Victorian San Francisco Stories (13 page)

Annie sighed. She’d spent a good portion of the past seven or so years railing, at least in pr
ivate, against the treatment she encountered as a woman—dismissed and devalued by her husband, dependent on her in-laws, forced to pretend she got her business expertise through clairvoyance. Yet, compared to Mr. Wong—or those poor women upstairs—her life had been one of privilege.

“Please, Mrs. Fuller. There is no reason for you to apologize,” Wong said quietly and then turned to look out one of the windows as he continued. “What I feel is sadness and shame. Sa
dness that my nation is so poor that families must sell their precious daughters in order that their remaining children will survive. Shame that these young women cannot get the protection they deserve from their own kind here in America. Who among us can judge what poverty will do to honor? Who among us must not judge when greed is the cause of other’s dishonor?”

The uncharacteristic anger in Wong’s last statement startled Annie and made her wonder if it came from personal experience. She really knew very little about him besides the fact he had worked as a servant for the same family since the early fifties. She didn’t know how young he had been when he came over or what his life had been like in China. His movements and his stamina at work suggested a man in his middle years, but the white threaded liberally through his long braided queue and the delicate frailty and network of creases on the backs of his hands pr
oclaimed his greater age.

“Miss Greenstock mentioned that many of the young women in the Refuge had been rescued by young men from China who wished eventually to marry them,” she said. “It must be hard for a young man, so far away from home, with so few marriage possibilities. May I ask, were you ever married, Mr. Wong?”

Wong turned and looked steadily at her, causing her a momentary qualm.
I shouldn’t have asked him so personal a question.

Then he gave her one of his rare smiles and said, “Ah, Mrs. Fuller, might the question of marriage be of particular interest to you right now since I believe that I overheard Mr. Hobbes tell my mistress that you had recently become engaged to his nephew, Mr. Dawson.”

Annie blushed and smiled back.

“Yes, I was once married.” Wong’s smile vanished. “A young woman of the Hakki, my f
ather’s clan. My mother’s people, the Punti, were not pleased. She died in childbirth, as did the child.”

“Oh, Mr. Wong, I am so sorry.” The sharp pain of her own losses always resurfaced with any glimpse at another’s grief.

“Well…more than thirty years have passed. I left soon after to take up another life here, met Master Voss, and his family became mine.”

Annie wondered if that meant he had adopted his master’s religion as well, if so, he might not be adverse to the religious goals of the Chinese Mission. She knew Matthew Voss had been a long-time member of the First Presbyterian Church in the city. Yet, when she worked in the Voss household as the servant Lizzie, it was Wong who was expected to stay working on Sundays while the other servants got time off to attend to their respective spiritual needs.

Her own religious upbringing had been ecumenical at best. As a young girl, her life on the ranch outside of Los Angeles meant that Sunday religious observance consisted of reading out loud to her invalid mother, whose Universalist beliefs meant she was as likely to be reading Thoreau’s essay on Waldon Pond as the Bible. Annie went once to a mass with one of the wives of a Mexican ranch hand, and she had fond memories of when their Chinese cook, Choy, let her light the incense sticks he put in front of a miniature statue he had in his room off the kitchen.  She’d thought he said the man with long flowing mustaches was confused, but later she realized Choy said it was a stature of Confucius.

Once Annie moved to New York after her mother’s death, Sundays were spent with her f
ather, reading through the weekly and daily newspapers as he instructed her to look for clues to determine what the stock markets would do on Monday. During her ill-fated marriage and the years after her husband’s death when she was forced to live with whichever branch of his family needed her unpaid labor the most, her in-laws expected her to join them at Henry Ward Beecher’s fashionable Brooklyn Presbyterian church. In 1874, when the notorious Victoria Woodhull accused Beecher of committing adultery with a member the congregation, Annie hadn’t been surprised when her in-laws firmly sided with Beecher since she was used to them professing a devotion to Christian principles they never put into practice. Coming full circle, she now found some comfort, when she had the time, attending the San Francisco Unitarian Universalist Society just four blocks away on the 100 block of Geary. She appreciated the fact that the members of this congregation didn’t seem particularly interested in converting anyone, certainly not the Chinese here or abroad.

A sound interrupted these thoughts, and Annie saw that Miss Greenstock and her mother stood just inside the door, along with the older Chinese man that Annie recognized as Chan Hon Fan, the Mission staff member. He was holding onto the little girl’s hand. She wasn’t crying this afternoon, but her drooping head, with wisps of black hair escaping from her embroidered cap, her eyes, dull and red-rimmed, and her hunched shoulders, all painted a picture of despair. A
nnie, now looking for it, saw that the embroidery on her top represented a dragon entwined with some mythical feathered bird.

Beside her, Wong, who had stood up, said under his breath, “As I suspected,
long feng boa
.”

Before she could ask what he meant, Wong put his clasped hands up to his forehead and bowed. He said a few words to Chan Han Fan, in what Annie assume was a Cantonese dialect, since this man kept nodding. Wong then turned to the Greenstocks and said, “Please, may I a
pproach and speak with the little Miss?”

Mrs. Greenstock, after consulting the man beside her, said, “Mr. Wong, I have been assured that you are a member of the Hakka clan and a respected member of the Yan Wo Society, so I will permit this. However, do try not to upset her further. She is beyond exhaustion, and we fear for her well being if we can not get her to eat or sleep.

Wong moved slowly forward and then stopped a few feet away from the little girl and began to speak quietly in a language that neither Annie, and from the puzzled looks on their faces, nor the Greenstocks recognized. But the effect of his words on the little girl was little short of miraculous. Her head went up, her eyes brightened, and she uttered a little cry and went running into Wong’s waiting arms, where she buried her head into his shoulder. For several minutes he stood, holding her tightly as he asked questions and listened intently to her whispered answers.

He then looked at the Greenstocks and said, “She is Mei. She is eight, and her parents are r
ecently deceased. She was traveling with her grandfather, who died mid-way in the crossing. I know of this because he wrote several months ago to the Yan Wo Company asking about opportunities in San Francisco. I was told of the letter because I was related by marriage to the Li clan. I gathered that Mei’s grandfather had gotten into some difficulties, sided with the wrong faction in the ongoing struggles between the Punti and the Hakka, and was looking to emigrate. I hadn’t heard about any grandchildren. Unfortunately, there are no members of the Li clan, as far as I know.”

“Oh dear,” Mrs. Greenstock said. “That is unfortunate. Under such circumstances, the U.S. Customs usually sends the individual back to China. I can’t imagine she would survive the pa
ssage. And so young, how would we determine if there was family back there to take care of her? But with your help, maybe we can get her to settle down with us, at least until we know what is best to do for her.”

As she spoke, Mrs. Greenstock moved towards Wong, her arms outstretched to take Mei back from him. Mei cried out and wrapped her arms and legs tightly around Wong, clinging de
sperately to him and sobbing. Mrs. Greenstock stepped hurriedly back.

Wong whispered to the little girl and patted her back, but she just continued to cry. Finally he said something sharp, and she reared her head back in what Annie thought was shock. Wong said a few more words, and Mei stopped crying and nodded reluctantly. He leaned over and placed her gently on the ground and pointed to the Greenstocks. Mei moved slowly towards them, loo
king back to Wong, who nodded encouragingly. Finally she let Evelyn Greenstock lift her up into her arms. Mei put her head down wearily on the young woman’s shoulder.

“Please Madam,” Wong then said, looking at Mrs. Greenstock “If Mr. Chan will take a note from me to my housekeeper, who is also Hakka, she will come immediately to stay with Mei u
ntil needed.”

“Mr. Wong, that would be most appreciated. I do understand that you must return to your….”

“No, you misunderstand me. There is simply no time to be wasted. As I suspected from Mrs. Fuller’s description of the dragon and phoenix embroidered on Mei’s jacket, she wasn’t traveling alone with her grandfather. When your Reverend Jensen took her off of the ship, he separated her for the first time in her life from her twin brother, Song. And I fear since the captain did not stop this and no one from the Hakka community has come for Mei that this may mean that Song has fallen into the hands of one of the enemies of the Hakka. I must find him immediately and reunite these two, or I fear for both of their lives.”

*****

“At least we were able to bathe her last night and she fell asleep afterwards for a few hours,” Mrs. Greenstock said to Annie as they stood and observed Mei sitting on the lap of Mr. Wong’s housekeeper, Mrs. Chu. “But she still won’t eat.”

Annie was at the Methodist Episcopal Chinese Mission early again this morning for the f
inancial meeting with Mrs. Greenstock that was cancelled the day before. She’d been ushered into the combination parlor and dining room where the remnants of breakfast were being cleared away by two young Chinese girls, and she could see through the open doors to several dormitory-style rooms where other girls were making beds, sweeping, and tidying the rooms. Mrs. Greenstock, who was an older and even more soberly dressed version of her daughter, explained that teaching the rescued women basic domestic tasks was part of the curriculum. “Our hope is that this will help them run their own homes when they marry,” she commented. “They all want to mother Mei, but the girl won’t let anyone but Mrs. Chu touch her.”

“Oh dear,” Annie said. “Have you heard anything from Mr. Wong?”

“He sent a message last night saying that the captain of the
SS Acapulco
finally confessed to him that he had let one of the labor contractors have Mei’s brother and that he was pursuing that information.”

“That is dreadful,” said Annie. “But I have faith that if anyone can find Song, it will be Mr. Wong. I would trust him…I have trusted him with my life.”

“Several of the men who attended chapel this morning talked to Reverend Jensen about Mei, and they told him that Mr. Wong is well-known as a mediator between the Punti and the Hakka—being one of the few Chinese in the city who can claim heritage from both. It helps that he migrated to California right before the Taiping Revolution broke out, so he wasn’t involved in any of the bloodshed between the two groups. I was surprised, however, when one man said that Mr. Wong is a fairly wealthy property owner—even owning some property outside of China Town. I thought you said he was a cook and manservant?”

Annie shrugged, and said, “You could have knocked me down with a feather when Mr. Wong said he was sending for his housekeeper. I knew like most Chinese manservants that he didn’t live-in, but I imagined him rooming in some depressing basement room. But a good cook, and one like Wong who also acted as manservant, can make twice what an ordinary parlor maid can make, upwards to $50 a month. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that after thirty years of steady employment he could have saved enough money for his own home and servant.”

That servant, Mrs. Chu, a short, stocky woman with a round face and merry eyes, cradled Mei, tenderly rocking her back and forth and singing what must be some sort of lullaby in the Hakka language. Mei visibly relaxed in her arms.

“Mrs. Chu speaks English quite well, and she told us that she is a cousin of his late wife’s and that he paid for her to come to America twenty years ago.” Miss Greenstock added, “Ev
idently she has worked for him ever since. She speaks quite highly of him.”

Annie thought about the Voss family, Wong’s employers, and how given their recent fina
ncial difficulties that he could actually be better off than they were. She wouldn’t be surprised to learn that he continued to work for them more out of kindness than necessity.

A flurry of noise behind them prompted Annie and Mrs. Greenstock to turn around, and they saw that the young girls who’d been tidying up were scurrying to join the other women who were clustered around the dormitory room doors, staring at the three people who had just arrived from the back stairs. Evelyn Greenstock and Mr. Wong bracketed a young boy, dressed in faded, patched garments two sizes too big for him, and Annie could see he’d been treated badly by someone. Despite a red welt marring his forehead and a purple bruise staining his left cheek, the family resemblance was unmistakable.

Puzzled by the boy’s hesitation and the way he was wildly looking around the room, Annie said, “Oh my word. He can’t see her,” and stepped hurriedly aside.