A Superior Man

by Paul Yee

  When I passed him by the latrine, he grinned. “Take time off, Hok. You work too hard.”

  Once, Bookman lost his temper and threatened to reduce Onion’s wages to punish his tardiness.

  “If you fine me,” he said, “I won’t work.”

  A coolie who didn’t work didn’t get paid. It also meant that the Company’s long fingers couldn’t claw back the ship’s passage or any cash that had been advanced. Then, Bookman barred Onion from the cooking tent, trying to starve him into line. But Onion had his own money to buy food in town.

  When Bookman got cornered and lost face, he said the contractors would confront Onion’s family in China.

  Onion chuckled. “You think they are rich enough to sway my people?”

  Rumours of danger followed Onion. He had insulted a corrupt judge. He had seduced a general’s mistress. He had caused officials to lose face after bragging about his windfalls from high-stake gambling sessions. Here in Canada, Onion laughed even when he lost money, no matter what the game, no matter what the stakes. If he hadn’t been Shorty’s friend, then he would have been mine.

  In town, the general store was crowded with railway men gambling on a rest day. I asked about America.

  “You need money.” The merchant slid close and lowered his voice. “The ones who reach America, they hire Native men to guide them through forests and mountains. They avoid the river and railway where the Company has eyes.”

  “I’ll be fragrant by the time I save money.”

  “You take risks?”

  “Want to report me to the Company?”

  “Sell whisky at camp. All you need is a hiding place.”

  The Company forbade liquor in the railway camps, so workers hiked miles to town to slake their thirst. Noisy saloons, open twenty-four hours a day, offered women as well as other delights. Chinese pedlars trekked through the camps selling bootleg but were driven off by crew bosses ordered by bigwigs to keep their men sober.

  “And end up in jail? I’ll get nailed there!”

  “And the laws of China?”

  He meant fight evil with evil. Our Emperor had issued bans against opium, but the redbeards unleashed cannons and dispatched warships to protect the shipments and maintain the trade. Lacking human decency, they sold the drug everywhere. Stricken wives and naked children of addicts wailed and starved in the streets. Fleshless corpses, all bone and skin, of addicts who couldn’t buy another pipe piled up in front of opium shops as though those firms were also coffin makers. The Yen mansion and its famed rock-and-water gardens collapsed after the master died and his two sons, both addicts, lost the family business. Every stick of furniture, every rag of cloth, and every piece of art had been pawned by the time remaining family members fled.

  So I bought my first case of whisky and tied it to my back. At work, I watched the redbeards until I saw one fellow sneaking a drink. I went to him with a phrase learned from my merchant supplier: “Wanna whisky? Two dollah.”

  I pointed to myself and said, “Me, Hok.”

  After that, redbeards knew whom to seek in camp. As for Native customers, the merchant passed my name and place to them. Onion was a client, but if Shorty came to buy, I refused him. He had to send someone else with his coins. My bag of cups and small bottles let me sell diluted whisky in smaller portions.

  One day after dinner, Bookman yanked me from the tent. “Didn’t I warn you not to trade with Native people?”

  Government laws forbade anyone to sell liquor to them. My merchant had failed to mention this, so of course I was surprised. Didn’t every man need a drink at some point in his life?

  Two sturdy Native men were waiting. My buyer was the leading hunter of his tribe. He looked chagrined that evening, carrying no weapons. His men preferred to buy in the railway camps because informers in town helped the Indian Agent arrest drinkers and peddlers. My merchant had told the hunter that I accepted only cash and nothing in barter. The hunter always came in western dress, and the other man wore an animal-skin tunic, painted in colours and bristling with bear claws. Under a hat of fur and stiff feathers, his eyes were stern.

  “Your customer told his chief about you,” said Bookman. “The chief says stop selling whisky; if not, he’ll tell the Indian Agent.”

  “It’s hard to say no to this one,” I said. “He carries a rifle and weapons. He won’t take no for an answer.”

  “You can’t say this to the chief,” Bookman said.

  “Then tell him what he wants to hear.”

  After the visitors left, Bookman grabbed my arm. “Don’t sell to Native men. They have wives and children. Redbeard men don’t have families here; they can spend their money any way they want.”

  “If I don’t sell, then customers go buy elsewhere,” I said.

  “You make us all smell bad.”

  “I sleep by the latrine. I’m used to the stink.”

  Poy and I were on ladders squinting into the rock face when we heard shouts that High Hat had fallen off the scaffolding. By the time we pushed our way through the crowd, his eyes were closed and his body limp. The dim circle of gathered lamps showed a deep gash on one side of his neck and blood on the ground glowing and slick. Number Two raised his arms and a hammer to stop redbeards from coming near. He promised to pay Old South, California, and Poy if they helped him carry the body to camp. The rest of us followed. I dragged my feet: Poy was going to get polluted by killing airs and infect me too.

  Our cantankerous lot agreed that High Hat should not have died. He had set up the brotherhood. He challenged Old Fire over the death rites. He settled petty spats between Bookman and the crew. If gods and spirits didn’t protect such a worthy man, then there was little hope for sons of concubines like us.

  Near camp, Old Fire’s men blocked the way, shoulder poles in hand, ready for a fight.

  “Don’t bring that dirty thing here,” said Old Fire.

  “I need to buy water,” said Number Two, “for our Eldest Brother.”

  “Put him down and go fetch it. Don’t bring him closer.”

  “He has to go past his tent one last time to tend to unfinished business.”

  “Do filthy things ever get carried through other villages?” Old Fire gestured at his tents.

  Number Two conceded that they didn’t.

  “Then turn around and go bury him. Find a spot in the woods before it gets dark.”

  “We must set up an altar and pay respects. He was a righteous man.”

  “Do that here, and be quick.”

  “This is the road, not our home.”

  “That thing won’t pass through and pollute us.”

  Poy stepped forward. “You won’t let us through because you look bad shirking your duties.”

  “If we carried filthy things past your kitchen,” Old Fire replied, “your cook would chop us dead with his cleaver.”

  “If you passed away, you would want a funeral,” Poy said to the other crew. “You would want to cross safely to the other side. No one wants to wander between the two worlds, bothering common folk.”

  Old Fire addressed them too. “We are far from home and need to stay alive. People get fragrant here but we must keep a safe distance. It has always been thus.”

  “Everyone gets a funeral at home,” Poy pointed out.

  “The family gets benefits, so of course it does the rituals,” retorted Old Fire. “But we have no families here, so nothing can be done.”

  Number Two turned to consult his brothers and Poy was pushed aside. No one talked to him, so he came to me.

  “Why didn’t you speak?” he demanded. “You have schooling!”

  “Without a funeral master, nothing can be done.”

  “A few things can make it right.”

  This wasn’t about right and wrong. These were scared men clutching at the frayed edges of dignity. They had muscles and brains, words and opinions, but were reduced to numbers on the payroll, ink scratches in an account book. They had families and abided by clan honour,
but the rock was supreme here. It did not need to be kind or righteous; it did not need to recognize anyone. Men owed it respect but had lost their senses, thinking those foreign peaks were more powerful than those of China. In town, I had met men from other crews who followed Old Fire’s ways and observed no rites.

  “We only want to go home safely,” was what they said.

  Poy had scowled and stalked away, an old man who knew only one way home.

  In the end, the brothers told Number Two to appease Old Fire. If this death wasn’t their Elder Brother’s, I suspected the men would have walked away without a backward glance.

  “There’s no grave-stick, so we can’t bury him.” Poy tried to delay things. “If the spirit isn’t guided by its name to its owner, then it stays and haunt us.”

  He sent me a sideways look that everyone saw.

  “His surname was Liu,” I called. “The word has fifteen strokes. It will take time to etch it.”

  “Write it on paper.” Old Fire sneered again. “Set it on the grave under a rock until the stick is done.”

  He went on to list how the rites could be shortened. Number Two nodded, as if he too wanted a quick burial.

  “Old Fire, we are not animals.” Poy spoke loudly. “We will do as you suggest, on one condition. You must bow to High Hat and toast him with a cup.”

  “We never spoke!”

  “Liar,” I said. “We talked after your man died.”

  Number Two ran to the river to buy water and dabbed his wet bandana on High Hat’s forehead. He murmured words of comfort as fast as he could. The handlers tied the blanket around him, after placing slabs of wood under his back and atop his chest to take the place of coffin walls. Our entire crew showed up for the ritual, not for High Hat but to send Old Fire a signal never to meddle again in our affairs.

  Poy called each crewman to step forward and pour wine at High Hat’s feet. I was surprised. Usually an older man called the order; his age showed respect to the deceased. Poy gestured for all to step forward and bow. He led us in three large circles around the body before handing each man a penny. Then the handlers lifted the wrapped body and headed to the forest. In the meantime, a small fire was stoked on the ground. Each man stepped over it before heading back to camp, where right away he washed his hands and face.

  I had new respect for Poy. But before we could talk, two armed lawmen rode into camp on big brown horses and seized my bottles. In front of the crew, they emptied the liquor onto the ground and arrested me. Along the march to jail, I wondered who had fingered me, Shorty or the Native headman. Grandfather’s words from long ago came to me: no revenge, no rest.

  6

  A FATHER NEVER SLEEPS (1885)

  I marched like a soldier into the next tunnel, then turned about-face and went back to the mouth, a mule with downcast nose. Sam had set a goal of fourteen miles for the first day, and I figured I was about halfway to Big Tunnel, the stop for tonight. But first there was Spuzzum, the first railway station north of Yale.

  No prick of light showed at the other end of this tunnel: Don’t know the depth, don’t ford the river. I should have gone back to Yale, to my first shrewd plan, instead of scurrying on, a witless child on a fool’s errand.

  No mix-blood could tell me which way to go. A return to Yale meant swallowing failure and letting Sam tell a juicy tale about some donkey dangling halfway between land and sky, far from its convoy, far from safety. His people would hear about China men as stupid pack animals, too stubborn for their own good. I might as well have ridden into town astride a horse but facing its tail.

  I untied the pack and searched for the folded lantern, tossing out bundles of rice and dried beans and little earthenware jars wrapped in cloth. The lantern was tucked deep on one side. When I repacked, the goods wouldn’t fit as before, so I hurled a packet of beans into the river.

  That must have riled Sam’s thrifty gods, because winds rushed at me as I struck the matches. One by one, they sputtered and died no matter how my shoulders twisted to shield them. A whole packet of matches was wasted before the candle got lit. My heel crushed them into the ground. If Sam saw this, he would have a good laugh.

  The tunnel mouth, wide enough to take two more rail lines, hinted at a long hole. Iron rings had been screwed into the rock, likely for moving skids, and deeply thrust into the mountain, otherwise thieves would have grabbed them already. I tugged at one and recalled a grand temple door swinging open in my childhood.

  The wooden ties underfoot led me forward. The lamp’s rust dulled the flame: it faltered and left me taking baby steps. I swung the lamp to the ground, trying to gain reflected light from the steel rail. The feeble glow cast no shadows. Drops of water landed in puddles and echoed—natural sounds, not voices. Men had died in pain here, before their time was up, and now their blank eyes watched from dark corners. They wanted justice, but I wasn’t their hero. I stomped loudly over the gravel to assert myself.

  Something sleek skimmed my face, a weightless flicker. I ducked, one hand at my eyes, the other steadying the lantern. Flapping wings hurtled past again. I hadn’t heard them, hadn’t thought that birds could fly in the dark. Maybe it was a bat with sharp claws. Ghosts held no power during the daylight, but the cool vast reach of this tunnel was a moonless night. People said you could tell a human from a ghost because a ghost had no chin and no legs. Here in Gold Mountain, that could be just another injured coolie.

  Leaving the tunnel for fresh air in the sunlight let me speed up. Sailing to China would take a month, but when Wet Water Dog had handed me the ticket, the heat of home filled my lungs right away. The longer I stayed here, the more bitter the taste. Not because the shit-hole redbeards kicked us around and used our pigtails to pitch us into the mud. No, our homeland too held a fine array of bullies: ox heads from downriver insisting we took too much water, no-name clans demanding tribute, former militia captains with no squads left to lead. No, it was the grim prospects of Gold Mountain, sharp as a shrill opera voice, which left us sleepless.

  The old ones who had never gone abroad said all you needed to do was scoop gold from the ground. That’s how easy life was here, easy as flipping your palm. Only a snot worm with a yam brain would fail to get rich. Family and clan members wrung their hands and clutched at your sleeve to yoke a cartful of demands onto you. You were the one to pull down nearby homes and build a bigger house. Your money could carry a daughter or sister into a rich family where she dodged farm work, where she trumped you by pulling strings to get odd jobs for kinsmen. You purchased more land, so the clan collected more rents and hired better teachers. One boy might shine at the government exams and become a high and corrupt official who funnelled home even more gold. Hurrah! What I took back to China would never be enough. Soon I would go abroad again, as sure as late flowers around me dried up and dropped their heads.

  A trestle as high and long as the one that had disgraced me crossed the next gully in a wide curve. I looked to see if Sam and the boy were watching, waiting to have a good laugh.

  A superior man fears nothing, I told myself. Watch the distant mountains; the horse gallops across.

  My feet dragged as if shackled. I clutched my sides to stop the trembling in my hands.

  I retreated to solid ground and crouched. The blue sky was bright with certainty. An eagle with broad wings floated far above, a chip of wood skimming through the clouds. That creature was the true Best-of-Two of this land, with talons that inspired fear on land and then folded neatly to ride the wind.

  My son was approaching, so this cornered dog had to leap the wall. I untied the pack and kicked it aside. I crawled onto the trestle, nose to the ground. My elbows pulled me ahead. My knees scrabbled over the ties. I wished my feet, my boots, were heavier. A sliver pricked my hand and I glanced down. Something flashed below me, an insect or animal streaking by. The joints of the trestle creaked in the wind and I felt it sway. I backed up like an ox getting hitched to a cart.

  The gods must have laughed until thei
r teeth fell out and pity filled them, because then I heard a bell clanging.

  People fishing and picking berries at the river stopped and looked up. I ducked behind bushes. The railway behind me held loops and turns so the chugging of the train slowed. First came the pointed nose of the cowcatcher rack. Smoke drifted from the giant wheels. A red bandana tied to the cab door flapped in the wind. The train clanked to a stop and then the driver hopped down and went to peer under the engine. It pulled no passenger cars, just two flatbed decks, one stacked with lumber and the other lashed with coops of clucking chickens.

  I lifted my pack, crept like a thief, and climbed aboard to lie flat beside the birds.

  When the cab door slammed and the train rumbled to life, I grinned. It would shoot me so far ahead of Sam that when he finally caught up, I could say, “Been waiting so long that my neck got stretched.”

  Then I kicked myself. Now the gods were truly laughing, laughing so hard that you couldn’t see their eyes, hiding their open mouths behind airy fans. Stupid me, I had fled the wolf to face a tiger. Now, if I were to turn tail and scuttle back to Yale, I would need to cross two high trestles with the brat tugging at me. I rolled to the edge of the deck, but the train was already on the bridge.

  My death meant no one would restore the family’s name.

  The family name. I had gripped those words to my heart on leaving home. Now it was my wizened grandmother’s beseeching that pulled me back.

  I shut my eyes against the glare of the sky.

  Beat the family hen, it runs in rings; beat a visiting fowl, off it flies.

  When news of Father’s refusal to come home was confirmed, no callers came to wish us well at New Year’s, and we dared not take our bad luck to other homes. It was as if he had died and our house collapsed. Grandfather blamed Grandmother for spoiling Father since his childhood, peeling his oranges, pre-chewing his sugar cane, and excusing him from chores.