A Superior Man (10 page)

He took my frown for pity. “When I tell this, people don't believe me.”

“Maybe they heard it before.”

“Screw you.”

“Me, I heard the man was surnamed Chan, then Lee, and then Mah. Some say he was a bookman; others say he was a coolie. Some say the head rolled down the mountain into the river. Others say wild animals ran off with the head, leaving a trail of blood.”

“Screw you!” Moy limped off, his body jerking from side to side.

Sam had put rice, dark sausages, and stiff slabs of salt fish on a cloth over the ground. The brat squatted there, fingering this and that.

Moy stomped by. “Wet shit and stinking piss. Who wants your garbage?”

He slammed the cabin door. I pulled Peter away before he was accused of soiling the food.

Sam ran up and banged on the wood, offering discounts. When no reply came, he gave me a vicious shove.

“Stupid pig, can't you talk to people?”

“He spoke rubbish.”

The cabin door creaked but nobody came out. Moy was watching.

“Who doesn't tell lies?” asked Sam. “You want to carry a full load all the way to Lytton?” He pushed me again.

I shoved back. No mix-blood should bully me. No father should look weak in front of his son.

The boy's gaze darted from me to Sam, his arms suddenly still. He should see that there was no fear in me. One day he too would need to fight for his honour.

Sam saw the door. “Many customers ahead!” he called. “Nothing will be left on my return trip. You'll have to walk to town yourself.”

Moy didn't come forth.

We resumed walking. Sam was angry, but that was his nature. Moy was my countryman, my workmate. If he told a lie, then I had a duty to call him out. I had worked on the railway; I knew its stories. I wasn't like Sam, who only wanted to sell goods to Moy.

Distant clouds dropped a grey curtain to the horizon. The green and brown patches of mountain and forest curled into shapes of giant thrones, humans, and animals. I was a fool to have accepted Sam's offer, mortgaging my body without stating for how long. My legs trembled and my back ached, making it a strain to look up from the canyon floor to the sky. The walls were steep, bristling with sharp edges. These mountains had killed my compatriots, so many
of us that we were like children who scampered into danger while daydreaming. In China, forested mountains housed hermits who spouted reams of wisdom:

Get a mosquito to carry a mountain
.

One mountain is high; another is higher
.

One mountain can't house two tigers
.

Those proverbs failed in Canada like water slipping through cupped hands. The sages didn't know how to use black explosives; they didn't know that Fire could be alloyed with Metal to rip apart the mountain's core; they hadn't seen the horizon rearranged in a single day's work.

The iron road had been laid atop the old wagon road built for the gold rush twenty years ago. That trail had teetered on skimpy ledges above the surging river until the coolies had widened them.

Then the railway broke from the wagon road to cross a high trestle over a dried-out waterfall. The legs of the crossing were a sturdy cage of logs, splayed at its feet, braced by tiers of cross-tied beams. The ground far below was rubble, cast-off lumber, and white rocks the size and shape of human skulls.

As Sam and the boy ambled across, I paused in front of the old stream. Tree roots poked from soil and the moss-covered bones of the serpent. Further up the cliff hung twisted vines, remnants of an early Native route. I looked at it from all angles. It must have taken long planning and great daring to sling that trail over the high rocks. For a moment, the land didn't seem so new and untouched.

The two rails of the iron road merged at a single point at the bridge's end. I was halfway across.

Already?

My knees buckled. Out floated my hands. My legs folded, crouched. I reached for the rail but stopped, half kneeling. My load shifted, about to drop, like a ship's anchor. I was a statue in a crumbling temple.

“Squatting to shit?” Sam called. “Hurry!”

I clamped my lips. My mouth was dry as paper. My lungs heaved. I gripped my armpits.

Sam's arms were triangles at his waist. Wind gusted past my ears.

“Watch my goods,” he yelled.

I tugged at the knots of my pack without looking down.

Sam ran at me, his steps rumbling through the wood and up my backbone.

I almost tipped over. “Don't come near…”

He grabbed my hand. I pulled it back.

He glared at me. “Turn your body. Walk sideways.”

I didn't move. This coward couldn't be me. This was someone else.

“Look this way,” he said. “Raise your head.”

I whimpered.

“See the river?” His voice was a granny coaxing a reluctant child. “It's pretty, very pretty. Look far away.”

His hand drifted in front of me.

I grabbed it.

His other hand shot out for balance.

“I take a step,” he said, “and then you take a step.”

We went sideways, tiny paces, one foot at a time. I was a toddler learning to walk.

Once off the trestle, I squatted. My hands clawed at the ground. Hard, sharp gravel never felt so comforting.

“Good thing you stood still,” said Sam. “Other people, stronger than you, fell.”

I looked away.

“That load on your back,” he said, “it threw you off, didn't it?”

I nodded.

“Leave the load and take the boy back.”

I burst out, “All I need do is look ahead … as you said.”

“I need my goods,” Sam declared, “not you.”

“You can't move two loads.”

“Someone will come. I'll hire him.”

“No one passed us.”

I marched on.

“Come back,” he yelled. “Thief!”

That stinking bastard Sam was no bigwig merchant with money and men at his beck and call. I walked fast, head down, eyes on the steady thrust of my boots. He was a mix-blood; did he ever glance at a mirror? No doubt his father had run off long ago, not wanting this son, not leaving him with family or means.

My family had farmed in our village for three hundred years. All China knew my renowned ancestor, Yang Jun, the Upright. Two thousand years ago, he refused a bribe of gold. The briber pressed him to accept, claiming the secret between them was safe. Yang Jun replied, “Heaven knows, Earth knows, you know, and I know. How can you say that no one knows?” Temples and grand halls throughout China were named after his “Four Wisdoms.”

Yes, that bridge spooked me. The iron road was death: the
passing of compatriots, the loss of friends, the mourning of men not ready to die. My own death had been close.

I should never have come back here. The iron road had defeated me before. And here I was, fighting a mix-blood who was superior to me.

5
5

A D
REAM OF
R
ICHES ON THE
R
AILWAY
(1881)
A D
REAM OF
R
ICHES ON THE
R
AILWAY
(1881)

Our first runaway was the cockhead least expected to show any backbone: Old Skinny, the opium addict. He waited for the full moon, then grabbed his blanket and clothes, and strolled off.

“Had I known that the bastard was leaving,” Little Touch said about his friend, “I would have followed him.”

In town, he had overheard the addict ask about the border but doubted the fool had the gall to go.

I kicked myself. I should have been first to leave. If I had been nicer to that cunning bastard, then he might have asked me along. He could have used my help. But he was a frail old man, and I didn't want to carry him on my back. America was about freedom. I wasn't his slave.

To reach America, all I need do was to follow the river. When it swung west, it was time to leave the water and go south.

When our ship had docked in Victoria, the men were thrilled to hear that America lay close by, just a short boat ride to the mainland and then a quick hop south. No wonder armed watchmen guarded the pier and locked us in a stockade of sturdy logs. They snarled at
us as if we were slaves of war plotting to escape even after being dragged far from home.

We cursed Old Skinny on our way to work that day. He made us all look like one-legged ducks, and now the bosses would watch that others did not flee.

“That turd won't get far. He fears the dark, wouldn't squat alone at the latrine.”

He had bought himself a tin lantern to ensure his candle stayed lit.

“A Native will jump out and scare him to death. He'll die without losing any blood.”

In the forest, the cur had whispered to me, “Look after yourself first. Always walk in the middle of the line. Let those who rush to the front or lag at the back face the danger. Wild animals, redbeards, or angry Natives—who knows that they want?”

“At least he'll find better food out there.”

That was the best reason to run. Head Cook, the other cockhead in our crew, was as useful as dropping your pants to fart. All he did was boil water, throw in rice, and add ground-up dried salmon, the cheapest meat. Second Cook mentioned one day that Native hunters had brought wild birds to trade for tea but Head Cook refused them. What an idiot: our tea was so low grade that we would have come out ahead.

Three days later, Bookman told us to pack, to leave that very morning. Poy crowed like a child, keen to see more of Gold Mountain as if he were here on a tour of scenic spots. He didn't grasp that the Company wanted to move us away from the border.

“Path hasn't been cut through yet,” I said to Bookman. “Why move?”

No answer.

I dawdled over my scanty packing as men hurried to dig up caches of liquor. The bottles were heavy but no one thought to discard a drop. Salty Wet had carved himself a wooden pillow; it was too hefty to take. He left it by the fire pit for some blockhead in the next crew.

I prayed for a delay to let me dash to the border that night. It seemed likely at first when the men fought Bookman over carrying the tools. The long saws were awkward to move, but Bookman insisted thieves were lurking and ordered us to lug them to the warehouse in Emory Creek.

“Who would steal them?” we demanded. “They're only useful for the Company's shit work.”

Then the men threw down their loads and denounced Head Cook. All the heavy cooking pots had been put in the packs of the non-brothers. He in turn quickly blamed Second Cook and shuffled the items around. We folded the tents, coiled the ropes, and started our trek at midday. We were idiots, moving too damned fast for our own good, always trying to prove to the redbeard bosses that we were hardworking and willing, as if they might suddenly smile at our efforts and treat us nicely.

I wanted every man to break off and run to the woods. The bosses were too few to chase everyone, so some of us would reach America. Too bad there hadn't been time to plan this.

I lagged at the tail, hoping to melt into the woods, but Bookman made a point of walking behind me. When I stopped at every chance, he cursed but couldn't force me to go faster. I was bigger than him.

Chinese miners stood knee deep in the river and shovelled for
gold, rocking their battered sieves with quiet patience. I called out greetings, but no one waved back.

“They hate newcomers,” Bookman muttered. “They say you cause redbeard tempers to explode and singe every China man's eyebrows.”

The railway camps were quiet; the crews had gone to work. A boy squatted by the shore, scrubbing cooking pots with bare hands and sand. I asked for boiled water, but he shook his head, eyes wide, as if scared of strangers.

The river held low-riding barges piled with machines, and smoke-belching sternwheelers laden with fares. A few children shouted and waved at us. Native men and women paddled dugout canoes. Those boats took them anywhere they wanted, while we coolies obeyed like dancing monkeys the Company's every whim.

Wide fields of tree stumps, their white flesh bright against dark bark, led to a landing half-built on footings, half-floating. We crowded onto a small boat. I boarded last, hoping to be left behind. I thought to escape when the men wanted to kick me off, shouting in panic, afraid of sinking. Too bad we pushed off without incident.

Low hills closed in as the vessel slid sideways against the current. We gripped the bulwarks to stay standing. Around a sharp bend, grey-black cliffs rose straight to heaven, leaving no ledges for even the smallest creature to grip. China had failed to warn us of such menace. Back home, feeble brown paintings showed distant mountains and aged them into misty hollows that sheltered the huts of hermits. If cranky oddballs could clamber up and thrive there, then mountain ranges were hardly risky for normal men.

At Yale, we boarded a train loaded with square, smooth-planed
lumber and then we choked from the engine's black smoke. When it cleared, great walls of mountains surrounded us. The railway was squeezed in a narrow throat of rock where the river rushed in a breathless gulp toward the coast, the ocean, and China. Along smooth cliffs, men hung from ropes and ladders, flies on a teahouse wall. They dangled long tapes and weighted lines to take measurements. Bold splashes of yellow and red paint marked key spots. They drilled holes and planted blasting powder. Their feet scrabbled for traction as they pulled on thick ropes and the goodwill of fellow workers.

We bemoaned our fate until Bookman assured us that our jobs were less daunting.

A crew of China men had already claimed the site. Their tents lined the narrow beach, latrines behind a low wall of boulders. My workmates hurried to pitch shelter, always keen to show the bosses how quick and clever we China men were. Screw them. I looked up to study the newly blasted rock face, a vast sheet of jagged edges, a steep slope bare of stops. The thud and crash of explosions boomed through the canyon. Our bandit gang had once rolled boulders onto a convoy of packhorses and caused panicked whining, so I knew the deadly mix.

The headman of the other gang came by, chewing a wad of tobacco that slid from one sunken cheek to the other. He told us to call him “Old Fire” and offered advice: “Inside the tunnel, when you little chickies hear a krrr-krrr sound, flatten yourself against a wall
and make yourself thin. Stay still and don't run, unless you want to ‘get nailed.' The ceiling is breaking loose, but it could be a few grains of dust or tons of rock. It has no conscience and crushes men and animals alike. When redbeards leave the tunnel, you always follow them, no matter if you hear their whistle or not. If you can't see them, let your nose track their stinking sweat. The tunnel is dark, so no one can see who is who, or who is moving. Stay alert and don't say I didn't warn you.”

As Old Fire left, my workmates sputtered and spat.

“That bastard mentioned nails to pound them into our coffins.”

“He wants us to get fragrant first.”

“That old thing didn't come to help. He came to taunt newcomers.”

Me, I was glad for the advice. The mountain mouth could swallow several houses at once. Arches of rock supported the craggy ceiling, ridden with humps. No telling which were anchored and which had been loosened by blasts. The ground was cratered with pits and ridges that maimed and killed those who fell badly. The tunnel was black as midnight mud, but oil lamps in small tins studded the floor. When they burned out, they didn't get refilled right away. We offered to top up the oil but were turned down. The Company needed to save money wherever it could.

We were ants being flicked at a fortress city. We drilled holes to poke black powder into the rock, but the granite let us advance only fifteen inches a day. It was the bosses who complained about that because we coolies saw no progress in the dark. We worked in pairs: one man held the drill bit in place while the other swung the sledgehammer. We made sure to blow the grit from the hole. Scaffolds
slung between shaky ladders let us climb the rock face. Higher up, even less light was available. Each blow rebounded with a shudder; the hammer man clawed the air for balance. Good thing I worked with Poy, not clumsy fools with bad aim who clubbed their partners' elbows and shattered them.

High Hat warned us, “Stand with your feet wide apart and bend at your knees.”

Redbeards tamped black powder into the holes and installed blasting caps. When they were lit, three rules were supposed to be followed:

Blasters leaving the rock face must blow their metal whistles.

Blasters going to the tunnel mouth must alert any China man seen along the way.

Lastly, lamps at the rock face were to be brought out before the blast, as a final warning to men in the tunnel.

Trust the redbeards? Better to call a wolf to guard the chicken coop.

After the blasts, we filed in, convicts to the execution ground, our noses twitching from the acrid smell of explosives. With our shoulder poles, we took out baskets of debris, sometimes two loads to one man, sometimes one load between two men. We hoisted rocks with bare hands and ropes. Big boulders were drilled and blasted apart for removal. When they told us about a second crew digging toward us from the other end of the mountain, we shook our heads in disbelief. Two deaf mutes groping in the dark could only land on different continents.

Crew bosses and bookmen watched us at the tunnel mouth. To show fairness, as if it was commonly found throughout Gold
Mountain, every coolie got time drilling the rock face and lugging debris. This was meant to prevent complaints and unrest on the job because hauling rubble inside the tunnel was more dangerous. But men keen to keep their good health paid their way out. They cited prior injuries or poor eyesight and waited at the tunnel mouth to buy baskets of rock to lug to the dump. Redbeards disdained them, calling them cowards. We crewmen saw a fair deal, a chance for men to trade freely. In any business, a man willing to take more risk deserved more reward.