A bit late on this one, yes, but I was sick last weekend and the SF Giants just won the World Series. What can I say?
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On to the stuff you're actually here for...
After a month of digging and panning and sifting through endless grains of sand, Alfred still felt elated at the idea of California, a euphoric daydream that didn't quite match the blistered hands and ragged hems of his daily reality.
It was also something that none of his fellow miners seemed to share. Sure, they were a mostly good-humored bunch, but they tended to get possessive over mining claims, which by nature made them isolationists. And when they went for weeks on end without much more than a couple nuggets to show for it, attitudes turned sour.
Only Cornelius shared his happiness, though he still hadn't found them much gold.
"I'm sure of it this time!" he'd exclaim, and would hack at the ground with the vigor of two men half his age until he proved that once again, there was no gold to be found. The "business proposition" he'd approached them about had been to team up and split whatever they found, sharing the profits as a three-man team. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, what with George still awed by Cornelius's "incredible gold-tasting talent," but it soon became quite obvious that Cornelius was only worth his muscle.
This pattern of not-finding continued for what seemed like forever (but in reality was only a few weeks), until one day Alfred gave up on Cornelius's digging sites, instead picking a spot in a creek that gave him a good feeling and starting to sift through the silt.
"Yeh'll never find anythin' with that pansy method," Cornelius declared adamantly. "Real men dig fer gold!"
As it turned out, neither the diggers nor Alfred standing knee-deep in water had yielded more than a few paltry flakes of stuff that looked reasonably golden. But they collected it daily in a small leather pouch that George kept in his pocket at all times, and steadily gathered enough to pay for meals but little else at the exorbitant San Francisco merchant prices.
"D'ya still have that job offer, Al?" George had asked after one particularly unfruitful day. "Because that looks like that's where the money is in this gig after all."
_V~-~-~V_
The air was crisp, with the last remnants of the morning fog slipping away over the mountains to the east. The San Francisco port, stretching from all along the inside edge of the peninsula, was bustling with activity, everyone seeming to have places to be, boxes to move, the crowd swelling like a high tide.
George was waving, despite the fact he was only a few feet from Alfred, as if making an effort to be seen as other people passed on all sides. "I'll meet ya back at the edge of town in a few hours, 'kay Al?"
"Just don't spend all of our money again. And Cornelius?"
"Yeh?"
"Don't let him out of your sight."
"HEY!"
The beefy man gave a sloppy salute. "Don't ye worry, Alfred Jones! I'll keep as good an eye on 'im as if he was me own!"
Alfred grinned as he watched Cornelius wrap his arm around George's much smaller one and half frog-marched him towards the main part of San Francisco, presumably to get more than a few drinks. Alfred might normally have joined them, but something about the port compelled him to be there.
So instead, he turned in the opposite direction, wandering downhill into the shipyards. He'd never quite gotten over his fascination with ports full of towering masts and billowing sails, or the ocean that stretched so far on either side of his land, even though he'd never been across one.
As he wandered through the docks, people rushing around him or jumping out of his way, the sight of an odd-looking ship stopped him in his tracks. Whatever it was, it definitely wasn't one of the coal-powered ferries or classic European sailing ships, but something decidedly more… foreign.
Stopping someone next to him, Alfred gestured at the strange boat. "What's that?"
The man followed his gaze, shifting the crate he carried as he responded, almost offhandedly, "That's just the Chinamen. There've been a whole lot of them around, lately, haven't you seen? They stick out like thoroughbreds in a pig pen, what with their braids and weird clothes."
He continued on his way, and Alfred was left wondering why he hadn't seen any of these "Chinamen" before. A new goal in mind, he turned towards the foreign boat and watched, fascinated, as a gangplank was lowered and people began descending.
A steamship belched black smoke into the sky as it pulled noisily into its dock, but the sight of it seemed to enrapture those watching as still more people came tumbling out of the Chinese ship.
Not fifty meters from Alfred's vantage point, Wang Yao wrinkled his nose in distaste. "It is so smelly. Too many people. So inefficient," he muttered to no one in particular as he descended to the dock of this new world, back straight and head held high as one of his Emperors had taught him long ago.
Wary of dilapidated peasant villages and their ancient constructions, Yao was hesitant to add any more weight to something that creaked. But this dock seemed sturdy enough, so he marched off in search of a purpose in this strange new place, eager to be anywhere but on that foul ship that he'd been stuck on for weeks.
The steady sound of spoken Chinese trailed off into the background the further he went from the cluster of people he'd arrived with, morphing into the harsh, oddly accented English that the people of this region spoke.
Arthur had taught him English, so Yao knew his was impeccable. Clearly, these people were commoners. Their dress, too, left little to be wondered about their social status in life.
Folding his hands in his voluminous sleeves, Yao was acutely aware of the stares he was getting from all sides, but stood ramrod-straight and strode on, putting them beneath his notice in a manner proper for someone of his standing. He was not a common working peasant, come to feed their family, he was simply bored and looking to get out of all those responsibilities his silly Emperor kept trying to force him into.
At least, so he told himself.
But regardless, he needed money, and more importantly, he needed food, and there probably were no pork buns anywhere nearby. So the first order of business in this new land was logically to find someone capable of getting him something edible, even if it wasn't as delicious as pork. Slipping through a crowd that didn't part for him like he was used to, Yao slowly made his way through the unfamiliar city, in search of an eating establishment of some sort.
Suddenly, he was knocked by a passing crate, and sent crashing into someone else, a someone else with very strong arms who succeeded in catching him.
"Woah there! Are you okay?"
Yao looked up (not very far, because as he told himself every day, he wasn't that short!) and met a pair of friendly blue eyes, which for some reason made him think of the sky, endless and lofty yet always there, all-encompassing yet free.
Yao blinked, momentarily puzzled why this man seemed so much like himself, because everyone knew there wasn't a specific America, only North America, represented by a quiet boy who always insisted he was Canadian. Yet still…
The man (but, Yao corrected himself, he really wasn't much more than a teenager) abruptly flushed. "Oh, you probably don't speak English… stupid of me. Er… anyway..." Leaving it with that, he gave an awkwardly hesitant little wave and walked off, leaving Yao staring after him, wondering why he'd been so utterly blindsided by one blue-eyed American boy.
_V~-~-~V_
"—an' then Luce just started shriekin'—"
Alfred was laughing as George regaled him and Cornelius with a story involving his sister, three mice, Sam, and a dinner party for their father when his eye caught something crimson-colored to his left, until it was abruptly hidden as the bar patrons shifted.
They were at a pub of sorts, one that doubled as a restaurant before noon, spending what little money they had on provisions and a small meal for the three of them. George was always joking that he was the lightweight of the group, because Alfred ate just as much as Cornelius, even though he was half his size.
"—an' good ol' Pa—wait, where're ya goin', Al?"
Alfred didn't answer, but the crowd shifted again, and there was the red, actually a person, sitting cross-legged on a bench, a strangely thin pipe dangling from his lips.
At least, he was fairly certain, it was a he. The black ponytail and dressy… clothing-things did make him look rather feminine.
This afternoon, at the port. That was why he looked so familiar.
As Alfred approached, the man blew a calm smoke ring and cracked open an eye.
"Er… hello," he said, waving in a way he hoped conveyed friendliness.
The man blinked, looking momentarily surprised as his dark eyes widened. "Good evening," he finally said, almost thoughtfully.
That was unexpected, and it was Alfred's turn to be surprised. "Oh… so you do speak English? Are you, er, one of those Chinamen? I mean, you look foreign and all, with your clothes, and um, eyes…"
"I am Chinese, and you are American."
"Yeah… definitely American."
The man nodded sagely, and Alfred heard George and Cornelius come up behind him.
"Who're you?" George asked, scrutinizing the foreigner.
"Wang Yao," he answered bluntly. "I arrived today. Do you have food?"
George's suspicion vanished as he laughed. "I like this guy! Someone who doesn't beat aroun' the bush!"
Yao's brow furrowed, and he placed the pipe gently beside him. "Why would I attack shrubbery?"
Alfred and George laughed, which made Yao look even more confused, and he muttered something in Chinese.
"We don' 'ave any food, I'm afraid," Cornelius finally said, addressing Yao, who just heaved a long-suffering sigh.
"I should have guessed, aru."
"'Aru'?" George asked. "What in the name of biscuits an' gravy is an 'aru'?"
"Aru is aru!" Yao cried, jumping up. "What are 'biscuits and gravy'?!"
"Food!" George shot back.
"So you do have food!" Yao exclaimed triumphantly.
"No, we don't! To buy food, ya need money, an' ta get money, we need ta find some gold, but all we've got is flakes!"
Yao brightened. "In that case, I can help! Chinese are very good workers!"
"Help? How do we know ya won't jus' run off with everythin'?"
"Chinese are honest workers, too!"
"Easy, George," Cornelius said, intervening with his more-than-minimal size. "We migh' as well get help."
Alfred nodded in agreement. "Yeah, it can't hurt to have another person."
At the sound of his voice, Yao turned, and met Alfred's eyes with something unreadable clouding his own. His dark eyebrows pinched ever so slightly, and Alfred had to look away from the intensity of the stare.
"Yes, I will come," Yao declared, finality in his voice. "You three are interesting, aru."
_V~-~-~V_
The three Americans soon found out that Yao hadn't done real physical work in a while. He wouldn't tell them just how long ago it had been, only that it was, "very, very long ago."
"The peasants do the hard work," he insisted. "My boss does not let me, and there are many important things to do." Almost as an afterthought, he added, "Though sometimes they are boring."
He began as a hard a worker as he promised, speaking for days very little except in proverbs: "If one does not plow, there will be no harvest," was one of his favorites. But fairly soon, he announced that mining was also boring. "All you do is dig! What fun is that! When do we find gold?"
"When ya dig," George replied bitingly, "which ya clearly aren't doin'."
"My boss said gold was everywhere! Actually, he mostly didn't, but still! He lied!"
"Your boss is a righ' idiot," George added.
"He is," Yao answered sagely. "He killed his eldest son and started a war because he wouldn't let me be friends with anybody and he chased my little siblings away. But he is old, so soon I will have a new boss."
No one knew quite what to say to that, so their little camp grew quiet. Even Yao was working, expressing his distaste every few minutes for mud and rocks and various things in Chinese.
Until suddenly, his shovel dropped to the ground with a clatter, and Yao was off running. "Uwa! Cute!"
Alfred looked up from his position in the river in time to see Yao approach something small, furry, and monochrome.
"You are black and white, just like panda! But you are a little kitty… I will call you robber-kitty because you have a mask!"
"Yao, that's a raccoon! Don't touch it!"
"But it's so cute!" Yao replied, reaching out a hand to pet the small animal's head, when he abruptly jerked backwards. "Aiyah! It bit me!"
Immediately, Alfred was out of the water, because he'd seen people get sick from raccoon bites, especially raccoons out during the daytime, but by the time he got to Yao, the Chinese man looked no worse for wear, just upset.
"Are you okay?" Alfred asked, grabbing the wrist Yao was massaging, but he yanked it closer.
"I am fine, aru." He looked balefully into the bushes into which the raccoon had disappeared, hissing and spitting. "But do you have anything cute here that is not possessed by evil spirit?"
"Evil spirit…?" muttered Alfred, dropping Yao's hand, no bite marks to speak of.
"Yes, like robber-kitty and stinky-kitty."
"You mean that skunk you decided to pet two weeks ago?" The smell hadn't gone away for days, and George had been all for exiling Yao to a minimum forty feet from the camp.
Yao nodded. "Both are most definitely possessed by evil spirit. Kiku knows all about them."
"Who's Kiku?" George interjected, having dropped his own shovel to join them, never one to work when others weren't.
"My cute little brother who left me," Yao replied, abruptly taking on a despondent expression. "He thinks his land is so much better, because it's where the sun rises. Insulting! Sometimes, little siblings can be so troublesome, do you know?"
"I don't know… I loved my little sister," Alfred said quietly. Yao turned to him, that odd look once again on his face.
"You have a younger sister as well?"
George looked aghast. "Ya never told me that, Al! I thought we were pals here!"
"Her name was—is Emeline," Alfred continued. "I haven't seen her in a long time."
Yao patted his back sympathetically. "I certainly understand, Alfred Jones. I certainly do."
_V~-~-~V_
George decided that what he termed "the discovery of Yao" warranted celebration, and celebration meant food and drink beyond their current spending limits. Of course they'd needed to save a bit first, but Yao had agreed enthusiastically, eager to try, "strange New World eating-things."
Later that evening, Alfred found himself hauling a very tipsy George out of another bar, with Cornelius trailing behind. A young woman suddenly came hurrying out, holding a leather pouch.
"Oh, mister! You left this behind!"
Still distracted by George's dead weight, Alfred accepted the pouch with a quick thanks. The lady (very pretty indeed with a small mole to the right of her nose) turned and left, practically skipping down the street.
"Mmph… my money bag!" George said, grabbing for the pouch and missing. Alfred peeled it open, only to find it most definitely empty.
"You spent all of it! How many drinks did you buy?!"
"Mm… not tha' mush! We still 'ad… some money lef over. Righ', Corne'us?"
"We did," said the larger man, who still was reasonably sober. "Tha' young lady must've made off with it."
George waved a hand. "'Er? Naw, she was righ' nice. Kept buyin' me more drinks, 'n complementin' me on my han'kerchief… isn' tha' funny, Al? I don' 'ave a han'kerchief!"
Alfred sighed. "Never mind.
Yao, who was swaying ever so slightly, cried, "No, that is unacceptable! You are letting her take your money?! Chase her, surround her from all side, and get back the honorably-earned money of George!"
He was looking rather violent, so Alfred pointed out, "She's long gone by now, though. And we should get going too, if we want to get back to camp before dark."
They hadn't taken three steps when a shriek shattered the relative peace of the early San Francisco evening.
Alfred practically threw George's limp form at Cornelius, who caught him without much more than a slight oof and Alfred was off and running, not caring who or what the shriek came from, only knowing that saving them was the most important thing.
Another shriek lead him to an alley, a dark sliver between two wooden buildings, dirt-paved and damp and the source of the noise: a small figure, backed up against a wall, a larger figure before them.
"C'mon, I know yeh've got money. I seen yeh steal it from righ' under that fella's nose. Jus' hand it over—"
Alfred reacted without thinking, because that was someone in danger, and no matter what they might have done, he didn't just let people get hurt. He dove, catching the larger figure around the waist, using the strength he knew he possessed but always tried to control to slam the man into the ground, barely hearing the resounding crack as they landed.
And then Yao was pulling him up, hissing in his ear, "What were you thinking?! Idiotic, impulsive, young—" and Yao was bending down, trying to check the man on the ground for vital signs, but the man was already sitting up, looking panicked and scrambling away and George and Cornelius were shouting questions from the mouth of the alley—
And Alfred turned, looked down to where the smaller figure, the young lady with the mole to the right of her nose, and helped her up.
"Are you all right?"
The young lady appeared to be shaking, but quickly composed herself. "I am just fine, thank you," she said, and attempted to pocket the pouch in her hand, but Yao grabbed her wrist.
"I believe you have a possession that belong to George." He waved a crimson-sleeved arm in the direction of the younger Catron, who had regained some of his own composure, enough to stand straight.
"I haven't the slightest idea what you are talking about. Now if you'll excuse me—"
"I think not," Yao interjected, still holding her wrist. "Your name is what, young miss?"
"And why," she asked, sniffing, "should I tell you?"
"Because you owe your safety from that man to Alfred," Yao said simply, "however stupid he was being."
The girl turned, her eyes meeting Alfred's. She nodded her head, the barest jerk of a movement. "Then thank you, Alfred," she said, but quieter now. She paused, then nodded again, as if deciding on something. "My name is Olive Rush. I'm pleased to meet you."
Yao was giving Alfred that strange look again, but Alfred chose to ignore it. "Alfred F. Jones, at your service, Miss Rush!"
Olive gave a tiny smile, but Yao was back to business. "George's money?"
"Oh, yes, well…" she paused again, then pulled it out of her sleeve. "Here," she said, almost sheepishly handing the coins over to George. "It wasn't much anyway," she muttered. "Not worth the trouble."
"If the wind comes from an empty cave, it is not without a reason," Yao proclaimed, nodding wisely as he folded his arms in his sleeves again. "Worry not, Rush-xiaojie. You and your many stolen goods are safe with us."
Olive spun on her heel to face Yao. "How…?"
"You are, as Arthur would say, a 'lady thief,' yes?"
"How can you prove such an accusation?"
"I am sure you have many goods from such gullible people as George on your person at this moment, Rush-xiaojie. But such encounters," he glanced at Alfred, "however impulsively initiated, have a purpose, would you agree?"
V/~-~-~\V
More China, so yay!
As an estimate, this Gold Rush thing will probably go for one or two chapters more, depending. Then we'll move forth to the Civil War.
And for history...
Most miners in California made very little money. Gold sold for $19 an ounce, but the shopkeepers could sell things for ridiculous prices, and it was really they who made the money in the end.
The "Chinamen" were at first welcomed in San Francisco, because they did the jobs no one else wanted to do for much lower pay. They were hard, industrious workers and carved out a successful lifestyle as a minority in San Francisco, though they (for the most part) refused to change their style of dress from the loose-sleeved shirts and the tight braids or learn English beyond enough to get by. This appearance (Qing Dynasty, Manchurian-influenced) is where the traditional stereotypical Chinese image in America today comes from. San Francisco's Chinatown was also originally right on the water, but when the population grew, people began filling in the San Francisco Bay, and today Chinatown is several blocks away from the water's edge.
As for the minimal Chinese Yao speaks, he calls Olive "Rush-xiaojie," which just means Miss Rush, or almost literally, little lady Rush.
On a side note, the "stinky kitty" is actually a real family story, as told by my first-cousin-once-removed-in-law (I keep in touch with a very large extended family).
There should be more history-oriented things next chapter. Sorry for the lack of it here, but I hope you enjoyed anyway! As always, if you have questions or comments, don't hesitate to leave a review, and I'll see you next time!