The Yellow Papers (6 page)

From the small leather case he removed the shirt, knee length underwear and spare celluloid collar that were the only items of clothing, and placed them on his desk. He picked up one of two notebooks and flipped through the pages, surprised. He hadn't expected to find such a thing in a stowaway's case. Perhaps they were stolen. The handwritten text and delicate plant illustrations suggested the work of a learned man – a botanist, maybe? But why would a Chinaman steal such a thing?

He next took a small box from the case and opened its lid. From within folds of red silk he pulled out a small apple-green jade carving in the shape of a plant. Wainwright couldn't identify its use, nor the plant, but he recognised its beauty. Perhaps this was the real treasure – the reason for the theft of this case. He laid the jade carving back in its box, convinced now that he knew the reason behind the stowaway's flight, and picked up the last item in the case – a book in red leather binding with gold leaf lettering.

The captain ran his fingers over the embossed design and lettering on the cover:
The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, by Mark Twain
. He opened to the first page. Again the title and the name, then in brackets
(Samuel Langhorne Clemens)
. He turned to the next page. Directly under a dedication, handwritten in an elegant script:
To Chen Mu, in friendship
. Signed S.L. Clemens. Wainwright frowned. Was the stowaway this Chen Mu? If so, then he wasn't the sort of Chinaman the captain was used to. Perhaps he'd be wise to find out more, before handing him over to the authorities. He summoned the ship's doctor and instructed him to examine the man.

The doctor reported that the stowaway would survive. He was badly bruised and weak, but he was able to eat and his broken nose was healing, as was the wound on his hand. His ribcage was very bruised, but nothing was broken.

‘But did you speak to him?'

The doctor nodded.

‘And?'

‘He's reluctant to talk, but he speaks English well and sounds like an educated man. And I doubt he's ever done much physical work – his hands aren't calloused and his skin's not sunburnt.'

‘Could these be his?' Wainwright handed over the notebooks.

The doctor turned the pages of one, reading a little from one page, then another. He put it down and read sections of the other notebook.

‘I think so. I doubt all this plant information is the result of his own research – he's probably copied it from a text. But he's added comments. Here in English … and here, look. And here, in Chinese …'

‘Did you find out his name? Where he's from?'

‘Not where he came from. But his name's Chen Mu.'

Wainwright dismissed the doctor and picked up the copy of
Tom Sawyer
. He was intrigued – he'd never come across an educated Chinese. Those he knew were the coolies who worked on the waterfront or below deck, shovelling coal into the ever-hungry furnaces of his ship. These men understood little English, or pretended not to. To him, they were little more than beasts of burden – thieves and ingrates. Maybe he could use this Chen Mu, who apparently associated with the likes of Mark Twain, as a go-between with the Chinese crew. He would return his case, then offer him the opportunity to work for his passage – at least until he found out more about the man.

They had been at sea for just over eight weeks. Wainwright had put Chen Mu to work the galley and cleaning the passengers' cabins, as well as generally helping wherever help was required. This had irked Chen Mu, who considered it women's work, but the doctor had called him lucky, explaining he could have been sent to shovel coal into the furnaces instead, each and every day – work that could have killed him. Now that he'd regained his strength, Chen Mu wished he'd taken his chance with the furnaces. He felt he had energy to burn and he wasn't afraid of hard work.

He could see the coast of Australia to starboard and the Barrier Reef to port. The ship moved so slowly through these reefs that Chen Mu felt he'd probably get to land quicker by jumping over the side and swimming. He knew nothing of Australia, but it was as far from Carolina as he could get, and that was all that mattered. He yearned to be back on land.

When first released from his cell, Chen Mu had tried to get to know the other Chinese on board, craving companionship and hoping to learn about this new country, but these men were always exhausted, and suspicious of his educated speech and manners. They'd barely acknowledged his presence, and rather than being ignored Chen Mu had left his bunk that was no larger than a coffin, and its cockroach-infested mattress, and gone to sleep on deck. He thought it ironic that these nine years of Western education, years that were meant to elevate him from peasant to mandarin, had in fact resulted in him being a fugitive – a murderer. So when Wainwright questioned him about his past he'd answered in monosyllables, not trusting the captain – he expected to see the police waiting for him at every port. Chen Mu knew he'd developed a reputation on this ship as being brooding and uncommunicative, but so be it. It was safer this way.

And now he'd made it to the other side of the world. So many journeys! From his village to Shanghai. Then Shanghai to Connecticut, Connecticut to Carolina, Carolina to Australia. He wondered what his mother would have thought of all this travelling, had she still been alive.

The ship sailed into Cooktown Harbour and dropped anchor. An offshore breeze blew heavy with the sickly, pungent odour of molasses. The captain ordered the ship's gun fired, signalling for smaller boats to come from shore to unload cargo and take anyone going ashore. Their next stop would be Townsville, and then the ship would begin its return journey.

Chen Mu looked at the trees and hills in the distance, and the feeling of panic he'd only just managed to contain during their slow navigation through the reefs grew stronger by the minute. He didn't want to sail on to Townsville – he couldn't shake the feeling that danger awaited him there. What was there to stop the captain using his free labour for the whole journey, then at the end of the journey sent word ahead that he had a stowaway? The police could be waiting to arrest him as soon as they docked. He watched the small boats reach the steamer and make fast, the crew begin to unload cargo. He came to a decision.

From his case he removed his copy of
Tom Sawyer
and pushed it down the front of his trousers. He opened the box with the jade brush-rest and laid the carving on the palm of his hand; it still was the most beautiful thing he had ever owned. He ran his finger along the sculpted edge of the leaf and remembered the words of the old schoolmaster:
Remember, Chen Mu. Without being worked, jade cannot be shaped into a vessel; without being educated, people cannot be shaped into virtuous citizens
. With a wry smile he tucked the brush-rest back in its box and put it down the front of his shirt. He would have liked to take his notebooks as well, but they were already becoming mouldy from the damp air. He checked his pocket for his wallet. He didn't need anything else.

He heaved a bag of shell intended for the mainland onto his back, pulling it forward to hide his face, and climbed down the Jacob's ladder to one of the waiting boats, already almost full. Stacking the sack onto the others already there, he sat down beside them as he'd seen others do who would go onshore to help unload. The boat disengaged itself from the steamer and headed for shore.

6

‘Barmy, the lot of them! They'll all be dead by the time they're forty.'

Chen Mu fished a fly out of his mug of tea and watched the bullock driver stir the stew simmering on the campfire. He'd been travelling for weeks, mostly on foot, stopping at a town or property for never more than a day or so, when casual work was available. He didn't know where he was going – only aware that he had to get as far from Queensland as possible, to a place where he'd feel safe. He'd crossed into the colony of New South Wales some time back and had just kept heading south. Then, this evening, he'd come upon a bullocky setting up camp, and the man had offered to share a cup of tea and a meal.

‘It's the lead, you know, gets in the dust. Saw it in the old country. My father was a miner, back in Cornwall. Then he got that blue line, on his gums like, and he knew he was a dead man. Killed him in no time, it did …'

But Chen Mu didn't want to know about the lead. He wanted to know about the silver that the bullocky told him had been discovered recently on the other side of the Barrier Ranges. Silver that could make a man rich.

‘I'll get work in the mines,' he said, staring into the campfire.

‘Nah lad, you can't and that's a fact.'

‘Why not?'

‘On account of you being a Chinaman and all, you see. Gov'ment won't let you.' He quickly dipped a finger into the pot on the fire. ‘Here, that's hot enough. Pass us that bowl.'

The bullocky piled a ladleful of chunky mutton stew into the metal bowl that was his only dish, in which he'd previously mixed flour and water to make a damper. He pulled a spoon and a fork out of his kit, wiped them on the leg of his trousers and handed Chen Mu the spoon.

‘There's been trouble with you lot in the goldfields, you see. So they passed a law – said you
could
work if you got permission from the mines minister, but he ain't about to let you, now is he? Not if he wants to keep in good with the miners and the Trade Union he won't.' He held the bowl between them and took a forkful. ‘Well come on lad, eat up.' He chewed his mutton, nodding, then pointed his fork at Chen Mu. ‘Now if you really want to work, old Yu Ping can probably do with some help.'

‘Who's he?'

‘One of you lot. Mad as a hatter, they say.' He broke off a piece of the damper cooling on the log between them, and passed the rest to Chen Mu. Dunked his piece in the stew and ate in silence, then continued talking as if there had been no break in the conversation. ‘But he's all right, Yu Ping. Reckons he can grow vegetables out there, in the rocks and the sand. Reckons he'll get richer selling that to the miners than the miners will with all their silver.'

‘Will he?'

‘Dunno. They all think he's barmy. But you know, I reckon he will. I reckon old Yu Ping knows what he's doing.' He put his fork back in the bowl, pulled out his tobacco pouch and rolled a cigarette that he lit from the end of a stick from the fire. When he finished his smoke he kicked dirt over the campfire to smother it, and went to check his cattle.

Chen Mu sat up long into the night, thinking. For the first time in a long while, here in the middle of the bush, listening to the sounds of night creatures and looking up through the silhouettes of trees to a sky so filled with stars, he felt something resembling peace. Not true peace, like when he was a very little boy, safe in the belief that his mother would always be there. Nor the kind of peace he'd experienced in Hartford, visiting the Clemens, surrounded by books and plants and people who were interested in his thoughts and ideas. No, he didn't think he'd ever have that kind of peace again, but for a moment – just a fleeting moment – he could simply
be
, and feel a brief instant of calm.