By the Skin of His Teeth Read online

  By the Skin of His Teeth

  Also by Ann Walsh

  Beginnings: Stories of Canada's Past (editor, 2001)

  The Doctor's Apprentice (1998)

  Winds Through Time: An Anthology of Canadian Historical

  Young Adult Fiction (editor, 1998)

  Shabash! (1994)

  The Ghost of Soda Creek (1990)

  Moses, Me and Murder: A Story of the Cariboo Gold Rush (1988)

  Your Time, My Time (1984)

  By the Skin of His Teeth

  A Barkerville Mystery

  Ann Walsh

  Copyright © 2004 by Ann Walsh

  First Edition

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher or, in the case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a licence from Access Copyright (Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency), Toronto, Ontario.

  This book is published by Beach Holme Publishing, Suite 1010, 409 Granville Street, Vancouver, B.C. V6C 1T2. www.beachholme.bc.ca. This is a Sandcastle Book.

  The publisher gratefully acknowledges the financial support of the Canada Council for the Arts and of the British Columbia Arts Council. The publisher also acknowledges the financial assistance received from the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program (BPIDP) for its publishing activities.

  Editor: Michael Carroll

  Production and Design: Jen Hamilton

  Front Cover Photograph: Copyright © by British Columbia Archives C-07674, "Song" Cook at McKinnon Hotel, Barkerville

  Back Cover Photograph: Copyright © by British Columbia Archives F-07769, Barkerville Looking South on Main Street 1868, Richard Maynard

  Author Photograph: Lynette Winders Photography

  Printed and bound in Canada by AGMV Marquis Imprimeur

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Walsh, Ann, 1942-

  By the skin of his teeth/Ann Walsh.

  "A Sandcastle Book."

  ISBN 0-88878-448-1

  I. Title.

  PS8595.A585B9 2004jC813'.54

  C2004-905228-4

  This book is for "Peter"

  and the many Chinese Canadians

  who had to fight so hard before they could

  finally call Canada home

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you to the following people who, by so generously offering their support, encouragement, and expertise, made this book possible: Bill Quackenbush and his staff at the Barkerville Archives; teachers Rumiana Cormack, Joan Anderson, and Niki Ticinovic and their students; the Williams Lake Writers' Support Group; the British Columbia Arts Council; John Walsh, patron of the arts; the Redl Family; Lily Chow; and Rod Hawkins, Crown counsel, Williams Lake, British Columbia.

  Table of Contents

  By the Skin of His Teeth

  Author's Note

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Afterword

  Author's Note

  The racist attitude toward the Chinese that is portrayed in this novel is unfortunately true of that time in Canada's history. The words I have put into the mouths of both the real and fictional characters have been taken from history books, the Cariboo Sentinel (Barkerville's newspaper), and the transcript of the trial.

  The historical characters in the book are Alexander Robertson, Crown counsel; George Walkem, twice premier of British Columbia; Chief Constable James Lindsay, who is buried in Barkerville's cemetery; Judge Henry Crease, whose judicial wig can be seen in the Maritime Museum in Victoria; Sing Kee, whose store is on Barkerville's main street; Moses Delany Washington, Barkerville's barber; Ah Ohn, the primary witness; Dr. J. B. Wilkinson; and, of course, Ah Mow.

  One

  The wind tore at me. Tiny ice pellets, not quite snow, definitely not rain, stung my face like dozens of angry winter bees. I tightened my woollen scarf, pulling it up almost over my eyes, but the wind ripped it away. I had forgotten to wear gloves. My hands were numb and wooden with cold.

  I wrestled with my scarf again, settled my hat farther down around my ears, thrust my hands into my pockets, and kept walking. Twice I lost my footing and nearly fell. The road from Richfield to Barkerville was snow-covered, the wagon ruts frozen, the potholes treacherous crevices where deeper snow tugged at my boots. Another gust of wind slapped at my scarf, and once more I tried to adjust it to protect my face. As I wrapped it high on my cheeks, I realized that some of the ice pellets on my skin must have melted. Even my numb fingers could feel the moisture under my eyes.

  Surely these aren't tears? I am sixteen, and a man my age does not cry.

  I walked through silence along the Cariboo Road. Williams Creek, so noisy in summer as it tumbled over its gravel bed, was muted by a layer of ice. Many of the miners' claims that clustered between the creek and the road were deserted now, the cabins dark and empty under their thick caps of snow. Only a few brave miners continued their search for gold through the Cariboo's bitter winter. Most left the gold fields, returning with the robins months later, full of hope that this time their claims would yield pay dirt or even the mother lode. Today, November 3, 1870, I was alone on the road. I walked in silence as thick as the snow, silence that was broken only by the howl of the wind and the occasional crack of a snow-laden branch as it snapped.

  "Murder!"

  The shout ripped through the icy air. I stopped, stilled by fright. But all was quiet again. Perhaps I dream, I thought. Perhaps the nightmares that once plagued me so badly have returned.

  "Murder!" The cry came again.

  I looked behind me up the road. No one was there. The road below was also empty—no human form, no ghost. Nothing.

  Then other voices and a woman's high-pitched scream echoed up from the town. This was no nightmare, I realized. Those were real voices I was hearing, troubled frightened ones. Shaking off the fear that had kept me motionless, I began to run, slowly at first, then faster, past Stout's Gulch, past the entrance to Billy Barker's Never Sweat Claim, and finally into the town itself.

  People filled the street, blocking my way. I stood at the edge of the crowd, wondering what had happened. It was still early, but it seemed as if most of the inhabitants of Chinatown were not only up and about this morning, but were gathered here.

  The throng surged noisily forward. I moved with it, not understanding what was being said. I spoke no Cantonese, and here, in this part of Barkerville, only a few spoke English. But the voices seemed angry, maybe afraid.

  Someone called my name. "Master Ted."

  It was Sing Kee, the herbalist. "There is trouble, Ted. Please come with me."

  "What's happened?" I asked. "What's wrong?"

  He pulled me through the crowd. "Let us pass, please," he said, switching to Cantonese. I recognized my name, "Theodore Macintosh." Then Sing Kee said loudly in English, "Dr. Ted will help."

  I wasn't a doctor. Once I was a doctor's apprentice, but the fire that nearly destroyed Barkerville two years earlier also ended my hope of becoming a physician. Sing Kee knew very well I wasn't a doctor. He also knew his knowledge of medicine was far greater than mine. If someone were hurt, Sing Kee would know what to do. Why was he insisting I could help?

  He must have sensed my confusion, for he leaned close to me and whispered, "A bad thing has happened, Ted, very bad. My
people are upset."

  "But what can I do?"

  "Look around you. There is no other white man here but him, the evil one. You must help."

  "How?"

  "Speak with strength. Try to bring calm."

  We had reached the front of the gathering, and I saw, lying perfectly still on the steps of a restaurant, a Chinese man. His eyes were open and he stared straight ahead. There was blood, much blood. It was on his face, on his clothes, splashed onto the wall behind him. I tried not to look, but couldn't help myself. I turned to Sing Kee. "This man is—"

  "Yes, he is dead. And the man who killed him is white."

  "I don't understand..." I began.

  "Please, Ted, help us. My people trust you. They trust you, but they are angry at the white man who killed Ah Mow. You must stop the trouble before it spreads."

  I didn't really understand, but Sing Kee is my friend. I did what he asked.

  "I have medical knowledge. Let me through," I said with more confidence than I felt. The crowd parted and grew silent.

  Even if Sing Kee hadn't told me the man's name, I would have recognized the still figure. He was Ah Mow, the owner of the restaurant on whose steps he was sprawled. "Allow me to examine him," I said.

  I had only been a doctor's apprentice for a few short months, but even to someone with no medical knowledge, it was obvious that Ah Mow was dead. There was a large wound on his chest from a knife, I thought. I bent over the man and listened for breath. There was none. I felt for the pulse of blood in his throat. There was none.

  Gently I shut the dead man's eyes and stood to face the gathering. "I can do nothing for him."

  "That man, he is the murderer," Sing Kee said. "Many saw." He pointed at a tall white man in the centre of a circle of Chinese.

  "Mr. Tremblay," I said, recognizing the prisoner.

  He grinned at me over the shoulders of those who restrained him. "Bonjour, Monsieur Macintosh."

  "Sir, you are accused of murder," I said. "Is this true?"

  "Murder? Moi? I do not know, Ted. Who cares?" He grunted and doubled over, as if he had been hit in the stomach.

  "Don't harm him," I said quickly to the Chinese men around him, hoping they would listen. "The law will take care of Henri Tremblay. If he's committed this murder, he'll be punished."

  Sing Kee translated my words. A restless wave of sound swept through the group. I thought I heard bitter laughter, but that didn't seem reasonable. What was there to laugh at when I spoke of justice?

  "We must send for the chief constable at once," I said loudly over the noise. "He'll question Mr. Tremblay and any who saw what happened. The law will make sure the truth is discovered. Justice will be done."

  "I have already sent someone to fetch..." began Sing Kee, but Henri Tremblay's guffaw interrupted him.

  "Incredible!" the Frenchman said. "You will send for the law, Monsieur Ted? Pourquoi? Why disturb the chief constable? It was only a Chinaman, a Celestial. What matters the death of one of them?"

  Two

  Ah Mow was only one of many who had died in Barkerville. Death was a frequent visitor to the gold fields where the work was hard, the winters harsh, and diseases sometimes seemed to hover over the town as thickly as the black flies did in the summer heat.

  Death wasn't unusual in my town, but murder was.

  I was glad to see Chief Constable Lindsay when he finally arrived. Although I stayed by the dead man's side, the mob had become unruly. I hadn't been sure how long I could keep the men from seriously injuring Mr. Tremblay. Anger surged around him, and though he laughed and shouted curses, I could see that his bravado was failing, that he was afraid.

  The chief constable dismissed me with thanks and took over the unpleasant job of dealing with Ah Mow's body. So I left to continue the errand that had brought me to town early this November morning.

  Two hours later I was ready to begin my day's work. But before I went to the carpentry shop I walked farther up the road to where Ah Mow had died. I stood for a moment outside his restaurant, staring at the dark stains on the stairs, then began to retrace my steps toward Pa's carpentry shop. Just past the restaurant was a small building known as the Tai Ping Fong, or Peace House. It was here that ill or dying Chinese men were taken. Others in their community tended to them, bringing them food and medicine, staying with them until they recovered or death claimed them.

  Although much of Barkerville had been destroyed in the great fire in September 1868, today no signs of the devastation could be seen. Most of the lower town had been completely rebuilt, and the fire had spared the buildings in the community's upper end. The tiny Tai Ping Fong, like most of the buildings of Chinatown, had survived the blaze.

  There was a young woman in front of the Peace House. Even though I saw only her back, draped in a long green shawl, I recognized her. That was Bridget's shawl.

  She worked at the Hotel de France, and more than a year ago she had been my close companion during a difficult time. It was Bridget who had comforted me, as I her, when together we mourned the death of a friend.

  "Bridget!" I called, "Oh, Bridget, I'm pleased you're here."

  She turned toward me, but it wasn't Bridget.

  Confused, I blurted out, "Excuse me. I thought you were Brid...I thought you were someone else."

  She smiled. "Nae, do not apologize, sir. It was not a glaikit mistake at all."

  "Excuse me?" I said again, this time because I didn't understood what she had said.

  "It is not glaikit, or foolish, at all to mistake me for Bridget. I am her cousin Jenny, newly arrived from Scotland to live in this wild country. Although I have only been here a short while, many have mistaken us for each other, even though I am much younger than my cousin."

  Jenny wore a bonnet, and her hair was tucked under it, but a few unruly blond curls had escaped and lay against her cheeks. Her hair was a soft gold, while Bridget's was brown. Except for the colour of her hair, she looked a lot like a smaller, younger Bridget. But when she spoke she didn't sound at all like Bridget. She had brought Scotland with her in her voice.

  I glanced at her feet. They were encased in thick boots that made them appear clumsy. She followed my eyes. "This country of yours is cold, sir. My cousin lent me a warm shawl and a pair of her boots. They're a mite too large for my feet, but they'll suffice for now. I do fear my clothes are nae so stylish as those I wore at home. I see few stores here that carry fashionable garments for women, though Mr. Moses's barbershop seems to be well stocked with ribbons, lace, and leather gloves."

  "I'm pleased to meet you, Miss Jenny. My name is—" I began. But she carried on as if I hadn't spoken.

  "Have you heard, sir? There was a murder just a few steps up the street this very morning!"

  "Ah...yes, I've heard."

  "This Barkerville is a dreadful town. Why, there was another murder here not so long ago. The murderer was hanged on the evidence of a barber who recognized an oddly shaped gold nugget that had belonged to the dead man."

  "I recall that incident well."

  "The streets of this town seem paved with violence. Well, since they're nae paved at all, just snowy, rutted paths not like the streets of Inverness, which are real streets—"

  "How long have you been here, Miss Jenny?" I asked, trying to change the subject.

  "A mere two days, sir. I was thankful to end the long journey. Would you believe it, a small satchel—a very small satchel—was all I was permitted to take aboard the ship that brought me to this country. How on earth a woman is expected to clothe herself adequately with only the contents of one small suitcase-well, it's very difficult. The boots I had with me were nae suited to this climate, and I lost my good shawl on the boat from Victoria to New Westminster. It was a long, cold stagecoach journey up the Cariboo Road without it, I assure you. Bridget lent me some of her clothes until I can find more suitable attire."

  For some reason I felt myself blushing. "F-forgive me," I stammered. "You have much the same manners—and looks
— as Bridget, though now that I see your face there is...I mean, I know Bridget well...I mean, she's a friend...I mean, she was a good friend of a friend of mine...I mean..." What was wrong with my tongue? I wondered. It wouldn't behave, and the words it struggled with made little sense. But Jenny seemed not to have noticed.

  "Mistaking me for Bridget is easily done, sir," she said, smiling. "Don't be distressed by your error. Indeed, I'm pleased that so many in this town know my cousin. I hope I, too, will find friends here." The smile changed her face, making her resemblance to Bridget no longer so striking.

  I finally found my tongue. "Welcome to the gold fields, Miss Jenny. I'm a friend of Bridget's and—"

  "You've been crying. Is all well with you?"

  "Crying? Me. No, not at all. It's the wind."

  She stared at me silently.

  "The wind, yes, it's only the wind that's made my eyes water," I repeated.

  "Oh, the wind, was it? I see." She looked as if she didn't believe me, but then she turned again to gaze at the small building in front of her. "Perhaps you can tell me, sir. This wee building—is it the one the Chinese people call the Peace House?"

  "Yes," I said, relieved she had changed the subject. "Tai Ping Fong is the Chinese name."

  Her nose wrinkled, and she looked puzzled. Hers was a very small nose, slightly turned up at the end. "To be sure this place is so ordinary that I'm disappointed. I would have thought it would be bigger and more grand." She wrapped herself tighter in the thick woollen shawl and shuddered. "Who would believe that such a dreadful thing happened here?"

  "Pardon?"

  "My cousin wrote to me of it. She told me that a young boy, scarcely older than I, kept vigil here with a dying man. Bridget says this boy nearly lost his own life here. It was a miracle that he was rescued from the deadly fumes of the great fire. My cousin believes it was the ghost of the hanged man who saved the lad."

  Ghost? I did not want to speak of ghosts. I took a breath, wondering how I should answer. But I didn't have to say anything, because Jenny went right on talking.