“The one who killed Ah Mow.”
“Henri Tremblay? I thought he left town for the winter.”
“Only for a while. He owns a store at Mosquito Creek. He was there, but he has come back.”
“I didn’t know he was in Barkerville. I haven’t seen him.” My legs suddenly felt weak, so I pulled out a chair and sat.
“But many Chinese have seen him,” Peter said. “Every day. Mr. Tremblay spends much time in Chinatown—at the restaurants, the gambling houses. He is always there.”
“What’s he doing?”
“He talks very loudly so all can hear. He calls the Chinese liars, and other names. Also he laughs. His friends laugh with him.”
“Why do they laugh?”
“They say that he will never go to jail, that those who saw him kill Ah Mow will not dare speak against him at the trial.”
“Why would the witnesses not repeat what they said at the inquest?”
“They are afraid of what will happen to them if they tell the truth.”
“Nothing will happen. The law will protect them.”
Peter studied me for a long time, his face motionless. Then he smiled weakly. “Ted, you are a good person, but you do not understand. Many Chinese do not think Ah Mow will find justice in the court.”
“Of course there will be justice, Peter.”
“If you say so, sir...Ted. But the witnesses do not believe that. They are afraid. The Frenchman and his friends tell them they will be harmed if they speak the truth.”
“Mr. Tremblay is threatening them? He can’t do that.”
Peter stared at me strangely. “Who tells the Frenchman what he can do or cannot do? The chief constable does not. The judge does not. Mr. Tremblay is not even in jail. He walks the streets and does what he wishes.”
“You should report him to the chief constable, Peter.”
“Would the chief constable believe? Only Chinese hear the Frenchman say those things. White men think Chinese people lie.”
“But—”
“Some Chinese do not want to wait for the trial. They want to take law into their own hands. They say one life calls for another life.”
It took me a moment to realize what he meant. “Those men in Sing Kee’s store want to kill Mr. Tremblay?”
“Yes, but they will not. They promise Sing Kee they will hurt no one. My uncle spoke wisely to them. He say it would be bad for all Chinese if they kill a white man. He say to wait for the court to decide.”
“And they agreed?”
“Yes. For now. But they are very angry at the Frenchman.”
I thought for a moment. “They have a right to be angry, Peter, but not a right to kill. Maybe I can speak to Mr. Tremblay and ask him to stay away from Chinatown until the trial is over.”
What had I just said? My mouth had gone dry when the words pushed their way out. “I will talk to him,” I said again, swallowing hard as I spoke, as if I wanted to take the words back.
“No, sir...Ted. Thank you, but you must not do that. Perhaps you will be witness at the trial. We need you. You respect Chinese people. You will say truly what you saw, and the judge and the jury will believe you. Besides, the Frenchman and his friends would not listen to you.”
No, they wouldn’t, I thought, remembering how Henri Tremblay had laughed when he called me “the boy who is almost docteur.”
“But we must do something. I’ll tell Chief Constable Lindsay. He’ll believe me.” I stood, bumping against the worktable and knocking over a block of wood. It thumped loudly when it hit the floor, and Peter and I jumped.
“Excuse me, sir...Ted, but if you go to the law, it will not help. It will make things worse. Mr. Tremblay and Chief Constable Lindsay are friends. They play cards, drink together. The chief constable will not believe you, same as he will not believe us.”
“The chief constable is a good man—” I began.
“Perhaps so, but he is white and we are Chinese. Please, Ted, do nothing for now. If I hear that trouble is coming, I will tell you. I promise. But you must promise me that you will talk to no one.”
I considered his request, then said, “Very well...I promise. We’ll hope nothing bad happens.”
“Perhaps Henri Tremblay will go back to Mosquito Creek,” Peter said. “If he will stay there until the trial, then we will not have trouble.”
“Let’s hope he stays away then,” I said.
Seven
January gave way to February, then to March. The snow deepened and icicles clustered along the eaves. Spring showed no signs of making an early appearance. The days were getting longer now, but slowly. I still walked to Barkerville each morning well before sunrise, returning home in thick dark.
My father came back to work, feeling refreshed and rested, which surprised me, for Ma had found much for him to do at home. She had new cupboards in her kitchen, bigger shelves in the pantry and a newly resanded and repainted floor in the parlour as a result of Pa’s “holiday.”
Business picked up, and suddenly all three of us were working hard. The sounds of hammering and sawing and the smells of glue and varnish filled the carpentry shop once again.
Peter’s reading lessons became fewer and fewer, but it didn’t matter. I had discovered that he had a good knowledge of the English alphabet and could read simple sentences even before we began our lesson. He was also an amazingly quick learner. During the slow winter weeks when there wasn’t much to do, we read together from some of the books Ma had used to teach me, and I made lists of words for him to learn to spell. Before long Peter was taking those books, and others I borrowed from the library, home with him at night. He had become a voracious reader. I didn’t think he would ever become good at spelling, though. The English language still puzzled him a lot.
“Why must there be so many words that sound the same but are spelled differently and mean different things?” he asked. “It is hard to learn. Two is a number, to is ‘I go to work now,’ and too means ‘much of something’—sometimes. Now you tell me too also means also. And hole is much different from whole, but they sound the same when you say them. Why?”
“Aye,” Pa said. “It’s confusing, lad.”
“See? You say aye meaning yes, but it sounds the same as I meaning me. Why must English be so difficult?”
Neither Pa nor I could answer that question. It was something I had often wondered myself.
Several times
