The Boy with Blue Trousers

by Carol Jones

  ‘We should have put the squeeze on Old Mo when we had the chance.’ He mimed a throat-squeezing action with his crooked elbow. ‘He would have crowed like a cock and saved us this trouble.’

  The Mo clan elder had denied knowing which agent had arranged Ah Yong’s passage, saying a broker had organised all. And the broker was not due back in Sandy Bottom Village until the following month.

  ‘Old Mo is eighty if he’s a day. He could have died.’

  The old man shrugged. ‘I’m just saying.’

  ‘Here it is,’ said Young Wu as they arrived at the door of yet another agent’s place of business. As with the others, a line of villagers squatted in the alley outside, waiting their turn. It seemed as if half the population of Kwangtung was sailing to New Gold Mountain. But Young Wu did not wait. A Wu did not wait. The gatekeeper slipped a few coins to the agent’s servant and they were ushered inside.

  ‘Name and village.’

  A well-fed fellow of his father’s age sat with a ledger open before him, a reminder of that morning’s breakfast clinging to his long drooping moustaches. He did not look up. As with his previous enquiries, Young Wu took a peremptory rather than obsequious tone in order to establish his credentials.

  ‘Are you the agent for the Mo lineage of Sandy Bottom Village?’ he asked, with a perfunctory nod in lieu of a bow.

  The agent looked up, taking in Young Wu’s tattered mourning garb and unkempt hair, which gave away little of his status. He had neither washed nor shaved since his father’s death, it being obligatory during these first days of mourning. As a first-grade mourner, he would theoretically mourn for three years. Although, in practice, one year plus a day either side added up to three.

  ‘Don’t tell me we have another Mo looking for passage.’ The agent put down his writing brush with an exasperated sigh. ‘I told the last fellow and his brother that I could not sponsor them both without further guarantee from the Mo lineage.’

  The agent continued with his catalogue of complaints, whining about who would pay whom and who would renege on whom while Young Wu stood before him in shock. So, they had finally found him, the agent they had hunted for two days. Young Wu felt his shoulders sag, but whether in relief or dismay, he couldn’t be sure.

  ‘I have cash,’ he pronounced, interrupting the flow of complaints. ‘I do not need guarantees. I do need to know which ship they are bound for so that I can join my cousins on their journey to New Gold Mountain.’

  The agent consulted his ledger. ‘I have Mo listed for passage on the Phaeton. It’s due to sail any day now. But only one of the Mo brothers is sailing. They could not offer any guarantee for the other.’

  It took a moment for the man’s words to penetrate. Two pieces of information to process. Brothers? But of course, a woman could not travel to New Gold Mountain. Little Cat could not venture across the southern seas… not unless she disguised herself as a man. He imagined her tall, lithe frame clothed in the blue tunic and trousers of the working man. Apart from her hair, she would not look out of place. Not with her long stride and no-nonsense attitude. She would pass for a young man, barely growing into his height. And then there was the second piece of information he gleaned from the agent’s words. Only one Mo brother was travelling. Did this mean that Ah Yong would leave Little Cat behind? Or would he sacrifice his place for his fugitive sister’s escape? There was no doubt in his mind which choice his friend would make.

  ‘Do you wish to arrange passage?’ The agent was growing impatient. Time was money.

  ‘How many taels of silver for passage to New Gold Mountain on the Phaeton?’ he asked, rolling the strange sounding word on his tongue.

  ‘Passage for two, Wise Master,’ said the old man, tugging at his tunic. ‘Your venerable mother would curse me to the end of my days if I let you go alone.’

  Young Wu turned his head briefly to consider the gatekeeper, who beseeched him with one eye while the other roved the room. He had no intention of actually sailing to New Gold Mountain. He would capture Little Cat long before her ship departed. Still, anything could happen between now and then. The gatekeeper was old. He might be more burden than help. He would certainly prove annoying. Then again… he could do with someone to watch his back, even a toothless old tiger like the gatekeeper.

  ‘Passage for two,’ he nodded.

  ‘Well then, two silver taels for each of you. But you will need to purchase supplies and pay licence fees once you arrive. And I cannot guarantee passage on the Phaeton. By the time you arrive in Hong Kong, that ship may have already sailed.’

  23

  Hong Kong, 1856

  She woke, scratching, to the usual stink of hundreds of bodies crowded into a dark vermin-infested shed. Many of the occupants were still sleeping so she hurried to the latrine before they awoke, squatting over the pit with her tunic pulled low to hide her secret. Sometimes she had to hold on long after she was squirming in discomfort, to get a little privacy. Once, she could wait no longer and risked a trip to the latrine in full view of three others, standing with her hips thrust forward, tunic draping her thighs, and aiming outwards, hoping she would not spray her trousers too badly. The situation could only worsen on the journey to New Gold Mountain so she had better get used to it.

  She had been here on the island of Hong Kong five days now, waiting for her ship to sail, holed up in barracks provided by the shipping agents. The little food she was given would be tossed to the pigs back home. Meanwhile, the waiting men were encouraged to while away the days gambling and smoking opium, sinking deeper and deeper into debt. She had barely seen anything outside the barracks, except for that first day when the junk sailed into a peaceful green harbour, the barbarians’ strange buildings skirting the water’s edge and climbing the slopes of the peak that watched over the town. In Kwangchow she had seen only a few of the tall, pale-skinned barbarians with their hairy faces and big noses. Here they were everywhere. Even the women, with their outlandish robes that wrapped the upper body like a parcel, yet belled out around their legs like a Manchu tent. She suspected they must wear baskets beneath their gowns. Either that or they had very fat legs.

  There was barely enough room to spread out her sleeping mat and each time she left her possessions unguarded to visit the latrine she would return terrified that something would be stolen. She wished Goh Go was here. She wished she had someone guarding her back. But she was alone. She had left her brother back at the government wharf when she clambered aboard the junk for the journey down the Pearl River. He had not waved in farewell. He had merely stood silently, following her with his eyes, his figure growing smaller and smaller as the junk drew away, until he dwindled to a speck and disappeared. What if she never saw him again?

  By the time she returned to her mat, the barracks was stirring. She sensed a new excitement amongst some of her fellow residents. The question was, which ship was ready to sail? Some of the men had been waiting for weeks while their intended vessels were repaired and provisioned in readiness for the sailing season to New Gold Mountain.

  ‘What is happening?’ she asked Big Nose, the tall, gangling youth from Kwangchow who slept on the mat beside her.

  ‘The Phaeton sails on the next tide. The emigration officer has issued his certificate. We must pack our belongings and be ready to leave at the sound of the gong.’

  *

  They trotted in single file along the road the outside barbarians had named after their queen, balancing their ta’am upon their shoulders. The foreign buildings squatted like huge stone blocks along the waterfront. Altogether Little Cat estimated that the line of men would total half the male population of her village. How would they manage, crammed below decks for the long journey to New Gold Mountain? And how would she manage to keep her secret? She had trained her voice to a new manly register during the days since they left Sandy Bottom Village. She modelled her new swagger upon Young Wu, her hips thrust forward, legs slightly apart, arms akimbo. Except since she was carrying more than half her
body weight balanced precariously in two baskets, her swagger was more akin to a lurch.

  The Phaeton sat at anchor half a li from shore, where they were ferried by the boat dwellers, who plied the harbour as they did in Kwangchow. As they paddled closer to the ship, she realised how large it was compared to the junk that had brought her down the Pearl River. Three masts rose like tree trunks from the deck, festooned with so many ropes that she could not begin to fathom what they might be for. The deck was long and low to the water so that she imagined the ship skipping across the waves, or being swamped by them.

  She clambered up the rope ladder behind Big Nose, then waited as her baskets and pole were hauled up after her. Standing in his shadow as they waited for the rest of the company to board, she stared out at the town, encircled by sea and mountains, knowing that this might be her last sight of the Middle Flowery Land. Soon they would be herded below deck where they would live in semi-darkness for the next two or three moons, before arriving on the shores of an unknown land far to the south. This thought threatened to bring tears to her eyes but she squeezed the lids tight and fought them back. She could not afford to draw attention to herself. She needed to blend in, to become just another boy in blue trousers bound for New Gold Mountain.

  She was startled out of her reverie by Big Nose saying, ‘You don’t have to stick with me. I know no one likes me.’

  It was the first time since she said goodbye to Second Brother at the government wharf that anyone had made a personal remark to her. Most of her fellow emigrants travelled with friends or family from their villages. Most of them had trekked from the rice-growing districts of See Yap where they spoke a different dialect. Even those from the silk districts of Sam Yap, like Little Cat, embarked on the long journey in groups. Few travelled alone. And both the See Yap and Sam Yap groups had elected their own leaders to smooth their passage upon the long and difficult journey to the goldfields, while the shipping agent appointed a headman to negotiate with the foreigners.

  ‘What do you mean?’ she asked Big Nose. She had not spared a thought for her mat neighbour, who she knew hailed from Kwangchow. She had been too busy staying alive to wonder why he kept to himself.

  ‘Isn’t it plain as the nose on my face?’ he asked, tapping a finger to the side of his nose.

  She studied his face, noting for the first time the sharp bone structure and the long, crooked bridge of his nose. In the dim shadows of the barracks his queue had seemed like any other, but this morning, she saw that his hair glinted red in the sun and his eyes were a light elm brown.

  He nodded at her realisation. ‘I am mixed breed. My mother was a boat woman. My father was… who knows,’ he shrugged, ‘and now she is dead and I’m alone. There is nothing left for me in the city.’

  So… he was an outcast thrice over. Once because all land dwellers looked down upon the boat people. Twice because his mother had probably been a saltwater girl, going with the foreigners for money. And thrice because his father was a foreigner, a ghost man. Now his mother was dead and he was left alone in the great city. It seemed that Little Cat wasn’t the only person aboard ship who was fleeing. She wasn’t the only one who was different; the only one who travelled alone. Although she was probably the only one who had done murder.

  ‘There is nothing left in my village for me either,’ she said, with the briefest hint of a smile, allowing the smallest chink in her armour to show.

  ‘Then perhaps we can be alone together. I am named Su Ching Yih. But everyone calls me Big Nose.’

  ‘And I am named Mo Wing Yong. But everyone calls me…’ What would everyone call her now? Now that she had thrown off the mantle of Little Cat to become… ‘Strong Arm,’ she announced with a bow.

  ‘Strong Arm, eh?’ he said, looking dubiously at thin wrists poking out from the sleeves of her tunic. ‘We will see about that.’

  So… she would be called Strong Arm. And somehow or other she would find the strength to match her new name. For only strength would keep fear and regret at bay. Only strength would redeem her family’s future.

  *

  Young Wu had been cursing the wind for two days. It teased them mercilessly, bowing out the sails then flattening the battens into an open fan. For a while it seemed they would be trapped on the Pearl River in this creaking old junk forever, never to reach Hong Kong. The vessel thronged with landless farmers and unemployed city dwellers, all looking to make their fortunes on New Gold Mountain. Or at least redeem their debts and rescue their families from servitude. The old gatekeeper had made plenty of friends, sipping tea, smoking his pipe and playing at dominoes with this motley group of emigrants. Apparently, another of the skills gained on his travels was a familiarity with many dialects. Gatekeeper Wu was glad of a new audience to regale with his stories, leaving Young Wu largely alone to stew over his situation.

  He had left off mourning garb once they departed Kwangchow, mindful of not drawing attention to himself. Little Cat would be alert to pursuit and he did not want to make her job easier by standing out in his dirty, ragged white garments. His father would surely forgive him this breach of etiquette, given the importance of his mission. At least, that was what he told himself. The truth was, the mourning clothes were a constant reminder of his father’s demand for vengeance, a reminder he could do without. Already, he was haunted day and night by the image of his father lying in a pool of his own blood, and a vision of his friend’s twin standing over him, a bloodstained stone seal in her hand. A girl he had once dreamed…

  ‘Master!’ called the old man. ‘Look!’

  He roused from his regrets to see the old man pointing eastwards. That morning the junk had finally sailed out of the Pearl River Estuary and into the South China Sea before entering a passage between what looked like two islands rising steeply from the sea. Now he saw that they were sailing through another passage where ships and boats were dotted upon the waters of a wide harbour. To one side of the harbour, foreign-looking buildings populated the shoreline. They also climbed the slopes of a mountain peak that loomed over this island that the Emperor had ceded to the barbarians to placate them. It appeared they had arrived in Hong Kong.

  The junk docked next to a row of white stone buildings and a gangplank was lowered to the wharf. The shipping agent’s representative soon appeared to herd the new arrivals, with their baskets and poles, to a barracks where they would await the ship that would take them across the southern seas. But Young Wu wasn’t prepared to wait without question while his quarry escaped. He didn’t plan to sit on this forsaken island any longer than he had to. He certainly didn’t plan to travel to New Gold Mountain. He would find the girl, avenge his father and then he would go home. He would be a boy no longer. He would do his duty. He would be a man. He would become his father’s son. Why then did he feel this hollow ache in his stomach? As if part of him was missing.

  It wasn’t difficult to grease the palm of the agent’s representative to find out where the Phaeton lay at anchor. Information had its price, like everything else.

  ‘Phaeton, you say?’ the man answered, putting his hand to his forehead to shade it from the noonday sun and staring out to the harbour. ‘There.’ He pointed.

  Young Wu followed the line of the pointing arm out across the water, where a three-masted ship headed for the harbour entrance, sails billowing. Even from here he could see the specks of blue scattered about its decks.

  ‘Too late to catch it now,’ said the man, with a grin.

  Young Wu’s shoulders sagged beneath the weight of his ta’am. He felt bereft, as if his past and his future sailed with it. Who was he if his mission remained unaccomplished?

  ‘Was there something you needed aboard?’ asked the agent’s representative, noticing his despair.

  Something he needed? Only his life. His future. Now there was only one way to reclaim it. He must join this horde of emigrants from the Middle Flowery Kingdom and seek his quarry and his fate across the southern seas.

  24


  Robetown, South Australia, 1857

  ‘Do you think Mama might enjoy a walk upon the beach this morning, Miss Hartley?’ Alice asked, looking up from her schoolbooks with a hopeful expression. The two had retreated to the schoolroom to take refuge from her mother’s grief in French grammar.

  ‘Why don’t you ask her?’

  Violet suspected that Alice’s mama had determined never to enjoy anything again, but she did not voice this thought to her pupil. The child shouldered enough sadness already.

  ‘It’s such a glorious day that a walk must cheer her, mustn’t it?’ said Alice. She glanced towards the window where the morning sun poked its nose between the curtains. No thanks to the lady of the house, who had ordered all the windows and curtains closed.

  ‘If your mama feels unable, we may still take a walk along the beach,’ Violet said and was rewarded with a smile. ‘We shall look for crabs,’ she added, wondering how long it would take Mama to crush the poor girl’s spirit.

  James had been gone almost three months now but the mirrors were still draped in black. Most days, Mrs Wallace emerged from her room only to issue instructions, or sit sobbing alongside her daughter, ensuring that Alice remained as mournful as she. After the funeral, Mr Wallace had returned to Craigie to see to his cows and sheep. Violet wished that she could escape so easily, but currently she had nowhere else to go and besides, she was loath to leave Alice alone in her grieving mother’s care. The poor child went about with the look of a trapped rabbit. And in the face of her mother’s grief, even a hint of laughter was quickly schooled into submission.

  For two weeks, Violet and Mrs Wallace had sat by James’s bedside, wrestling with his illness, as he laboured more valiantly than a dying coal miner to catch his breath. The doctor had come and gone several times and still the boy did not rally. And when he finally appeared to be on the mend – his fever abated, his cough eased – he suddenly took a turn for the worse, his heart racing faster than one of his father’s thoroughbreds. James died in his mother’s arms at five o’clock of the morning, just as the sun was rising beyond the lake.