by F. M. Parker
Four men were at desks calculating numbers from sheets of paper on abacus boards and entering sums in ledgers. Beyond them the room looked like a warehouse. Seven men were packaging various items in bags and wooden boxes, obviously for shipping. Two men sat at a table near a barred door and played dominoes. They immediately sprang to their feet when they saw Ing and Tom.
Ing made a slight gesture and the men reseated themselves. Tom and Ing passed by and went through another door.
The room was splendid with long silk drapes hanging on the walls. Thick mohair carpets covered the floor. The finest wooden furniture, delicate and ornately carved, was placed in a most pleasing arrangement.
The men did not stop there, but continued into yet another room. A long table set with silver, fragile glassware occupied the center of the space. Twenty people, perhaps twenty-five, could be seated at the table at one time.
“You may wash and refresh yourself in there,” said Ing and indicated a curtained doorway. “Then return here and allow me to show my hospitality.”
Ing, Mingren and Tom were the only people at the table. Two young women served them. Tom lost count of the number of different dishes of food placed before him. He savored the distinct and delicious flavor of each new dish and concentrated on the conversation with Ing.
Ing questioned Tom in detail about the Oregon land, the discovery of gold there and how his countrymen were faring in that faraway country.
“I am saddened by the taxing of Chinese miners. That is unfair. But I understand the reasons behind it, for nearly all my people are merely sojourners in America. Most will one day return to China. However, some, like myself, will never leave. We have become part of all that happens here.”
One of the guards who had been playing dominoes in the outer room entered and conversed in a low voice with Ing. The merchant pondered for a moment and then turned to Tom.
“The steamship Japan came into port this morning with nearly thirteen hundred Chinese aboard. We are having difficulty finding lodging and food for them. Our dormitories were almost full before the arrival of this very large shipload of men.
“I must leave you and attend to some of these matters. We will talk early in the morning about Sigh’s woman. Mingren will show you to your quarters.”
Ing spoke rapidly to Mingren in a dialect Tom did not comprehend and left through a side door.
Mingren guided Tom to a spacious sleeping room. “This shall be for your use as long as you stay in San Francisco. A warm bath has been prepared for you in the adjoining room. If you desire, you may also have your clothing washed while you bathe.”
Tom glanced down at his worn and soiled garb. Compared to Mingren and Ing in their fresh, neat garments, he was a vagabond.
Tom laughed and said, “I would very much like to have clean clothes. Tomorrow I will buy a new outfit. I imagine the patches on these clothes are not very suitable for a big city like San Francisco.”
Mingren grinned back. “I will give the instructions. Do you plan to go into the city this evening?”
“Yes. There is much I want to see.”
“Perhaps you are aware that many sections of the city are not safe after dark. In fact some places are not safe at any time for new arrivals.”
“I have heard that. But I’m not worried.”
“Then I shall see you at breakfast.”
“Is it possible somebody could wake me in the morning? By the looks of the softness of that bed, I might sleep until noon.”
Mingren smiled. “Would you like for a pretty girl to awaken you?”
Tom reflected upon the girl in the stagecoach. He had found much pleasure in looking at her pretty face. He thought he could still feel the spot where she had pressed her leg against his. “That would be fine,” Tom told Mingren.
Tom leisurely bathed and shaved his sparse young beard. By the time he finished, his clothes had been washed and ironed dry. They were still warm from the hot metal of the iron when he donned them. He wondered how many servants worked behind the walls and how many rooms there were in Ing’s home and business. What type of business was Ing really involved in?
Tom knew of only one route to an exit and that was back through the store. He walked in that direction. The guards stopped him at the warehouse section and let him out a side door. Tom heard the iron bolt being shoved into its locking socket behind him. He wondered what Ing was afraid of.
Darkness had fallen on the narrow streets. Stygian gloom filled the cramped alleyways. A cold sea breeze crept among the buildings.
A few people hurried past Tom. The sound of a flute and cymbals playing a weird, alien music came from inside a building on the opposite side of the thoroughfare.
Two blocks later, he saw an old woman wrapped in a thick shawl on a balcony over the street. She was wailing a Cantonese lament of homesickness and rocking to and fro. Tom stood for a moment and watched her and listened to the sounds of the city and its smell.
Tom left Chinatown. He went three squares along Church Street and came out on Jackson Street.
There was fog in this lower elevation near the ocean. The wash of the gas streetlights showed as dull yellow pools in the mist.
He passed a brightly lighted house with a sign naming it Blind Annie’s Cellar. Men strolled along the street and entered the establishment.
Now and then a night woman walked by Tom as he continued along the street. Often they looked at him, trying to catch his eye. His attention was not on them and they went on their way.
The fog formed droplets on Tom’s eyebrows and his cheeks became wet. He brushed the moisture away. He had never experienced anything like this before. He felt washed in the mist. He began to think that maybe the drippy, misty night streets should be left to the people who knew their way about. He should return to Ing’s and do his exploring in the light of the sun.
He came to a streetlight haloed with the wet sea vapor and stopped to get his bearings. A tapping sound came from the window of the house beside him. He turned to look.
A small Chinese woman sat in the window. She was seated on a cushion on the wide sill and tapping on the glass pane with her long fingernails. A lamp was placed on a nearby table in the room so the light would illuminate her.
She smiled as Tom looked at her and turned her head from side to side in the light so he could see how pretty she was.
Tom grinned back. She was a most friendly girl.
She bent and lifted the sash of the window. “Would you like to come inside?” she asked in English.
Before Tom could answer, someone touched his arm. A female voice asked, “Wouldn’t you rather make love with me?”
Tom turned and in astonishment stared down at a beautiful young woman. She was dressed all in black, only her blond hair and white face showed, like an ivory cameo against the night.
Her fingers slid down his arm, cool and soft, and took his hand. “Come with me,” she said.
Tom went a couple of steps under the pull of her hands; then he halted.
“It is all right,” she said. “Come along.”
“Why me?” asked Tom.
“Because you are handsome.” She put an arm about him. “I will give you a pleasant night.” There was a hint of urgency in her voice.
Tom did not move, puzzling at the offer.
She moved closer and hugged him around the waist.
“Watch out behind you men come,” the woman in the window cried out at Tom.
Tom whirled around at the warning. Three men, moving swiftly shoulder to shoulder, were a few steps distant. Each carried a club in his hand.
Tom’s hand flashed down for his six-gun. The holster was empty. Damnation! The blond woman had stolen it.
The men were almost upon him. He could not let them surround him. He crouched low and charged the middle man.
As he caught the attacker over his shoulder, Tom felt a club hit him a walloping blow on the back. He ignored the sudden pain and drove forward, lifting the man off his f
eet.
Tom saw the wall of the building swiftly approaching. He butted the man, shoving him ahead to absorb the shock of the imminent collision.
They struck. Tom heard the sodden crunch of the man’s head breaking on the brick. The man dropped his club on the cobblestone.
Tom snatched up the length of hard wood and spun to face his assailants.
The men separated and warily, holding their billy clubs poised to strike, eased closer. One man nodded a signal at the other. Both would attack Tom at the same time.
A man dressed in dark clothing materialized out of the fog. He delayed a second, his sight darting over the scene, interpreting the situation. Then he sprang at the back of one of Tom’s opponents.
His hand shot out and a long knife sank deeply into the man. He stabbed out powerfully twice more, each time driving the blade to the hilt in the man’s back.
The club dropped from the nerveless hands of the man, already dead on his feet. He fell toward Tom, his face thudding on the stone street.
The man with the knife turned and without a backward glance trotted away. The fog swallowed him up.
Tom snatched up the dead man’s club from the street and leaped at the last attacker. The man swung his club. The reach was short.
Then Tom was close. When the man tried to hit him with a backhand strike, Tom broke his knuckles with a blow of the club. Instantly Tom smacked the man on the side of the head with the wooden weapon, and then across the back of the neck as he went down.
Where was the woman? Tom rotated, peering into the foggy shadows. She stood against the wall of the building. She raised Tom’s pistol to point at him.
Tom hurled himself aside. As he did so, he flung the club at the woman.
The gun roared, missing its target.
Tom heard the club hit the woman with a thump. The pistol clattered on the street.
The woman cried out and backed away into the darkness. Tom scrambled around on his knees, feeling for his six-gun. He found the pistol and stood erect.
The Chinese woman was yelling at him. “Run! Run! Before you are caught!” She jerked the window down with a crash and blew out the lamp.
Tom heard shouts and the stamp of feet hurrying in his direction. He ran.
CHAPTER 17
Tom awoke at the knock on the door. He rolled to his back and sat up in bed. “Come in,” he called.
A young and very pretty Chinese girl came into the room. She smiled at him and in pleasant, lilting Chinese said, “Food will be served in one hour. Mingren has asked that I tell you Honorable Ing requests that you come and dine with them.”
Tom grinned. Mingren had kept his promise that a lovely woman would be the person to rouse him this morning.
“Thank you,” said Tom. “Tell Mingren I will be there.” He swung his feet to the floor.
The girl looked quizzically at Tom. “Is there anything else you desire?”
“That is all. Please go and tell them.”
She left, looking back as if expecting him to call to her.
Tom felt the bruise on his back. It was swollen and tender to the touch. A blow such as this could have crushed his skull.
He washed, dressed and went to his second-floor window. He was above the fog that lay nearer the ocean. A clear blue sky soared overhead, and the early morning sun threw slanting rays across the town, already awake with a bevy of people and vehicles moving on the street.
Tom watched for a while. Then judging an hour had elapsed, he walked along the hallway and down the stairs to the dining room. Ing and Mingren were already seated and conversing in their native tongue.
“Please have breakfast with us,” said Ing and motioned at a chair on his left. “Did you rest well?”
“It was a very comfortable bed. The best I have ever slept on,” replied Tom.
“It has the down of duck and geese and should be most soft. I am pleased you enjoyed it.”
A woman servant set hot food before Tom. He began to eat with the two men.
“You went out into the city last evening,” Ing said in a matter- of-fact statement. “How did you like our city?”
“A friend told me San Francisco had places that a person should go to only in the daylight. I found one of those streets.”
Tom looked at Mingren. “Thank you for your help last night. I don’t know why those three men jumped me. But they would have likely bashed my head if you hadn’t taken that one off me.”
Both Mingren and Ing stopped eating. Their faces became studied and noncommittal. They glanced at each other and then back to Tom.
“I do not know of what you speak,” said Mingren with a frown. “I did not leave the house after dark.”
Tom smiled. Mingren did not want to be thanked. “I recognized you. You did very well with your knife.”
Ing spoke. “Mingren is correct, Tom. You must be mistaken in what you saw. No Chinese would harm a white man regardless of the danger to a friend.”
Tom flushed hot at his error of judgment. The feeling of resentment and dislike of the white men for the Chinese was extremely high. He remembered the gold thieves on the Snake River. A Chinaman killing a white man could bring much violence and even murder upon the Chinese community. However, he knew with certainty Mingren had aided him in the fight. How else would Ing have known it had been white men in the attack?
Yet Ing was too intelligent to have made such an accidental slip of words. He was, in an indirect manner, telling Tom the precarious situation that existed for Chinese in this land of America. Further, Tom wondered if Ing had not instructed Mingren to follow and keep him safe.
“It was foggy and dark,” said Tom. “I did not see the fourth man clearly. Still, one day I would like to meet him so I could properly say thanks.”
“That probably will never happen,” replied Ing. He paused. “I have received word of the woman Sigh Ho has acquired. Her name is Lian Ah. A man, Pak Ho, a cousin of Sigh, is accompanying her. The information I have is that they were to sail on the clipper ship, American Wanderer, approximately three months ago. The ship may come today, next week, or never, for it must come a long distance over a stormy and perilous ocean.
“I request you reside with us until they arrive. Go about the city as you please. However, the friend you spoke of was correct in warning you of the danger in certain sections. But be assured there are many fine people in San Francisco and beautiful and interesting places to see. We have grand theaters and some of the finest troupes of actors in the world come to put on plays.”
“That friend I mentioned was named John Kelly. He was a violin player. Have you ever heard him perform?”
“Kelly. Yes, about six or seven years ago. He was a most skilled artist with his instrument. I would not forget him easily.”
Tom was pleased at the reputation of the old fiddle player. One day he hoped to see him and tell him of that and to listen once again himself to the beautiful music.
“I accept your generous offer to stay here,” said Tom. “I do have a little gold and can pay.”
“Your gold has no value in this house,” responded Ing. “I wish I could spend more time with you, for there are things of value we could tell each other. I especially would like to know more about your Oregon country. But Mingren and I have many hundreds of men to equip for a journey to the gold fields. If you should have returned here by evening, join us for conversation.”
Ing and Mingren left. Tom lingered over another cup of tea and then went to his room. He slipped his six-gun under the belt of his trousers and buttoned his coat over it. The whole day was his and a large and unknown city beckoned for his exploration. Perhaps he might look for the blond woman who tried to shoot him with his own gun.
Tom walked hurriedly along the streets of Chinatown. Businesses of every description lined the avenues and thoroughfares. People crowded each other and peddlers came and went, balancing baskets of their wares on bending shoulder poles.
At a few of the business places and home
s, there were men Tom thought were guards similar to those at Ing’s. In pairs or singly, they sat or stood on the porches or balconies near the entrances. They were dressed similarly to the men who guarded Ing’s establishment. Their black eyes alertly roamed over the passing people.
Tom watched two such men for a few minutes. They did not stray from their posts. He wondered why some establishments had the guards, but others did not.
Tom walked on, drawn down the sloping streets toward the docks. He stopped once and bought a map for two cents. He came to Market Street and saw a tiny steam train. He slowed and watched the conveyance pass, a miniaturized version of the locomotive that had pulled the train he had ridden from Winnemucca.
At a men’s clothing store, he outfitted himself in a soft new cotton shirt and wool trousers and coat. He bought a hat. The used clothing he tossed in a trash box of the store. He considered buying new boots, but settled for just having a cobbler put new soles and heels on the ones he had. After all, the old boots were sprung in all the right places to be comfortable for a man who intended to walk miles about the city.
The odor of some strange food floated out to the sidewalk. Tom sniffed at the delightful aroma. He was in a section of the town with many restaurants, the signs proclaiming them English lunch rooms, French cabarets, German wirtschafts, Italian osterie and half a score of other nationalities. He would sample their fare over the next days.
A gaunt, scraggily clothed man stood on a corner with an open Bible in his hands. He was haranguing the pedestrians and the men on the passing wagons about their sinful ways and saying that it was time to repent. He often broke his speech to quote the Bible without looking at it. No one paid him the slightest attention.
In front of the Grand Hotel, Tom encountered a woman on the sidewalk. She moved with a free swinging stride. She was dressed in a black bolero jacket and sweeping silk skirt. The woman looked at Tom with large gray eyes from behind the thinnest lace falling from the brim of her broad hat.
Tom stared at the attractive and handsomely dressed woman. She laughed lightly at his obvious admiration and passed on.
