Tuesday, January 14, 2025
Mr. Wong Rights a Wrong, scene 2
Welcome, I’m Mary Louisa Locke, the author of the USA Today best-selling Victorian San Francisco Mystery series and the Caelestis Science Fiction series. In this daily newsletter, I reflect on my life as an indie author trying to age gracefully. Occasionally, I will also publish some of my shorter fiction in this newsletter to read for free.
Daily Diary, Day 1595:
Below is the second scene of the short story Mr. Wong Rights a Wrong, which I am putting in this newsletter for free, every Tuesday and Thursday. However, if you want to read my earlier post on why I wrote this story, go HERE.
But first, a brief check-in: Can’t say much has changed on the health front. I did go and get a blood test yesterday, which, as I rather expected, showed above normal white blood count, and tomorrow I have my appointment with my primary care doctor to assess whether I need to continue the anti-biotic, which ends today. But, with all this free time I’ve had, I am pleased to report that the plotting part of getting ready to write is moving along splendidly.
Mr. Wong Rights a Wrong: A Victorian San Francisco Story
by M. Louisa Locke
Copyright 2014
Scene 2
The woman who met Annie at the door introduced herself as Evelyn, the daughter of Reverend and Mrs. Greenstock, and a teacher with the Female Refuge. She judged Miss Greenstock was in her early twenties, and she envied how well the young woman’s gray and burgundy plaid polonaise and black, pleated underskirt complemented her dark gray eyes and pale complexion.
Shaking Annie’s hand firmly, Miss Greenstock asked if she would like to be shown around the rest of the Mission before going upstairs. “Mother thought it might help you get a feel for the entire building and see how the Female Refuge fits into the Mission as a whole,” she said, taking a key and opening up a door that led into a corridor. “The Stone Street entrance and stairs go only to the Female Refuge; it is our way of limiting access and protecting the women.” She led Annie down a hallway and then into a long bench-filled room she called the chapel that took up the whole width of the first floor.
At the far end, a lectern and an old upright piano sat under a large plain wooden cross, which was affixed to the wall between a pair of windows. There were two older Chinese men sitting side-by-side; one was reading softly out loud from a large Bible, while the other listened intently, his eyes following the text. When they noticed they weren’t alone, the two men stood up and bowed gravely to Evelyn and Annie.
Evelyn Greenstock bowed more deeply in return. Turning to Annie, she pointed out two sets of wooden folding doors, saying, “We have just concluded morning service, and most of our members have gone on to their jobs. The rooms will be converted to three classrooms in the evening when our evening school is held.”
Annie, who had recently spent some time teaching at Girls’ High, noted the blackboards on one wall with the lists of basic spelling words written on one of them.
“How many pupils do you have attending?” she asked, thinking how difficult it would be to sit on the hard wooden benches. Particularly difficult if you held the kind of jobs that most of the Chinese held. In San Francisco most men were forced to work in shoe-making factories, roll cigars in dingy basement shops, or cook in over-heated kitchens as domestic servants––a job she had personally held for a brief time.
“It depends,” the younger woman replied. “English classes fill up first, and we notice that in certain months when some more seasonal jobs disappear––the classes expand. We do have a few men who have been coming ever since the Mission opened up ten years ago, and they have graduated to more advanced subjects. Three of our former students are now permanently on the staff. Chan Ho Fan over there is one of them; he helps lead our bible studies in Chinese.”
As they left the room and walked further down the corridor to another set of stairs opposite the main Washington Street entrance, she said, “Downstairs is where there are rooms to let. It is a source of income for the Mission and a safe, cheap place for members of my father’s congregation to live. Let’s go on up to the second floor, where the young women from the Refuge have their classes during the day. They are currently on the top residence floor, finishing breakfast, but they should be coming down soon.”
When they reached the second floor, she pointed to a closed door with a conventional doorknocker. “That is the entrance to the parsonage. One third of this floor is our family’s living quarters––my home for the past ten years. The rest of the floor is devoted to another two classrooms.” Unlocking a second door and ushering Annie into another room, she continued. “At night they are turned over to the men who attend the evening school.”
“I see that these two rooms can be opened up into one, as well,” said Annie, nodding towards the single set of folding doors that were only partially closed. She admired how cleverly this building had been planned. The room they were standing in had regular desks and on the shelves built under each window sat books and simple block toys. Scarlet banners with Chinese characters embroidered in gold thread hung on the walls. She glimpsed a standing globe, more desks, and bookshelves in the adjoining room. Light streamed in from the sun that had now breached Telegraph Hill, bathing the rooms in a soft glow.
“Yes, my parents worked closely with the architect to ensure that everything was as functional as possible. We tend to keep the folding doors closed during the day to divide the youngest girls from the older women.”
Thinking she’d heard a change in Miss Greenstock’s tone when she spoke of dividing the girls, Annie said, “What is the average age of the females you take in? I had thought that this was primarily a refuge for older girls, women even, who had been rescued from....” She stopped, not sure what term the daughter of a minister would find acceptable.
“From their life of sin, as some of the good women of the Women’s Missionary Society put it. As if the girls who are imprisoned in the brothels and cribs that line the alleys of China Town chose that life, anymore than the slaves in the South chose theirs.” Evelyn Greenstock closed her lips tightly and frowned.
“I understand that many of the women who come to California from China are trapped into virtual slavery,” Annie said quietly, hoping to encourage the young woman to continue.
“Yes, yes. The Page Act makes it very difficult for Chinese women to legally enter the U.S. However, the criminal elements in the city bribe port officials to look the other way when they bring in women.” Miss Greenstock pursed her lips again, her gray eyes flashing. “These girls come from the poorest families in southern China, many hoping to escape starvation and find a husband. When they get here, if they aren’t sold into brothels or turned into concubines for wealthy merchants, they become ‘mui tsai,’ indentured servants working without wages for those who imported them.”
Annie shook her head sympathetically and asked, “How many women or girls are currently in the Refuge?”
“We have fifteen staying with us full time, for now. Most are under the age of sixteen, and one is in her early twenties, but she looks much older than that. She is a ‘mui tsai’ who was brutally beaten by her master and rescued by one of the police who are supportive of our cause. We have two women in their late twenties who are so broken down that the men who owned them threw them out onto the street rather than continue to provide them with even the basic necessities. Most Chinese prostitutes don’t even live that long.”
Annie watched as Evelyn wandered over to one of the desks and picked up an embroidery frame that held a cloth filled with exquisite stitching. Her expression had now shifted from anger to sorrow.
“I find the youngest girls––eleven or twelve––the most heart-breaking.” She then sighed. “Even if they have only been ‘mui tsai’...well, the horrors they have seen in just a few short years. They possess this awful combination of childish ignorance and shrewd cynicism.”
Evelyn Greenstock put down the embroidery frame and said more matter-of-factly, “A number of the younger girls are brought to us by Chinese men who helped them escape either from a brothel or an abusive master, or they have purchased them at auction, which often occurs when a girl has been brought over by a ship captain. They want our help in keeping the girls safe while they establish the legal authority to marry them. Meanwhile, we teach them to read and write English, write Chinese, do basic math, introduce them to housekeeping and cooking skills and sewing.”
“My goodness,” Annie blurted out. “You make it sound like the Refuge is some sort of finishing school for marriageable young women. You said these were the younger girls?”
“Between eleven and fifteen. Girls who haven’t yet lost their beauty or health,” the younger woman replied. “I know, I was appalled when we first started getting these requests. But my parents explained that in China the traditional method of counting a child’s age is to say they are one year old the day they are born and that they turn two during the Chinese New Year festival. As a result, a girl of twelve or thirteen might be considered fourteen or fifteen to the men who want to marry them, which is seen by them as a perfectly respectable age for marriage.”
Annie was speechless. She hadn’t been mature enough for marriage at eighteen––no doubt one of the reasons her marriage to John had been so disastrous a failure––so she couldn’t conceive of marriage at age twelve.
Evelyn Greenstock shrugged. “We do try to delay the marriages by making the men promise to let the girls stay in the Refuge at least a year, and we require them to pay the sixty dollars for their upkeep for that year up front. The Mission’s lawyer has written an affidavit that they then sign when the girls leave that swears they will not turn around and sell the girls or put them in houses of prostitution. You can be sure we try to keep track of them after they leave us. We also encourage the men to keep the girls with us longer than a year if they are very young, but the girls themselves are often eager to get married. Since California law puts the ‘age of consent’ at ten, there isn’t much we can do legally if the couple is determined. That is one of the reasons we have such difficulty fighting the brothel owners in court. We can’t prove they have done something illegal––unless the girls are willing to testify––which few will do. Needless to say, we are trying to get the law changed, but that takes money....”
“Which is where my services come in,” stated Annie.
“Yes, if you can find a way to improve our balance sheet, that would be a help. But...”
A series of piercing screams from above their heads interrupted Evelyn, and she distractedly said, “Oh dear, I... let me just see...” before rushing out of the room.
Annie followed her out the door and down the corridor to where Miss Greenstock was hurriedly unlocking the door to the stairs that led to the upper attic. Annie ran to catch the door before it closed and went quickly up behind the young woman. The screams got louder as they rose. Annie halted when she got to the top of the stairs, waiting for Miss Greenstock to unlock and thrust open another door.
When Annie went through that door, she had the oddest impression she had stumbled on a small garden of peonies, all fluttering in the wind. What she was seeing was a group of Chinese women of all ages, their round pale faces punctuated with dark worried eyebrows and small oval mouths opened in silent alarm, their hands peeking out of the bell-shaped sleeves of their black tunics and waving in distress. In their center stood two western-clothed women hovering around a tiny girl who was dressed in brilliant red, green, and gold, from whom those blood-curdling screams emanated.
…to be continued.
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A really scary situation!