A Superior Man (17 page)

“The rail hand knelt to tie his shoelaces. ‘You go on ahead,' he said.

“The washman reached the tunnel mouth where a railway crew was packing up, getting ready to move to a new site. A worker ran to him.

“‘Is that your gourd?' he asked. ‘My brother had one like that too.'

“‘No,' said the washman. ‘It belongs to the man behind me.'

“But no one came out of the tunnel.

“‘Are you there? Are you alright?' The washman shouted into the tunnel.

“Two redbeards pumped through on a handcar, a lantern on the frame. The washman asked if they had seen anyone in the tunnel. They shook their heads.

“The worker grabbed the gourd. ‘This is my brother's! I recognize this crack. He sealed it with sticky tree sap.'

“‘Where is he now?' asked the washman.

“‘Ran off. Rocks crushed him in this tunnel. He wore this gourd at his waist, but we never found it.'

“The washman fled, never to be seen again.”

“It wasn't foul here, but now it is,” muttered one of the sick men. “If no ghosts lingered before, then now they've come for sure.”

“Monkey bought a charm to keep away the ghosts,” said someone.

“Where?” I asked. “I need one.”

“Get a dozen! Crooks sell them in all shapes, all colours, everywhere along the line. Their pockets burst from the booming trade.”

I told them a far scarier tale that Big Town had told me:

“Twenty years ago, two brothers Yan came to gold territory and staked a claim near a wide lake ringed by forests. On the other shore were docks and shops, including a China man's store. Late one
day, Younger Brother rowed a boat to the store for supplies. There he chatted with miners from the district. When he left, night had fallen, but there was a bright moon. The storekeeper urged him to stay the night, but he wanted to get home.

“The next morning, the storekeeper found Yan's boat bobbing by the docks. The supplies that had been purchased the day before were still aboard, but the oars were gone. The storekeeper quickly rowed across the lake. Older Brother said his sibling had not come home. The two men thought Younger Brother had fallen into the lake and drowned.

“The following morning, Older Brother marched into the store, all his belongings on his back. ‘I'm leaving,' he said.

“Younger Brother had come to him in a dream the night before, he said, dripping wet with a greenish face. In the dream, he told him, ‘Four years ago, miner Chang found gold nearby. On his way home, robbers killed him while he slept. They tied rocks to his legs, rowed to the middle of the lake, and threw him in. Chang's body has rotted, and now he needs a new body. Last night, he dragged me to the bottom of the lake. Older Brother, get out. Every few years, Chang's angry spirit will pull down a new body.'

“The storekeeper thought Yan was scared of being alone and shrugged him off. It was easy to fall overboard and drown, especially when a man couldn't swim.

“Four years later, the storekeeper had forgotten the Yan brothers. Then a miner went missing one night while rowing across the lake. The empty boat bobbed to shore, but the oars were missing. The storekeeper left town right away. He said the lake had no name, but he was sure that boatmen still vanished there.”

I had asked Big Town how many lakes needed to be crossed on the way to America.

He didn't know.

Throat tonic was costly, two days' wages. Onion had seized my liquor trade and found new customers. I offered to take bootleg to sell at other camps.

“People know to come here.” He dismissed me with a wave of his hand. “No need to beg for trade.”

Though not a brotherhood member, Onion gave Number Two shots of free whisky. To show respect, he claimed. As for Native buyers, their headmen hadn't come to bother Onion. They had plenty of trouble of their own, as redbeard settlers moved onto their lands and claimed rights to their water and food.

Onion asked about bootleggers in prison. I hadn't met any.

He laughed. “Only you were stupid enough to get caught!”

Shorty's worsening pain from his injury caused him to smoke opium every day. He gladly admitted to ratting me out to the Company.

“Still won't confess?” he railed. “You will rot in Hell. Even if I die, I won't let you go.”

“I told you, you have the wrong man.”

In town, the merchant snorted when I asked for tips on making money. “If there were ways to get rich here, a hundred men would be doing them already. America? Men everywhere squat on the streets, jobless.”

“At least they're warm and dry.”

“They brawl to death among their own. And fight the redbeards. Last year, redbeards hanged one China man and chased the rest out of Den-wah city.”

“Just one place.”

“They rioted in San Francisco Chinatown. The army took three days to restore order.”

In camp, I asked California about this.

“Redbeards in America hanged seventeen China men in one town,” he said.

“Why do China men keep coming?”

“Better than home.”

But it wasn't better here. Men fell, broke their bones, and worked through pain. The constant rain never let our feet get dry and warm. Head Cook still served the same slop of rice and fish bits. The price of goods in the Company store kept climbing. Any trip to the south would be a solo trip for me. Poy had let himself get swallowed by the work. He wore western shirt and trousers, all of the thickest materials and the highest prices. His boots, made of rubber to keep his feet dry, had ridged soles that he said gave him better grip on the wet planks. He ate with Number Two, who wanted helpers close by to take on any trouble.

On my return to camp, Poy's first words to me had been, “You stink of shit.”

“You sent no letters,” I retorted, half in jest.

“What, pay to get words written, and then find someone who knows English and Chinese to deliver them? The prison guards demand bribes but no one knows how much, so I must give extra
money to the go-between and pray he can be trusted. You think I'm stupid?”

In my absence, Poy had sent money to my family, so my debts had grown. I didn't repay him right away, not after he harangued me in front of the crew: “You had peace but went out to bring home that liquor trouble. Why didn't you just keep working? Then you'd have more money than me.”

I tried to do better. I avoided game halls. I shunned the whores in town and used my hand for release. Rags drying stiffly, starched with semen, waved like banners throughout the railway camps. I shaved my own head and nicked myself badly, drawing laughter and mosquitoes.

I thought about robbing a store. But plenty of men prowled for extra cash and informers lurked everywhere. I thought to follow a winner from a game hall one night, knock him down, and grab his money. Such robberies were common; men knew to travel in groups. I pawed at Native men sleeping off their drink by the roadsides, hoping to find valuables. I thought to pull down my pants and offer my shit-hole to men who fondled other men, but the Pacific Ocean didn't stop gossip from reaching China.

Grandfather's letter brought bad news. Grandmother was seeking a husband for Younger Sister. I hurled his words into the fire. They should demand money from Father, not me. That shit-hole prick was the one hurting her search, making the need for money more acute than it need be. It was his great shame that we tried in vain to conceal. The go-betweens would report back to Grandmother that people fretted about Younger Sister's motherless childhood and also feared that the suicide hinted at madness in our blood.

To get a better match, Grandmother needed to send cakes and roast pigs to the prospective in-laws. She must enhance Younger Sister's dowry before the wedding. If she entered her husband's house empty-handed, then she would be seen as a concubine. She needed token pieces of gold and jade, new clothes, a storage chest, and household items.

When fathers couldn't protect their daughters, then brothers embraced the duty. Villagers watched our family, seeking new bruises where we could be poked and prodded. Once Younger Sister entered her new home, she could never come back, no matter how sharp-tongued her mother-in-law was, no matter how the backstabbing sisters-in-law ruined her cooking and gave her the worst chores. We had only one chance to make the best match. Younger Sister, timid and gentle, couldn't speak for herself in a strange household. She would rather stay home and take care of Grandfather. But a spinster in the house also shamed our family name.

Bookman refused to advance me any funds. “What if you fall sick and die?” he said. “Who will repay?”

Only Poy might lend me money, but first he wanted token payments against my earlier debts. He wasn't so stupid around money any more.

If I didn't get to America, Younger Sister might be forced to settle for some oaf who stuttered, bullied women, or smoked opium.

An armed party waited at camp one afternoon. Soldiers had marched in, belts over their chests, rifles on their backs.

“Everyone over age eighteen pays the school tax,” said the Chinese translator. “All redbeards pay it.”

After coughing all day, I had no appetite and a bad headache. I would have gladly paid the tax in order to crawl into the sick tent. But the crew was set to fight: we had been threatened over the tax several times. Now, anyone who walked away was a coward and a traitor.

We looked to Number Two or Poy to speak. To everyone's surprise, Shorty called out, “We have no children here. Why should we pay?”

“It's only called a school tax.” The translator sighed with impatience. “It's a provincial tax, only three dollars a man, a paltry amount.”

“Go tell your boss that.”

Shorty, Number Two, and the translator exchanged glances. The visitors strutted about, muttering. A captain barked, and the soldiers jumped into two lines. Men in the front row knelt, one leg up, the other down, their rifles pointing at us.

Time to run. Or give up. Redbeard guns had shown no mercy in China.

“Go on, open fire.” Shorty crossed his arms over his chest. “You can pound the rock and haul it away yourself.”

“The soldiers will kill one man at a time,” drawled the translator. “Not you, you with the many mouths. No, you won't be first. You, you will stand and watch your workmates die.”

“Screw you,” Shorty spat out.

“Will anyone pay the tax?” The translator addressed us. “Won't you obey the rules?”

“Don't listen to him!” Shorty shouted. “He gets paid to trick you. He sells you out!”

Bookman pushed his way to the front. “I'll pay half the tax but the men must pay the other half.”

“Two-thirds,” said Shorty.

“One-half.”

“Done.” Number Two, quiet up to now, cited a proverb. “
At low doors, bend down
.”

After the soldiers left, crewmen surrounded Shorty to thank him. In a blink of the eye, the snivelling opium addict became a superior man. Now he had a high stage from which to denounce me.

“Brothers, I cannot pay the tax and buy opium at the same time,” he said. “Who can help me?”

His accident had happened before coming to the cut. One day, Crew Boss grumbled about slow progress. In the tunnel, a redbeard tamped powder. Crew Boss grabbed the hammer and pounded the rock face. Shorty backed off, knowing that blasters worked slowly and gently. The redbeard argued with Crew Boss but got shoved aside. He and Shorty crept away. Crew Boss hauled them back. He banged the tamping rod again, and the wall exploded. Shorty was behind the two redbeards and not hit. He fell onto the rocks. The blaster died right away but not Crew Boss. They carried him to the tunnel mouth. His arms were bloody stumps. He bled to death in the sunlight.

Shorty returned to work but couldn't sleep. Head Cook said that opium would dull the pain. This helped, and the bosses were happy. Number Two saw that this left Shorty no money to send home. He was told to quit the job, but his list of debts was a long one.