by F. M. Parker
Tom smiled back as the woman swept by. The town held many beautiful women. Some of them were quite vicious and dangerous. And somehow that added to the appeal of this city on the ocean.
Tom recalled the woman and the men of the night attack. The men were dead. What of the woman? What would he do if he found her?
He reached the wharves. The fog still held sway there, but it was thinning. The sun was a pale moon, striving to break through.
Tom saw a pier that had a schooner, two clipper ships and a steamship tied up to it. He walked out along the wooden platform. The hurry-skurry pace of loading and unloading had not diminished from the day before and he often had to step aside to avoid the workmen and the piles of ship freight.
A puffing steam crane was hoisting a cargo net full of long, narrow crates aboard one of the clipper ships. Curious as to what might be the contents of the containers, Tom drew near one of the seamen. “What is in those boxes?” Tom questioned.
The man turned to look at the cargo being swung into the hold of the ship. “There’s coffins in those crates. Each one has a dead Chinaman in it, all ready for burial back in their country.”
“Are many bodies sent back to China?”
“Every man that can afford the charge has his body returned home. The Flying Cloud has two hundred of them going back. That French ship, Asia, on the next pier over is carrying three hundred and twenty corpses. Those who are poorer have just their bones sent back to China. That’s cheaper, since it doesn’t take as much room. The Pacific took seven hundred sets of bones last week. It was in all the newspapers. That was the biggest number ever on one ship.”
Tom thanked the seaman and returned to the shore. He heard loud shouting along The Embarcadero where a large throng of men had assembled.
“Goddamn heathen coolies,” yelled a man. Other men took up the call, turning it into a chant.
Tom pushed through the gathering to the front. Hundreds of Chinese men were filing down the gangway of a large steamship and coming along the wharf.
The Chinamen, each carrying a small bundle and formed up in a line two men abreast, moved toward the shore. They closely watched the much larger white men shouting unfriendly names at them.
The foreigners looked well fed to Tom until he noted their bulk was accounted for by two, perhaps three sets of clothing worn one over the other.
At the shoreward end of the wharf and under a portable shelter, two American port officials sat at a table. A Chinese interpreter and a pair of policemen stood beside them.
The Chinamen were queued up in two lines in front of the table facing the port officials. They answered a short series of questions and then the policemen searched them.
“What are the lawmen looking for?” Tom asked a middle-aged man in workmen’s clothing standing near him.
“Opium,” answered the man shortly.
The man suddenly yelled out. “Send them all back to China. Bastards’ll do work for pennies and an American can’t find a job that pays enough to live on.”
The man lifted a half brick he had hidden beside his leg. He cocked his arm to throw.
Tom shouldered him and the brick flew over the heads of the Chinamen, struck the wooden decking and bounced into the onlookers on the far side. A man cursed and shook his fist across the wharf.
The man who had thrown the brick twisted to look at Tom. “Say, fellow, you made me miss. Why’d you do that?”
“You could kill a man with something that hard,” replied Tom.
“Then you did it on purpose. Why you damn Chinaman lover, I’ll smash your face.”
Tom did not want a fistfight with one of the angry congregation of white men. He unbuttoned his coat to expose the butt of his six-gun. “Unless you are good with a pistol, don’t push your luck too far,” Tom said in a flinty voice.
The man swallowed, his Adam’s apple pumping up and down. “I was just funnin’, you know.” He slid away into the crowd.
Tom wound his way closer to the inspection area and listened to the questions and watched the rough hands of the lawmen check the bodies and clothing of the Chinamen.
The small, brown men answered the queries in the briefest of words. They remained stoic and unmoving to the prodding fingers. Yet Tom saw the doubt and uncertainty in their eyes. They were brave men to make such a dangerous journey. Many of them would die in the so-called Golden Hills.
Tom walked away from the docks. He had gone but a short distance when an uproar of angry shouts erupted. He glanced back. Two blocks from the inspection station and out from under the protective eyes of the policemen, white men were throwing mud and stones at a group of Chinamen.
A man, apparently a guide, perhaps one of Quan Ing’s men, was gesturing and calling for the new arrivals to come more quickly after him. The men broke into a trot and drew away from the abusive and threatening Americans.
Tom left the docks. Following the whims that caught him, his route angled onto unknown avenues and streets. He talked with scores of people about what he saw.
In the evening, he gradually directed his footsteps toward the high part of the city on the sand hills.
On a crooked little street in the edge of Chinatown, he found a strange sign over a doorway. The words read: “Pipes and Lamps Always Convenient.”
Tom stepped inside and peered about a small, smoke-stained room.
A fat Chinaman reclined in a wicker rocking chair that faced the door. Four cots covered with dirty blankets were behind him.
One of the beds was occupied by an old Chinese man. He lay with eyes half shut, like a dead man.
On the floor by his head a lump of dark substance the size of a hazel nut stewed and fried in a bowl over a lamp. A long pipe stem extended from the bowl to the old man’s mouth. He sucked on it and opened his eyes to lazily watch the smoke curl up around the lamp. He drew on the stem again.
His eyes grew more glazed. His old face took on a haunting, faraway look. The pipestem fell from his slack lips.
Tom remembered the death of Yutang. Was this man lying on a dirty cot in San Francisco also sailing away home to distant China?
A second aged man slid sideways past Tom and entered. He paid the man in the wicker chair a quarter and received a small portion of opium and a pipe. He hurried to one of the cots and began to light the lamp.
“It costs a nickel to watch and a quarter to smoke,” said the man in the chair. “You owe me a nickel at the least. Do you want a pipe?”
“No. Here is your nickel.”
Tom wandered slowly up the hill streets. This day he had seen beautiful things and ugly things, selfish people, sad and frightened people. What did it all add up to? Where was the logic to it? He would ask Quan Ing about the meaning. Perhaps he would travel to Los Angeles and discuss them with John Kelly. Old men should have the answers and be able to tell him the many things he wanted and needed to know.
Tom hastened his steps. Tonight he would have supper with Quan Ing and Mingren, and tomorrow walk many more of the streets of this amazing town of San Francisco. He would check the docks daily until the ship American Wanderer sailed into port.
CHAPTER 18
Pak stood on the bow and stared ahead as the clipper ship American Wanderer came through the Golden Gate and into San Francisco Bay. A low, dark overcast hung over the water, restricting the range of his sight to a half mile or less. Mist stretched down like thin curtains from the clouds. Choppy waves ran before a fresh northwest wind.
The ship passed Alcatraz Island on the port side and swung to a southeast course. A patter of rain ran over the ship’s deck and rattled on the oilskins of the deckhands hurrying to adjust sail to the new heading.
Pak went along the deck to the open hatchway of the wheelhouse. He desired to know more of how this sleek ship was handled. He stood unobtrusively, yet where he could see inside and hear.
The captain noticed Pak. He nodded at the silent Chinaman. The man had been all over the ship, watching every aspect of her opera
tion. As an upper deck passenger, he had the run of the ship except the officers” and crew’s quarters. He always kept himself out of the way of the working crew.
“Mr. Connel, we should be at the pier in San Francisco in an hour,” the captain said to the first officer. “Let’s hope the fog doesn’t become worse.”
“Yes, sir,” responded Connel. “Do you want to use our own long boats for docking or the harbor charter boats?”
“Our seamen need the practice after all these weeks at sea. Use four of our boats. Seeing how the wind is coming, put two on the bow and two on the stern.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll make ready.”
The long wooden piers of the city became visible bit by bit in the fog. The ship changed heading to take position for docking. Four of the six long boats were lowered by straining crewmen.
Sailors slid down into the bobbing boats. Ship’s lines were tossed to them from the deck. The seamen in the boats bent to their oars and took the slack out of the lines.
The last sail dropped and was lashed down. The ship began to drift under the shove of the northwest wind. The captain called orders from the wheelhouse and Connel relayed them to the chief bos’n and his seamen in the boats on the water. The boats caught the ship, pulled on it and controlled the direction and speed of its movement. The vessel gently nudged the dock. The hawsers were made fast.
“Tell the chief a job well done,” called down the captain.
“Yes, sir,” answered Connel.
The captain continued to speak. “Inform the port authorities of our cargo and ask them to send representatives at the earliest opportunity. Tell Ziyang to prepare our live cargo for unloading. Move smartly, for there is not much daylight left.”
“Yes, sir,” replied the first officer.
“One last thing. The starboard watch can have twenty-four-hour shore liberty starting in one hour.”
Connel saluted upward. “They will like that, sir.”
Rain began to fall, fine misty droplets settling out of the dark heavens. The fog thickened.
Pak returned to the cabin and Lian. He said to her, “If it is agreeable with you, I would like to wait until the rain stops and let the men who have spent these many weeks in the foul hold of the ship leave first. I want to see how these Americans handle the arrival of so many of our people.”
Pak did not tell Lian that he also wanted to lengthen the last few minutes with her as long as he could. In truth that was his most important reason.
“That is all right by me,” said Lian. She stood close to Pak, very close, just barely not touching him. I am in no hurry, she thought.
She had been much dismayed upon being told by the elder Ho she was to be sent to a man in the land called America. She had said nothing, silently angry. The ordeal of going to a strange man had become even worse as she had grown to know the man Pak. More than that, she had developed a deep fondness for him. She knew he returned the affection.
The long journey was now over and new men would take control over her. That safe feeling with Pak would be gone. She locked her hands together and steeled herself not to speak to Pak of her concerns.
They went outside the cabin and stood in the lee of its walls where the rain did not hit them. The first officer walked down the gangway and toward the city. He disappeared into the fog before reaching the end of the pier.
Part of the Chinese gold seekers were brought up from steerage and herded in a tightly packed mass on the upper deck. The men breathed deeply of the fresh air and smiled at each other with the pleasure of the voyage being ended. Then some of the smiles weakened as men surveyed the drizzling rain and the dismal mist obscuring their view beyond a hundred yards.
The first officer returned and came aboard the ship. He shouted orders at Ziyang and the seamen helping him with the steerage passengers.
The Chinamen began to file down the main gangway. The starboard watch of the crew left by the aft gangway and laughing and jostling each other playfully, proceeded along the wharf.
* * *
Tolman broke away from his shipmates and set off speedily toward Chinatown. He reached Pacific Street and turned left up it. He finally halted at a three-story house with a covered balcony extending out over the sidewalk.
Two men stood in the back of the balcony, blending almost completely into the murky shadows. When Tolman halted on the street and did not move, they came to the railing of the balcony and stared down at him.
“Why do you stop here? What do you want?” asked one of the men.
“I want to talk with Yaobang Hu. Tell him my name is Tolman.”
“You wait right there,” said the man. He turned and walked into the building. The second guard remained, staring through the gloom at Tolman.
The seaman was pleased with his plan. Hu was a high lieutenant in the Chee Kong Tong, the most secretive and violent in San Francisco. The members dealt in slave girls, protection and murder. Tolman had worked with them in times past and always at a goodly profit.
Never, however, had he made a profit and taken his revenge at the same time.
The first man came back and motioned for Tolman to climb the outside stairway. They searched him when he reached the balcony. One of the men took his navy revolver.
“I want my gun back,” Tolman told the man.
“Maybe later. Go on in.”
Tolman entered and looked nervously at the five Chinamen seated at the table. It was cool in the room; still he felt the sweat break out on the palms of his hands. Every one of these men was a killer and had no liking for any white man. They would murder him for the mere practice of doing it.
He settled his attention on a thin-faced man with part of his left ear missing. Yaobang Hu had risen up through the tong organization as a knife fighter. He showed the scars.
“Well, Tolman, I have not spoken with you in more than a year,” said Hu in English. “Do you have something good for us from China?”
Tolman wondered how Hu knew the port of call of his last voyage. But then the tong leaders had spies in every major port and on most ships. Part of their strength was in knowing what occurred in business and politics.
“Something very valuable. A beautiful Chinese woman,” said Tolman.
“Women are not very valuable. There are many of them. I could put out an order for a thousand and have them shipped from China on the next ship.”
“Not like this one. She is special. She had a cabin above decks. A man came all the way across the ocean to bring her here.”
“Almost all Chinese women are brought to America that way so they may arrive as virgins. Tell me why this one is so very rare and what you want from me.”
“She is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. She is not one you put in a crib or even in the fanciest whorehouse. She is the kind you sell to rich old men.”
“We always have need for a woman such as that. How old is she?”
“Very young, sixteen, maybe seventeen.”
“What do you want for this information?”
“Two hundred dollars.”
Hu leaned forward. His lips curled in a wary smile and his eyes filled with mistrust. “That is cheap for the kind of woman you have told us about. There is more to this than what you say.”
Tolman realized if he lied and Hu discovered it, his body would be found in the bay. “I want to see the man with her die.”
“You want us to kill one of our countrymen for you?”
“Have your man give me back my pistol and I will go help you take the woman. The man will be with her. He can be disposed of then. We should hurry so we can catch them on the dock or at least on The Embarcadero. In the fog and rain, it should be easy to do.”
“I agree,” said Hu. He spoke to his men and then to Tolman. “These four will go with you. Let them do it silently. I do not want the noise of a gun. That would bring the Fearless Charlies. But you must go with them and point out the correct woman and man.”
“Good. I want to be ther
e when he is killed.”
“Then it is arranged. Leave now. Tell the man to return your gun.”
Hu pointed at one of his men. “That is Yun. He will pay you two hundred dollars when the woman is taken and if she is as you say.”
Tolman nodded. He wondered if he should tell Hu what Ziyang had said, that the man with the woman was some kind of warrior. But then there should be no need for that, since Hu’s men were expert killers themselves.
* * *
Pak and Lian watched the double line of Chinese men file slowly along the dock. The front end of the string of shuffling figures faded away into the fog while more men were still coming from the hold of the American Wanderer. A strange thought came to Lian. Was there really a city called Fahlanszeko, San Francisco, and a land of golden hills? Or were the men simply walking into nothing?
The rearmost of the gold seekers plodded into the mist and were gone. Pak did not stir. He would not be the first to end this final moment with Lian.
Ziyang came to them. “It is becoming late. Do you plan to leave the ship today?”
“Yes,” replied Pak. “Please tell me how to get to Dupont Street.”
Ziyang described the turns and the number of streets to cross on the route. He pointed at the weakening light on the wharf. “Dusk is here. But you still have time to reach your destination.”
Lian and Pak entered the cabin. Lian lifted the two bundles that held all her possessions. Pak took up one small parcel.
“That is all you will bring?” asked Lian. “What of your other things?”
“This ship leaves on its return trip to Canton in four days. I have arranged for passage home on it.”
Lian felt her heart fluttder within the cage of her chest. Soon she would be separated from him and would never see him again. She gripped the bundles tightly so she would not beg him to take her back with him.
“Shall we go?” asked Pak.
Lian merely nodded her head and did not look at him.
* * *
“Walk beside me instead of behind,” Pak told Lian as they moved through the growing dimness on the pier.
The wind had grown still and the mist hung stationary. Beneath the wharf, wavelets struck the pilings with little wet slapping noises. All else was silent as if the fog had smothered any sound that might have come from the city.