Li Jun and the Iron Road Read online

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  A Note to the Reader

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Historical Afterword

  To the thousands of Chinese workers who died building our railway — three for every mile of track they laid

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks to Barry Pearson and Raymond Storey for their wonderful screenplay, to Marjorie Lamb for her writing and editing contributions, to John Millyard for notes and support, to Arnie Zipursky and everyone at CCI Entertainment and to Raymond Massey of MPL for invaluable help in getting the film onto the screen, and to Patrick Boyer for getting the book into print. Thanks to Tapestry for the inspiration of their opera, to David Wu for his brilliant direction of the film Iron Road, to its many funders including Telefilm Canada, CMF, CBC, the Harold Greenberg Fund, Cogeco, the Shaw Rocket Fund, and to REEL Canada for their many screenings of it across Canada.

  We also wish to thank writers Paul Yee and Arlene Chan, as well as Kangmei Wang and the staff at the Far Eastern Library of the Royal Ontario Museum, for expanding our understanding of the experiences of the Chinese people in Canada and China. The Last Spike by Pierre Berton and Blood and Iron, Building the Railway by Paul Yee were very helpful in our research.

  Note to the Reader

  Many of the events and some of the characters in this book are drawn from history, but this is a work of fiction — a what-if story — and some historical details have been altered. The characters’ names are in Mandarin, as mandated for the film Iron Road, but most of the Chinese phrases are in Cantonese because the railway workers spoke Taishanese and Cantonese. In the film, all the Chinese dialogue is subtitled and Li Jun speaks English with an accent. In the novel, when Li Jun speaks with other Chinese people their Chinese dialogue is written as fluent English. When she talks to James, Edgar, or other Westerners, her dialogue is in limited English.

  Chapter

  One

  The rooster in the Ho household’s courtyard crowed loudly to greet the dawn and the caged birds in the kitchen answered with sweet, high melodies. Li Jun stretched and yawned, warmed by the first rays of sun streaming through the tiny window in her servant’s quarters. Such a glorious day, she thought. Then she remembered — in moments she’d be summoned by First Wife screeching like a cat in a sack about to be drowned. For the past three long years, Li Jun had wakened to the same opera.

  And there it was again: “Lazy girl! Come here! My chamber pot is full and the stink is making me green.”

  “Coming, Mistress. I will bring your breakfast,” she would always answer.

  Li Jun splashed water on her face, quickly twisted her waist-length hair into two braids that she coiled around her ears, pulled on her trousers and jacket. Darn! There was a stain on her sleeve. She spat on her finger and dabbed at the stain but it didn’t change — still dark and greasy. Muttering to herself, she ran from her room on the far side of the courtyard to the main house. Until she arrived in Hong Kong as a twelve-year-old country girl to work as a mui jai, a “little sister,” she’d never seen such wealth, never imagined room upon room filled with carved wooden furniture, floors polished to a sheen, thick carpets everywhere, and gas lamps glowing in the dining room at night. But that was three years ago and back then she also never imagined that she would be the one on her hands and knees polishing those floors and washing the fine china until the skin on her hands was raw. The worst of her jobs? Reaching under the Ho family beds every morning to remove their chamber pots and empty them onto the garden vegetables. She plugged her nose and chewed on a piece of mint from the garden to keep from gagging, then washed the pots until they gleamed.

  Cook was busy in the kitchen when Li Jun came to fetch First Wife’s breakfast. On the tray was a bowl of steaming congee, plump with fish and pickled vegetables, plus a pot of jasmine tea. Li Jun was tempted to dip her finger into the porridge for just a taste — it looked so appetizing and her stomach ached with hunger. But later she would eat her breakfast of cold rice and maybe, if Cook was in a good mood, he’d throw in a mouthful of wilted greens.

  First Wife squawked from her bedroom even more loudly. Cook winced and motioned Li Jun to head upstairs.

  “How do you stand it, day after day?” she asked him.

  He hesitated. “She wasn’t always this bad. In fact, she was happy until she found she couldn’t have children. Mr. Ho wanted a son, so he found Second Wife. Now First Wife is miserable with everyone.”

  Second Wife was big in the belly soon after coming to the house and gave birth to a son. First Wife wanted to send her away and raise the boy as her own but Mr. Ho had his own reasons for keeping Second Wife around. She was not much older than Li Jun, dainty and very pretty, and she warmed his bed most nights. Li Jun had scant sympathy for the tyrant upstairs. Still, she thought it was sad that First Wife had no children and her husband had brought a woman half her age with twice her beauty into her house.

  She knew that her father, far away in Gold Mountain, was faithful to her mother. They had been strangers on their wedding night, as in most arranged marriages, but love had blossomed and Li Jun remembered how tender they were with one another.

  In all her time as a servant girl, not a day passed that Li Jun didn’t long to be back with her family in her cottage by the river in Ping Wei. It had been a simple life full of joy and abundance. Her father, Li Man, taught at the village school; her mother, Shuqin, farmed the fields and tended to the house and garden. Li Jun was a carefree child then, but now it all seemed like a dream, a lifetime ago.

  Terrible things happened all over Guangdong. Li Man led the local farmers in their revolt against the brutal and greedy Manchu warlords, but lost the battle and his teaching job and in revenge they burned down his house. Then drought hit the village. Their crops failed and they faced starvation. Li Man decided the only way to avoid disaster was to go off to “Gold Mountain” in America. There he would search for gold — they said it was lying in the ditches. There he would make his fortune and keep his family alive. He would send money every month, and when he was rich he would come back to them.

  At first his letters arrived full of love and longing, with enough money to support the two of them. Then, mysteriously, the letters stopped and there was nothing they could …

  Enough! Li Jun chided herself. Stop daydreaming and get to work. She was at First Wife’s door now. She knocked gently on it and carefully balanced the tray as she entered. But a gust of wind slammed the door shut behind her with a resounding THUD. First Wife, startled by the noise, jumped up in her bed, pulled back her quilt, and lifted a thick, dimpled leg over the side, balancing precariously on one elbow and groaning with the effort of sitting up.

  “Wait! I’ll help you,” cried Li Jun, setting the tray down on the ornate dresser. But no — she was too late. First Wife kicked over her chamber pot and the fetid contents pooled in a disgusting mess by the bed.

  “You stupid girl! This is your fault for slamming that door. And what’s this? There’s a spot on your sleeve. Such a dirty mui jai! Your mother would be ashamed.”

  You know nothing of my family! Li Jun wanted to shout. How dare you degrade me? My father was a teacher, a brave man with a fire in his soul to do what was right! My mother was proud of me. Didn’t I give up everything — the chance for school, f
or a husband — to come here to work for you, you fat cow? But instead she clamped her lips together, took a deep breath, and bowed to her mistress. More than anything, Li Jun knew she must be obedient. She’d heard what happened to uppity servants. Long ago when a cook’s helper spoke back to First Wife, his back was caned to a bloody pulp.

  As she wiped up the spill and scrubbed the floor, she had only one thought: the old cow was right when she said her chamber pot made her feel green. Her shit did stink more than most.

  More than ever, Li Jun wished she was at home. She would never forget the day her world changed forever. It was her twelfth birthday and her mother had scrounged enough to buy the rarest of treats — a bean cake. Li Jun took a bite and swooned with the pleasure at the first taste of the sweet paste. There had been no sweets for a long time. Not since a year before, at Chinese New Year, when they received a letter from her father, along with most of his wages from the past months. He wrote that the gold rush in America was over, so he was travelling north to British Columbia, the new Gold Mountain, to find work. There was still gold in those rivers and a railway was being built right across Canada from the Pacific to the Atlantic coasts.

  It was a long letter, full of excitement. Canada was a new Dominion, no longer under direct rule of Britain. Many people in British Columbia wanted to join the United States but the first prime minister of Canada promised them an iron road, a railway that would link the vast nation from sea to sea. It was a big country, Li Man wrote, even bigger than the ocean he had crossed from China to the new world! The railway lines in the east were nearly finished but building the western track through the forests and mountains of British Columbia was so dangerous that it was way behind schedule. Li Man wrote that a powerful contractor was hiring Chinese workers to clear the land, blast tunnels through rock, and lay the track in the Rocky Mountains. He was excited by his prospects and promised his wife and daughter that once he was settled up in Canada, he would send lots of money back to them. That was his last letter. Li Jun and her mother read it over every day, as they waited for more news and the promised money. But that never came.

  Li Jun offered a bite of her bean cake to Shuqin, who shook her head and smiled as her daughter devoured the birthday gift. But Li Jun was worried. Her mother’s eyes were dark as stone, and purple half moons had settled into deep hollows underneath them. She took her hand. “Have you had bad news from Father?”

  Shuqin ignored the question. “Is the cake good?” she asked. Li Jun was not a child; she knew her mother was hiding something dreadful.

  “He’s dead, isn’t he?”

  Her mother sighed and looked away as if gathering her strength to answer. “Li Jun, I don’t know. He hasn’t sent money in more than a year. He doesn’t write. There must be some explanation. Your father is a good man. He’s brave too. He would never abandon us. But look at you — you’re little more than skin stretched over bones. We’re starving. The roof is broken, and when the rains come it will fall in and we have no money to fix it.”

  Li Jun had an idea. “I’ll quit school and sell our vege­­­-tables in the market.”

  “Sweet girl, we don’t have enough vegetables to feed ourselves, never mind sell to others. Besides, it’s too dangerous here now. Every day I hear of another girl kidnapped and sold as a slave … or worse.”

  Li Jun pretended she didn’t know what worse meant, but she did. Everyone in the village talked. Girls were stolen, then beaten and forced into brothels to please men with their bodies. They were never seen again.

  Li Jun felt her stomach churn as her mother continued. “The head of our clan has made me an offer we cannot refuse. You will become a mui jai in Hong Kong for Mr. Ho. He is a rich man who needs help with his son and his two wives.”

  “A little sister?” said Li Jun. She understood exactly what that meant. She would be loaned to the Ho family as a servant. Her mother would get money, enough to survive, in exchange for her servitude. She forced back her tears and stifled the urge to scream: “NO!” She had no choice but to accept her mother’s decision. It was her duty.

  “It won’t be for long, Li Jun,” said her mother gently. “Once your father returns, he will pay back the debt to Mr. Ho, we will be a family again, and we will find you a good husband.”

  The next day, as she embraced her mother and said goodbye, Li Jun made herself a promise. She would not be a servant forever. She would find another way to support the two of them. She was like her father — brave. And there was a fire burning in her soul, too.

  WHOMP! A fan hit her on the head. She put up both hands to protect herself from First Wife’s anger.

  “Pay attention, stupid girl! Take away my tray and lay out my clothes. I am meeting with my mah-jong group this afternoon and I plan to look particularly fetching as I take all the winnings.”

  Li Jun snapped back to the present. To make First Wife look “fetching” would take much more than the fanciest silk dress. It would take a miracle.

  Chapter

  Two

  By late afternoon Li Jun had done the work of ten servants. The more she did, the more First and Second Wife found for her to do. She still hadn’t had time to wash her own jacket so the stain remained as a sign that no matter what she did for her mistresses, there was no time to take care of herself. And now she had to attend to the mending.

  Through the open window of the study on the far side of the courtyard, she heard the voices of Mr. Ho’s only son, little Ho Kwong, and his tutor. Li Jun felt a weight lift from her shoulders. She adored the boy. He was just like the little brother she’d always wanted: quick and mischievous, with a good heart. He stole sweet cakes for her and left them, wrapped in paper, in her laundry basket. She would pinch his cheeks and chase him down the halls, threatening to tickle him, and she found ways to time her chores so she could sit in the courtyard beneath the library window to do her mending during his lessons.

  She had a reason: through the window she could listen to Little Kwong’s lessons and watch as he practised his writing. Her father had taught her to read and given her a writing slate. It was one of the few things she’d brought with her from the country. Each day she watched Little Kwong write the elaborate characters on his blackboard; each night she wrote them from memory on her slate and thought of her father — how he would slap his thigh and praise her smallest successes. She hoped he would be proud of her for continuing to learn on her own.

  Learning Chinese reading and writing was more difficult than she’d remembered. There were more than five thousand Chinese characters to master but she proved to be a quick study. There were English lessons too. Mr. Ho boasted that he was so successful as a trade merchant because he could bargain with the foreigners in their language and he wanted his son to have the same advantages. But English was much more difficult for Li Jun — all those foreign sounds rolled around her mouth like marbles.

  When she ran into Little Kwong after his lesson, she would try out new phrases.

  “Ha — do — you — do, Master Kwong?”

  Little Kwong clapped his hands with delight. “How do — you — do?” he answered. “I am fine!”

  When no one was watching, he would slip her a piece of chalk. “To practise your writing,” he said, and Li Jun flashed one of her rare smiles.

  “Why do you want to learn?” asked the little boy.

  “To honour my father by being first class!”

  Kwong looked at her strangely. “Don’t tell my father that I help you. He will be angry. He says servants should do much and know little.”

  After her supper of rice and steamed bok choy, Li Jun said a weary good night to Cook and stumbled sleepily into the courtyard. She closed her eyes as she walked, concentrating on her English and repeating out loud, “How-do-you-do? I am fine.”

  Suddenly she was aware that she wasn’t alone. She stopped and looked into the darkness, heard the strike of a match, and saw the red glow of a cigar being inhaled. Smoke curled into the cool air. By the ligh
t of a waning moon she saw Mr. Ho standing under the banyan tree in the centre of the yard, smoking, his gaze focused intently on her. She felt trapped — like the prey of a tiger about to pounce. Her skin crawled and she wanted to run as far as she could, but there was nowhere to go.

  “Come here, Little Sister,” he ordered. She’d never heard him speak this way — in a rough, breathy voice. Her heart beat wildly but she wouldn’t let him know she was afraid. She walked toward him, as she always did before her master: demurely, with her head bowed, her hands clasped, taking tiny steps as if her feet were bound like the empress dowager.

  She stood in front of him, eyes downcast.

  “So, you are learning English,” he snarled. “Such ambitions for a mui jai! I’ve underestimated you. And you are quite grownup now, aren’t you?”

  He grabbed her arm and pulled her into him. His breath was hot, smoky, and foul. She turned her head to the side but he pinched her chin and forced her face upward so that she had no choice but to look into his greedy eyes. He forced his mouth on hers and ran his hands over her breasts.

  A door slammed. Cook dumped a bucket of water onto the herbs in the courtyard and called out, “Who’s there?”

  Li Jun wanted to shout, It’s me, Little Sister. Help me! but she was trapped. No one could help her. Mr. Ho held her in the shadow of the tree, hidden from Cook’s view, and raised his fist in a threat. Then he emerged from the shadow, blowing smoke rings into the air.

  “Just me,” he answered. “Having a smoke.”

  Cook bowed, said good night, and headed back to the kitchen.

  Mr. Ho reached for Li Jun once more. He tickled her chin and laughed as she cringed at his touch.

  “Go to bed now,” he commanded. “I can have you any time I want. I own you.”

  She wanted to spit in his pockmarked face.