New Gold Mountain

by Christopher Cheng

  Once the haters arrived, they rushed at our camp attacking every tent and any Chinese miner who had not started to run. The Big-Noses were hooting and yelling, hunting us down like animals. Every fleeing Chinese miner they caught was attacked with whatever weapon a Big-Nose was holding: they were whipped with ropes and sticks and even branches ripped from trees, and beaten with shovels and pick handles and axes and lumps of wood. Some were surely killed. And as we escaped, they felled our tents, knocking them down with whatever weapon they held, first looting them of any gold that they could find. Two gunshots rang out above the screaming and crying of the beaten Chinese. They also threw burning torches and set our camp alight. As we fled, we could see a huge bonfire onto which they threw anything that we owned. All our furniture, our books, all the food, all our mining tools, all our clothes—everything is now destroyed and our gully is ablaze.

  They carried flags of their countries, but they also had a large new flag. I cannot forget that flag. It had a white cross over a blue square, stars, black coloured words that said ROLL UP on each side, left and right, and the words of hating—NO CHINESE—boldly displayed. Uncle saw the banner, and just for a moment he slowed. ‘No. Not good,’ he sighed. ‘Must go quickly, and far.’

  He runs fast for an old man, does Uncle, and I think that I was tired before him, or maybe it was strength given by the ancestors to look after me. At times I stumbled as we ran the well-trodden path through the tents, and I could feel Uncle’s arms direct me as my feet missed their steps. We ran around our diggings. We ran into the bush. We ran through the bush, getting whipped in the legs from the branches. We ran until we were on the road, the road on which we had fled many moons before.

  Uncle and I and a few other men were able to run ahead of the rest. We managed to stay in front of the Big-Noses because we were running through the trees, and the Big-Noses on their horses had to dodge the branches. As I ran, I looked back and saw many hundreds or maybe thousands of the Big-Noses swarming up the road towards our camp, like locusts ravaging a grain field.

  As we fled in terror, Uncle directed some men to run to Back Creek to warn the Chinese there. At least they would have more warning than we did, if the hating Big-Noses decided to attack there also.

  We hardly stopped moving until we got to Mr Roberts’ station, and that is where I am now writing. This time it feels different, and not just because of the oppressive rain that is making our already washed-out spirits soaked in misery. Now it feels final. I cannot see how we can return to our Gully to once more begin mining for the gold. And now, all along this road, small and large groups of Chinamen are resting and watching, wondering what their ancestors would think and who will come to protect us.

  But worse than all this—and now I do write these words with tears, tears of hurt and misery and hatred—some of us here are without our queues, our hair. To have his queue taken from him is the worst thing that could happen to a Chinaman. It is an insult to the emperor to have no queue. Without his queue a Chinaman cannot return home, for to do so would mean punishment and death. These hating Big-Noses have stolen our hair. I did not see any scalping (that is what Ah Goh calls it), but there are many here who have suffered it. I remember Ng Man Kwang and what happened to him, and I want to be sick.

  Uncle did not want me to see these men, but it is too hard not to. There are so many injured Chinese, so much blood, so many tears, so many hurts—but Uncle needs my help and I will obey.

  Uncle and some other men, including Mr Fung, are working hard to help with the medicines. They may make the sickness better and stop some of the bleeding and the pain, but they won’t ever be able to take away the hurt or the shame that the men feel without their queues or for being treated in this way.

  Later that evening, the Commissioner appeared. He arrived on horseback, slowly trotting and looking down from his lofty position at the miserable huddles of Chinese around. Some of us just looked at the man, but many others were angry at the Big-Nose who should have been protecting us. Uncle made me wait beneath the trees while he and the Bosses met with the Commissioner. This time there was no shaking of hands or pleasant greetings, and when they finished speaking the Commissioner just rode away.

  I dared not question Uncle on what was discussed, but he did say that the Commissioner assured them that we would be looked after. Food and shelter would be arranged, but if we were looked after in the first place we would not be here. This morning a few tents and some food arrived.

  I am surprised at how much I have written. My hand is hurting and I just want to rest.

  Wednesday, July 3

  I have promised Uncle that I will continue writing the words of what I have seen. He is using this break in the constant rain to stretch his legs and walk around, to see if any more Chinese miners have come here to this miserable place. This is good. The cold and wet is no good for his old bones; they are surely stiffening.

  When we arrived here, I had thrown my pouch of marbles out of my satchel. I wanted to have no reminder of Jeremy or his game. Before Uncle left the tent, he walked over and gave me back the pouch—he had retrieved it for me. ‘This is not your friend’s fault,’ Uncle stated. I slowly moved the pouch away with my foot as he was leaving the room. It might not have been his fault, but they could have stopped. My red packets, this book, my writing tools and Baba’s possessions, these are the only other things that I escaped with. Uncle has the Almanac and some medicines.

  We number many more than twelve hundred, Uncle estimates, and we are spread out a great distance along the roads from the Flat to this station and beyond. There could be no Chinese left at our Gully, at Back Creek or anywhere else around there. They have herded us out like the cattle being rounded up for the slaughter. And it wasn’t just the miners. This time, the women who live in the town and their children, even some of the boys who played cricket, they too just shooed us away like we were flies that they wanted to be rid of. Uncle says that I have too much hatred for a young boy, that I do not understand their ways. I have been trying to understand their ways. I will understand their ways when they try to understand ours.

  We were mining in Blackguard Gully. We were exactly where we were supposed to be, the only place where Chinamen can mine, where the Commissioner made us go. None of us had mined off our area for a long time. We were on our land in New Gold Mountain. This was our home—but no longer, I fear.

  And it wasn’t just our camp in the Gully that the miners attacked. By the middle of the day, after they had done their worst at Blackguard Gully, the band started blowing again and the pack of miners marched onwards to Back Creek. There were many more Chinese miners at Back Creek successfully working the ground that long ago was abandoned by the Big-Noses. It was their good fortune (the gods must have been looking favourably on them) that the Big-Noses did not march there first.

  Many of the Back Creek miners listened. It would be hard not to be convinced of the desperate situation by the panic of the messengers, the shattered looks on the faces, and the screaming that they probably heard from our camp. But still some of the miners wouldn’t flee. They stayed, wanting to retrieve more gold from their mines, or maybe to fight the mob. One Creek miner who did flee told us how those who had stayed were treated; they too were beaten and robbed and thrown off their claims. Their tents and all their belongings are another smouldering rubble. The camp is completely destroyed. Hundreds of pounds have been stolen from one Boss.

  Fortunately, many Chinese had been able to gather a few possessions (most importantly their gold) and flee from the approaching violence. I know that many more Chinese miners there would have been injured—more scalpings, more fractured skulls, more broken bodies, more beatings—and maybe some would have been killed, if we had not been able to warn them first. I have not heard of any Chinamen being killed, but how this could be, I am amazed. Our treatment has been so violent, so brutal, so hateful. We are humans too.

  Some miners are now talking about walking straight to Sydney Town an
d sailing for China, returning home with whatever gold that they have, never to return. Some miners who want to leave still have to pay their Boss for bringing them here. The Bosses are now talking of forcing those men to march to new fields or lose all that they have, here and in China.

  Thursday, July 4

  The days of peace were not really peace. Nothing has changed. The Big-Noses hate us, because we mine gold better than they do. They want to rid not just this field but also this land, New Gold Mountain, of any trace of our existence. But we are miners too; we have the licence, the same piece of paper they do, the paper that says that we can mine these fields. We pay the same money to do the same work, but our licence is worth nothing. No-one is here to protect us—they only protect their own.

  Other stories I have heard:

  Mr Fung told me that there were troopers watching what was happening to us all the time, but they did nothing to help us. They watched but they did not protect us. How can they do that? They stood by and saw Chinamen being beaten and robbed and shamed, and did nothing. They have guns and bullets. They have the law. They did nothing. I think that that is nearly as evil as the hating, attacking Big-Noses. When Chinamen were caught mining past our boundaries the troopers forced us to go back. When a Chinaman hurts a white miner we are punished, but when a pack of white miners attack and destroy all that we own and when they injure the Chinaman, all the troopers do is take notes. This is not right. Uncle says that there were not enough troopers to stop the pack, and that the troopers would have been injured or killed had they intervened. Uncle says they were taking notes to use later as evidence. Maybe he is right. But there should have been more troopers to protect us.

  Some miners arrived here bleeding from the head as well as dripping wet. Ah Goh says that he is lucky to be here, but he doesn’t really mean it, for he hangs his head in shame. He tries to cover his head with his arms and hands to hide the wound. He had escaped the attackers, but he returned to his tent to get the gold hidden beneath the floor. The miners caught him as he was running out of his tent for the second time. They stole his gold, and made him lie on his side. Then, holding his arms and his legs, they stretched him with his head resting against a log. An axe was dropped and his queue was chopped off. But even that they could not do cleanly. They ripped some of the skin too. As they let him go, they kicked him so that he can now barely walk. He is so ashamed. He was hiding in the bush, but can do so no longer. He is very weak. Uncle is watching him closely for fear of further sickness. And Ah Goh is not the only beaten and scalped Chinaman. There are more that I have seen. They hunted us like animals, and they marched with flags, these Big-Noses, and now they hang our queues on their banners as a trophy for the victors.

  There were some Chinamen from our Gully who ran through the bush, and thought they had escaped, but the attackers saw them fleeing. The Big-Noses did not just want to drive the Chinaman away from the Gully; they chased them on horseback and rounded them up like cattle. They herded them back towards the rest of the attackers. Some men were caught by their queues and hoisted up level with the saddle. Their queues were sawn off and then they fell to the ground. But that wasn’t the end of their punishment—they were beaten and robbed and left to crawl away.

  One miner from the Creek, he loved a white woman and they had a baby. Uncle says this is a good thing, to unite the two groups more and more as the moons pass. But the white miners called the woman disgusting names. They said that she was dirty and not fit to be white. When they found her sheltering in the tent with her baby, hoping not to be seen, they threw her and the baby out, burnt the baby’s cradle and treated her just like the Chinese. Chow Ping heard them yell out, ‘See, they have stolen our women too, just like the man said they would!’ They have hatred for this woman, and the children too, even though she is not Chinese. She is hated because she is with a Chinaman, and that is not sense.

  Chow Ping was hiding, but he, too, was seen and his tent ransacked. Finding no gold to steal, they stole his blanket which he had wrapped tightly around his body. As it was worthless to them, they tossed it onto the raging bonfire.

  Friday, July 5

  I surprise myself at what I have written, and I cry at what I read. Uncle is heavy-hearted. I can see that is so, for he does not stand as tall and as strong as before the attack. He has just walked back in. The walk has loosened his joints, I hope.

  I notice too, that only a few of the Chinese have been coming to consult Uncle and the Almanac. They can’t blame Uncle for what has happened. It is not his fault. He has placed a cup of tea at my feet and some fruit for me to eat. I am surprised, because no-one has had fruit to eat since we escaped. Maybe Mr Roberts has brought more supplies. When I offer Uncle some fruit, he declined and smiled. ‘Shu Cheong, you are doing well, showing respect. Some day, some day you will …’ But I didn’t hear the rest, as he walked out the door.

  Many of the Chinese have stopped here at Mr Roberts’ station. Some are camped back along the roadway, resting where they can. But other men have not stopped walking, except to take water and food here. They are going on, as far away from the Lambing Flat as they can. Uncle and the other elders told them to stay together. He told them that we are stronger when we are together and not scattered all over. He said we can look after each other, but those men don’t believe him, and I wonder too. They told him that being together has not helped them. I don’t know where they will go and I don’t think that Uncle knows either. One man said he was walking to Sydney. He will work with the merchants there, or take a boat back to China. He offered to take me too. He said that with my skills I would do well in the Sydney stores, and, that if he decided to go to China, he would take me back home too. But I can’t go back to China, not alone, not without Baba. I think I am destined to stay in this land.

  But I don’t blame the men. There is not enough of anything for so many Chinese. Not enough food, not enough tents, not enough blankets (the weather is very cold). When I was asking Ah Poh, he smiled, showing his dark cracked teeth. He chuckled and said, ‘At least we won’t be thirsty.’ And he is right.

  To make our horrible living worse, it is still raining. The gods in heaven, they are speaking to me, telling me that I should no longer be here. It has been raining and raining since we escaped the attacks—for four or five days now it has been raining without stopping at all. It is as if the gods are punishing us. Are we being punished for mining in New Gold Mountain? Are we being punished for not moving away from these fields when the Big-Noses first started to cause trouble? Maybe the gods are angry at us for not following our customs completely, the way we should. Or maybe the Big-Noses’ god is so strong that he is punishing us for mining in this land. Maybe our gods are not strong enough. I asked Uncle all these questions, but he had no answer. He held onto his Almanac and said, ‘I know not. The gods are not speaking to me right now’.

  I realise too, as I sit here and write, that this all happened on their religious day, their day when they are supposed to be in church, praying to their god. They call themselves Christians, but I don’t think that is the way that Christian believers are supposed to behave. Their god needs to do some work and teach them.

  Mr Roberts, who owns the station where we now are, is good. He is like Mr Henley (who I have not seen since we left camp). Maybe the miners are not pleased with Mr Henley helping the Chinese and are ‘teaching him a lesson’ (that’s a phrase Mr Fung says the Big-Noses yelled as they attacked). Mr Roberts is not like the miners. He is providing shelter for us again, but it is not helping too much. Uncle says that we will be able to rest here until something is sorted out, until the authorities take control and we can go back to our mining again. At least we have some food and water. But I don’t know if the authorities will ever take control. I know the Chinaman will never be welcome in this land unless the authorities follow the laws that make all men equal, no matter what the colour of their skin. When the Chinaman can mine on the goldfields side by side with the white miners, then maybe w
e will be welcome in New Gold Mountain. Until then, we have to stay together as one group of people.

  These days and nights have been the worst of my life, nearly. When Baba died and left me, I was alone, and that will always be the worst time in my life. He did not see what I have now seen, the hatred and the dislike festering away and boiling out of other people. Uncle says that what I have seen these past few days, no-one—not Chinaman, not European—should ever see, and certainly not one as young as me.

  I am glad that I have written these words down. Some day, someone will read this book, and they will realise how hard and difficult life has been on this field for the Chinese miner.

  Friday, July 12

  Many days have now passed since I wrote the last words. We are still on Mr Roberts’ station. I did as I promised Uncle I would, and I wrote down what happened here at our goldfields so that everyone will know. But now it is finally happening—I am leaving the Flat. Uncle has surprised me again and given me permission. I once again requested permission to go to Sydney Town, but I did not hold out much hope. I expected Uncle to say the same words that he said every other time, but he did not. Mr Fung has offered to take me with him to Sydney Town to work with him and his family. Uncle has permitted me this, but told me to contact the Society when I get there.

  Saturday, July 13

  These are the very last words that I will write in this book. Uncle has given me a new diary—’New pages for a new start,’ he said. ‘Just like the springtime blossoms of the plum tree that herald new growth, this will be a new beginning. You must remember what you have learnt here, Shu Cheong; remember the Chinese ways, remember your ancestors, and remember me.’ He handed me a package. He did not have this as we fled the Gully. Maybe Mr Roberts gathered this for Uncle. No travelling traders have been here.