The Paper Daughters of Chinatown

by Heather B. Moore

  Mei Lien didn’t move, didn’t try to stop anything, as Ah-Peen Oie forced the girl down the back stairs. Mei Lien leaned against the frame of her doorway as the screams continued to echo throughout the house and out onto the street.

  The girl would be locked out. She was disgraced, and no one in Chinatown would take pity on a used-up woman from Ah-Peen Oie’s house. She might survive if she begged for work at the cribs; otherwise, she would meet the fate of the outcast—left to beg for her food until a merciful death claimed her.

  Mei Lien shut her door quietly, then crossed to her soiled mattress. With small pinches, she began to reassemble the destroyed lotus plant.

  “Seldom anywhere has a great audience made so wonderful a demonstration of enthusiasm as when Miss Cameron came forward in response to the introduction and told her simple, straightforward story of the experience she had had in attempting to protect her ward. . . . Although low, Miss Cameron’s voice was heard in all portions of the room.”

  —San Francisco Chronicle, April 3, 1900

  1900

  Dolly didn’t think she would ever sleep, not on the hard-packed dirt of the Palo Alto jail. She and Kum Quai had been forced into a locked cell inside a shack behind the court building. There was no bed or latrine. Even though Kum Quai had insisted that Dolly use the two boxes in the shack as a bed, she couldn’t let the poor, trembling girl sleep on the ground. The place was more of a storage room than a jail cell. Bits of lumber and smaller boxes were scattered about. Judging by the soft breathing coming from Kum Quai, Dolly could at least be at ease in the fact that the Chinese girl had stopped crying and was getting some rest at last.

  If only rest would come for Dolly. She stared at the high, horizontal window where the moonlight spilled through. A few stars also winked against the black of the night sky. Out there was the world, while inside the jail cell it was a different existence altogether. Only a few hours in, and it seemed the room grew smaller and smaller with every passing moment.

  The coolness had turned to cold, and Dolly burrowed further into her short jacket. The single blanket covered Kum Quai, and Dolly didn’t want it any other way. Witnessing the fear and desperation in Kum Quai’s eyes had been heart-wrenching, despite all the other rescues Dolly had been exposed to. Tonight, while she shared unjust penance with Kum Quai, Dolly had never felt more protective or more like a mother in her life. She knew, without a doubt, that her mother would have done the same thing to protect any of her children.

  Blood or not, Kum Quai deserved a mother’s protection.

  Dolly’s gaze found the empty water pail. The water had been stagnant, but they had shared equal portions anyway, and now her stomach pinched with hunger. They’d had nothing to eat since the breakfast meal back at the mission home. She wrapped her arms about her drawn-up legs and rested her chin on her knees. Closing her eyes, she prayed for rest, for safety, for the lawmakers to release them in the morning.

  Shuffling footsteps sounded outside the jail cell, and Dolly went immediately on the alert. “Who is it?” she called out.

  The jailer’s voice came through the door. “Someone is here to pay bail for the Chinese girl.”

  Dolly scrambled to her feet. “Who?” Miss Culbertson had told her of tricks played by Chinese owners and how they pretended to bail out their slaves, only to keep them in hiding, often under worse conditions than before.

  “It is a friend of Kum Quai,” the jailer said.

  The whimper from the makeshift bed told Dolly that Kum Quai was awake. Dolly crossed to the door. “She has no friends. We will wait here for tomorrow’s trial.”

  The scrape of a key turning the lock sent Dolly’s pulse jumping. She grabbed one of the lumber scraps and propped it against the door, then lifted another lumber piece and did the same thing.

  “Don’t come in,” Dolly called out. “We reject the bail money.”

  The door rattled as the jailer pushed against it. Dolly shoved the opposite way with all her weight. Moments later, Kum Quai joined her and helped push as well. Together, with the help of the lumber pieces, they could deter the jailer.

  When he left in a huff, Dolly sagged against the door. She couldn’t very well explain what was going on to Kum Quai, but the girl’s wide eyes told Dolly that she knew enough.

  “Lo Mo,” Kum Quai whispered.

  Those two small words said everything that Kum Quai couldn’t express. Lo Mo meant “old mother,” but it was an endearment full of respect. The affectionate title of Lo Mo had been bestowed on Miss Culbertson. Dolly reached for the girl’s trembling hand.

  Then, a terrific shudder ripped through the door.

  The jailer had an axe.

  Dolly grabbed Kum Quai and pulled her away from the door. They clung to each other as the jailer broke a hole through the door, then reached through and pushed aside the lumber.

  Kum Quai screamed.

  There was nowhere for the women to go. They were trapped.

  The jailer had no qualms about crossing the room and wrenching Kum Quai from Dolly’s grasp.

  “Don’t you touch her,” Dolly yelled, but the jailer was already half dragging the girl out of the cell.

  Dolly ran after the jailer, grabbing for Kum Quai, but the man seemed to have the power of an ox. He half carried, half dragged Kum Quai out of the shack and across the dirt yard beneath the moonlit night to where a buggy waited. The jailer loaded the crying Kum Quai into the buggy, handing her off to two other men. Dolly wasn’t going to let her go alone, and she grabbed the edges and climbed in too.

  One of the men inside struggled to keep Kum Quai’s screams quiet. The only thing Dolly could decipher from the girl’s Chinese was “Lo Mo,” cried over and over.

  “Let her go!” Dolly reached for Kum Quai, but the closest man shoved Dolly hard. She grabbed for something to hold onto, anything, but just then the buggy lurched forward, and she tipped out. She tumbled onto the road, scraping her arms and bruising her hip.

  “Stop!” Dolly scrambled to her feet, ignoring the aching and throbbing. Even if she ran, there was no way she could catch up to the buggy.

  Slowly she spun, the darkness of the cold night unreal and eerie. The jailer had disappeared inside the jail, and Dolly had never felt so alone and unsure. She looked toward town. If the jailer wouldn’t help her, surely someone in town had a reasonable head. There wasn’t time to assess any injuries with the buggy getting farther away.

  She began to walk, limping with the pain of one of her ankles. But she didn’t care about any physical pain; she cared only about finding someone to track down a helpless girl.

  Dolly’s limping turned to a loping run as she picked up her skirts and headed for the nearest building, the girl’s cries for Lo Mo still ringing through her head. The darkness from every window of the druggist shop was disconcerting, but someone had to help her. She pounded on the door, then the windows. “Help me!” she cried. “Someone please help!”

  She could only guess that it was well after midnight. But she kept pounding and calling until an older man came out, rubbing at his face with one hand, spectacles in another.

  “They’ve taken her.” Dolly choked back the threatening sob. “They’ve kidnapped her.”

  The older man’s brows dipped. “Who was kidnapped?”

  His calm voice pulled Dolly back to semi-reason. “Kum Quai. She’s a Chinese girl, and I’m her guardian.” She explained the events at the mission home, the charges and the impending trial, how they’d been in the jail cell just down the road. All the while, the man listened.

  “I’m Dr. Hall,” he said. “Let’s get you to the hotel, and I’ll call the sheriff of San Jose and alert him about the traveling group.”

  Dolly walked along the silent, dark streets with Dr. Hall to Larkin’s Hotel. Her head ached, her throat throbbed, and her body trembled. No matter. She had found someone who had lis
tened to her and promised help.

  Once they reached the hotel, the proprietor offered her a hotel room. On another day, or under other circumstances, she might have appreciated the room. But she couldn’t relax her vigil at the front entrance; she needed to hear news the moment it was received.

  “I won’t be sleeping,” Dolly said. “I need to know what’s going on.”

  The proprietor nodded. “I’ll fetch you a blanket, and you can wait on the sofa in the lobby.”

  Dolly clutched the blanket to her as she listened to Dr. Hall telephoning the sheriff’s office. When the call was completed, Dr. Hall turned toward her. “The San Jose sheriff is sending a search party to recover your ward.”

  Dolly’s knees nearly buckled. “Thank you. Thank you very much,” she whispered.

  Dr. Hall only nodded, then led her to the sofa. “Rest here, Miss Cameron. Hopefully we’ll have news by the time the sun is up.”

  Dolly waited on the sofa, curled up with the blanket. She wanted to run out of the hotel and continue running toward San Jose until her tired body completely gave out. Thoughts of what Kum Quai was experiencing at this very moment felt like a hammer against her heart. Dolly watched the changing shadows of the lobby as the night softened to gray, and finally the sun rose. Surely, there would be news by now. How had Kum Quai fared? Where was she now?

  Dawn had lit the sky a brilliant orange by the time Dr. Hall strode into the hotel with another man. By the somber look on Dr. Hall’s face, she feared the worst.

  “What is it?” she rasped. “Where is Kum Quai?”

  Dr. Hall’s jaw tightened. “Her group was stopped last night by the Palo Alto justice of the peace.”

  Wasn’t this good news? Then why was Dr. Hall not looking pleased?

  “The Chinese men demanded a trial then and there,” Dr. Hall continued. “Right on the roadside.”

  Dolly blinked. “W-what?”

  “The trial was granted, and Kum Quai waived the right to trial and counsel.” Dr. Hall cleared his throat. “She pleaded guilty to the charge, and she was fined five dollars, which was paid by one of her . . . escorts.”

  Dolly reached for the wall, or a table, anything to steady her wobbling legs.

  Dr. Hall grasped her upper arm.

  “She doesn’t even speak English,” Dolly whispered.

  Dr. Hall’s expression remained grave. “One of the men with her interpreted.”

  “Of course he did,” Dolly snapped, anger replacing her shock. “One of her abductors asked for a trial at two-thirty in the morning, was granted one, then she pled guilty to false charges, and now . . . now where is she? Abducted again!”

  Dr. Hall released her arm and stepped back, nodding to the man next to him.

  “We do not know, ma’am,” the second man said. “I’m a police officer here in Palo Alto, and that is what we are trying to figure out before . . .”

  He didn’t need to finish, and perhaps the expression on Dolly’s face told him to stop speaking. Slave girls had been killed for deserting their owners.

  “How can we help you, Miss Cameron?” Dr. Hall asked in a gentle, respectful tone. “Do you need to telephone anyone? Do you need a meal? Do you need an attorney?”

  “I have an attorney,” Dolly said in a defeated tone. This could not be happening. If only this were a nightmare that she would soon awaken from. “I want every resource used,” she said, mostly to herself. “I want to know who is behind all of this. Who filed the charges on behalf of the Chinese owner?”

  The two men before her promised they would do everything they could to help, and Dolly had no choice but to believe them.

  Dolly didn’t have to wait long. By that afternoon, the newspapers had caught word of the situation, and nearby Stanford University students had circulated handbills calling for action:

  On to Palo Alto!

  Our reputation is at stake.

  Bring own rope.

  No. 3 Hall. 8:00 tonight.

  All the city officials involved in the Kum Quai affair had been named and criticized, including the judge who had ordered Kum Quai to be thrown in jail, the jailer who had dragged her out of the cell, the peace officer, the San Jose sheriff, and even the lawyer who had filed the charges in the first place.

  “Miss Cameron?” a man said.

  Dolly looked up from the newspaper she was reading in the lobby. She had finally consented to take one of the hotel rooms, but after a short nap, she was back in the lobby. Now she sat at a small table, waiting and watching for any more developments.

  “I’m Attorney Weigle.” He extended his hand. “I’ve been on the telephone with Monroe, and I’d like to represent you in this case.”

  Dolly shook Weigle’s hand as she examined him, determining that he was of middle age, his eyes were intelligent, and his manner confident. He smelled faintly of pipe smoke. “What do you recommend?” she asked.

  “May I sit?” He indicated the chair opposite her.

  “Of course,” Dolly murmured.

  Weigle sat and adjusted his cuffs. His face danced with shadows in the lamplight surrounding them. “I recommend that you prepare an official statement. This thing is not going to be over quickly. The sooner you write the events down, the more accurate they will be. Tomorrow we will—”

  Dolly heard the commotion outside the hotel at the same time as Weigle, and they both turned toward the window. A large group of people, most of them appearing to be college students, walked down the street together, shouting something.

  Dolly rose to her feet. “What’s going on?”

  Weigle frowned; then his brows shot up. “They’re protesting the wrongful treatment of your Chinese ward, Miss Cameron. I didn’t know it would reach these proportions, though.” He moved toward the front door, where other hotel patrons were gathering to watch.

  Dolly followed and stepped out of the hotel. The chanting was louder now, and, up close, she felt the energy radiating from the college students. The night’s atmosphere was like an electric charge. “Oh, my goodness,” she murmured.

  The end of the street revealed that not just a few dozen but hundreds of college students were marching together. Torches and lanterns in hand, their chants echoed through the night.

  “To the jail!”

  “Burn it up!”

  “Tear it down!”

  Dolly had lost track of where Weigle had gone, but she was transfixed as she watched the approaching mob. Their voices echoed off the buildings on University Avenue, and Dolly was reminded of an impending fierce thunderstorm.

  “What’s that?” she said to herself as she noticed a smaller group carrying an effigy.

  “It’s the justice of the peace who humiliated Palo Alto with a false trial,” a young man next to her replied.

  She turned to look at him, but he had disappeared into the crowd, joining the protesters. Then Dolly watched with mixed fascination and horror as the mob turned down the side streets leading to the jail. She brought a hand to her mouth, not even feeling the hot tears splashing onto her cheeks.

  “You should go back inside.” Weigle appeared at her side and grasped her elbow. “I don’t know what will happen.”

  “No,” Dolly said in a clear voice. She breathed in the cool evening air, the crackling excitement, and the sight of hundreds supporting her cause. “I want to watch.”

  She began to walk, following the mob at a good distance, and Weigle kept pace with her. He acted as if he would have to defend her at any moment, but Dolly wasn’t worried in the least. These students from Stanford were after one thing only: justice. And whatever form that took, Dolly would support it.

  The crowd of students didn’t tear down the jail, nor did they burn it. Instead, they removed the contents from inside the jail cell—the filthy blanket, the boxes, and the wooden boards. They carried the items back to the st
reet, where they lit them on fire.

  Along with the effigy of the justice of the peace.

  As the crackling orange flames reached toward the dark sky, the mob continued in their shouting and cursing, demanding reform. Promising change.

  Dolly couldn’t agree more.

  Bill of Sale

  Loo Wong to Loo Chee

  April 16—Rice, six mats, at $2 $12

  April 18—Shrimps, 50 lbs., at 10c 5

  April 20—Girl250

  April 21—Salt Fish, 60 lbs., at 10c6

  Total: $273

  Received Payment

  Loo Chee

  —Bill of sale for nine-year-old Chinese girl

  printed in the San Francisco Call, 1898

  1903

  The birds were quiet this morning as Mei Lien unpicked the row of stitches she had just completed. Silence always unsettled her since she didn’t know what was going on, what to anticipate. She relied on sound in this house. Footsteps told her that someone was coming. Voices clued her into the mood of Ah-Peen Oie. Clattering pots and plates told her everyone would eat that day.

  Mei Lien’s gaze cut to the recent gifts sent by Huan Sun. A small, framed watercolor of a pagoda. A set of lucky stone frogs. Another lotus plant, since the original one could not be rescued. Huan Sun had been kinder than Mei Lien had ever expected a man who was visiting a brothel to be. When they had finally shared a bed, his tenderness had made her wonder if he had sincere feelings for her. She had quickly dashed those thoughts away, though. If she couldn’t protect her body or mind, then she could at least protect her heart.

  Huan Sun would visit her tonight after the banquet. Ah-Peen Oie had forbidden Mei Lien from attending banquets when Zhang Wei was in town, which included tonight.

  Mei Lien was grateful. She knew all men weren’t kind as Huan Sun. She’d heard plenty through the walls and doors of the house over the past three months to understand that she had been somehow blessed with a reprieve. At least until tomorrow.