Chasing Down the Moon

by Carla Baku

  Daniel took Charlie by the upper arm and yanked him backward. When he stumbled sideways, Bai Lum yanked himself free.

  “I said what the hell are you men doing here?” Daniel demanded. “This was supposed to be an orderly process, getting these people out of here. You all knew that.”

  “He resisted,” Charlie said. It came out in a defensive whine and his already ruddy face colored more deeply.

  “And the lady?”

  “Lady,” Creigh snorted.

  Daniel brought the pistol around in a neat arc and backhanded Creigh, catching him on the point of his chin. He kept his feet but had to clap a hand to his face, which started to bleed.

  “You’re out of a job, Creigh,” Daniel said. “Pick up your final pay on Monday.”

  Charlie repeated his banty rooster routine, looking indignant. “Creigh’s right, Briggs. She’s consorting with this heathen.” He glared at Rose and Bai Lum, who were standing away from the sledge now, near, but not touching each other. He leaned toward Daniel and curled his lip in a disgusted grimace. “Do you take my meaning? She was with him all night.”

  Daniel looked at Rose, a question on his face. Wagons, piled high with furniture, clothing, trunks, were passing now, white drivers on the buckboards, dozens of Chinese men walking alongside. One old man, his gray queue so thin it seemed almost transparent, hunched over a carved walking stick, shuffling at the elbow of a younger man.

  Rose approached Daniel and spoke quietly. “He’s my husband.”

  Daniel Briggs frowned, looking for a moment as if he had not heard her. She watched as understanding changed his face. This is an expression you will see over and over, Rose thought, on even the most familiar faces.

  He shook his head and looked away. “I can’t help you,” he finally said. “You’ve made yourself a hard bed here, Rose. I can’t help you.” Rose reached out to put a hand on his arm, but he moved away.

  “You’re not needed here,” he told Creigh. He moved in on the man and spoke inches from his face. “If I hear of you bothering another woman, I won’t call the sheriff. You’ll leave town gelded.” Then he stepped back and motioned with the pistol. “Get out of my sight.”

  Creigh shouldered stiffly past, holding his bleeding chin, and stalked upstreet, disappearing into the crowd.

  “You,” Daniel said to Bai Lum, “are to get your things onto this sledge right now. You’re going to the boats.”

  “Daniel, we really are with Reverend Huntington,” Rose said. “He’ll be here any minute.”

  Daniel shook his head. “I have a job to do, Rose. We’re not waiting.” He looked at Bai Lum. “Understand?”

  “Yes,” said Bai Lum. “Let me get my things.” He went into the mercantile.

  The panic had returned, constricting her breathing. She had imagined having time, just a little more time to get ready, to brace herself. To lose sight of him. “Daniel, please.”

  “You two help him,” Daniel said to Charlie and the other man. “Any more roughhousing and I’ll get the sheriff down here.” They followed Bai Lum into the store and Rose started after. Daniel caught her by the arm.

  “Go home Rose. Whatever you’ve gotten yourself mixed up in here, it’s finished. Go home.”

  Rose pulled her arm free. “He’s my husband,” she said through clenched teeth. “So tell me, Daniel—where is my home?”

  He blinked. Rose felt the anger drain out of her and she shook her head, “I know it’s a lot to understand. I only thought—” She faltered, looking up the street at the chaos of wagons and people. “I thought you were a bigger man.” She turned her back. When Charlie and his accomplice came out carrying boxes, she ducked into the mercantile.

  Bai Lum entered the storefront with the gilt screen under one arm. Light from the high windows bounced off the painted branches and birds and threw moving reflections onto the ceiling. She went straight to him and put her hands on his where they held the screen. The two of them stood that way, not speaking, while the other men came and went under Daniel’s scrutiny.

  “I’ll come to the harbor as soon as Reverend Huntington gets here,” Rose said, “and I will not leave Shu-Li or Ya Zhen until I find you there.”

  His face was stony. “Out there. Did he hurt you?”

  In truth, she wanted to find a faucet, to rinse her mouth of the taste of the driver’s dirty hand. “No,” she said. “I’m all right.”

  He looked at the door. For that instant they were alone; he put down the screen and touched her face. “You married me, Qiánglì. This day does not change that.”

  She opened her mouth to tell him she loved him, but then the men were there, watching. She held his eyes and nodded, just once. He picked up the screen again and walked out of the mercantile.

  Rose carried Shu-Li’s box to the sledge, ignoring Daniel, ignoring Charlie, ignoring the stream of people and belongings parading past. She stepped onto the rough deck and wedged the little box carefully between the crate of kitchen items and Bai Lum’s trunk, the trunk with the Four Flowers bowl buried at its heart.

  They were nearly at the mercantile, but the road was completely impacted. There was no way to maneuver Buster through the standing people and stalled wagons. Finally, Reverend Huntington pulled over and the six of them climbed out to walk. He and Lucy led, followed by Shu-Li and Ya Zhen. Mattie and Hazel Cleary brought up the rear of their small company.

  “Keep the girls between us,” he told them. “We can’t risk being separated, not now.”

  Shortly after sunrise, Lucy had gone upstairs to wake the girls. Minutes later Ya Zhen came downstairs wearing an elaborate red robe embroidered in gold thread, pulled over the top of her usual dark tunic and trousers. It was deeply creased and had obviously been tightly folded for some time. Her hair was combed away from her face and hung down her back in a black sheet. Lucy laughed out loud; how could she not? The girl was so vivid, and so very much herself.

  They moved en masse through the gathered citizenry, Ya Zhen like a vibrant scarlet heart at their center. Lucy was astounded by the number of people on the street. It seemed to her that every soul in Eureka had arrived and now milled around outside Chinatown, many dressed in their Sunday best.

  Near the corner, a group of women stood in a loose knot, talking with their heads close together. A child with mousey brown ringlets ran to one of the women and pulled on her skirt.

  “Mama, look,” she said breathlessly. She pointed at Ya Zhen. “A pretty China lady.”

  Her mother slapped her hand. “Don’t point.”

  The girl’s face pinched as if she would cry, but she only put the offending hand behind her back and stared. As they passed, Ya Zhen smiled at her.

  The woman yanked the girl against her legs. “Don’t you look at my child, you filthy thing.”

  Mattie put her arm around Ya Zhen’s shoulders. Lucy opened her mouth to make a retort, but Hazel had already stepped aside with her hands on her hips. She looked at the woman as if sizing up a cockroach. “Shame,” she said. “What a way to behave. And in front of a child.” She turned to catch up with the others, but shouted back over her shoulder as if addressing the crowd at large. “Can’t you see these folks are suffering?”

  At the end of the block, as they entered Chinatown, Reverend Huntington stopped short, staring off to his right. Lucy followed his gaze and had to clap a hand to her mouth.

  It was the gallows. Swaying in a heavy pendulum, a figure dangled from the noose. Its head was cocked at a terrible angle and the feet moved in a slow arc far above the street. It was several seconds before Lucy realized it was not a real body; even so, she shuddered, feeling as if her veins were choked with ice. Whoever built the straw man had made a meticulous likeness of her husband. It was Charles Huntington, hung in effigy. A crude but carefully lettered sign was nailed to the crossbeam: NO REFUGE NOT HERE.

  Charles beckoned them. “Come on, everyone. We’re almost there.” Lucy turned away from the dangling figure, fastening her eyes on her
breathing husband.

  They pushed through the line of people that flanked 4th Street, threaded between wagons and horses moving toward the docks. Before they had fully gained the sidewalk in front of the mercantile, Rose was there, her face swollen with crying.

  “Rose Allen,” Shu-Li cried. She started to move around Rose into the mercantile, but Rose caught her arm.

  “No, Shu-Li,” she said. “He’s not here.”

  “Oh Rose, I’m sorry,” said Lucy. “We couldn’t get the wagon through the street.”

  “Tǎ guō!” Shu-Li tried to pull away and get into the store.

  “She’s calling for her brother,” Ya Zhen said. She took Shu-Li by the shoulders and spoke sharply. The girl stopped struggling and looked from face to face, trying to understand what was happening.

  “Tell her he’s gone to the boats already, that he’s waiting for us there. Tell her everything will—” Rose’s voice broke and she cleared her throat. “Everything will be all right.”

  Shu-Li sank to her knees. Ya Zhen, resplendent in the red gown, squatted beside her, speaking quietly and rubbing her back.

  Hazel wrapped Rose in her arms. “Married, I hear,” she murmured. Rose nodded, crying harder.

  Reverend Huntington handed her a folded handkerchief from his breast pocket. “What happened here?”

  She wiped her face and told them about the sledge, that the men would not take no for an answer.

  “Precious Jesus,” said Hazel. “Are you harmed?”

  Rose shook her head, but couldn’t make eye contact. Hazel moved close and whispered in her ear. “Tell me the truth, Rosie.”

  Rose shook her head. “I’m fine, honestly. One of the men grabbed me, but Daniel Briggs stopped him. I tried to tell Daniel. I said that you all were coming to get us. He didn’t hear me at all.”

  “I’m sorry, Rose,” Charles said, “but I’m not surprised. It’s a dark day. Listen, everyone, we need to get Shu-Li and Ya Zhen to the boats right now. If we don’t, they might be separated. These girls can’t travel alone.”

  Mattie and Ya Zhen got Shu-Li to her feet and Hazel kept her arm firmly around Rose’s waist. Charles moved all of them off the sidewalk and back into the street.

  He led them west, then northwest toward the harbor, the wind blowing his mane of silver hair around his ears. He reminded Lucy suddenly of the color plate in the center of her Bible, a wild-haired Moses standing before the Red Sea. She held his arm, and they fell in among the rest of the refugees, bound for the pier.

  No one could remember later who found Byron Tupper first, lying dead next to the stairs behind Salyer’s Hotel. But a crowd had already gathered by the time Cora Salyer heard the news.

  She came down to the kitchen just before full daylight and stoked the fire, poured a little milk and made a bit of toasted bread to dip into it, hoping to settle a sour stomach. The hotel was preternaturally silent—no Ivo banging around, no guests stirring, Clarence apparently still asleep. She was not surprised at the quiet after the nightmare of the previous day, and she was glad to have the kitchen to herself. Cora had received the news of the expulsion with particular satisfaction. She knew that Clarence could not keep the hotel in business without the whoring; his tastes had become far too extravagant. Once the nasty women were gone, Clarence would have no choice but to take Cora’s father on as a partner, and when that happened things would change. Oh yes they would.

  She finished her toast and was carrying her cup to the sink, marveling at the rosy color of the morning outside, when two men came charging in through the back door.

  “You got somebody dead outside the hotel,” one of them shouted.

  With a small cry Cora dropped the cup and saucer into the sink and turned, clutching her morning wrapper at her throat.

  “What are you talking about? What the devil are you doing, breaking in here like this?”

  “I’m sorry about that, Miz Salyer, but you got a fella dead right out here in the back.” The second man stood where he was near the open door, as if he thought Cora would bark at him, too.

  “I can’t go out there. Can’t you see I’m not dressed?” She glared at them. “I’ll go find my husband.”

  “No ma’am, you need to come now. I can’t be responsible for this, not with the other trouble going on.”

  He tried to pull her by the elbow, but she jerked her arm free. “Let go of me, you idiot. I’m capable of moving under my own power.”

  Outside, behind the hotel, the man was most certainly dead—though he was hardly a man, just a boy, really. Even though Cora had never seen a dead body before, she knew the moment she laid eyes on him. It wasn’t the small stain of blood around his head or the strange angle at which his right arm was cocked. There was simply an unmistakable stillness, an absence of being that even one in the darkest maw of unconsciousness does not exhibit. The boy was gone.

  “Who is it?” she asked. “Why don’t you cover him?” One of the men, shamefaced, fumbled out of his jacket and spread it over the young man’s upper body. Before he did, Cora saw that the blood had congealed enough to stick closed the eye nearest the ground, while the other eye stared up at a cloudy angle. She turned away. A small group of people, five or six, had gathered to stare.

  “It’s Garland Tupper’s boy,” someone said. “Name’s Byron.” He held his cap crushed in one hand. “Looks like he fell from the stairs, there.” He pointed to the back stairs, and Cora could see that the banister was splintered, one baluster hanging in pieces from the broken rail. “We haven’t found his daddy yet, to tell him.”

  “Garland Tupper?” Cora stared at the man. “He’s a killer. He killed one of…one of those upstairs girls. Yesterday.” She looked at Byron’s body and wondered if perhaps this was no accident. Perhaps Clarence had dealt some justice to Garland Tupper by way of his son. “I guess his chickens have come home to roost, haven’t they,” she said, meaning both Tupper and Clarence.

  At the door she turned. “When you find Mr. Tupper, tell him my husband will have the sheriff on him for murder.” She surveyed the small crowd around Byron Tupper’s body. “Take that away from here,” she said, and closed the door.

  It was dark inside, and chilly. Cora climbed the stairs to their apartment. If Clarence was still asleep, she intended to wake him with news of the boy’s death, see for herself what his reaction might be. The large skeleton key was in the lock; they tended to keep it there during the day for convenience’s sake and remove it when they turned in at night. He must have left it there all night, thinking she’d come in after him. Inside, the curtains were wide open and the early sun poured in, now shifting from pink to gold. So, she thought, he was awake already.

  But in his small bedroom, which had been Clarence’s office before they had parted matrimonial ways, the striped satin spread was smooth on the bed and the pillows untouched. Cora looked around the tidy room. Her husband was not a man to make a bed or straighten up after himself. He hadn’t slept here.

  She went to the armoire in her room and dressed with slow deliberation. No matter how late he had stayed out before, getting up to nasty business, Clarence Salyer had always finished the night in his own bed. His habits might be foul, Cora thought, but they were habits nonetheless. She pinned a freshly starched collar onto her dress, laced her shoes, and locked the apartment behind her, pocketing the key. With the whores dead or shipped off, things were certainly going to change, starting today. Cora intended to find her husband and have some answers out of him. But first, she would open the hotel.

  She crossed to the wide front stairs and started down, her feet soundless on the dark red carpet. They couldn’t afford to miss a bit of business now, even if it was just a few folks coming in off the street for a bite of lunch later on.

  Things had changed.

  In the woods surrounding Eureka, scores of men thrashed through sword fern and scraggles of wild rhododendron, trampled low-lying sorrel and poison oak, frantically hunting for Chinese that had fled there.
Little natural light penetrated the vast redwood canopy, and in the dim morning the forest floor was remarkably open, with the lowest redwood branches well over a hundred feet from the ground. One searcher, an out-of-work tinsmith named Harvey, discovered most of the escapees massed into the burned-out bole of one of the immense trees. Before ten o’clock, all the fugitives had been tracked down and herded back into town, many sporting split lips and swelling eyes. Their captors, jubilant over their success, seemed none the worse for wear.

  Sheriff Tom Brown discharged nearly twenty Chinese men from the county jail, where they had spent the night pushed together in three cells. The iron bed frames had been removed in order to accommodate as many men as possible, and they did their best to sleep by crouching against the walls of the cells, trying to stay off the grimy floor. Now, despite a short but vocal protest, none of them was allowed to retrieve belongings from either home or business. Once they were led out into the breezy February morning they were taken directly to the wharf. Those who complained were told it was their own damned faults for getting jugged in the first place. A hastily recruited deputy —perhaps all of sixteen years old— was appointed to keep watch over the whole group until they were loaded aboard ship.

  Ya Zhen had not been near the pier since the day she arrived, malnourished and insensible. On the day she landed in Eureka, she hadn’t bathed for weeks; her scalp itched with lice and between her legs the skin burned like fire. She could smell herself, sour and rank. Walking from the boat to the room at Salyer’s Hotel, she had watched her own feet, looking only far enough in front of her so that she didn’t run into anything. It had recently rained and the street was sticky with mud; her clearest memory was of looking at the tracks of shoes, human and horse, moving in every direction.

  Today she could not see the road at all, so filled was it with people and goods. It did not matter. She meant to remember this day, and to be remembered. The nearer they got to the water the slower they were forced to move, until finally their approach became as deliberate and stately as an imperial entourage. The breeze coming off the water was a little stronger here where the buildings gave way. It lifted long strands of her hair, blew them back from her face and up off of her shoulders in thin onyx ribbons. The sun caught in the gold threads of her gown, imprinted glimmers of peonies and cranes on the clothing of Lucy and Shu-Li and Mattie. She moved her head from side to side, looking back at the white people lined up to watch her go. Women and men, children, ranked along the street five and six deep. They had fallen curiously silent, gaping at their former neighbors, now exiles, moving past. Ya Zhen sought their eyes, face after face. Their countenances shifted like sand under a sheet of muslin, haughty then repulsed, curious then shamed, women hiding secret recognition under a blank mask, men pulling a pall of indifference over their previous frank hungers. She held each pair of eyes as long as they could bear it, smiled them down in their ranks.