by Carol Jones
Finding no words powerful enough to combat his tormentor, Big Nose simply dropped to his knees to gather up the broken porcelain. ‘It belonged to my mother,’ he whispered as he worked.
‘You gutless ghost!’ Fat Lu spat. He shifted his weight to one leg and struck out with the other, landing a blow to the kneeling youth’s right cheek.
Strong Arm could stand by no longer. Despite her friend’s silent warning, despite her vow to stay out of trouble, she took off in a flying leap, her legs seeming to run through the air, before kicking out at Fat Lu’s belly. The kick propelled him backwards but he recovered more quickly than she expected, to stand legs wide, hands raised in fighting stance. He threw a punch, which she blocked, returning the punch before shifting her weight to one leg and kicking his shin with the other foot.
Fat Lu was angry now. He rained down punches upon her, his meaty fists bringing all the might of his size to bear upon her weakened frame. Instinctively, she knew that he could not be overcome with strength. Only speed and technique could bring him down. She blocked a punch with her forearm, simultaneously striking out with her other hand in a jab to his chest. But still he kept coming. She blocked and jabbed, then stepped back, swivelling on one foot, to upset his balance before aiming a kick with her other leg that toppled him to the ground.
She rested momentarily, catching her breath, waiting to see if he was eager for again. Meanwhile, Big Nose was once again standing, staring at her with his mouth slightly agape. She blinked at him and was about to speak when a blow to the back of her neck caught her off guard. She jerked forward but her reflexes saved her, so that she swivelled once more to resume her fighting stance, facing in the other direction. Three of Fat Lu’s cronies were coming for her, toothy grins splitting their faces like snarls. They approached cautiously, conscious of the range of her feet. But she knew that as soon as they gathered their courage they would charge as one.
Bending down, she snatched up a ta’am that was lying next to one of the baskets and resumed a fighting stance, side-on to the three men, the staff held before her in both hands. They hesitated at the sight of the weapon, but she knew that their dignity would not let them back down against one lone boy, and sure enough, after a reassuring glance at each other, they charged. The ta’am took on a life of its own, blocking blows high and low and striking out at unguarded limbs in a blur of movement.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw Big Nose place his broken bowl on the ground and take a tentative step towards her. She shook her head, warning him away, knowing that he would be more hindrance than help, for then she would have to defend them both.
She took a blow to the cheek and another to the ribs, noting the pain in an off-hand way, but forcing it to the back of her mind. She needed all her concentration to ward off their attack. If she could only wear them down before they vanquished her. Given enough time she knew she stood no chance against three grown men. Four, if Fat Lu decided to re-enter the fray. She was weakened by the voyage, the long hours trudging along an uneven track beneath a burning sun and her lack of practice. Time alone would wear her down.
Twirling the ta’am one-handed, she stepped back, and back once again. They closed on her, thinking she was retreating, and in a blur of speed she thrust the stick at one man’s chest, blocked the kick of another, and ducked out of reach of the third man’s swinging arm. But now she was squatting as the others recovered, advancing upon her from three sides. She levered herself into a semi-crouch and jumped backwards, trusting there was nothing behind her. She was breathing raggedly. It would not be long now. At the very least she expected to be beaten to a pulp.
A single shot from a gun rent the air, stopping her opponents in their tracks.
‘What’s going on here? Mr Low! Where are you?’
The ghost man materialised in their midst, spitting fiery words from an angry red mouth. With his bulging eyes, sun-reddened face and short, dark hair plastered to cheeks and forehead, he had the look of a warrior from the opera. Plus he had no qualms about stepping between her and her opponents, brushing aside her stick as if it were nothing more than a stray branch and standing between the combatants, his arms outspread. A black and white dog followed at his heels, its fur bristling, barking as fiercely as its master.
‘There’s to be no fighting in my camp! Is that clear? No fighting or you are on your own!’ he roared, the words emerging too quickly for her to catch a single one. Plus she had no breath to speak, even if she had understood his words. She could only stand before him panting, glad for this respite, however brief.
‘Low! Where are you?’ he shouted.
She recognised the name of the headman amongst the other unintelligible sounds.
‘Low sleep.’ Big Nose surprised them all by answering. He surprised Fat Lu and his cronies because they did not know that the skinny boy from Kwangchow spoke the foreigner’s language. And he surprised her because she did not know that her meek friend had the courage to speak up. Beneath his tan, his face had taken on a greenish colour.
‘Low smoke pipe at midday.’
‘Who are you?’
‘This humble one is called Su Ching Yih.’
‘Well, I cannot call you Su. That’s a woman’s name, mate.’
‘I am known as Big Nose.’
The ghost man stared at her friend for a second, before his face broke into a broad grin. He did not look so ferocious then, even with a full mouth of white teeth gleaming in the midday sun. ‘Big Nose it is then. Lewis Thomas is my name.’ The man held out a large square hand sprinkled with fine dark hairs. Big Nose shook that hand.
‘Now. What’s going on? Why are these men fighting?’ The man faced them all, the gun resting loosely in his hands. Fat Lu’s friends shuffled back a few steps.
‘Is mistake, Mr Thomas.’ Big Nose glanced at Fat Lu and his friends one by one, urging them to silence. ‘My friend,’ he indicated Strong Arm with a nod of his head, ‘think I am in trouble. He defend me. All mistake. No trouble here.’
‘Mistake, eh?’ He raked his gaze across them all, man and boy, no doubt noting the cut cheeks and bruises she could already feel on her battered limbs, the damage she had wrought upon the others. His eyes came to rest upon the ta’am, which she still held in a tight grip. ‘He’s just a boy.’
Strong Arm did not know what the bullock driver or her friend was saying. But she did not like that the man’s gaze had settled upon her.
‘He is sixteen. He is Strong Arm.’
‘He’s strong, all right. Despite his skinny looks.’
‘He is called Strong Arm.’
The man examined her more closely, from her straggling queue to her dirty trousers. She held her breath, praying that he would not see through her disguise. Sometimes she was astounded that she was yet to be exposed. She glared at the man in return, daring him to see the girl beneath the sweat-stained tunic, to detect any trace of beauty in her snarling face.
‘Any more fighting and you’ll be tossed out. All of you. Savvy? Tell them,’ he said, turning once more to Big Nose.
‘This man say any more fighting and he will throw us from his party to find our way across this blighted land alone,’ Big Nose said in Cantonese, aping the ghost man’s commanding tone.
For a moment, Fat Lu looked as if he might speak. But then, perhaps realising that there wasn’t much point speaking to a man who did not understand him, with his opponent the only available interpreter, he thought better of it. With one last threatening stare for Strong Arm, he turned and swaggered back to his place by the cooking fire, his cronies following.
‘And you two…’ the bullock driver said, looking from one to the other, ‘gather your things and come with me.’ He beckoned her with a wave of his hand. She did not understand his words but she understood the gesture. When she saw him peering at her more closely, she stared at the ground. She had invited his notice by letting her temper get the better of her, but she did not want it. She wanted to go unremarked. Unremarkable. So much
for that.
As they collected their belongings from around their cooking fire, and stowed them in their baskets, Big Nose finally spoke. ‘It was better to let the matter rest, my friend. Fighting does not always win the war.’
‘He kicked you.’
‘What is one kick between friends?’ Big Nose laughed, rubbing his ribs.
‘He would kick you again.’
‘Maybe so, but that is in his nature. It wasn’t personal. Now we have made an enemy.’
So… she had made another enemy. What was one more? One more enemy to prevent her repaying her debt to Second Brother and her family. One more enemy to prevent her finding the gold to pay for Elder Brother’s wedding, to stop her justifying Second Brother’s sacrifice. She realised that she had done exactly what her twin had accused her of. She had promised to think before she acted, yet she had let anger goad her into the fray, as always.
Yet what was the alternative? Let Fat Lu do as he pleased?
Their baskets repacked, they shouldered their ta’am once more and prepared to join the bullock driver at his wagon. But as they straightened up it became apparent that a crowd of onlookers had gathered to see what the commotion was about. Her eyes roamed over the ranks of curious men. Men she had been locked up with between decks for many weeks. She knew them, but not well. She had kept as much distance as the limited space allowed, for fear of betraying her secret. Now she had made herself the object of their scrutiny.
She looked away, but not before her glance grazed the features of a face she knew well. Square-jawed, heavy-browed, angry brown eyes, floating amongst the sea of blue-garbed, brown-faced men. Even shaded by a straw hat, surrounded by other straw hats, she knew that face. That tall broad-shouldered physique. She risked another sideways look into the midst of the crowd, to be sure she hadn’t imagined it, but like a ghost, the figure vanished as soon as she tried to pin it down. Had she imagined it?
‘I never relinquish what is mine.’
In her mind, she heard again the rasping voice. She saw the broken head, the blood seeping into the rug, and she knew without a doubt that she was surrounded by enemies. Real or not.
31
Violet soon became accustomed to a life surrounded by the chatter of the road. But for the most part, the Celestials avoided her. She wasn’t sure if this was because most of them had never met an Englishwoman before landing in Robe, or whether they believed she was in some way deformed beneath her hooped skirts. Either way, they generally gave her a wide berth. So far that morning, she had managed the odd word with a wan-faced Mr Low, as many words as she could contrive with Thomas, and a few choice words for the bullocks, who produced copious amounts of manure to pepper her path. She had even begun to fear that the dog might turn out a better conversationalist than Thomas, who seemed to be avoiding her. To her disappointment he had directed her to walk behind the dray out of range of his whip, which meant, short of shouting, conversation was limited. This was particularly vexing, because how could a man appreciate her fine figure when she was concealed behind twelve plodding bovines and a laden wagon? Especially when she had risen long before their dawn departure in order to complete her toilette. She might as well be wearing a flour sack for all the notice the man took.
She thought luncheon would be the perfect opportunity to further their acquaintance, despite the lack of privacy, but no sooner had Thomas set two stools beneath the drooping branches of a grey-leaved tree than he was called away to the far side of the camp, his rifle slung over one shoulder. From where she sat, all she could make out was a whirl of tangled bodies and a lot of angry shouting. She gathered from the commotion that an altercation was taking place, which was soon halted by a single shot from Thomas’s rifle. Now he had returned, a thunderous expression darkening his face.
‘It’s worse than herding sheep,’ he said, slapping his hat to his thigh.
‘Perhaps you could train Ruby to nip at Celestial heels too,’ she said, directing a speculative glance at the dog trailing after its master. Men did like their dogs, and it was rather sweet the way Ruby kept returning to the rear of the bullock wagon that morning, as if to check upon her progress. Apparently, Violet had become one of her herd.
‘Sometimes I wonder why I got myself into the business of carting humans. Carting wool is so much simpler.’ Thomas stared back the way he had come, where the ruckus had subsided. ‘Wool does not gamble. It does not imbibe. And it never resorts to fisticuffs.’
‘But it does not pay nearly so well either.’
‘There is that. Except if the journey doesn’t kill them, they’ll do each other in,’ he said, a sweeping arm indicating the congregation of men once more squatting before their cooking fires. ‘You shouldn’t have to witness that, Miss Hartley.’
She put her head to one side and glanced up at him from beneath her lashes. ‘Now that we are to share a bullock dray, perhaps you could call me Violet. And I could call you Lewis.’
‘Violet.’ The word rolled off his tongue melodically. She liked the sound of her name caressed by his Welsh lilt. She wanted to hear it again.
‘Lewis, I…’ she began, but before she could complete her sentence he was distracted by the approach of two Celestials. They were lugging what she presumed were all their worldly goods upon their shoulders. What were they doing here? Thomas had not called the order to resume the march.
‘We are here, mister,’ said one, barely a man, thin as a reed, although taller than she, taller than many of his compatriots. The other, of a similar height, looked even younger, with the smooth cheeks and coltish limbs of a boy. There was nothing remarkable about the two. There were merely two more blue-clad gold seekers from amongst the Celestial horde. Except on closer inspection, she realised there was something odd about the younger one, some delicacy of eyebrow, some fineness about the lips. Something she could not quite put her finger on, but all the same, decided that she did not like.
‘From now on you two will travel with me,’ said Thomas.
‘Mr Low not happy, mister.’
‘I don’t care about Mr Low’s happiness. Mr Low is too fond of the pipe. Besides, that one…’ he said, indicating the boy with a jerk of his head, ‘needs keeping out of trouble.’
‘Not trouble, mister.’
‘How old did you say he was anyway? And what is he doing here on his own?’ said Lewis, peering more closely at the boy.
‘Old enough. Strong Arm is sixteen, mister.’
‘He looks more like fourteen to me.’
‘He get money for his family,’ the older one explained.
‘No doubt.’
The younger boy had been staring at the ground but at the sound of his name, he looked up, and for a second his eyes met the bullocky’s. Violet frowned. Then, with a flick of her hair, she placed her hand upon Lewis Thomas’s arm to draw his attention back to where it belonged.
‘Is there somewhere a lady can find a little privacy, Lewis? It’s been a long morning.’
‘Follow me,’ he said, after a moment. ‘Something can be arranged.’
He turned away from the two Chinamen, but not before a final concerned glance at the boy. Violet sighed. That was the problem with good men; they tossed their goodness about indiscriminately. She would have to do something about that. Violet did not like to share, not if it could be helped. There had been little enough in her life that was all her own.
‘On second thoughts, Miss Hartley will need someone to look out for her on this journey. An escort, if you will. You two…’ he paused, tipping his hat back to get a better look at the two Chinamen, ‘can provide it.’
*
Skirting the perimeter of the gathering, Young Wu and his uncle crept closer to the lake, where a thick growth of rushes sprouted from black mud. A flock of giant birds with bills as long as his arm swam close to the lake’s shore. White with black wings, and large pouches beneath their bills, the birds dipped their heads as one beneath the water, hunting for fish. When they emerged, they seem
ed to sense the foreign presence. One bird stretched out its massive wings, wider than a man is tall, flapped them briefly in warning, before the entire flock sailed further onto the lake. He had never seen a creature like it and looked to the old man to check whether he had also noticed these strange birds. But it was often difficult to tell which way his ‘uncle’ was looking, with his single wandering eye.
‘Very useful, a pouch like that,’ said his uncle.
Ducking beneath the twisted boughs of fine-leaved trees, the bark peeling from their trunks in thin white sheets like paper, the men circled back towards the bullocky’s camp. Young Wu wanted to discover where Little Cat had gone, but without alerting her to his presence. He was almost sure that she had noticed him earlier amongst the onlookers. Her eyes had slid over the crowd, resting briefly upon him, before looking away. He could only hope that she didn’t believe her eyes, that perhaps she would mistake him for an apparition, an embodiment of her guilt. He wasn’t ready to confront her yet. That meeting, when and if it came, must be on his terms.
‘Pity it didn’t work.’ The old man’s voice rustled beside him, dry as the paper bark.
‘What are you talking about now, Old Man?’
‘The plan. The plan to get her done by those yokels.’
Had that been his plan? The fishermen had been only too happy to beat up a couple of upstart youths for the price of a caddy of rice. It hadn’t been difficult to convince them to start a fight, especially the fat one. But had he planned for them to kill her, or merely rough her up, leaving the killing for him? The fishermen had the brawn, but not the skill to kill Little Cat. She had got out of more scrapes than he could remember. And she never shied away from a fight. The Mo twins had always been like that. Brave. Braver than him. But then again, they did not have the Wu name to live up to. A Wu couldn’t afford to act foolishly, no matter how brave.