My Australian Story
NEW GOLD
MOUNTAIN
Christopher W Cheng
A Scholastic Press book from Scholastic Australia
For my relatives and especially my father.
Thank you so very much.
And for Bini who said yes. CC
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
The Diary of Shu Cheong: Lambing Flat, 1860–1861
Historical Note
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also Available
Copyright
The Diary of Shu Cheong
Lambing Flat, 1860–1861
Preface
I am Shu Cheong, the first son of number three son of Grandpa Loh. I have two brothers and three sisters, cousins and aunts and very many uncles. We live in a village near Canton, China. It is very different to this place where I am now, New Gold Mountain—the place we call Xin Jin Shan. The white men call it ‘Australia’. I travelled here with my third uncle and my father. We were to mine for the precious gold and return to our village with the mined gold. Our whole village would be rich. Baba and Third Uncle were chosen from all the men in the village to travel here, leaving the other villagers at home to manage the farms and the families and especially the aged parents. Baba requested from the village elders that I be allowed to accompany them, as I could speak a little English. Unlike many Chinese who have come here, our villagers did not borrow money for our passage. This means that our village had no debt, and we could all share in the gold we found. We were very blessed.
But now that is not so. Baba and Third Uncle lie here in New Gold Mountain, dead from a sickness while we walked to the goldfield, so I am alone here in this strange land. I could not send Baba’s body home, as a good Chinese son should do. His bones would need to be cleaned and washed and carried in a box back to China to be buried. I have no money, no gold enough to pay for the sending and so I am disgraced; my family cannot worship the ancestors and Baba’s restless spirit is floating in this strange land. I may never return to China.
I now live with a new Uncle who was assigned to look after me by the local Chinese Society where Baba died. They buried my Baba and Third Uncle. All I have is Baba’s small bag with his ring and weighing scales, his China dirt, cap and coins, which the men gave me. Uncle is not family like Third Uncle from our village, but out of respect I address him as Uncle. He teaches me the Chinese ways—the ways my Baba would teach me were he alive. Uncle is a letter-writer for the Chinese miners who want to send news to their families, and he writes for the moneylenders and for the white miners too. He can write in both English and Chinese. He can also read the Almanac—the Chinese book with advice for every day of the year.
He is teaching me well, Uncle. I think I have been here with him at this Gully for one or two moons. He is also teaching me more English words. Uncle says that I learn the words very fast and soon I could write this diary in English words instead of Chinese. Each day, as well as my tasks and now this diary, he makes me practise my Chinese characters and the new English words. He has a list of the words that I must learn, a list that grows each week. He adds new words to the list. He tells me I must do writing the diary every day.
Maybe some day, if I practise hard, I will go back to China and show the family how I have applied myself to learning English. If I can do this then I will be the first of my family to have achieved this. This is good, but then I remember that I do not have the bones of Baba with me to take back to China. I feel alone here with no family. Uncle is very good to me, but he is not family.
Day one
What do I write? Do I write about me? I am Shu Cheong, first son of Grandpa Loh’s third son. Do I write about the weather? It is very, very wet here. Will anyone ever read this? I do not think so. What is the reason for this task? To learn my English. Uncle says that I have to write in the English words, not the Chinese characters, but this I cannot do without very much attention. I will write these first words in Chinese and then I will see his reaction because I do not know the English words well; they are very hard to do.
Uncle wanted me to start writing this diary in English, but I did not. I wrote it all in Chinese because I am Chinese and that is what Chinese men write.
Uncle says that I have to write down the words of the things that happen each day to me—my thoughts, my ideas, the people I see. He says that it will be important for me and others who read this book. He says to do it as best I can and truthfully. He says, ‘Write it for your Baba—it is what he would want,’ and about that Uncle is right. But when I have written the words, I will burn the book for Baba so that it will be there with the spirits and he can read it.
This writing has taken me much time. I am not used to writing so much. The candle is low, my hand hurts and I hear the noise from the town. I am going to sleep.
Day two
I told Uncle that I will be writing what is happening and what I see, so here I am again after the evening meal, writing Chinese words and a few English words that are very difficult for me. It is much easier to write one Chinese character than many English letters to form a word.
There are many Chinamen here at the Lambing Flat, I think at least one hundred, but there are very many more white miners. We live separate from them, in Blackguard Gully. They are not very kind to Chinese miners. They think that we are here just to steal the gold, but we are not. We are mining just like them. Most Chinamen here in the Gully have only recently arrived from Canton. They will have to mine much gold to pay for their passage. Not like Baba, Third Uncle and me. After we arrived in New Gold Mountain, we worked in a few different places as we crossed the mountains. Some men here have been mining in many parts of this land. Some have come from a place south of here called Victoria where they did find gold! But it was not a good place. There was fighting there between us Chinese and the white miners. I hope that there is no fighting here.
I thought the miners from Victoria would have mined enough gold to go back to China by now, but they are still here in New Gold Mountain and still mining for gold to pay their debts. They have been mining here for many moons under the direction of the Bosses. Soon, these miners tell me, they will be able to mine for themselves, and then they will go back to China as rich and prosperous men. I do not believe them. They owe much gold for the money that was lent to bring them out to this land.
Our village in China saved the money to send Baba, Third Uncle and me to this land. We did not borrow any money. But I don’t know how I am going to get back to China without Baba to help me. I have not earned any gold yet.
Some of the white miners, too, have come from other countries. Uncle has told me that there are miners from the Americas, England and other countries. They even came here with their families—children and women who do not do the goldmining—so they will have to find much more gold than the Chinese to pay their way back to their home countries. They have families to take back, too. I wonder, will they return to their own countries when they have enough gold? Maybe they will never mine enough gold. Maybe they might stay here. Maybe I might never mine enough gold. Maybe I might stay here, too.
Day three
Uncle has said to write the date not the day number. Today is ‘Tuesday, September 4’. So now I am writing the date to begin each day. Today is the third day of writing this book and it is Tuesday and it is September the fourth.
It is raining here very much. Even the small trees and bushes around us are bending in homage to the rain. Rain is good. It fills the creeks and the dams with the water that we need for washing the dirt dug from the mines (this is how we find the gold). But the ground has become muddy
and our tent is damp. Water was flowing down the sides of the tent this morning, even trickling through a hole in the canvas. We should have dug a ditch around the outside. Uncle has requested that I move all our possessions onto the sleeping bed before they get wet. One of the Chinamen had to move his tent because he woke this morning to find water running through like a little river. I cannot do much in the raining days. I cannot visit the claims, as the ground is too muddy. I cannot even do much more writing, because the pages are damp. There is not much to do.
Wednesday, September 5 (day four)
It is still raining here. I do not like the rain. At home in China, I enjoy the rain. Our parents permit us to play in the village instead of working in the fields, but here the rain is too heavy. It hurts when it hits the skin, even through the clothes, and it makes the ground muddy. I slipped on the path as I quickly walked to Boss Chin Yee’s tent and I fell, landing on my knees. My clothes were soaked with dripping mud. I spent this afternoon sponging the mud off during a break in a storm, but the more I did the sponging the further it spread over my clothes.
Boss Chin Yee, who has been in New Gold Mountain for some years, has been telling his men that it would be good not to wash the mining dirt now but to leave it until later. ‘Better to build dams and raceways to collect the water for when the rains stop and disappear,’ he said. ‘When the rains have stopped, we will be happy, but we will soon cry to the gods for it to start again.’
While I am writing the candle is burning, but when I sleep the tent is lit not by the candle but by the lightning flashing across the sky. It makes beautiful shadow patterns on my tent, but I wish that the lightning would happen without the rain. I think the ground is wet enough now and I am sure that there is enough water.
Thursday, September 6
I wish that Baba had never requested the village elders to allow me to travel here to New Gold Mountain. I wish that our village had never heard that gold nuggets the size of clenched fists are sitting on the top of the ground here. (The people who told us that were not telling the truth. I have not seen any gold sitting on the ground.) Then I would still be in my village with my family. I would not be knowing that my father is lying dead here in a strange land with big-nosed people, and I would not be sitting here wasting my time writing words in a journal. This writing is useless. It won’t help a Chinese boy find gold and it won’t help him make his way back to China. And I am wet.
Friday, September 7
Today is the sixth day of writing this book. I can’t think of anything else to write. It is still wet. I hate the rain.
Saturday, September 8
Some of the men have heard that there is a new gold find in a creek nearby. They have packed their tents (which must have been heavy to carry, because they are damp from the rain) and have rushed there. They want to be the first on the field to stake claims. The men bundled all their goods together in two baskets, suspended them on a pole and shuffled away. Uncle says that this happens often, that men hear of new gold finds and rush to mine there. They follow the call of the find. ‘People like us,’ Uncle says, ‘we stay where we are. We don’t need to keep following the call as long as we are close to the mining. The miners will always find us.’ He has what Chinese miners need—the knowledge of English. (Even some of the Bosses don’t travel to the mines. They send their team of men out to do the mining and then wait until they return each day. But many Bosses do follow their men to the mines, to supervise the diggings. Maybe they don’t trust them to return with all the gold that they find.) Most of the men are still here in the Lambing Flat.
Sunday, September 9
There is nothing to write except that today is day eight of diary writing.
Monday, September 10
I was thinking of what I would be doing, were I back in China. I would be helping Baba and Mama and the villagers in the field to prepare the ground for the winter resting. I would be visiting the elders of the village. I would be taking care of my brothers and sisters through the day for my parents. I would be playing with other village boys. I would not be getting wet like I am here. I would not be writing in this book the events of the day, so that some day someone might read about me. I would not be waking at night imagining Baba’s spirit lost, floating in a foreign land, with strange and difficult spirits to battle with. And I would not be wondering when I will be returning to my beautiful China.
Tuesday, September 11
Today, I was sitting near the path that leads to another gully nearby, close to the camp, sheltered by the boulders and the trees. This is my secret place where I can go to watch and listen and think of my beautiful China; here I cannot be seen. Some white miners—I call them Big-Noses, for that is what white people have—came close by, stopped and were quietly talking about buying meat. They had not eaten meat for long time. One of the miners started talking about the meat he bought at another creek. He said that the meat he ate was stolen!
‘Write it down. Write it down. Don’t just tell me,’ Uncle muttered when I began to tell him. ‘One day, maybe soon, maybe long time, when you old with long silver beard like me, maybe someone else read back and find out what really happened. Or maybe you read back your diary and remember. But you must stay away from those men. They are no good for trouble.’
‘Remember what, Uncle?’
‘Remember how you begin here in Xin Jin Shan and how things happened. You now remember all things, but as your brain fills,’ he said, tapping my head, ‘you start to forget. Brain is not ready for remembering everything.’
‘But what do I write?’ I questioned.
‘You write what you saw. You write what you heard. You write what you think. You write. Start with what the miners were saying. Quickly! Fie dee lah, fie dee lah.’
There was no more questioning Uncle. When he said fie dee lah, I knew that there would be no more conversation. That was it. So now, as he instructed, I shall write down what I heard this morning:
There’s a man called Mr Fogg, who butchers meat out at the Creek. He cuts up the cattle and then sells it to the miners. Many of the miners are buying the pieces of meat with gold and not money. That is good for the butcher because he is getting his gold the easy way, but it is not so good for the miner because the meat is not worth as much as the gold. But this Fogg man, he doesn’t buy his cattle from a farmer. He buys it from a man called Gardiner who steals the cattle from the farmer. The men call him a ‘cattle duffer’.
I know stealing is not good, but how does a person steal cattle? They are so big and they make very much noise and they smell.
Wednesday, September 12
I am not going to write everything that happens each day. On some days there is nothing of interest to write about. They are just the same as other days. I rise from my bed. I straighten the bed. I go to the toilet. I sweep the tent (except when it is damp and muddy). I honour the ancestors. I clean the clothes. I eat. I assist Uncle by running errands. I prepare the meals. I visit other miners. And I think of my beautiful China. This is all ordinary and not worth repeating each day, except for worshipping my ancestors and remembering my beautiful China.
When I tell Uncle, he says that if I am not writing my diary then I have to practise my English words. I have to write down the English words for the Chinese words that he dictates. I do not know which is worse, writing his English words or my nothing-happening days.
Monday, September 17
Nothing new has happened on the field today, but Uncle has said if that is so then I have to write down my feelings.
My feelings: I hate being here. I feel lonely. I miss Baba and Mama, and I feel not worthy because I cannot earn enough gold to send back to China and I can’t pay respects to Baba at his grave. There is no other Chinese boy on the field; probably not anywhere in New Gold Mountain is there another Chinese boy. I have not seen another boy since I left the village back in China.
A boy should not spend all his time learning to write English, or digging the gardens, or cleani
ng the tents, or cooking the meals, or doing the menial tasks he is told to do. I want to play games and do what boys should do. I want to go back to my home in China. But this I cannot do, because Baba is here. But if I could mine and earn gold, maybe I could take Baba back home. I should be mining. I will ask Uncle to allow me to start mining for the gold.
Tuesday, September 18
I thought that it was simple. The sooner I mine for gold, the sooner I can earn my passage back to China—maybe even enough gold for the village to share—and the sooner Uncle would be free from the burden that he has been assigned: me. So I asked Uncle if I could start mining. He looked at me and said, ‘Boys in Xin Jin Shan mining fields do not dig in the mines. Boys in Xin Jin Shan mining fields can only help the miners, if they mine at all. They can rock the cradle; they can shovel the dirt; they can collect the water. That is what boys do in Xin Jin Shan.’
‘Then I respectfully request you to let me join one of the Bosses’ teams to rock the cradle.’
‘Not yet, Shu Cheong. Can you swim? To rock the cradle you need to be near the creek, and the creek is deep and you could fall in the water.’
‘Teach me to swim.’
‘I do not teach you to swim,’ replied Uncle. ‘Dog teach you to swim. Watch the dog next time we attend the creek. Now you have to help me. I need you to collect for me the vegetables from Mr Fung.’ That was the end of the conversation. I still don’t mine and I cannot swim.
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