'Til Morning Light

by Ann Moore

  Jeffers went a step further and fired a shot over the top of Pascal’s head. “Now!” he commanded, but Pascal did not return; instead, the boatman drew a long boning knife out of its case.

  Juan’s face was neutral as his eyes flicked between Pascal and Ortiz, though clearly he was communicating something; Ortiz bent down slowly, despite Powell’s demand to stop, and picked up a wooden fishing spear with a metal tip. Morgan, his own pistol within reach, and Quinn, who held his knife behind his back, stood silently, each measuring the distance between aggressors, hostage, defenders, and themselves.

  “Let him go and they might not kill you,” Morgan said quietly. “Pull the trigger and you’ll have to shoot them all. Then where will you be?”

  “Shut up, shut up!” Merriman screamed, his face red. He pressed the muzzle even more firmly into Juan’s flesh. “Drop your weapons! Not you!” he cried as Powell’s gun hit the deck and skittered away.

  Before he could retrieve it, Quinn had scooped it up.

  “Definitely not Irish,” the big man said, pointing the pistol at Powell. “He shoots Pascal. I shoot you. Start talking.”

  “No!” Powell turned to his friend. “Put it down, Merriman! For God’s sakes—these people are crazy! Do as he says.”

  “They’ll kill us anyway.” Merriman’s eyes darted frantically. “They will. Or they’ll leave us out here to die.”

  “Or they may be better men than you, and let you live,” Morgan said calmly. “You don’t have any choice, Merriman. Throw your gun overboard. Now.”

  Furious, and fighting against desperation, Merriman began to release Pascal, lowering the pistol by degrees. Suddenly, Pascal wrenched free and Merriman turned the gun on Morgan; Quinn whipped his knife out from behind his back and threw it at Merriman, hitting the man in the arm at the moment he fired. Morgan went down. Quinn dropped to his knees, while Pascal and his friends began to make short work of the others.

  “No.” Morgan opened his eyes. “No killing.”

  “Stop!” Quinn yelled. “God in Heaven, I’ll rip every last one of you limb from limb, if you don’t stop right now and get this man to a doctor.”

  Juan knocked Merriman cold and dragged him to the center of the boat, and Pascal herded the other three to the same place, shoving them down so that they were back to back, then roping their hands together. Ortiz pushed off with his long pole and began moving the boat along as quickly as possible, Pascal helping him. Juan brought a pail of water and one of the gentlemen’s shirts, which he proceeded to tear into strips for Quinn to tie around Morgan’s upper arm to stop the bleeding.

  “Are you hurt?” Morgan asked weakly.

  “Not a scratch on me,” Quinn replied. “And isn’t it just like old times—you getting us into trouble, me getting us out?”

  Morgan looked him in the eye. “Guess I was right about needing you to come along.”

  “Aren’t you always, then?” Quinn put his hand on the top of Morgan’s head. “Close your eyes now and rest. We’ll be there soon.”

  They reached the village of Cruces late in the afternoon, and Quinn saw right away that they’d get no medical help there. The next leg of the journey was twenty-one miles of steep hill country, traveled on the back of a mule; Morgan couldn’t make that with a bullet in him. They would have to stop and take it out; even then it could well go septic in this climate and kill him. There was no other choice, Quinn told himself; he knew what had to be done and he would do it.

  The boatmen threw Merriman, his friends, and their luggage out on the muddy shore, then paddled to the other end of the small village, where they carried Morgan ashore, Quinn behind with their packs. He followed them to a crude hotel, the size of six or seven bamboo huts put together, then listened while they negotiated with the man who appeared to run the place.

  “We put him there.” Pascal pointed to the far corner of the hotel, which had a long wooden table. “Bring fire, water. You cut. Must be.”

  Quinn nodded. “Must be, is right.” He followed them over to the table, where they set Morgan gently, then left, only to return moments later with two rusty lanterns, a rush torch, a wooden bucket of river water, and a jug of potent local rum.

  “Thank you, Pascal,” Quinn said, rolling up his sleeves. “Thanks, Juan, Ortiz. What’ll happen now to those dandies?”

  The boatmen looked at one another and shrugged their shoulders. “Maybe trunk gone.” Ortiz smiled ever so slightly, and Quinn suddenly remembered the extra one still on board. “Maybe no one sell to them mules, but for much money. Maybe they stuck here.” Again he shrugged. “But not you and him. You go soon.”

  “Right.” Quinn nodded. “As soon as I get this bullet out of his shoulder and he rests a little, we’ll be on our way.”

  “He good man,” Juan said quietly.

  “That’s God’s truth, brother,” Quinn told him. “Now, if you’re going to stick around and watch, hold that light up, will you?”

  They stayed in Cruces two days before setting out on what Quinn decided must be one of the roughest roads in the world; the few women travelers put on pants and boots for the ride, their children carried in slings or on the backs of native guides. Snakes and wild animals were everywhere, and the party was constantly bogged down by the mud. Quinn prayed every step of the way that Morgan, weak as he was, would not fall prey to the yellow fever or malaria that affected so many along the way; bad enough, he suffered from dysentery, further weakening his already fragile health. Finally and with great sighs of relief, they arrived in Panama City. Once the magnificent, legendary seat of Spanish power in the New World, Panama City was now a decrepit town of tumbledown shacks and ruined buildings, grass-choked streets and crumbling plazas, where fate met so many Argonauts in the form of cholera. Gamblers, prostitutes, opportunists of every sort, wandered in and out of questionable hotels looking for their next mark, and Quinn was determined to get himself and Morgan out of this place as quickly as he could. He found a small, relatively clean hotel near the ticket agents and left Morgan to rest while he booked their passage on the next steamer to San Francisco. It would be another two days, and then a month up the coast; he was fortunate, the old ticket agent told him, back in the days before steamers, a ship might have to reach far out into the Pacific, as far as Hawaii, before a favorable wind could be harnessed for the run back to San Francisco—it could take twice as long as steamers did now. Fortunate, Quinn thought on his way back to the hotel—aye, I’ll call myself that and please God help me get him there alive; please God let us find her.

  Thirty-six

  Sean lay beneath a single sheet, drenched in his own sweat, feverish and moaning. Mei Ling had been to the apothecary, but as Sean grew only worse, she found the courage to go to the great Chinese doctor Li Po Tai, whose office faced the square. Here she waited three hours, only to be told that the doctor was not in town and not expected for some time; his clerk had mercy upon her, however, and listened to her description of Mister Sung’s symptoms. It was not cholera, he assured her, nor was it yellow fever; it could be the ague, or, he suggested carefully, it could be opium poisoning. When she did not reply, he gave her milk thistle for Mister Sung’s liver, as well as several herbs purported to cleanse his organs, and recommended plenty of fluids—water, teas, and broths.

  Mei Ling rushed home again, terrified that she would find Mister Sung dead upon her arrival, but he was not. She prepared the milk thistle and brewed his tea, then carried the tray up to his room. It was stuffy and close, the smell bad, but she was afraid to open the window—would she be letting bad spirits out or allowing them to come in? Would the fresh air help Mister Sung’s breathing or would he worsen with the chills? She sat down on the bed next to him, cradling his head and shoulders against her chest while, with the other hand, she encouraged him to sip his tea. He tried and spluttered, tried again, moaned, and closed his eyes.

  It was all her fault; Mei Ling knew it in her heart and could hardly bear the thought. Something had sprung out of
that portrait of Mister Sung’s sister and children, possessing his body and causing him pain. Mei Ling had prayed to every god she knew, and tonight she had added the American God of the stable, kneeling before the figures still in place since Christmas and Chang-Li’s departure. She had begged the American God to save the life of Mister Sung because he was a worthy man and because—Mei Ling could admit it now that she was so close to losing him—she had love for him. She reminded the American God that He was all-powerful and could do anything, so she had faith He would honor her request. She did not know what was traditional in the way of offering, so she simply offered her love for Him and her trust in Him, and hoped it was enough. And then she ran back up the stairs and stood in the doorway to Mister Sung’s room, listening as his ragged breath began to calm.

  Mei Ling opened the curtains to the last of the evening sun, then opened the window a little, too, so that Mister Sung might hear the confident good-night call of the robins. The sheet that covered him was wet and so she pulled it off, then sat him up and removed the rest of his clothes. Mei Ling wiped him down with the cooled tea, paying tender attention to the crippled arm he kept hidden away from her—it was a beautiful arm and she kissed it reverently; wiping down the leg that was bent slightly and shorter than the other—it was a beautiful leg and she laid her cheek against his thigh for a moment. Then she wrapped one of Chang-Li’s silk robes around him and covered him with a clean sheet, sitting down beside him afterward, smoothing the hair back from his forehead. Without his spectacles and with his eyes closed, Mister Sung looked vulnerable and wounded—she pressed her lips to his forehead. He groaned in his sleep and turned onto his side, away from her, his hand brushing against her leg; she slid down behind him on the bed and aligned her body with his, put an arm under his, letting it fall across his chest.

  “Mister Sung,” Mei Ling whispered. “Mister Sung, Mister Sung …” And she held him securely, rocking him gently until they both slept.

  Mei Ling opened her eyes at dawn, when the birds outside were just beginning their morning assertions, and found that Mister Sung was also awake, though neither of them moved.

  “I cannot go to see my sister,” he whispered, his back to her, his hand gripping hers. “I am afraid.”

  “Yes,” Mei Ling agreed softly. “Mister Sung have shame.”

  “I am not Mister Sung. My name is Sean. Sean O’Malley.”

  “Sean,” Mei Ling tried, then repeated it several times until it began to sound the way he’d said it. “Yes, Mei Ling know Sean now.”

  He held her hand tightly to his chest then, and began to weep, his body shaking against hers.

  Mei Ling listened as he whispered to her about growing up with his beloved sister, the best and most loyal friend he’d ever had. He told her of coming to America, of Grace’s coming to America, of all their hopes; how Grace had earned the love and respect of everyone she met, while he—her superior-minded brother—had thrown it all over for something that in the end was worth nothing. He had abandoned her with the children, leaving her to fend for herself, believing she would come around to his way of thinking eventually. But then she had died—or he had believed she had died—and something in him had died, as well. Mei Ling felt him shudder. He’d given up on God, turned his back on everything he knew of decency, and let himself sink into the abyss, hoping for a swift end. But God had not let him go so quickly, had let the world tease him with her treasures—wealth, which excited and then left him jaded; sex, which thrilled and then left him corrupted; drugs and drink, which enhanced pleasure and then left him numb. It had been his intention, Sean confessed to her now, to put a bullet in his head this past Christmas, the very day that Chang-Li had tried to give him Mei Ling. Sean had convinced himself that he would do one honorable thing before he left the earth; that he would see Mei Ling safely into a life of freedom, but then he found that he could not bring himself to abandon her after all. Now it was Mei Ling who pressed herself more tightly against Sean. He had begun to think that maybe life was worth living just a little longer, but the shock of finding out that Grace was alive and that, somehow, miraculously, Morgan’s son was alive—for clearly it was Morgan’s son; the boy looked just like his father, and this was perhaps the greatest shock of all—had made him realize how far from that life he’d fallen, how far away he was from any kind of redemption.

  “I’m a criminal, Mei Ling,” Sean confessed. “A gambler, a drinker, a whoremonger, an opium addict. I am the lowest of the low.”

  “Yes,” Mei Ling said simply. “But kind.”

  “Not even that. I would only bring shame to her and the children, to Mary Kate and Morgan’s boy.” Sean’s voice cracked. “Better to leave things as they are. At least, for now.”

  And so, Mei Ling said to herself, you would leave your fate again to chance; you would risk the loss of your only family rather than humble yourself in going as you are. She thought about this, about what she might do for this very brilliant, very stupid man, and then she knew.

  It was a week before Sean’s strength returned and he came back into the shop. He still needed to lie down on the cot in the back once or twice each day, but he no longer picked up his pipe; he simply lay on his back with his hands folded beneath his head, staring up at the dark ceiling. Mei Ling prepared tea for him and small meals of rice and fish, noodles and clear soup, which she saw that he ate, and slowly he became less of a shadow and more of a man, though he still said nothing of his sister. Mei Ling did not trouble him with it but made two extra trips to the apothecary, who it was said could make the English letters. She had him write out a note for her, then paid the young son of the apothecary to deliver the note to the address she showed him on the small white card. And then it was out of her hands, so she simply waited and watched.

  It was a spectacular morning, the clouds high and white over the harbor, great flocks of seagulls sailing over the wharves, smaller flocks of little brown sparrows swooping over the city, looking for places to alight and rest. The air was good, the spring warm and comfortable, yet not so hot as to bake the manure in the streets, the outdoor privies, the garbage piled in side yards. Mei Ling loved springtime the best; it was a sweet season, full of energy and expectation. There were fresh chickens at the Chinese market this morning, and Mei Ling thought she might purchase one for their dinner tonight; if she went home early, she could rub it with oil and herbs, then roast it over the fire. The scent alone was sure to whet Sean’s appetite even further. Yes, she decided, she would make the chicken, and she would also see what fresh vegetables were in the market, look to see if the new rice had come in.

  “Mei Ling prepare chicken tonight,” she called over her shoulder.

  “That would be lovely. Thank you, Mei Ling,” Sean answered from the small room behind the curtain.

  Mei Ling nodded, happy with herself, happy with her life despite the small knot of anxiety in her belly. And then the door to the shop opened and the knot tightened, though Mei Ling was determined to ignore it.

  “Welcome to House of Good Fortune.” She greeted her guests warmly in the doorway.

  “Mei Ling.” Grace held a child’s hand in each of her own. “These are my children—Jack and Mary Kate. Children, this is Mei Ling.”

  Mei Ling bowed politely to the little girl with dark curling hair like her mother’s and great sober eyes that betokened an old and wise spirit; Mary Kate bowed in return. Then Mei Ling turned and bowed to the little boy, whose spirit bristled with a glowing energy and whose spectacles reminded her of Sean; Jack followed his sister’s example and bowed to Mei Ling.

  “Is this a shop?” the little boy asked. “Are you a Chinawoman?”

  “Yes.” Mei Ling smiled. “And yes.”

  “Thank you for inviting us to tea.” Grace kissed Mei Ling on the cheek. “I’m very happy to see you again. Will we come in, or are we going somewhere else?”

  “Come in.” Mei Ling stood aside so they could enter, and then she placed a finger to her lips for silence.
“Please to wait,” she instructed, her heart beating wildly. “Mei Ling have gift for family.”

  Grace tipped her head to one side, puzzled, but she nodded and stood quite still in the middle of the room, a hand on the shoulder of each child, though Jack was breaking his neck trying to get a look at everything in the room.

  Mei Ling went to the curtained door in the very back. “Mister Sung? Please to come out.”

  Since she’d called him by his business name, Sean assumed there were customers who needed more attention than Mei Ling could give, and so he came out at once, buttoning his vest and straightening his cuffs as he looked first at her and then at the people in the shop. He froze.

  “Please to meet meimei,” Mei Ling introduced quietly, sliding behind the counter.

  “How do you do?” Grace came forward with her hand out, prepared to greet Mei Ling’s boss, an odd-looking man, she thought as she approached, not Chinese after all, but European, though his hair was … And now she, too, stopped in her tracks. “Sean?” she whispered.

  He stared at her and then began to nod, eyes misting behind the glass of his spectacles.

  “Sean!” Grace threw her arms around him. “Oh, Sean!” She took another look at his face and then began to cry in earnest, her mouth trembling against his cheek as she kissed him. “Oh, Sean,” she wept. “Thank God, thank God.”

  Sean’s arms went around tentatively at first, and then his embrace tightened and he, too, wept. “I’m sorry, Gracelin,” he whispered, kissing her hair. “I’m so very sorry. Please forgive me. Please.”

  The children watched wide-eyed, and then Mary Kate dropped her brother’s hand and stepped forward.

  “Uncle Sean?”

  Grace and Sean separated, both wiping their eyes as they turned toward the little girl. Sean nodded and got down on one knee.

  “Aye.” He reached out a hand toward her. “Will you come and kiss your uncle, then, Mary Kathleen?”

  Mary Kate rushed into his arms, practically knocking him over, and he stood and held her, rocking her in a fierce embrace.