YEE WING, POWDER-MAN
YEE CHU, wife of Yee Wing, sank low before her husband, resting her clasped hands upon a knee. “Surely, Kwan-yin, the Merciful, has thought me deserving,” she said, “for she has set me down in a place where soft winds blow unceasingly.”
The Powder-man glanced out of the one window of their little home, past the pot of ragged chrysanthemums and the white-and-brown pug that held the sill. “I shall burn an offering to her,” he promised gravely.
“It is so sweetly warm,” she continued, rising and standing at his side; “though the new year is almost upon us. See, I have put off the band of velvet that I wear upon my head of a winter, and changed to these flower-bouquets. Esteemed, will it always be spring-time here?”
Yee Wing’s face lost its expression of studied indifference. He let his look rest upon her hair, blue-black, and held at each side by a cluster of mock jewels; let it travel down to the young face,—a clear, polished white except for deep-carmine touches on cheeks and eyelids and on the lower lip of the pouting mouth—to the brown eyes, whose charm was enhanced by a curious little wrinkle just above the darkened brows, a petulant little wrinkle that changed with each passing thought.
“Assuredly,” he answered. “In California, it is always spring-time, Jasmine Blossom.”
Again she sank, bracelets clinking as her fingers met. “Just so it is for a good while each year on the hills of Hupeh, where dwell my illustrious pocket parents. From our hut, during the sunny days, we looked across the tea fields upon groves of bamboo, feather-topped, and rocking gently.”
She stumped to the open door, balancing herself with partly outstretched arms. “Am I free to go forth to-day as yesterday?” she inquired over a shoulder. “The green invites, and there be some beautiful plants yonder, red as the face of the god of war. I can fill the pottery jar.”
“Go,” he bade, “but not over far, lest you tire the two lilies of gold.”
She smiled back at him tenderly. “I spend my heart upon you,” she said in farewell, and went balancing away.
Yee Wing watched her difficult progress across the grassy level that divided the powder-house and his own habitation from Sather, the solitary little railway station of the near-by line. “She has brought tranquillity,” he murmured, “Where now are the five causes of disquietude?” And he, too, smiled tenderly.
The week that followed, which was only the second of the girl-wife’s residence in the new land, found the two supremely happy. They had no visitors other than the superintendent from the works at Pinole, and an expressman from Oakland, bearing an order for a keg of explosive. Yee Wing enjoyed abundant leisure, and he spent it with his bride.They puttered together about the dove-cotes behind the square, black magazines; they shared the simple cares of their single room; in a comradeship as strange to their kind as was the civilisation in which they had come to live; they sallied forth like two children, gathering the fragrant peony, pursuing the first butterflies.
But one morning there arrived a man of their own race. Yee Wing was lolling upon a bench, playing with the white-and-brown pug. Yee Chu, in purple trousers and cherry-hued jacket, was sitting upon a stool, the gay, tinsel rosettes over each tiny ear bobbing merrily as she finished a careful toilet. The white paste had been put on face and throat and carefully smoothed. Now she was dyeing her long nails and rouging her palms. Of a sudden, a shadow fell across the doorway. The two looked up. Outside, staring in, was a Chinese, his round, black, highbinder hat, silk blouse and dark-blue broadcloth breeches proclaiming him above the coolie class.
“Stay within,” cautioned the Powder-man, in a low voice. He went out hastily, and closed the door after him.
There passed between Yee Wing and his caller none of the elaborate greetings that mark the meeting of two equals. The strange Chinese gave the other a proud nod of the kind that is fit for a foreign devil, and, with no evasiveness and something of the bluntness that characterises the despised white, at once stated his errand.
“I come from the most worthy Bazar-man, to whom you stand in debt to the measure of twenty-fivedollars,” he began. “I have to remind you that to-morrow is New Year’s day. And for you the sun does not rise unless the sum be paid.”
Yee Wing drew a startled breath. True, to-morrow would be New Year’s Day! How had it come so near without his knowing? It found him without what was due. His very “face”—that precious thing, appearance—was threatened!
“I am from the South of the Heavenly Empire,” he made haste to answer, catching, as it were, at a saving device. “I am a son of Tang, therefore. Now, with us, there is a custom——”
Without explaining further, he took hold of a wooden button upon his cotton blouse and pulled it loose. Then, with profound courtesy, he tendered it to the Collector of Monies.
The latter received it with a courtesy that was feigned, withdrawing a covert glance from the partly screened window. “A son of Tang,” he repeated. “There be rich men in the South. Now, perhaps your honoured father—” He paused inquiringly.
Yee Wing understood. In the land of the Son of Heaven, a father is held strictly responsible for the obligations of a son. But—the province of Kwangtung was far.
“My poor but excellent father was only a dealer in salt,” he said gravely. “His mound is upon a desolate stretch beside the Yang-tse.” To save any questions concerning other male members of the family,—who also might be held accountable—he added, “I alone survive to feed and clothe his spirit continuously.”
A baleful light shone in the slant, searching eyes,but the words of the Collector of Monies were gracious enough. “Filial piety,” he observed, “has first place among the virtues.” Then, with pompous deprecation, “My humble parent is but akouang-fouin the Customs Service of Shanghai.”
Yee Wing lowered his own look in becoming deference. The son of a civil officer carries power.
The stranger now gave a second nod and moved away,—not, however, without again peering through the window; and soon, seated on the dummy of an electric car, he was spinning out of sight in the direction of Fruitvale.
Yee Wing watched him go, then hastily entered the house. Fireworks, for the frightening away of evil spirits, might not be exploded near the powder. So he sought for a tiny gong and beat it roundly.
“I like not that man’s countenance,” he told Yee Chu. “Did you note how he spied upon the place? He is of the sort that would steal food like a dog.”
Saying which, the Powder-man beat his gong more loudly than before, and burned at the entrance to his home handful upon handful of propitiatory paper.
Tau Lot, Bazar-man, sat behind a little counter of polished ebony. His were the calm, unmoved—and fat—face and the quick, shifting eye of the born speculator; his, the smooth, long-nailed hands that do no labor, and that were now toying with one of the Nine Classics. On his head rested a tasseled cap. His jacket was of Shang-tung silk, dyed purple. His breeches were of dark crape, tieddown upon socks spotlessly white. The shoes that rested upon the middle rung of his stool were of velvet and embroidered.
The Dupont street shop was small, but it held a bewildering mass of merchandise. Silk rolls, matting, bronzes, porcelain, brass, carved furniture, lacquered ware, Chinese fans made in Japan, imported purses worked within a stone’s throw of the store, devil masks, dolls and gowns—gowns of brocade; gowns of plain silk, quilted in finest lines and herring-bone rays and bordered with figured-ribbon bands; gowns of embroidered satin,—mulberry-red wrought with sprigs and circles of flowers, green, with gold thread tracings, black, with silver cranes winging across. Yet though the store was small, and choked to the lantern-hung ceiling, the clerks were many. Some were ranged behind the row of shining glass cases, others lounged in a group near the rear room entrance. There were honourable younger brothers here, and honourable cousins, but not one of a different blood. For Tau Lot thought well of the ancient proverb:When the fire is lighted, all the family should be kept warm.
Outside the bazar was the tall, upright beckoning-board with its heavy gold characters on a vermilion ground. A Chinese now halted beside it, and glanced casually up and down the street. Then he came through the door, examining a box of sandalwood just within the entrance, leaning over some silk handkerchiefs at the counter-end. Presently he advanced to the ebony counter.
“Your trifling servant salutes you, Illustrious,” he said.
The Bazar-man scowled. Two hours had he given up to business—two hours of the three spent so daily. Soon he would return to the dreams and sleep of the enslaving pipe. And what babble had Chow Loo to say?
“Welcome,” he returned. “Too long you have deprived me of your instructive speech.”
“My speech is but a breath in my neighbour’s face. Will the Most Noble not lighten the hour with his voice?”
A party of women tourists came crowding in at that moment, picking at everything not under cover, pulling at the hanging gowns on the wall, stretching to see what was behind the cases. Tau Lot looked them over,—there were five—mentally tagging them with price-marks. The old woman was not worth her keep, the next younger little more, the two thin ones perhaps four hundred——.
“But the round one,” said Chow Loo, keen to see what the Bazar-man was thinking.
“Eight hundred, truly,” and the tasselled cap was gravely wagged.
“So I think, though her feet be as big as the feet of a Tartar woman.” They surveyed the attractive young lady with the judgment of merchants both.
“It nears the time for my going,” said Tau Lot, his Oriental dislike of coming to the point in business overweighed by the dread of wasting time that belonged to the pipe. “So what of the collect to-day?”
Chow Loo ran a hand into the pocket of his blue broadcloth breeches. “From Berkeley, where I ledmy contemptible way, eighteen dollars,—so much owed the washer of clothes. From Oakland, six, and the vender of vegetables sends his lowly greeting. But the Powder-man at Sather was as naked of coin as a robber. See—here is only a button from his coat!”
“The debt is owed since the Ninth Moon.”
“So I said—Yes, the round one would be worth fully eight hundred.” The attractive young lady had come closer, anxious for a near view of the Bazar-man. A clerk accompanied her, advancing at the farther side of the counter as she advanced, but taking no trouble to display his wares.
“So I said,” repeated the Collector of Monies. Then, with a meaning glance at the Bazar-man, for an honourable younger brother was at the latter’s elbow. “But though he is so miserably poor, he grows a rose,—one more beautiful than a man of his rank should have. In your crowded garden is there room for another such?”
Instantly, Tau Lot’s slant eyes narrowed in their slits, his ponderous body lost its attitude of indolence. He stepped down from his stool with alacrity. “You will have a taste of steamed rice,” he said, “—rice savoured with salt fish—and a cup of hot samschu at my despicable board.” And he led the way to the rear room.
The Collector of Monies followed, and the two seated themselves at a table, where a servant brought food and rice-wine. And here, nose to nose, they chattered low, gesticulated, haggled.
“How far is it to Sather?” asked the Bazar-man.
“Near to thirtyli. One can reach there in anhour.” The Collector of Monies proudly displayed a large, nickel-plated watch.
“But still—the price is too high.”
“O Magnificent One! for a little-foot woman? Her dowry was at the lowest fifty taels. Doubtless, that was what beggared him. She is truly a picked beauty, a very pearl.”
“It is settled then. The half will be paid when the rose is plucked, the second half when the filthy foreign police accept a commission and promise no interference.”
At sundown, a few days later, the superintendent at Pinole heard the bell of his telephone summoning him. The receiver at his ear, he caught the petulant “Well, wait a minnit, can’t y’?” of the operator and, punctuating it, a weak gasping, as if some one in agony were at the distant transmitter.
“What is it?” demanded the superintendent. “This is Bingham.”
The gasping ceased. A choking voice answered him: “Yee Wing, Mista Bingham. Say, my hab got sick bludder—oh, velly sick. Must go San Flancisco heap quick. S’pose you likee, my can tell olo Chinaman flom Flootvale. He come all light.”
“Yes, old Wah Lee, you mean.” The superintendent knew it would be useless to try to learn the real cause of Yee Wing’s sudden going or to attempt to stop him.
“Olo Wah Lee,” returned the Powder-man, eagerly. “Say, Mista Bingham, I come back plitty soon. Jessie now, I wanchee know, I no lose my job?”
“No, Wing, your job’s safe. You attend to that sick brother and get back as soon as you can.”
“All light. Good-bye,” and the receiver was hung up.
In the morning, when the superintendent reached Sather, he found Wah Lee on guard. The old Chinese substitute was stretched upon an army cot by the dove-cotes, the white-and-brown pug beside him. Yee Wing’s little home was locked. Bingham shaded his eyes and looked in—upon the kitchen, dining and sleeping room in one. Cups and bowls littered the table. Clothing was tossed here and there upon the benches and floor. Each drawer of a high case against the farthest wall had been jerked out and not replaced.
“Something’s up,” muttered the superintendent. “Well, I knew there’d be trouble when that pretty little wife came. Wah Lee, what’s the matter with Yee Wing?”
“No sabe,” declared the old man, and to every suggestion returned the same reply.
That day, and the six that followed, found Yee Wing in San Francisco, where he walked Chinatown continuously,—watching, watching, watching. And as he travelled, he kept his right hand tucked in his wide left sleeve, his left hand tucked in the right one.
His way led him always through squalid alleys; narrow, dark alleys, where there were no shops, and no coolies going by with heavy baskets swinging from their carrying-poles; but where, from tiny, barred windows, the faces of young Chinese girls looked out—ivory-yellow faces, wondering, wistful.
Before them, passing and repassing, his own face upturned, went Yee Wing.
The slave women gazed down at him with little interest, their dull eyes, their sullen mouths, bespeaking the spirit that is broken but still resentful. He could not call to them, could not question, for among them was surely a spy. He could only pass and repass. Then, to another dark alley, with the same barred windows, the same wistful faces. Enter one of these places, he dared not, if he hoped to live to save her. The Sam Sings guarding the slave trade—those quick-working knife-men who are as quick to get away from the “foreign devils,” police—had her under guard. He must find out where they were keeping her—then match their cunning with his own.
When the little money he had was exhausted, he visited a relative—visited him secretly, toward dawn of a morning thick with fog. For anyone who helped him, if it were known, would suffer swift and certain punishment. Here he replenished his pocket. Then, off again. He ate seldom and sparingly, he slept only in snatches, hidden away under steps or in a big, empty dry-goods box down in the wholesale section.
The end of that week saw him rattling through Burlingame and Palo Alto on his way to San José. There, in the “Garden City,” three days were spent in walking and watching. Then, on to Sacramento, where, half-starved, he stumbled out of the great, roofed station, and made toward the Chinese quarter. Finally, he proceeded north to Portland.
One cold night, a fortnight after Yee Chu’s disappearance,he reached San Francisco once more. It had rained in the north, and his cloth sandals were pulpy, his wadded, cotton coat was soaked. His head was unshaven, too, his queue unkempt from long neglect. He was sallow and green-hued.
But there was no surrender in the blood-shot eyes. He began again to haunt the streets of Chinatown. And, late one night, in Waverly Place, under a blowing street-lamp, he met one of the two he sought; he came face to face with the Collector of Monies.
Yee Wing’s right hand was tucked in his left sleeve, his left hand in the right one. The Collector of Monies had reached to a hind pocket of the blue broadcloth trousers. But across the grimy court, in the light of a second lamp, a uniformed figure was idling and swinging a heavy club to and fro on a thong. His eye was upon them.
They stopped short, each alert. The face of the Collector of Monies was placid, though he marked the bulging sleeves of the Powder-man. Yee Wing was, outwardly, calm too. But his thin upper lip, upon which grew a few straggling hairs, twitched uncontrollably.
“Where is she hidden?” he demanded.
The other snorted. “She is worth little,” he said by way of answer. “She weeps too much.”
The bulge within the sleeves moved. Yee Wing would have slain then,—but what help could he give her from a cell of the city prison? He kept himself in control.
“The Supreme Lord of Heaven,” he said, “pities even the mothers of thieves and harlots. He will pity her, though she be defiled. But you—you—vilescurf of lepers—shall die by a thousand cuts.”
The uniformed figure stepped toward them. At this, the Collector of Monies took his leave, backing away from Yee Wing with such ceremony that his face was still presented when a corner was passed.
Blind with rage and grief, the Powder-man all unconsciously made his way to Commercial street. There, in front of a poultry store, he dropped down to a seat on the curb’s edge. She was in San Francisco! And he was so contemptibly weak that the slave society—the despisedhoey—did not even take the pains to deny it to him; even mocked him with her weeping! His Jasmine Blossom!
His ear was caught by the sound of a petulant squealing. Across the street was a Chinese, writhing against the iron door of a well-lighted building. For all the distance, Yee Wing could see that his face was ghastly. With a twist of the body, the Powder-man struggled up. Here, to his hand, was a key with which he could unlock the way!
He hurried over and, as the squirming, loose-jointed figure lurched violently to one side, righted it firmly. Then, supporting the stranger, directed their course from that thoroughfare to another.
Presently, the pair entered a shop. It was one of the manufacturing variety, being filled with sewing-machines before which—though the night was far advanced—sat their busy operators, at work upon loose, lacey garments of silk and muslin. Yee Wing and his charge passed through this outer room and into a small, darkened one behind.
After a short stay, they came forth again, thePowder-man leading. An incredible change had come over the strange Chinese. His eyes were wide and lustrous, he stepped alertly. The two, going single file, after the manner of the Oriental, left the shop and walked rapidly to a near-by square. There, in the shadow of the shaft of the Golden Ship, they sat down, side by side.
“This is my desire,” began Yee Wing, “—you shall find for me a certain woman.” And here, with the indifference, apparently, of a dealer in flesh, he described Yee Chu. “You cannot mistake her,” he declared. “When your work is finished, leave word for me with the garment-maker that the wooden candle-stick is mended. Meanwhile, he will serve your needs.”
Three days, and the message of the mended candle-stick was left. That night, in the shadow of the monument, the opium fiend disclosed to Yee Wing the prison place of his wife.
The Powder-man took his hands from his wide sleeves. Then, on swift foot, he made off to the great, stoneyamenof the police.
“Plenty piecee bad man hab got my wife,” he told the head man.
“Chinks?” asked the “foreign devil.”
“Yessee.”
“Then w’y doan yez jerk out their pigtails?” the other demanded,—but not unkindly, for the thin face and the strained eyes made him conscious of something like pity.
Yee Wing told his story, in the best pidgin-English he could command.
That same night, a gong-wagon came rattling itsway into Chinatown. The Sam Sings who lounged at corners here and there watched its progress with unconcern. The wagon was an hourly visitor, since here, hutched with the careless Oriental, and out of the sight of the clean, was the city’s scum—criminal and unfortunate together.
But all of a sudden there was the sound of sandalled feet on the run, for the out-post men were scattering to cover. The patrol had turned into a certain squalid alley, had stopped before a certain door, above which—black Chinese characters on a scarlet ground—was pasted the legend:
THE MOONLIGHT RESTS IN WHITEPURITY UPON THE GARDEN OF ROSES
THE MOONLIGHT RESTS IN WHITEPURITY UPON THE GARDEN OF ROSES
THE MOONLIGHT RESTS IN WHITEPURITY UPON THE GARDEN OF ROSES
THE MOONLIGHT RESTS IN WHITEPURITY UPON THE GARDEN OF ROSES
And out of the patrol, axe and pistol in hand, had tumbled a half-dozen stalwart officers,—after them, Yee Wing.
There were shrill, warning cries from the street. Shriller cries—the cries of panic-stricken women—answered from the tiny, barred windows above the entrance door. Then, interspersed with lusty Celtic commands, sounded the ring of the axe.
One, two, three minutes—and the bluecoats burst their way through the bolted doors and into the main room of the den. Under them, over them, on either hand, they caught the noise of hurried flight, a frightened rat-like scurrying. Before them was aroom dim-lit and heavy with the odour of opium and incense. Dirty cushions were thrown about. Stools and tables were overturned. To one side lay a three-stringed banjo. The occupants had fled.
Not all. Past the cluster of white men sprang Yee Wing, across the dark room, to a little huddled heap on the floor beyond. It was she, still wearing the loose, purple trousers and the cherry-hued jacket. Upon the jacket, circling a bony handle thrust upright, was a growing stain—deeper than cherry hue.
The officers rushed on, doubly eager to track, now that there had been a murder. One stayed a moment and would have drawn the weapon from Yee Chu’s breast, but Yee Wing would not let him. With it would go out the last spark of life.
Alone together, the Powder-man did not sink beside his wife. His face did not show either grief or anger. He only looked at her, his hands hanging loosely at his sides.
Her eyes opened, she saw him, and smiled faintly. “Esteemed,” she whispered, “Esteemed, it is the time of the tea-harvest!”
He knew that she was thinking of the hills of Hupeh. “Ah, Jasmine Blossom,” he answered, “graceful as a leaf and as sweetly scented.”
She smiled again. “Possessor of All the Virtues,”—her voice was so low he could scarcely hear—“but I am heavily sick. Forgive me that I cannot live to be the mother of your first-born.” And, with that, her eyelids drooped.
They came back into the room then, empty-handed.Quietly, sadly, they gathered about the two.
Yee Wing looked around the circle. He spoke no word, but there was a terrible light in his blood-shot eyes. Then, he turned about and went down the stairway. Again, his right hand was in his wide left sleeve, his left hand in the right one.
The Collector of Monies, making leisurely toward his favourite barber-shop, was conscious of a figure—almost a shadow, so uncertain was it—that appeared and disappeared behind him. He stopped every few feet to look over his shoulder. But, through the ever moving procession of the pavement, he could see no one that seemed to be following.
At the barber-shop, he took a stool lazily. First, a square napkin dipped in hot water freshened face and palms; next, a few hairs were pulled from his jowl, and the ear-spoon was wielded. Then he composed himself for a head-shave. The razoring begun, he watched a group of gaudily dressed children, shouting and gamboling before the door, and as he watched he fingered a long-stemmed pipe, caressing its ivory mouthpiece with his lips.
Of a sudden, through the group of children, to the great brass bowl at the shop entrance, came a figure. Its dress was ragged and dirty, its queue unkempt. Its right hand was thrust in a wide left sleeve, the left hand in the right one.
As Chow Loo looked, the right hand was drawn from the sleeve and extended toward him. Between two blood-shot eyes was the black bore of a revolver.
Careless of the razor, he sprang up, the keenblade taking him in the scalp. But even as he leaped came the bullet—straight to the mark.
A hue and cry arose, there was a great running, and gathering, a medley of questions, a medley of answers, the jostling and the commands of uniformed “foreign devils.” Chow Loo tottered forward, and dropped beside the great brass bowl. And there, gazing fixedly up at a lantern that was swinging gently to and fro above the door, the life of the Collector of Monies went out of him.
When Yee Wing arrived at Sather, he found Wah Lee lying in a strip of shade behind the dove-cotes. The old man got up at once, relinquished a key, folded a few belongings into a handkerchief and departed down the road to Fruitvale.
The Powder-man looked dumbly about him, at the little home, the black-walled magazine, the grassy level surrounding. Upon the green, the dark-red peonies were nodding; across it fared the butterflies.
For a long time, he stood. Then, slowly, he went apart and sat down in a place where he could command every approach. Here, hour by hour, he stayed—waiting. Twilight came on. He arose, approached the door of his little home, unlocked it, and entered. A silken garment lay close to the sill. He took it up, smoothing it with a gentle hand. At last, he laid it down. His eye rested upon a photograph that lay among the cups and bowls on the table. He lifted it tenderly, carried it to the chest of drawers and set it upon end. Before it, in a bronze cup of ashes, he put a lighted incense stick.
He leaned against the drawer chest, his forehead upon a hand. “Mother of the unborn that were to worship my bones!” he faltered.
By now, the twilight had deepened into night. Down the highway leading to Fruitvale, he heard the barking of a dog. He stole to the window and sat down, a revolver upon his knee.
The dog quieted. A quarter of an hour passed. Then, from the other side, toward Haywards, a second barking. He stepped outside, keeping close to the house. Behind it, among the dove-cotes, he halted, peering to every side.
A space of time went by. Then, across the level from the railway, three shadows!
Yee Wing sank down and crept noiselessly to the door of the magazine, opened it, and stood just within the black entrance.
The three shadows were nearer now, but motionless.
Yee Wing called out: “Come, honourable brothers, come. Why wait you yonder?”
The shadows moved, but there was no answer. They separated. One came forward under cover of the house; one turned to the right; one to the left.
“Come, brothers, come,” called Yee Wing, again. His voice was light and mocking. “The spoil is large. You shall take all my possessions with you—this time.”
The three stopped short. Then, as one, they turned, fleeing.
Too late! Yee Wing stepped back into the magazine—a match sputtered up——
The night was split by a great burst of thunder.It went resounding across the salt flats to Alameda, across the bay to the City beside the Gate, it was beaten back by the brown Piedmont hills. And with it, as the earth quaked to the sound, the souls of three Sam Sings, and of Yee Wing, Powder-man, went forth to join the souls of their ancestors.