by S. L. Hawke
Boom… The noise was deep, and outside the bulkhead.
My cousins had asked me here. Residing in San Francisco, William and Edward Sloan were lawyers. They wrote to me, sending their brother (also my cousin) James as their private courier, hand carrying their letter to Honolulu in the seams of his jacket. A bit dramatic, I thought, since I wasn’t THAT famous a fugitive, but in the end, James’ ship was attacked by Confederate privateers. The letter was literally all James had on him after the life boats came upon the shores of Moloka’i.
“We have the perfect solution to your situation, dear cousin, one that employs your unique sets of skills. We are terribly sorry for the loss of your wife and for the horrible turn of events in Japan against foreigners and trade. We hope that you will find a better home here in California where many men have been able to start again without any influence of one’s past.”
“You’ll have a chance to clear your name, to do something for the Union, for our President and provide security for your son and his mother’s family in Hawaii who, old chap, do depend on you, as the Nihon culture demands. Again, dear cousin, we have taken the liberty of holding the letters from your mother, sisters, and brother who now reside in Santa Cruz, but we strongly encourage you NOT to correspond to ANYONE in your family at present. Your secret cannot be preserved if any correspondence between you and your family is known to exist. It would implicate them and bring criminal charges upon the family as co-conspirators with knowledge of your guilt in this matter.”
I could have gone directly to Santa Cruz, my main destination, but I needed time here in this city. The real reason for the delay was to meet with my cousins and my new employer, but there was also money to transfer, letters to collect, horses to buy, and tickets to the new Santa Cruz steam ship, Salinas, to purchase.
Coming home from the Orient after ten years also took some getting used to. I did owe my cousins a favor. They buried my “indiscretions”, the steps I took to save my family, as this folly of Japanese trade barriers sent foreigners on Japanese soil fleeing for their own lives. Yet, despite everything, I can’t forget what I did, because truly, they were not indiscretions any more than citizens taking up arms to prevent murderers and thieves from destroying their homes. My home was just Japanese, that’s all.
The only letters I received were from my beloved sister Margaret, who would take Hiru into her arms with love until I could find a governess. She managed to find a way to visit us, through a friend of Sophia’s. The Hawaiian Royal Family, Hiru’s mother’s kin, had both the means and the wherewithal to maintain the privacy of our correspondence.
Hiru scratched at his cheek, brushing off a black speck. The speck, a flea, jumped off onto my hand. Quickly, I picked it off and squished it with angry disgust. I started finding them everywhere on me and picked, squished and swore. Hiru scratched at his bites, one of at least four on his cheek. My hands made fists as I struggled with panic, unable to live with these fleas, dirt, and lack of bathing. To think I used to live like this, that I grew up living like this.
Hiru now stood on tiptoe, staring out the port hole. I joined him, peering through the dirty glass. Commotion pummeled the deck above us.
Suddenly the collision bells rang. The boat listed to one side, timbers groaning and creaking, protesting the sharp yaw. My body went with the turn, as did Hiru’s.
“Papa!” He and I clung to each other. We grabbed at the cross beam. We could swim, but all I could think of was getting us topside, to breathe, to feel air, and safety.
Then with another heave and groan, the collision bells ceased.
“Let’s get topside,” I growled at Hiru. We climbed aloft to see the commotion. Other passengers were also at the rails: the French Missionaries from China that we picked up in Hawai’i before sailing west, and the twin brothers from Ireland.
“Papa, look! A warship!”
Now I saw it. She was a war frigate, steam engines belching like the dragon furnaces at the temples I protected back in Kyoto. Her cannons were the newest in shell guns. They could rotate and fire in any direction. She was firing across the bow of another shabby frigate flying the flag of the southern rebellion I had read about. Its name, The Whore, was slapped on its side in black paint.
Another shot fired from the Union ship. The rebel frigate tried to outrun her, but the warship was too fast on full steam. The rebels could barely load their guns. They fired, but the shells looked only like fireworks. Harsh commands to stand down were shouted.
The war frigate fired again and looked as if it were about to ram the Confederate Whore. The Union ship, in privateer fashion, hooked alongside the grey frigate and Union men scurried onto the decks like ants.
“Papa! They won!” I picked Hiru up so he could see more clearly what was transpiring when I felt someone come alongside of us.
“Aye, they did.” The voice brought up the old fear for Hiru’s safety until I saw who it was. The voice belonged to one of the Irish twins. Our ship continued to steer clear and under full steam went into the harbor of San Francisco. “Another victory against the English is always a day to celebrate. Did ya not know that half of your Southern states have English royalty runnin’ t’ro them?” He said this to Hiru, but he was watching me. “We Irish need to stick together.” His name was Finn McIntyre. I laughed even harder, since I was Scots — via Ireland, but Scots nevertheless.
My red hair had gone brown, the same color as my eyes, and now, with all that had happened, my temples had become frost, just like my father’s when he was my age. He died soon after. “We’re going to find mountains, for gold,” McIntyre continued. “I hear you canna practically swim in it, the dust is so thick!” Somewhere along the voyage McIntyre decided I was a Union man and a fellow clansman. He grinned. “Would you still be continuin’ on south after a spell in Sin City?” McIntyre always made me laugh. “ I canna convince you to come mine with us?” I nodded with a smile.
“And yue, Anndra, what are you really here for?” Donal, his brother, came up, hands deep in his jacket pockets against the chill of the approaching Fog. We were speaking Gaelic, mine tinged with Scottish inflection, but we understood each other quite well.
“Like I said before, visiting family. My mother’s dying and has some last wishes to fulfill,” I reiterated, rewording what I was told to say by Edward and William in case anyone asked. I was all too eager to oblige since it ceased all conversation. Why is it, when you have trepidation and worry about what you will find, that everyone on God’s earth wants to know your history? And then when you are bursting at the seams with stories and anger, no one would care what you have to say?
The fresh air teased us with hope of cleanliness. I couldn’t wait for landfall, a bath, fresh food, and clean clothes. I leaned against the rails feeling ill. The deck was recently swabbed but smelled of urine. A Japanese boat would never have been this filthy. Nothing in Japan was dirty, except the other foreigners’ dwellings. Sometimes I think the real reason they threw us out was because we made paradise a true hell with the lack of bathing, the violent temperaments, and the Christian need for economic subjugation. The salt breeze carried with it the stench of rotted seaweed.
“Will you Americans never stop fighting each other? Why can’t you behave?” The French Missionaries seemed to sing these insults. The Irish boys looked intrigued. Shaking my head, I shrugged my answer, which caused them to look away and mutter what idiots and savages Americans were, to which I answered in French that I heartily agreed. The shame and horror on their faces that after a month at sea, the retreat into their native tongue was not as secretive as they thought, made me feel a sharp thrill of victory. I tapped the rim of my hat to them with a half-smile. The wife, blushing prettily, called me something that translated to the anus of a flatulent donkey, while undoing the top buttons of her blouse.
At least these Europeans didn’t hurt Hiru. He belonged to neither Asian nor European race, being half of each. At least in Hawai’i they accepted him as one of their own
, as the Royals and the émigrés all openly shared each other’s bed. But still, here, despite the claims that California was progressive, I feared for him. I’ve already killed to protect him. A pistol had discharged accidentally while I wrestled an angry Brit away from my son. We had been fighting for a place on the last boat out of Nagoya. The panic of this memory pressed on my chest so hard, my breath left me. I closed my eyes recalling the voice of my now departed teacher.
“The quiet is your companion,” Master Aimen said softly, correcting my stance with a steady finger. “Let it flow over and through you until there is nothing but peace. Seek to harmonize adversity by going into its knot and finding the path of undoing. A knot pulled in opposition becomes tight and inaccessible. Relax the string and the knot opens, revealing its structure and its solution…”
My eyes opened. But the knot in my chest was still there. Many nights of calm I’d need before this would undo itself. In my mind’s eye, I recalled my cousins’ letter. “There are Japanese and Hawaiian Royals in Santa Cruz, cousin, and there are Scots there as well. Your sister Beth’s husband died of consumption two years previous. Her son (your nephew) is growing up but Beth has asked us for assistance in placing Frank with his distant family members in Oregon, and has done so, praise be to God. As of the date of this letter, June 18, 1862, she already has marriage prospects despite her widow’s veil.”
There were Japanese there in Santa Cruz, Hawaiians, Chinese, Spanish, and Californios, kin sprung from (the Natives and) the Spanish. It’s my hope that this job, when complete, will allow me to disappear into a quiet life, raise horses, farm, maybe.
McIntyre enticed Hiru with a game of football. They rolled about on deck like happy dogs. I reached into my pocket and opened my cousins’ letter again, but without my spectacles, it was a blur. As we approached San Francisco Wharf, I could smell the fish, the coal, and the stench of a working wharf. I scanned the harbor for any sign of my Cousin Edward’s bright flame-colored head. William would no doubt be nursing a hangover in bed.
The plank was short and Hiru ran off of it. Three tall, thin men, wearing long oilskin coats, large broad-brimmed hats and sporting two sets of rifle bullet belts across their chests, moved in unison towards me and gracefully opened the lapels of their coats. Pinned on the vest of the one closest to me was a silver star. The others ambled right alongside, pistols in plain view. They all were a bit unshaven except the one who sported a rather stylish large mustache.
“Andrew Jackson Sloan, cousin to Judge Advocate Lawyers Edward and William Sloan?” The large mustached man looked as if he had no lips. I nodded, and pulled Hiru to me.
“I am,” my voice crackled. Hiru tightened his grip on my sleeve as I kept my left hand ready. They simply showed me a path in front of them and asked me to follow them. I did not relax. What on earth was this favor Edward and William wanted of me?
We turned the corner into a noisy, human-filled street. Dung, flies, fish, and dirty bodies slammed into us like a tidal wave. Vendors, both Asian and European, shouted out their questionable wares. “No wait, fresh crab! “ A hefty Chinese man waved the pink crustacean in the air.
“Fruit from the Mountains of the Gods.” I turned at the voice. It spoke Castellano, a dialect I knew well, but it was fresh, and harsher. A quick scan of the crowd and I found her, an elderly woman in a woven shawl. She was swallowed up by eager customers. Fruit this time of year only meant one thing: Chile. I’d been there once as a young man, interpreting for the Captain of the vessel that I served on my way to Japan. I spoke a Californio dialect, but it was better than no Spanish at all.
“This way.” The deputy, a young man with a large nose, tapped my arm. I followed, narrowly avoiding a large pile of dog excrement. Hiru jumped over it with a grimace and clung to my hand. The deputy behind me strode through it, wrinkled his nose then looked down at his boot. He disappeared behind us, scraping his shoe off on the street planks.
We came to a brick building with a brass plate on its side exclaiming in deeply cut, rigid, Roman style letters: “Charles W. Rand, United States Marshal, Northern California District.”
The stairs were narrow, but the office was nothing but windows, mercifully open to the outside. Rand, the Chief, as they called him was not in, but a balding middle-aged man with a warm open face that was both clean shaven and scrubbed white welcomed me with a ham-sized handshake.
“Andrew Jackson Sloan.” The man said my name as if he were announcing a performer. He shook my hand firmly and smelled of fresh soap. “I’ve heard a lot about you.” The statement made me nervous. It had been years since I had been in this country. I wondered what my cousins had said to the Marshals about me. This man seemed to know more than I was comfortable with. Well, this was the United States Marshals’ Office. Maybe this was all a fancy way to get me to confess to killing a superior officer, forgetting that our real mission was to protect a Japanese Royal’s home. So long ago, it seemed, like another life. I forced myself to recall my training.
“Suffering is caused by repeating the cycle of negativity,” Master Aimen continued his lecture in hushed, calm tones. The water from the fountain kept a singular soothing throb. My back ached from the zazen or cross legged position. “Just as water wears down the highest mountain, so does our practice wear away the negative emotions that lead us down the path to suffering. Follow your breath to subdue the tiger. Tame him by harnessing his strength to overcome the most powerful emotions and you will truly change your path. Break the cycle of suffering, change your path, lead yourself away from anger and know true freedom and bliss…”
“Arthur Sweeney, Assistant Chief, Northern California District, “ the man introduced himself. “Mr. Rand is in Washington, visiting the President.” By the way Sweeney smiled, he was proud to have all his teeth. The idea that the Chief Marshal was on close terms with our President impressed me a great deal. Sweeney’s hand was firm, a man of clear conscious and conviction. I liked him. “I know your sisters,” Sweeney added with a sideways smile and gestured to a vacant and clean seat. Quickly, Cynthia came to mind. She was always one to cultivate friends in powerful places. It wasn’t a stretch. She was in San Francisco with her husband, celebrating his gold strike not long ago.
As I studied Sweeney’s hands, his sausage-like fingers, I noticed that they were always moving and twisting a quill or a watch or in this case a black rock. But he wore no cuff links, no ring, to show that he might belong to the Freemasons. I crossed my legs, trying hard not to look like I was trying hard not to look nervous, or guilty.
Hiru had gone over to the window and was enthralled with the sights and sounds of such a large bustling city like San Francisco. The young deputy who escorted us up the stairs offered Hiru an orange. Hiru bowed and then looked at me. I nodded. He thanked the deputy in English. Hiru then looked around the office, located the wash basin and enthusiastically poured water from the nearby pitcher, grabbed a cloth and cleaned his face and hands thoroughly. Pride made me get up and join him. In the bowl next to Hiru’s, which I used, I checked my water and his for signs of lice.
“Long boat trip, I imagine,” Sweeney drawled. I could tell by the way he rocked on his heels and watched us wash up that he was mindful of the same thing. Once you get rid of lice, you never, ever, want to have them again.
“One month,” I said, nodding in agreement as I buttoned my shirt back up and put my coat back on. Hiru contented himself with his orange, its smell freshening the office. There was absolutely no dirt on the floor. I remembered there was a boot scraper at the door front, which I used without thinking, alongside the boot brush outside the office door.
“Like you, I spent a few years in the Orient.” Sweeney was reclining in his chair behind an immaculate desk. “I’m convinced that the sure way to an early grave is being dirty.” Arthur waved a finger at me. “Cleanliness is true God-fearing living.” He watched me, but I smiled in total agreement. “I’ve sent a Jap barber and servant to your hotel room. If you take the job, yo
u can relax, take in the sights. Have a bath, on us.”
Grinning, I set my hat on the empty chair next to me. Time to ask after Edward. What the hell was this job?
“Look, I know that my cousins have told you that I—”
The deputy who had given Hiru an orange had moved next to him and was also watching me. Everyone, except for Hiru who was now curled up asleep on a small couch in the corner, seemed to be holding their breath.
“You know a man named Hicks?” Sweeney asked with a narrow-eyed observation. The name startled me.
“John Adams Hicks?”
“The very same one.” The young deputy next to Sweeney let out a visible exhale. “You do know him. Served together is what I heard.” Sweeney was grinning with what looked like relief. I felt relief too, but then I recognized something about the way Sweeney spoke, in partials, which I remember was a cousin dialect to southern folk, perhaps north of Tennessee.
“Yes.” John Adams Hicks. Jad for short. That’s what we all called him. He was a sniper, the best rifleman in our unit, such as it was. We were all too young, confusing adventure with mishap, and ignorant of the culture we were supposed to supplant.
That culture welcomed us into their homes, hoping to convert us to the Rancho life. It worked for John. Love was better than war, was what he said. Worse yet his brother-in-law’s cousin found a cinnabar mine. Jad bought into it and from his last letter, was adding on to his home and his family. There was no war with these people, despite what the Army had us believe. It was all for domination. Just like Japan. Master Aimen was right, this was the cycle of suffering, and it was the Yankee way.
“Said you were his best man, even though you weren’t Catholic.” Sweeney was fiddling with a black smooth rock in his hands. He upended the small, shiny, flat rock over and over again in his right palm, which he held near his ear as he leaned on the wings of his chair. I found the movement comforting even more so than the thought of a real bath at the end of all this.
