The Seekers

by F. M. Parker

  “No you won’t,” Mattoon said and laughed at Groton. Miserly bastard would give him the least pretty one. “I’ll pick the girl. Tell them to form a circle around the lantern so I can see them good in the light.”

  The captain started to protest, for he knew Mattoon would select the most beautiful virgin, and therefore the most valuable. But he caught himself up short and said nothing. He could not win, so why be stupid and argue and arouse Mattoon’s anger.

  “I don’t know how to tell them that,” the captain said. “Chung Pak, will you tell them?”

  Pak dreaded what he knew was about to happen, but he kept his countenance composed. The beauty of a woman was often a very great danger to her. Men such as Mattoon and his underlings did not cherish beauty as it should be cherished. God created female beauty for the enjoyment of man, and most certainly to satisfy his deepest needs and desires. So it was natural that a man should love a woman, even with some vigor, but never so roughly as to mar her loveliness. Mattoon and his band would destroy any woman Pak selected. They were nothing but dog offal.

  Pak looked sorrowfully at the young girls huddled together where they had first stopped. They watched him closely staring up with frightened eyes from lowered heads. They sensed something was about to happen to them, something very bad.

  “Come closer into the light, my daughters.” Pak spoke in the language of the girls and motioned with his hands. Still thinking about Mattoon, Pak’s voice and gestures were more brusque than he intended.

  The small, young women in their loosely fitting clothing shuffled forward. They never took their eyes off Pak. I’m no protection for you, Pak thought.

  “I want them in a circle around me, Pak,” Mattoon said.

  “Form a circle around the big ugly white man,” Pak said.

  The girls did as Pak said. Their eyes were turned down now and staring at the floor.

  “Have them look at me,” Mattoon ordered the old Chinaman. “I want to see which one has the prettiest face, and other parts.”

  At Mattoon’s harsh, insulting tone, Chung Pak’s hate for the man swelled until it almost escaped him. He heard the angry growl of his two tong fighters close beside him. They were his to command, so why shouldn’t he signal and send them flying at Mattoon with their knives and pistols? They were fearless fighters and just might slay Mattoon before they were shot down. To succeed in that effort was worth the lives of the two fighters and even Pak’s also. For years Mattoon had harassed and slain the Chinese men of the city, and abused the women terribly. He could do it safely, for no Chinaman could testify against a white man in an American court. How many of Pak’s countrymen had Mattoon and his men destroyed? Scores surely.

  None of Pak’s thoughts had registered on his face. He put up his hand to silence the tong hatchetmen. He could not launch an attack on the white men now. He must discuss the intolerable situation surrounding Mattoon with Scom Lip. That tong leader would know what to do, and could organize the proper method of obliterating the enemy.

  He spoke again to the virgins. “My fair, young daughters, please look at the white man.”

  Reluctantly but obediently, the eyes of the girls rose to the face of the giant white man with the big head.

  Mattoon walked slowly around the circle of virgins, examining each face and body. Now and again he reached out and pressed the loose clothing tightly to a girl’s body and felt her breast and hips. He completed the circle and started a second turn.

  He halted before a slender girl, and leaned over her with his mouth open and teeth exposed like a hungry animal. She began to tremble looking up at the huge man towering above her.

  Mattoon’s hand snaked out and caught the front of the girl’s gown at the neck. He hesitated for a moment staring into her eyes, enjoying her total fear. Then he jerked roughly, strongly downward. The girl cried out as she was yanked forward and her gown ripped down to her navel. She caught her forward movement just inches from Mattoon.

  “I’ll take this one,” Mattoon said.

  He bent and caught the tail of the torn gown and pulled upward, stripping it from the girl’s body. She stood naked before him and all the men. She cried out and her hands jumped to cover her breasts, then hastily moved to cover her pubic region. Then so scared and so uncertain as to what to try and hide, her hands fluttered back and forth like crippled birds between her breasts and lower region.

  Mattoon’s fingernails had raked a furrow across one of the girl’s small, firm teats. Now blood began to flow from the injury, coursing down and dripping from the nipple.

  “My men will like her,” Mattoon said to Groton and Pak. “And, Groton, thanks for bringing some real heathen beauties to choose from. Now take the others and leave.” He laughed a short string of chuckles at the angry expression on Groton’s face. He would like to know what Chung Pak with his unreadable face was thinking.

  Groton turned away without replying. The girl no longer belonged to him. Her fate was sealed, and with Mattoon guiding, it would be a very bad ending.

  Pak spoke to the remaining girls and they hurriedly pulled back from the naked one, as if she was a leper. The two tong fighters did not move. They stared at Mattoon with black, hostile eyes.

  Mattoon nonchalantly looked back at the tong men. His mouth stretched into a grin as white and dead as a bleached bone. In their domain of the yellow-skinned heathen Chinese, the tong fighters were much feared. Mattoon had no fear of them. He spread his hands toward them, daring them to come at him and fight.

  “Let us go,” Pak said to his two guards. The odds must be better when they did attack Mattoon.

  Mattoon lowered his hands. “Leave one of the lanterns, Pak. Take the one at the outside door as your second light.”

  “Very well, Brol Mattoon,” Pak said. He pointed at one of the lights and again spoke to his fighters. “Bring one and lead the way out of this cursed place.”

  The fighters glanced at each other and then questioningly at Chung Pak. He watched them stonily. Do as I told you, he willed them.

  The fighter in maroon clothing made one shallow nod as if he had heard the silent command. “Yes, Honorable Pak.” He took a light and went toward the outside door. Pak herded the girls after him. The second fighter came last, watching to the rear.

  The girl left behind near Mattoon whirled suddenly and started to run after the last Chinaman. Mattoon grabbed her by her long, black hair and yanked her back. He spun her to face him.

  He caught the girl by the waist, his long fingers completely encircling her body. She began to tremble violently as he lifted her off the floor. He brought her close, and taking most of her injured teat into his maw of a mouth, sucked long and hard on it. He liked the copper and salt taste of her warm blood, and her trembling body brought him immediate tumescence.

  “Right tasty,” Mattoon said, removing his mouth from the girl’s teat and licking his lips. “Now for the rest of her.” He folded the girl in his arms, pressing her tightly against him, and carried her to a pile of burlap sacks used to hold wheat.

  The girl realized what he meant to do to her and began to strike and kick, trying to break free. Mattoon smothered her arms with is and laughed at her futile efforts. “I sure like them when they fight me,” he said.

  He opened his trousers with one hand, and then knelt and laid the girl down on her back on the sacks. He forced her legs apart with his knee and positioned himself. With one savage thrust, he entered her. She shuddered with the pain and screamed. God! how he liked to take the virgins. There had never been any doubt as to what he would choose for his payment. His men only thought they had made the choice. He took her completely in a flurry of deep thrusts with all his men watching.

  Mattoon rose from the girl and fastened his clothing. He did not once glance down at her lying trembling on the rough burlap sacks.

  Now to give the men his leavings, Mattoon thought, and at the same time bind them to him, as much as you could bind such scoundrels. He looked at Vetter who was jus
t arriving from his station at the door of the warehouse. “Your turn’s next, Vetter. But listen to me. You like to hit women when you make love to them. Don’t you hit this one. Leave her face pretty for the others.”

  “All right,” Vetter said, but showing his disappointment.

  “When all the men are done having their fun, take the girl to Fat Genevive,” Mattoon said. “Tell that old whore that I want one thousand dollars for this little moon-eyed Celestial. She’s been used a little, but she’s still worth a thousand dollars and I’ll not take a penny less. You hold the money until I see you next time.”

  “I’ll do that,” Vetter said.

  “See that you do.” Mattoon went off through the dark warehouse with a jaunty stride and whistling.

  Vetter lay down upon the ivory skinned girl. She shoved at his chest with her small hands trying to push him off. He crushed her arms against her, and entered her. She cried out with a sobbing moan.

  * * *

  Mattoon stepped from the warehouse onto the street. He glanced skyward through the fog and could see the night was beginning to fade and daylight not more than an hour away. He struck out walking swiftly.

  He passed a section of the city containing sailors’ boarding houses. He owned a block of them. A quarter mile further along, he entered a street of older one-and two-story houses. In a hurry, he did not wait until he reached the gate of a nondescript one-story house surrounded and almost completely hidden by shrubbery and trees, but stepped over the low fence and into the yard. Immediately he was lost to view by anyone watching from the street or from one of the nearby houses.

  Within the house, a middle-aged Chinaman heard the heavy footsteps on the stoop. He sprang from his chair where he had sat waiting throughout the night. Never did he sleep during the dark hours, for the master might arrive at any moment—and the master demanded instant service. The Chinaman scurried across the room to the door and stopped. He bowed deeply as Mattoon shoved the door open and came inside.

  “A bath and see to it that the tub’s full and hot,” Mattoon said, moving past the Chinaman without slowing. “Lay out my clothes.”

  The Chinaman held his bow until Mattoon had crossed the room and entered the bath, then he hastened to an adjoining room and to the tank of water he had kept warm by a fire beneath it. He opened the valve to allow the water to flow from the tank through a pipe in the wall and into the tub in the bathroom. He had tested the temperature of the water several times and knew it was correct.

  Mattoon heard the water spilling into the tub as he undressed.

  He tossed his stained clothing onto the floor, then dipped his hands into the water, wet his face, and lathered it with soap from a mug. Standing naked before the mirror, he began to shave.

  “Po, come here,” Mattoon ordered.

  The Chinaman appeared in the doorway. “Yes, Mr. Mattoon?”

  “Any visitors come here today?” Mattoon watched the man in the mirror.

  “No, Mr. Mattoon.” Po looked steadily back into the eyes watching him intently from the mirror. He feared the man, but he must not show it, and he could not leave his employment until he had permission. He lowered his view to Mattoon’s pale-skinned body, more than twice his size. With every motion the man made, his cord-like muscles rippled and knotted. He could and would kill without hesitation if he knew, or only guessed who Po’s real master was.

  “Good. Are my boots polished?”

  “Certainly, Mr. Mattoon.”

  “Saddle my horse,” Mattoon said, dismissing the man.

  * * *

  Mattoon had finished his bath and dressed. He wore a white silk shirt and a black, wool suit, very elegant and cut to perfectly fit his heavily muscled body. His boots shone like polished steel and a black hat sat at a rakish angle upon his head. He left by the rear door.

  He moved along the tree-lined path to the stables behind the house and went inside. Po handed him the bridle reins of a black gelding. Mattoon always walked when on the waterfront, but uptown he rode wherever he went. He checked the girth, cursed loudly enough for Po to hear him, and tightened it a notch. The Chinaman never got it right.

  He mounted and rode the gelding out of the stable and along the alleyway to the street. He reined the horse up the slanting street toward San Francisco’s heart. He felt tremendously alive as he rode through the cool morning breeze sweeping the city. Every muscle of his body was bursting with energy, as if he had the strength of half a dozen men. He laughed at that thought, a loud laugh with no mirth, like rocks hitting. The sound sped up the man-made canyon of the street, ricocheting and echoing.

  Mattoon, in his mind’s eye, soared upward from the ground until all San Francisco lay spread below him. He could see the great blue bay with its scores of ships, miles of jutting piers, and the warehouses and factories lining the waterfront and The Embarcadero. Landward from the waterfront, sand hills rose covered with a multitude of office buildings and businesses, and higher still the homes of the rich. In this uptown world beneath a thin veneer of fancy clothing and polite manners, ruthless men connived against each other in cut-throat competition, took bribes, and robbed with forged documents. When all else failed, they committed murder by the ritual of the duel. A strong man who acted boldly could do whatever he wanted in this town.

  Chapter 4

  Celeste Beremendes shivered and wrapped her thick wool cape more tightly around her. It was not the cold, damp wind coming off San Francisco Bay that made her tremble; fear gripped her.

  The horse-drawn Phaeton buggy with Celeste in the rear seat and her brother Ernesto and his friend Lucas de Cos in the front seat, moved through the fading night down the long lumber pier extending out into San Francisco Bay. The iron-shod hooves of the horse fell with a measured drumbeat upon the wooden decking and echoed out across the dark, foggy waters of the bay. Both sides of the pier were crowded with berthed ships, four-masted coastal schooners and squat, ugly steamers used to haul lumber down from the mills along the northern California and Oregon coasts. Storm lanterns burned at the head of ships’ gangways and cast a feeble light and helped the buggy find its way among the huge piles of wooden planks, beams, and boards stacked high as men could reach.

  Celeste was deathly afraid for her brother. He would kill a man in a duel in the next few minutes, or he would be killed. Celeste feared it would be her brother who would feel a bullet stab through him and fall dead.

  The duel was an evil thing brought about by a wicked trick played upon Ernesto. Celeste believed beyond any doubt that the incident used as the basis for the challenge to the duel had been deliberately staged to make her brother fight. John Dokken and a female friend had encountered Ernesto on the street. The woman had abruptly stepped into Ernesto’s path and he had run into her before he could catch himself. Dokken had pretended it was Ernesto’s fault that the woman had been struck and demanded satisfaction by a duel. Dokken was well known in San Francisco as a skilled duelist who had fought and slain many men. She had pleaded for hours with Ernesto not to accept the challenge, to apologize and let the matter pass. Lucas, Ernesto’s friend since childhood and now a reluctant second for the duel, had added his strong appeal for Ernesto to refuse the challenge. Ernesto too realized the affair had been contrived to make him fight, but he had laughed their fears away.

  Celeste leaned forward to look past Ernesto. Nearly a quarter mile of pier remained to be traversed and she could barely make out the end through the foggy dawn of the coming morning. A breeze rippled the thin, low-lying fog. The ships wallowed to the wind and waves and creaked and groaned as they rubbed against the wooden piling of the pier. The rickety pier swayed to the shove of the heavy ships.

  Ernesto halted the buggy in the illumination of one of the lights at a ship’s gangway and looked at Celeste. “Little sister, for the last time, please go back. I don’t want you to see the duel.”

  “No,” Celeste replied firmly. “I’m going with you and I will watch. You are the one that should change your
mind and forget the duel. Come home with me to the rancho for a few days until this is forgotten.”

  “Celeste is correct and you should listen to her,” Lucas said, turning so he could see both Ernesto and Celeste.

  “I can’t run away,” Ernesto said. “And you, Lucas, must know that. I will go through with it and nothing you two say will change my mind.”

  “Not with a man such as Dokken,” Celeste said. “You must stay away from him.”

  “I’ll fight this duel,” Ernesto said, his voice tight and his face drawn. “I’m not a coward.”

  “We both know you’re not a coward,” Celeste said. Men did such absurd things to show their bravery. “But I’m determined to be here with you.”

  Ernesto’s face softened and he reached out with a hand and stroked Celeste’s cheek with the tips of his fingers. “Celeste, you worry too much about me. I have my trusty pistol. I’ll come through this safely.”

  Celeste had watched Ernesto practice. Sometimes she would fire a few shots at his target. He was quick and a skilled marksman. But he had only fired at targets. That was far removed from shooting a man.

  “You’re all the family I have left,” Celeste said. A sob of fear for her brother almost escaped her before she could stifle it. Her father and grandfather had been killed by the Americans in 1847 when the northerners had invaded Mexico. Her mother had died this past year.

  “Yes, we’re the last of the Beremendes,” Ernesto said. “You should soon marry and have many children to carry on the bloodline of the family.”

  “I have many things to do before I marry. You are older than I am, why don’t you marry one of your numerous sweethearts?”

  Ernesto smiled wanly. “You’re right. After this is all over, I will give that a great amount of thought.”

  He faced away from Celeste and spoke to the horse. The buggy moved onward down the pier.

  Celeste could not but think the hollow, measured drum beat made by the hooves of the horse on the planking of the pier was like the dirge of a funeral march. She hoped fervently it wasn’t an omen foretelling the outcome of the duel. She mustn’t even think it for that might cause it to happen.