Gold Mountain (5 page)

“Ruth! What have you been telling people? I’m no heroine!” She clearly heard the horror in my tone but refused to be cowed.

“That’s not what Father’s letter said, or the German ambassador’s poor wife, who told a local newspaper how brave and kind you were to her when her husband was murdered, or the wounded soldiers, who recounted how you nursed them through their injuries. It’s noble of you to be so modest, Dinah, but I want people to know about my brave sister.”

I sat speechless. I knew that I was as far from brave as it was possible to be, that actions arising from restless, self-centered impatience and anger bore only a superficial similarity to courage. I also knew in my heart of hearts that the times I acted fearlessly had occurred because I was simply too foolish and pig-headed to realize I should have been scared witless. I recalled a few of those times with shame and remembered many more instances of terrified, whimpering immobility. Heroes were the men on the walls of the compound, men that expected death from a sniper’s bullet any moment yet rose to their shift and did their duty without complaint. Mae Tao’s mother was a true heroine, creeping through a dangerous city to find food to cook for us and then returning to the compound’s kitchen with an apology for the simplicity of the fare. My bad temper should never, never be compared to such legitimate bravery.

“Anyway,” Ruth hurried on with her explanation to Martin, ignoring the look on my face, “Mrs. Gallagher expressed an interest in meeting Dinah, so I’m sure she shared our conversation with her husband and that’s why he invited Dinah specifically.” To me, she added, “In previous years, the papers have described the cotillion with a string of glamorous adjectives, and I’ve never seen the Grand Ballroom of the Palace Hotel so I can hardly wait to get inside and absorb its magnificence for myself. Anyone who’s anyone from San Francisco society attends—the Floods and the Crockers and the Calhouns—just everyone and now we are to be guests, too! It’s the invitation of a lifetime! Martin, you’ve made your wife a very happy woman! Thank you thank you thank you!”

She hopped up from her chair to give her husband a quick kiss on the cheek and I saw how pleased he was that Ruth was pleased. The look of devotion I caught on his face made me consider the occasion—and Martin, for that matter—more charitably. I hadn’t the heart to dim the happy glow on my sister’s face, although privately I told myself I would immediately set anybody straight who tried to give me hero status, Gallaghers, Floods, Crockers, and Calhouns included.

In an inexplicable and totally unexpected way, I settled into life in San Francisco as if I’d been born there. Something about the city spoke to me: the extraordinary beauty of the surrounding waters, the early morning fog that enveloped the city in mystery until burned off by the sun, the challenging hills, the contagious energy that seemed to run through the city’s business district like an electrical current. Sometimes Ruth and I toured the city together, enjoying all its progressive grandeur, admiring the Ferry Building with its four great clock faces and the gorgeous façade of the Palace Hotel, the largest hotel in the world.

At other times, when Ruth was too indisposed to accompany me, I thought nothing of cheerfully going off on my own, and Martin, despite his finely developed sense of propriety, saw no problem with my doing so. In those days, San Francisco held the allure of a lover and somehow Martin, even more than Ruth, understood the city’s appeal.

I was thrilled by Golden Gate Park and spent hours there enjoying the delightful children’s playground, the Conservatory with its splendid glass dome and landscaped flower beds, the new de Young Museum, and wandering the acres of the Japanese Tea Garden.

Every morning I rose anticipating a new adventure and was never disappointed. Days passed and—to my shame, my everlasting shame—the memory of little Mae Tao, fresh off the number two Pandora steamer and turning plaintively to look at me over her shoulder as she was led away, grew fainter and fainter. The more I settled into life with Ruth and Martin and the more time I spent discovering the spectacle that was San Francisco in 1901, the more my original concern for the young Chinese girl faded.

To this day, I make no excuse for my self-absorbed conduct. I carry the memory as a burden of conscience, one of many. I always will. And who knows how my life would have been different, how my story would have progressed—or whether there would have been a story at all—if I hadn’t felt duty-bound to accompany my sister to a meeting of The Presbyterian Woman’s Occidental Board of Foreign Missions?

When Ruth first told me that the ladies wanted to meet me, I gave her a searching look before asking suspiciously, “You haven’t painted me in heroic colors, have you, Ruth? They understand I’m just an ordinary flesh-and-blood woman, I hope.”

“They understand that you are my sister and Dr. Hudson’s daughter. No more and no less.”

“I won’t have to give a speech or anything, will I?” I persisted. “I really have no gift for extemporaneous speaking, and I have no words prepared or practiced.”

“You will have to be pleasant,” Ruth answered, a rare touch of asperity in her voice, “and I imagine forcing yourself to be so will take all the preparation and practice time you have to spare. I assure you no one will ask for anything more.”

My sister’s surprisingly censorious response made me feel, however fleetingly, ashamed of my lack of evangelical fervor. In some totally unanticipated way it was as if my first weeks in San Francisco had scoured my mind clean of the recollection of that eight-week siege of Pekin. The vivid sights, sounds, and smells of last year’s summer had faded, and bad dreams rarely surfaced; Johanna’s face was distant and my father’s voice almost stilled. I felt as if I had been reborn into the exciting energy of San Francisco and reveled in the freedom from memory.

Thinking about Ruth’s words and tone later that day, I realized I’d allowed—willed?—the memory of Mae Tao’s last, beseeching look to dim against the brilliance of San Francisco and a multitude of self-serving sensations and interests. With the wincing sensitivity of conscience, I knew that much of my resistance to accompanying Ruth to the meeting of the Board of Foreign Missions had to do with my reluctance to be once more caught up in a cause of good works. I understood on a purely intuitive level that attending the meeting had the potential to change my current priorities and I resisted any change to my activities. I liked starting the day with only my own entertainment in mind. I enjoyed planning my pleasures without a by-your-leave to anyone, Martin off to his job right after breakfast and my sister often sequestered and indisposed, apologizing for her lack of involvement in my visit because of the physical symptoms of her pregnancy. Ruth didn’t realize how being left on my own invigorated me. For most of my life I had been my father’s encouragement, my siblings’ support, and for the young Chinese girls of our mission school an example of the correct mix of female virtues to which they should aspire. I had been stoic in danger, cheerful under the threat of imminent death, and brave for the sake of those around me, including Johanna. I had done all that and been all that with little effort and less thought. Such conduct was bred into me and I would have been more likely to walk naked through the streets of Pekin than fail in the duties and responsibilities for which I had been trained all my life.

My emotions in the early weeks of my California visit, especially feeling freed from a lifelong responsibility for other people, went straight to my head. Knowing no burden but my own entertainment was as intoxicating as alcohol. But, of course, such self-indulgence could not, should not last. It’s true that I bloomed late, but inevitably the bud opened completely and the blossoming was finished. Whether I liked it or not, each of my parents came from a long line of reformers and the converged bloodlines must ultimately bleed through. In my case, sooner rather than later. The first time I heard Miss Donaldina Cameron speak— in fact, at that very moment—I rediscovered the Dinah Hudson I had tried to leave behind in China, and from that day forward I never sought to be anyone else. Some things were just meant to be.

When Miss Cameron rose to address the group of assembled church women later that week, I settled respectfully into my chair and cast a surreptitious glance at the grandfather clock in the corner, never expecting that what I was about to hear would change the course of my life forever. She was an attractive woman in her early thirties and except for the traditional Chinese
sahn
of blue silk that she wore looked exactly the part of a respectable Presbyterian woman, displaying nothing of the reformer about her. Her presence was a welcome addition to the afternoon: brown eyes alight with intelligence, thick bronze hair already showing silver, and a direct way of speaking that I heard with relief. At least this final presentation of the afternoon, I thought with the self-absorption that had engulfed me over the past few weeks, would not be numbingly boring and then realized from Miss Cameron’s first words that I would have to rework my opinion of this woman completely and immediately. The words
boring
and
Miss Cameron
could, should never be used in the same sentence.

The entire audience sat spellbound by the story she recounted: of a note from a desperate young Chinese girl slipped into her hand, of an afternoon foray into a narrow alley in one of Chinatown’s most dissolute areas, of a policeman breaking through the door with an ax and the subsequent wild chase through low hallways until, from behind a stack of wooden boxes, a child’s white hand appeared waving desperately for attention as her captors disappeared into subterranean tunnels that honeycombed the entire Chinese region of the city.

“Ten years old,” Miss Cameron stated firmly, “and destined for a life of prostitution. Shipped to our shores specifically for slavery and because of it marked for an early death from illness and abuse.”

We were all sitting upright by then, my casual slouch having disappeared two minutes into the tale. How could I have labeled this woman as a typical do-gooder, holding church membership because it was expected of her, because her mother had done so and her mother before her? This Donaldina Cameron cared about people, about the lives and the futures of the girls of whom she spoke. The vehemence in her voice, the unflinching details of her story, the way she spoke of things that were usually relegated to whispers and shadows displayed an extraordinary woman. I knew from that moment that she would have a role in my life and the sudden burst of energy I felt at the prospect had nothing to do with streetcars and skyscrapers and everything to do with the passion of a cause. My parents’ daughter, after all.

When Miss Cameron finished her talk—concluding with a plea for financial assistance for the Mission Home for Oriental girls, which she called “920” because it was located at 920 Sacramento Street—the room remained strangely still. Then, her hearers once more back in the present, a quiet wave of applause spread throughout the audience. Nothing as grand or enthusiastic as she deserved, I thought indignantly and rose with haste, ignoring Ruth’s hand on my arm, to shoulder my way to the place where Miss Cameron stood.

“Thank you.” I spoke without introduction or preamble. “Thank you for what you do. I can see that it is honorable work and I want to help,” sharing my admiration in the sing-song cadences of fluent Mandarin.

At my words, Miss Cameron turned to face me, giving me her full attention for several seconds before she spoke. “Miss Hudson, isn’t it? How do you do? I arrived at the very end of your introduction to the group and heard only your name, but I can tell from your excellent intonation that you have spent a great deal of time in China. Unfortunately, I am completely lacking in musical talents so no matter how I try, I cannot master any of the Chinese dialects. We must converse in English, I’m afraid.” Her voice possessed a slight Scotch burr—
cannot
become
canna
and the g almost absent from the word
lacking—
that possessed a music all its own.

I understood her comment about speaking Chinese. Because I possessed musical talent, learning the language had been much easier for me than my brother, who couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket. Our Chinese friends were always too kind to do anything but wince at David’s attempt at speaking their native tongue. He couldn’t help but notice their pained reaction to his attempts at conversation, but he accepted my superior language skills with good grace and humor. In fact, I had often heard the same wry, self-deprecating tone in my brother’s voice that I heard in Donaldina Cameron’s, which made me like her even more. I smiled and repeated my words in English.

“Honorable,” she repeated, giving the word deliberate thought. “Yes, the work at 920 is honorable but I seldom think of it in philosophical terms because what we do is so necessary, so urgent and immediate that I haven’t time for abstract reflection. Miss Hudson, even with my superficial understanding of Chinese, I can tell you speak the language very, very well. What are you doing for the next several weeks?” Her abrupt change of tone and her question caught me by surprise.

“I’m visiting my sister, Ruth Shandling, until her first child is born, and I have nothing planned except to be available if she needs me.” I recalled all the mornings I had without conscience left my wan and ill sister behind at home as I explored San Francisco. My words to Miss Cameron possessed more good intentions than truth. “Why? Is there some service I can provide for you? I’d be honored to help you in any way I can.”