Li Jun and the Iron Road Read online

  Hurrying toward the factory, she passed a fortune teller’s booth and her heart skipped a beat. Another auspicious omen. There was another white man, this one in person, standing at the booth waving a piece of paper in front of the fortune teller’s face. He was tall with handsome features, and dressed in a suit even finer than Mr. Ho’s. His eyes were even bluer than the Mountie in the poster. He seemed flustered and pointed to the writing on the paper. “See! An address. Here.”

  The fortune teller answered in Chinese, telling the gwailo that he couldn’t read the writing and couldn’t understand a word he was saying.

  The foreigner raised his voice, as if by speaking louder and gesturing more he would make the man understand his English. “Think! It’s vital that I find this address,” he shouted.

  Little Tiger listened carefully. His voice sounded different from other English speakers she’d known — Little Kwong’s teacher, or her tutor, Mr. Relic. Maybe this one wasn’t from England like them, maybe he was from the New World, like the Mountie. Could he have a connection with the railway company?

  The perplexed fortune teller scanned the paper, then pointed to his fortune packets and made his sales pitch in Chinese. “Why don’t you buy a fortune message from me? Very good luck.”

  The white man threw his hands in the air and looked around for someone, anyone, who could understand him. About to offer her help, Little Tiger sized him up. Would his eyes get even more blue like the sea if she came close to him? He seemed desperate and, judging by his appearance, he would probably pay good money to be led through the twisted alleys to his destination. She started toward him, but at that moment, out of the corner of her eye, she saw a squint-eyed bully from her factory sidle up to her stall.

  She knew who he was — Di Hong, a thug in training from the factory. Sometimes he would secretly slit the bottom of the boxes that Little Tiger loaded, so that when she lifted them the firecrackers fell to the floor. In the market she’d seen him steal fruit from old ladies too feeble to give chase. She knew this guy was up to no good and must be stopped. But as she was running back to her stall, he lit a match to the fuses of all her firecrackers hanging there. WHIZ! BOOM! BANG! The mass of fireworks exploded. Shoppers dove for cover as the small “snappers” popped and sizzled in a mad frenzy. Raging, Little Tiger shouted to the crowd, “Grab him! He set the fire!”

  But her voice was lost in the din as, one after another, the big rockets exploded with a deafening roar. She tried to follow the bully as he raced off, but the crowd was now standing shoulder to shoulder looking upward and she couldn’t get through. They cupped their hands over their ears, mesmerized by the rockets whizzing up over their heads, riveted by the sight of a sky exploding into rainbows. Some fireworks took the shape of dragons dancing high in the sky before dissolving into sparkling rivers. There were oohs and aahs and wild clapping. For the crowd, it meant a glorious future. Glorious for everyone but Little Tiger. She fought back tears and balled her fists into tight knots of frustration. It was too much to bear. All that work, for what? Her dreams had just exploded in front of her.

  When the smoke died down, she looked around for the foreigner but he had disappeared. No surprise. Nothing was going her way. She cleared the debris around her wreck of a stall and headed off to her job at the factory. Her only consolation was that she still had a job, even if the work was tedious and the dust from the black powder they put inside the explosives clung to her clothes and clogged her throat. The only bright spot was learning how to harness the power of black powder under the watchful eye of the ancient master, Mr. Zhou.

  Already late, and afraid the boss would dock her pay, Little Tiger zigzagged through the back passages behind the market square and arrived at the dingy factory, out of breath. She quickly started work, lifting a box full of fireworks. CRASH! They fell onto the floor and rolled under the tables. The bottom had been slashed — again! There was a roar of laughter from behind her.

  “Loser! Pick them all up!”

  It was the bully Di Hong — again. He raised his fist and moved in for a fight, but Little Tiger had had enough. She pulled her knife out of her sleeve and brought it up to his face. Di Hong halted in his tracks, surprised that she had the guts to carry a weapon like that.

  At that moment, Mr. Zhou called from the courtyard, “Little Tiger, come here! Time to use your brain, not your hands.”

  Di Hong turned away and Little Tiger tucked her knife back into her sleeve.

  Thank goodness Mr. Zhou had saved her from doing something really dumb and winding up in jail, or dead. She was fond of the ancient master. He was older than most grandfathers. His hair was little more than fine white wisps, his skin was shrunken over sharp bones, but what amazed Little Tiger was that, even though Mr. Zhou was almost blind, he had a sixth sense of what was happening and, relying only on touch, he could perform magic with black powder.

  He placed a walnut shell and a box of firecrackers in front of her.

  “Can you split this?” he asked. “We can share the nut inside.”

  Little Tiger looked at the old man as if he had lost his mind. Of course she could! It was a simple task for someone so first class. She took her knife and made a hole in one side of the shell, inserted a tiny firecracker into the hole, struck a match, and lit the fuse. POP! The walnut exploded into a dozen fragments and left only a fine dust on the table. Little Tiger beamed with pride at the Ancient. But to her surprise he was frowning and shaking his head from side to side.

  “Look at that,” he said, his voice dripping disappointment. “This is worth nothing now. We cannot eat this walnut. You must explode the shell but not destroy what is inside. Try it again. This time, the shell should split and the nut inside remain whole.”

  Little Tiger looked at him in disbelief. “That’s impossible. You do it!”

  The old man accepted the challenge. He chose another whole walnut, examined the shell from every angle, then selected two even smaller firecrackers. With a sharp knife, he cut two slits on opposite sides of the shell and inserted a firecracker into each one.

  “It’s not only a case of how much powder you use but where you place the charges that counts. Come — you light one, I’ll light the other,” he instructed.

  Together, Mr. Zhou and Little Tiger each lit one of the tiny firecrackers on opposite sides of the shell. Another POP! and the shell burst apart, leaving two clean halves of the nut. Mr. Zhou popped his half into his mouth and beamed.

  “Good to eat. Nice and clean.”

  Little Tiger stared at her half, wide-eyed and mystified, but full of admiration for the Ancient’s skill. Mr. Zhou then took a small red envelope from his pocket and handed it to the kid. It was a fortune message for the New Year. She thanked him, ripped it open and read aloud these words:

  YOUR LUCK IS ABOUT TO CHANGE.

  Chapter

  Four

  Little Tiger read her good-luck message once more before putting it in her pocket next to the handful of coins she’d been paid for her week’s work in the factory. Perhaps her luck would change. As the sun dropped behind the mountains surrounding the harbour, she stopped at the laundry to pick up a bundle of clean shirts for her tutor, Mr. Relic, then made her way across town.

  The island of Hong Kong was a bustling place. Little Tiger started in the west part of town, where she had lived with the Hos. All the Chinese — labourers to shipping magnates — lived and worked there to be near their temples, shops, and tea houses. Walking from there to the eastern part of town where the foreigners lived was like entering a different world. Gas lamps now lit her way along clean streets lined with flower gardens. She passed the grand British government buildings, the cricket pitch, a museum, post office, and library. Towering over her was the highest point of the island, Victoria Peak, named after the faraway British queen. That’s where the foreign big shots, the tai-pans, built their houses and fancy clubs. It was against the law for the Chinese to live with the gwailo — the white ghosts — unless, of cou
rse, it was as their servants.

  She stopped at a ramshackle house on the edge of the foreign enclave, a place where outcasts like Mr. Relic lived. He was one of her laundry customers, a crusty old Brit with rheumy eyes and a bulbous red nose that blossomed even more after each of his alcohol binges. He spent most of his money on gin and rarely had enough to pay Little Tiger for his clean shirts, so he tutored her in English in exchange. She thought it was a fair deal. Building on what she already knew, she figured that reading and speaking English would help her in Gold Mountain. Her favourite word was fantastic. She loved to roll that word around her mouth and found a dozen reasons every day to say “FAN-TAS-TIC!”

  As she lifted her hand to knock on Mr. Relic’s door, she saw a half-dozen pieces of paper pinned to it, all from the Nichol Railway Company. She collected them in one hand and knocked loudly with the other.

  “Mr. Relic. Mr. Relic! How are you? I am fantastic.”

  From within she heard a rustling of sheets and the thump of one heavy foot hitting the floor and, after a pause, another one. Then a fit of coughing. She grimaced at the sounds and pounded even harder on the door. Finally it creaked open and Mr. Relic, draped in a blanket over his rumpled suit, peered at her through bloodshot eyes.

  “Dear God … I’m still alive! Come in, my boy.”

  Relic took the clean shirts and threw them on the sagging bed. She noticed a big bottle of gin on the bedside table. He pointed to a laundry bag in the corner and, speaking Chinese, told Little Tiger to take away the dirty shirts.

  “Sir, you promised to speak English,” said Little Tiger.

  Relic shrugged. “Your English is quite good enough.”

  “I want it to be more good,” she answered.

  “Not ‘more good’ — ‘better.’ I want it to be bett-er.”

  Little Tiger squeezed her eyes in concentration and focused on twisting her tongue around the troublesome T sounds.

  “Bedder.”

  “BeTT-er,” said Relic. “Say TT.”

  “BeTT-er,” repeated Little Tiger.

  Mr. Relic nodded with approval. “Good, boy, good!”

  Little Tiger handed him the notes she’d collected from the front door, then circled the room picking up his soiled shirts.

  “From your office,” she explained. “The Nichol Railway Company. Maybe important news from Gold Mountain.”

  The sad-faced Mr. Relic crumpled the notes into his wastebasket.

  Little Tiger wasn’t sure exactly what Mr. Relic did at the office. She only saw him in his own place, where mostly he was slumped in bed, still wearing his suit, with damp cloths draped over his eyes. What she did know was that the Nichol Railway Company was in British Columbia and that’s where her father had said he was heading.

  Relic ignored her as he searched for a match to light his cigar. “You don’t need better English, boy, if your only plan is to waste it on Gold Mountain.”

  “Maybe I find my father there.”

  Relic shook his head with disgust and Little Tiger felt her cheeks flush in anger.

  “What you mean, waste it? I make lots of money there. How much a dollar buy for me?”

  “A dollar? Six bottles of wine. Good wine. Two shirts.”

  “Fantastic!” beamed Little Tiger. “I make money to buy two shirts every day at Gold Mountain.”

  Relic took a swig from the gin bottle and polished it off. Little Tiger proudly pulled out her fortune paper.

  “See what that say — my luck is about to change!”

  Relic frowned at her. “Luck can change in two directions. Do you want to end up like your father?”

  Her face fell. “Sir, we do not know if he dead or alive. I go find myself.”

  Suddenly there was a loud knock on the door. Relic signalled Little Tiger not to speak as a voice called out, “Mr. Relic! Are you in there? It’s me, James Nichol.”

  Relic looked at Little Tiger in panic. He mimed fainting and pushed Little Tiger toward the door. Reluctantly, she opened the small portal to look out on to the street. To her amazement she found herself looking into the blue, blue eyes of the handsome foreigner from the market.

  So his name was James Nichol! In a flash she realized that her luck had indeed changed. With a name like that, he must be connected to the Nichol Railway Company. Perhaps he could hire her. She could barely speak. Stuttering, she managed “Mr. Relic very sick.”

  “Thank goodness!” said the foreigner, “At last someone who speaks English.”

  Little Tiger grinned. “I speak it beTT-er.”

  The man waved a white envelope and tried to peer past Little Tiger into the room. He raised his voice so that Relic could hear him.

  “Is he too sick to pick up his final payment?”

  At that word, Relic, on high alert, called out, “Payment?”

  Little Tiger repeated “Mr. Relic very, very sick,” and snapped the portal shut. James gave the door a kick and yelled, “Is he dead? Because if he isn’t, my father wants to know why he hasn’t put two thousand damn Chinamen on a boat to British Columbia.”

  Little Tiger slapped her forehead. Ah! So Mr. Relic was a recruiter for the Nichol Company and needed more men, yet he wouldn’t hire her to work on the railway. For a moment she was furious with him, then realized that here was an opportunity staring her in the face: Mr. Relic didn’t want her to go to Gold Mountain but this Mr. Nichol might. She just had to prove herself. She pushed open the door and came out onto the street where James stood slapping the envelope against his thigh in frustration.

  “Hi! Hi! Mr. James Nichol!”

  She stared at his fine clothes and shiny leather boots. He was even more impressive than the Mountie on the poster. He was tall and handsome, but younger, and he didn’t have a moustache. She threw back her shoulders and stuck out her chin.

  “You need workers? I will work for you, Mr. James. My name is Xiao Hu. It means Little Tiger.”

  James smiled at the kid’s nickname and his bravado. “We need men, not boys …”

  “I am eighteen years old. I read. I write. I speak English FANTASTIC!”

  “Yeah, you lie too. You’re fifteen at most and you’re a runt. More kitty cat than tiger.”

  “I do not lie,” protested Little Tiger. “I can do many things. I am fantastic with black powder!”

  James smirked and patted the boy on the shoulder. “Sure, kid. Maybe someday.”

  He turned to walk away. Just then Relic, looking almost presentable in his suit jacket and panama hat, came out onto the street and extended his hand to James in a formal greeting.

  “Good day, young man. Please accept my apology for my recent indisposition. A recurring malady common in the tropics.”

  James sniffed the alcohol on the old man’s breath. “Yes,” he said, “I can smell it.”

  Relic reached for his pay envelope but James pulled it back. “My father wants to know why we’re short the last hundred men.”

  Relic looked James in the eye. “My dear boy, between myself and the other fine recruiters on this fair isle, we have assembled one thousand and nine hundred men, a goodly number.”

  “No. You promised my father that two thousand men would be on the boats to Canada. He’s sent me here to make sure that happens.”

  Little Tiger’s eyes opened wide. This was the best luck! Mr. James not only did important work for the Nichol Railway, he was the son of the owner. He needed a hundred more recruits, and he saw through Mr. Relic’s excuses.

  Relic went on and on about how difficult it was to find good men and how he required a monthly stipend to find the last of the recruits, but James was adamant that he wouldn’t see another cent until the last one hundred men, able and ready to head overseas, showed up at the office. With that, he walked away.

  Little Tiger admired the gumption of the stern-faced James and followed him, starry-eyed, until he rounded the corner, hailed a rickshaw, and drove off. Relic came up beside her as she said to herself, “For sure I will go to Gold
Mountain now!”

  He sadly shook his head. “Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. Be careful what you wish for, boy. You might just bloody well get it.”

  ***

  Back in her room that night, Little Tiger lit a kerosene lamp and bowed with joss sticks at her family altar. Amid the bits of fruit and smoldering incense was the family photograph, taken so long ago, that her mother had given her as she lay dying. Little Tiger picked it up and touched it lovingly.

  “I am coming, Baba,” she whispered. “I will keep my promise, Ama.”

  She removed the hat she wore constantly as part of her disguise. Over the years she’d stopped shaving the front of her head because it was never seen, but she still kept the long braid down her back. She undid it now and brushed her hair to keep it shiny, then removed her long jacket and, with a sigh of relief, unwound the cloth that bound her breasts so tightly. She took her fortune paper out of her trouser pocket, slipped out of her baggy pants, and pulled a nightshirt over her slender body. As she put her head on her pillow, she read the fortune paper one more time. Your luck is about to change.

  Indeed it was — thanks to Mr. James Nichol, son of the railway boss. Yes, he’d turned her down this time, but she would prove her skills to him, how fantastic she was with black powder, how useful she would be on an explosives crew, and he would surely hire her.

  The next day, Little Tiger showed up at the Nichol Railway Company office. She was flabbergasted by what she saw: there stood a ragged mob of emaciated, vacant-eyed men that Mr. Relic had assembled and James, standing beside his translator Wang Yi, was surveying them with distaste.

  He snarled at Mr. Relic. “With just days to go, you expect me to take these wharf rats and opium smokers? I see better men on the street every day. Send them away.”

  Wang Yi told the crowd that the boss wouldn’t take them. Little Tiger watched with growing unease as the mob of scrawny men realized they’d been dragged there for nothing. No wonder they were angry. Relic must have made big promises of money for showing up at the office, plus riches awaiting them in Gold Mountain. The crowd grumbled and the leader motioned the men to surge forward … to attack James! But he was ready. He quickly tugged a gun from a holster on his hip and fired a shot into the air. Little Tiger was surprised. The crowd recoiled and muttered curses, then shuffled away.