union, one of San Francisco's posh casinos.
With money rolling in, they'd purchased properties on the Barbary and up on California Street, where Matthew had built them a fine house. He'd built this boardinghouse at the same time, as something for Molly to look after in her spare time.
Ho, you . . . what spare time?
Matthew had never been political, but his four partners had. They'd joined with other casino owners and some of the dock owners to form the Law and Order Party which had chartered with the national Democrat Party. They controlled the city's fire and police departments. The corrupted police department was now more feared than any criminals she'd heard of.
Matthew had spoken angrily about a scheme by which these casino and dock owners planned to buy up the entire waterfront to control import taxes and warehousing fees forever. They'd created a premise. The sand dune over which the city had been built was slowly shifting into the bay. Being a civil engineer, Matthew had publicly opposed what had come to be called the Bulkheads, a proposed project to stop the drifting of sand. He'd publicly argued that this shifting had not and would not ever occur.
She knew this to be the reason the dear, sweet man had been murdered. It had been nearly three years since Molly's husband had been shot at Bella Union, reportedly over a game of faro.
She'd wondered, at the time, how she could survive without him. Somehow, she had.
After his death, his former partners had presented a list of what they'd claimed were outstanding debts and obligations in amounts more substantial than the total of his properties and assets. She doubted their validity, but could do nothing, having been unable to read well or to question their complex bookkeeping.
Lord.
She missed that dear, sweet man.
After they'd presented their court order and seized everything, she'd had no choice but to move into her boardinghouse. Either by providence or by planning, dear sweet Matthew had put this property on Folsom Street in Molly's name. If they could have, those scoundrels would have taken this property, as well, leaving Molly no other option but to find work. Apollo had already been seized and demolished by the dock owners.
For three years, now, she'd been alone, a long time to be without her dear, sweet man.
Ah, I've done it again. She'd spent too much time dwelling on the past. Brooding over the man she dearly missed kept her awake nights and nearly always delayed her rising.
Early sun shimmered across the smooth water of the bay, under a perpetual layer of clouds.
Four rooms upstairs, each with four boarders, left nothing but work to be done. She swung her legs from under the covers and her bare feet hit the floor.
Sweet Mary.
What a cold place in the morning.
Martha Scott and Sally Portman banged around the kitchen on purpose, deliberately waking everybody up. The men upstairs couldn't hear the racket as well as she could, her bedroom being downstairs and right next to the kitchen.
She poured cold water from the pitcher into the basin and splashed her face. A brisk, waking experience it was.
By the time she dressed and walked into the kitchen, the morning sun had vanished above the dark overcast. Ceiling and wall lamps had been turned up, and there was plenty of light to cook breakfast for the sailors upstairs.
Raul Pires marched through the rear gate at his usual time, just getting off work, sweeping past hanging laundry. He climbed the back steps and entered the kitchen, always smiling at the ladies. "Good morning, you pretty ladies." Raul had once been a deep water sailor. Now he was the night doorman at Bella Union and her only full-time border.
Four years earlier, dear, sweet Matthew had watched Raul take on and severely damage two much larger men over a slipped card in a game of stud poker. He'd hired Raul on the spot, given him a good suit of clothes, and set him in charge of night security at the casino.
Matthew had been shot on Raul's day off.
After her husband's death and after the seizure of the house on California Street, he and Molly had moved into this boardinghouse. Raul had never said, but her husband might have asked him to look after her, should anything happen to him.
Her sweet Matthew had always looked forward.
The truth of it was, Raul made Molly and the other girls feel safe.
He took off and hung his coat from the high coat rack, a tall reach for Raul. He turned with a smile, rubbing his hands together. "What can Raul do to help?" He stretched both hands over the stove, still getting warm, and looked around for a needed chore.
Martha turned pork chops over the wide griddle on one of two large cast iron stoves and Sally broke two eggs at a time into a skillet on the other. Both ladies were in their fifties. They both loved Raul's innocent flirtations.
He stroked Sally's broad back, grabbed the empty firewood storage box, and went outside, leaving the door open a crack. He dropped the box to the porch with a loud clatter.
A man covered in mud and blood stood inside the yard, holding a sheet of laundry to keep from falling. She'd need to wash and hang that one again.
Raul leapt off the porch, but was not quick enough, and the poor man fell facedown onto the redwood planks of the Barbary Coast.
MIKHAIL'S MOANS WAKENED him. Sharp pain in his left foot, left hand, and head throbbed in unison with each beat of his heart. He clamped his eyes tight against bright light. Tears flowed down both sides of his face into his ears. He focused on the red veins inside his pink-colored eyelids. Maybe he could count the veins and forget the pain. His head hurt the worst. He stopped counting veins.
Am I dead?
He'd thought this once before, having seen the bright light. He'd heard stories about this bright light. There'd been no bright light in the dark hold aboard Silent Mistress.
"Draw the drapes," said a man. Very close.
The pink of his eyelids disappeared and Mikhail opened his eyes.
A hazy, gray-bearded man leaned over him. "Welcome back."
"Back?"
"You've been unconscious for three days." He grinned, seeing a million questions in Mikhail's stare. "I'm Dr. Anthony Lester." He stepped back and pulled a woman closer. "This here's Molly O'Brian. You're in the White Chapel Saloon, Molly's boardinghouse. Don't know why she calls it a saloon. No liquor's been served here since she moved in."
Sharp pain shot up from Mikhail's left foot and hand, competing with the pain in his head, pulsing with his heartbeat.
I am alive.
The woman said, "Look at him. He's got to have pain. I'll get some tea."
"Put a thimble of that black tar in it." The doctor watched her leave.
"What happened to me?"
"We've all been asking that same question. You stumbled through the back gate three days ago. You were covered with blood and briny, stinking muck from under the docks. Your hands and feet were cut up pretty bad, probably from crabs, and the back of your head had a bad gash in it. The end of your middle finger and the fifth toe on your left foot were eaten clean to the bone. I had to take those away, and I cauterized the both of them. I couldn't otherwise stop the bleeding. It's infection that worries us now. If bad infection sets in, you might not make it. The gash on the back of your head was nasty."
Mikhail closed his eyes and moaned, unable not to. Unbearable pain came in waves. The pain eased and he opened his eyes.
His left hand had been bandaged halfway to his elbow. Holding it upright eased that pain. He rested the weight on his elbow.
He'd been covered to his chest with a clean white sheet and wool blanket. It was impossible to lift his left leg and ease the pain in his foot.
The woman returned with a white mug and nice smile, a pretty lady. "Here, drink this. It'll help with the pain." She set the mug on a side table and helped the doctor lift Mikhail's head and back, propping him against feather pillows.
The tea tasted bitter. It was sipping hot.
T
he doctor said, "That's got some opium tar in it for the pain. She'll only feed you that when it gets bad. No more than twice a day."
Mikhail nodded and sipped. He already understood pain.
"What happened to you?" The doctor wanted information. "You jump ship or something? Is there a warrant for your arrest?"
"What?" Pain seared inside Mikhail's head. He was both surprised and angered by such a question. "I am Major, the Count Mikhail Diebitsch-Zabalkansky."
The doctor and woman smiled at each other, nodding and trying not to laugh. The doctor said, "Yes, of course you are."
They think I am liar.
Maybe crazy.
"I DON'T KNOW HOW MUCH more I can take." Sally stormed through the kitchen with the washbasin and stomped out to the back porch. If her eyes were darts, she'd have stabbed Molly in the throat.
Tension had been growing for two weeks, since this awful man had stumbled into Molly's backyard.
Molly stepped into the open doorway. "What happened this time?" They'd all had a gullet full of this Russian.
Sally dumped the washrags in the tub and emptied the basin onto the redwood planks of the yard. Her look answered Molly's question. Molly had never before seen her face so red.
Martha joined Molly at the back door. "How long will he be staying, I'd like to know?"
Molly had no answer. She and Martha moved out of Sally's way.
Sally stomped back inside, fists balled onto her hips, ready for a fight. "His lordship was wondering why I haven't yet washed, mended, and pressed his clothes."
Molly turned away from Sally's rage. She dared not laugh in her face at the gall of the man, so outrageous it was.
"He thinks I've nothing better to do than to wait on his skinny butt night and day." Sally wanted support, looking for answers nobody had. She paced back and forth, glancing at Martha once in a while, but mostly glaring darts at Molly. "I should have hit his fat head with that there wash basin, I so wanted his brains spilling into it."
DELIBERATE JUSTICE: The American Way Page 6