by Judith Pella
“Consulted. It means ‘asked.’ I would have to ask Kiernan.”
Li nodded.
“So how do we make this tea?” Victoria asked as Li began grating a piece of ginseng.
“We make like any tea,” Li replied, pushing her dark black braid over her shoulder.
Victoria watched as Li put a kettle of water on to boil. “Did your husband say anything about the progress on the railroad?”
Li shook her head. “He only say he get job washing clothes.” She waited for the water to heat, then added the ingredients. Lovingly, she checked her son and nodded. “I think he better now.”
Victoria agreed. “He’ll be weak for a while, and we have to be careful that he doesn’t get pneumonia. Measles weakens the lungs.” She remembered her mother saying this. “If he appears to have trouble breathing, we’ll make him a mustard plaster.”
Li settled down to some mending she’d been working on, and Victoria picked up her Bible and began to read. The twelfth chapter of Mark caught her attention at the thirtieth verse.
And thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind, and with all thy strength: this is the first commandment. And the second is like, namely this, Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself. There is none other commandment greater than these.
Her mother had always taught her to live by these two commandments, assuring her that if these were observed, all previous commandments would also be obeyed. Victoria stole a glance at Li. The other woman’s attention was riveted on her tiny stitching. She gave completely of herself, no matter the task. And it was always evident in her work. Victoria supposed her attitude was one grounded in her cultural upbringing, for she seldom ever saw Li sit idle. Not that there was much time for anyone of poor means to sit idly by, but Li and the other Celestials Victoria had chanced to know were hard workers who eagerly focused on their task and appeared to never lose sight of the goal. They were good people, when you took time to know them. Many folks considered the Chinese rather queer with their mannerisms and dress, their food choices and different-sounding language, but Victoria had known only goodness from Li and Xiang.
Sometimes it was exceedingly difficult for them to communicate. Li had learned English quickly—first from missionaries in San Francisco and then from Anna Judah, who had labored meticulously with the girl to teach her proper English. Victoria had picked up the task in Anna’s absence and, in doing so, had also learned a fair amount of Chinese. But in spite of this, it was still difficult for Victoria to understand the Chinese philosophies of life and religion. On more than one occasion she had questioned Li about her upbringing, wanting only to better understand the Chinese people. Li’s family had followed the teachings of Confucius or K’ung-fu-tzu, as did most Chinese. It wasn’t taken on as a religion, according to Li, but rather as a manner of living one’s life.
“Master K’ung did not talk of God,” Li had explained. “He taught of goodness. He say, ‘Respect the gods, but have little to do with them.’ ”
But Victoria knew that while goodness was something she had been taught since childhood to strive for, Christianity focused on being saved by grace rather than by works. Of course, it didn’t appear to Victoria that Confucius was worried about saving anyone from anything in particular. His teachings were more a litany of conduct—a standard to live by in order to get along with others.
She thought of the verse she’d just read. “Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself.” The Golden Rule said to do unto others as you would have them do unto you. Confucius, Li had told her, agreed with this philosophy in total. He was quoted as saying, “What you do not want done to you, do not do to others.” Li said his words were dated to a time well before the birth of Christ. When Victoria had mentioned this to Kiernan, he had commented that God had a way of getting His message out, no matter the barrier of time or language.
“Li,” Victoria said, putting the Bible aside on the table. “Was it hard to give up the training of Confucius in order to become a Christian?”
“Not so hard for me. Hard for others,” Li replied, not even looking up from her sewing.
“Why is that?”
Li continued working. “I close door to my people at home. My family sell me and know they will never see me again. I very angry. I no want to live for their ways. The missionaries tell me Jesus good and loves me. So I forget my life there and live new life here. Xiang feel same way. He sold, too. His parents dead, and his brothers no want to share their gold. They sell my husband, and he very . . . how you say . . . bicker?”
“Bitter,” Victoria corrected. “He’s bitter.”
Li nodded and tried the word again. “He bitter. Say Buddha and Master K’ung no help him, so he no care for their ways. Sometime it hard. I raised to remember ancestors, make sacrifices to honor them. I think about my people still—I wonder how my little sisters are and if they get sold too.”
Victoria couldn’t imagine anything so heartless and horrible. She tried to envision her parents selling her to strangers. The fact that she was adopted served even further to remind her how fortunate she had been to be raised in a loving home with plenty of money and material items.
Li surprised her by continuing on a slightly different line. “The Bible say to live a good life and be good to people. Master K’ung say much the same. It hard to understand eternal life. It hard to understand God.”
Victoria smiled. “I agree. Sometimes it’s very hard to understand what God has in mind.” She paused and studied the petite woman. Li wasn’t very old, not even twenty. Yet here she was thousands of miles away from her loved ones and the home she had known. She was married and had a child, and her entire way of thinking had been challenged by foreigners. Not merely challenged but forcefully altered.
Li had told her how the American missionaries had taken away her few possessions, encouraging her to leave behind all of her Chinese influences and to take on only those of American teaching. Of course, now Victoria could better understand why Li didn’t put up more of a protest and hide some of her things as many of the Chinese immigrants did.
She had cast off her old life, taking the long skirt and blouse the missionaries offered her—following their encouragement to pin her hair into a tight bun on top of her head. But after marrying Xiang and moving to Sacramento, Li had returned to the more comfortable styles of her people. She might be embracing America as her new home, but some familiarity was still required for happiness.
The long, flowing tunic of linen, sometimes silk for very special occasions, complemented by wide-legged pants of the same material, made up the costume most commonly worn by the Chinese women of the area. And while some pinned their hair up in circular braids around their ears, Li usually preferred to have her ebony tresses braided down her back, in nearly the same queue fashion of her husband. Her high cheekbones and almond-shaped eyes gave her an exotic look that Victoria thought quite beautiful. Her spirit and gentle heart only served to accentuate her appearance. Li was beautiful inside and out.
“Do you miss your homeland?” Victoria asked, only realizing after she’d spoken that the words had been said aloud.
“I miss my sisters,” Li admitted. “I not miss the fear and ugly ways of the dowager empress and her soldiers. Many talked of coming to Gam Saan, Gold Mountain. But many died for such talk. Dowager empress say she cut off heads of every man who try to leave for Gam Saan.” She paused for a moment and looked at Jia, who had begun to fuss. “Tea ready now. I give some to Jia.”
Victoria watched her go to work and tried to imagine what it would be like to risk your life in order to seek a dream in a new country. Not only the risk of striking out for an unfamiliar land, braving storms at sea to cross the vast ocean between China and America, but then living with the threat of decapitation if your plans were found out before you could escape. Not only that, but Victoria knew from things Li had said on previous occasions that most of the Chinese who left their homeland had ful
l intentions of returning. They would go to Gam Saan and pick up their basketful of gold and return as wealthy men to their families and native land.
But Victoria knew that was seldom, if ever, the case. She had seen the poverty-ridden Chinese as they struggled to coexist in a world that didn’t want them. She had known from Anna Judah of the hideous treatment these people had suffered and of the life of prostitution many of the young women had found themselves forced to endure. Li had been one of those women, and the very idea caused Victoria to thank God for the protected life she had known. It also made her most intent on continuing to help the Chinese in any way she could. The O’Connors might be poor and needy in the sense of possessions, but they were not so poor that they couldn’t offer a helping hand to their neighbors.
8
It wasn’t long before Jia was back to his laughing, roly-poly self. Li felt confident that he had suffered no long-term effects from his illness, and when Xiang came for them, she heartily thanked Victoria for her generosity.
“You good friend, Victoria. I sorry to go so far away from you.”
“Not half as sorry as I am to see you go,” Victoria admitted, barely holding back her tears. It was only because of Li and Jia that Victoria had forgotten her loneliness in Kiernan’s absence. What would she do to feel better once Li was gone?
Jia laughed and pulled Victoria’s dark hair. She reached out and took the baby from Li. “I shall miss you both, so very much. Please come back and visit me.”
Victoria touched the downy black softness of Jia’s hair and kissed him lightly on the head. He was so very precious. Such a sweet and gentle soul. If she had a son of her own, Victoria knew she’d want him to have just such a disposition.
Her eyes filled with tears, and she quickly handed Jia back to Li. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t going to cry.”
Li nodded. “We share our tears with our smiles.”
Victoria wiped her cheek. “I suppose that’s what good friends do.”
The house was uncommonly quiet after Li and Jia had gone. Victoria had tried to question Xiang about the railroad, but he wasn’t given to conversing much with women, and she could easily see how uncomfortable he was. He did mention the possibility that the Chinese would be hired on as actual workers for the Central Pacific because white workers were often called to the hills by their desire for gold. Victoria could well understand that problem. She’d seen gold fever at its worst. Men fighting, even killing, for the elusive little mineral. It was a powerful motivator.
Realizing she’d not kept up her correspondence during Jia’s sickness, Victoria sat down to pen a letter to her sister Jordana. Finally, the two could communicate because their mother had managed to tie up the loose ends of their family and locate her missing children. A strange turn of events had sent her brother Brenton and sister Jordana from their established locations in New York City to Omaha in the Nebraska Territory. The biggest reason for this had come in the arrival from Ireland of Caitlan O’Connor, Kiernan’s baby sister. Only to hear her mother tell it, Caitlan was far from a baby. She was a progressively minded young woman with a will of her own and an internal driving force that apparently gave her all the motivation she needed for life. Victoria thought she sounded very much like Kiernan.
Taking up her last letter from Jordana, Victoria scanned it for anything pertinent to the letter she was about to write. Brenton and Caitlan had thrown Jordana a surprise birthday party. Victoria mentally calculated that her little sister was now eighteen years old. That would make her youngest brother, Nicholas, almost thirteen and the baby of the family, Amelia, nearly eleven. How could this possibly be? Time had flown and Victoria had scarcely known its passing. Why, she herself had just turned twenty-seven.
A sigh escaped her lips. Twenty-seven. Could she really be that old? In a few short years she would be thirty, and what did she have to show for it?
She looked at the dingy little apartment. The front room consisted of a living room and kitchen combined together, with a single fireplace and kitchen stove to provide heat for their comfort. There was a small bedroom, but nothing more. Nothing of beauty or elegance. Nothing of her life from so long ago.
Oh, there were a few pieces, packed in a trunk at the end of her bed. Little things, mementos really, that she had brought with her to the West. She had always thought that she and Kiernan would set up a grand house and then send for their things. Or that they would make so much money in the goldfields, they would return to Maryland as wealthy as any two people could be. But neither outcome seemed possible now.
She returned her attention to the letter and dipped her pen.
April 1864
Dearest Jordana, Brenton, and Caitlan,
No doubt by now you are enjoying a pleasant spring. California has turned lovely with flowers of every imaginable kind growing in pots and boxes along the way. The trees are flowering and green, and occasional rains keep everything washed clean. I’ve not heard from Kiernan in several weeks, but I feel confident of his health and well-being. Charlie Crocker, his supervisor, is good to see to his care, and I know Mr. Crocker would keep me informed should something happen to bring Kiernan harm.
She continued to write about the weather, the rapid growth of the city, and of her longing that they come to California at the first possible moment.
I know that the way is long, but Kiernan is anxious that Caitlan join us, and I am anxious to see all of you. You could stay with us for as long as you pleased.
She glanced up again to observe her tiny home. Maybe she could talk Kiernan into moving them elsewhere before the traveling trio arrived.
A knock sounded on the door, followed by the announcement of a telegram for Mrs. O’Connor. Victoria startled and jumped up, nearly spilling her ink bottle. She steadied it, then went to the door, trying as hard as she could to look calm. Had something happened to Kiernan? Or her parents?
“I’m Mrs. O’Connor,” she told the young man.
He shoved the telegram forward, and Victoria frowned. “I have no penny to give you.” He shrugged, tipped his hat, and took off down the stairs that stood just diagonally to her apartment.
Victoria quickly scanned the telegram and breathed a sigh of relief. It wasn’t bad news. In fact, it was wonderful news.
See Mrs. Hopkins for ticket to join us in Roseville. STOP. Celebration on 25 April. STOP. Will surprise Kiernan. STOP. Charles Crocker
Good old Charlie, she thought, closing the door and smiling. Then glancing upward, her smile broadened. “Thank you, Lord.” This was just the answer to her prayers. She would see Kiernan in a matter of a few weeks.
——
The twenty-fifth of April dawned cool and lovely. Kiernan was in no mood to deal with Charlie’s demand that he accompany him to Roseville for the celebration of the opening of the first regular passenger train. The celebration simply held no interest for him. He was happy that the line was finally in place and productive. The promise of generated revenues could only be a bonus for the struggling line. But he had no interest in a party. He was tired and restless. He longed for his wife and for a good hot meal, not for a railroad soirée.
“You’ve already decided that nothing good can come of this, haven’t you?” Charlie questioned as they stood in anticipation of the train’s arrival.
“I’ve seen a dozen or more of these celebrations,” Kiernan replied. “I’m not supposin’ this one to be much different from the rest.”
“Well, you just never know.” Charlie gave him a sound slap on the back and a mysterious wink.
They heard the whistle in the distance and knew the first train of the day was running well ahead of schedule.
“Look at that,” Charlie said, holding up his watch. “They’ve made it in just under thirty-nine minutes. Sacramento to Roseville.”
Kiernan nodded. It was excellent time. The townsfolk had gathered at the makeshift platform in order to cheer the first regular service train into town. There was great hope for the railroad, and this
was just the first of many small towns to benefit from a connection to the bigger cities of California.
A surge of people caused Kiernan to grimace. “I’ll just be waitin’ by the trees,” he told Crocker and took himself away from the crowd and toward a stand of oaks and buckeyes.
He didn’t blame Charlie for not understanding his feelings. He’d asked for time to go home—to see Victoria and make certain she was all right. Instead, Charlie requested—no, he demanded Kiernan’s presence at this grand opening of locomotive service to Roseville.
Normally, Kiernan wouldn’t have minded Charlie’s insistence. The man was good to him. But Victoria had been alone in Sacramento for over two months now, and he’d scarcely had a word from her. California’s population was nearly seventy percent men, or so Kiernan had heard. And from what few women he’d seen, either reputable or otherwise, he figured this was true. Knowing it only worried him more. Victoria had already experienced the pestering of lonely, eager men in Sacramento. What was he thinking leaving her there to fend for herself?
Of course, he’d had very little choice. First, Charlie had taken him along to Dutch Flat, where they spent several weeks discussing strategies for moving ahead with the Dutch Flat wagon road. This road would open an easier route between Sacramento and Virginia City, saving teamsters over three days of eating dirt on the less congenial, but long established, Placerville stage road. It was hoped this toll road would generate funds for the Central Pacific while laying the railroad through nearby.
After Dutch Flat, Charlie had left Kiernan off at Newcastle to help with the strenuous work at Bloomer Cut. Kiernan thought it was what he wanted. The pay appeared very good, and Charlie had boasted more than once that if he could afford to pay only one man, that man would be Kiernan O’Connor. But some things were more important than money.
He looked off past the trees to a green meadow. Tiny yellow and white flowers waved in the breeze. Victoria would like them, he thought. Tempted to pick a few and press them between sheets of paper, Kiernan smiled. Although it might be silly and sentimental, he could always mail them in his letter home.