In the Shadow of the Cypress (7 page)

Serious land speculation thrives now that Pacific Grove and Monterey have achieved a notable status as popular visitor’s destinations. With the peninsula presently serviced by two scheduled railroads, the number of visitors to places like the splendid Hotel del Monte or the El Carmelo Hotel or Chautauqua-by-the-Sea, increases every year. Even Pacific Grove, as small as it is, can boast a fine little depot of its own. In fact, profits and prosperity are increasing in most all areas of endeavor, and for all classes of our population, except one, the Chinese. I have noted that they seem to function on an arcane monetary philosophy that is incomprehensible to westerners. The Chinese receive less compensation for their labors than anybody else, but they also prudently subsist on far less than most people could imagine. Therefore, they realize profit and, to a greater or lesser degree, even property and prosperity.

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T
HE
C
HINESE FISHING VILLAGE AT
China Point had been in existence for over fifty years, and its profitability had been such that, in all those years, not once had the village ever been in default or arrears on its lease payments to the Pacific Improvement Company, which owns the land. For that matter, the Chinese are acknowledged for their prompt attention to debts of any kind. They are just as insistent that others do the same.

The village corporation is managed by what the Chinese refer to as a tong. I don’t know about other Chinese enclaves, but in Pacific Grove the village tong is more like a mayoral arrangement: the tong supervises all the village’s business and maintains social order within the community. In effect, it is judge and jury in all matters of local importance. I’m well aware that in places like San Francisco, Seattle, and other large ports, some tongs are little more than organs of criminal extortion backed by threats of violence, but that wasn’t really the case at China Point. There, the local tong was, for the most part, a righteous set of old gentlemen who genuinely cared for the well-being of their constituents and conducted village business on their behalf.

I am convinced that the underlying conflict was basically aesthetic in nature, though racial considerations certainly buttressed the fundamental discord on both sides. And no one in their right mind would ever claim that the coastal Chinese fishing villages were pleasant to the eye. Their fragile shanties were slapdab affairs made from anything at hand, and looked as though they had been washed ashore by some terrific storm. And this is not far from the truth, since driftwood supplied a good portion of the construction material used. Many of the buildings are precariously perched on the coastal boulders, with
the odd piling driven here and there to hold things in place during a heavy blow. The wobbly, rope-lashed appearance of China Point, for instance, may have been quaint to the visitor’s eye from a distance. But for the local white population, it was an eyesore and, in some important instances, far worse.

In all fairness it must be said that when the Chinese dried their abundant catches of squid, which they laid out on every conceivable flat surface in the village, the odorous stench could become quite overpowering. If the wind was hauling from the right direction, the reeking odor could bring up the gall of an individual living at the top of Forest Avenue. For some reason the smell never seemed to bother the Chinese, leading some locals to speculate that the Chinese had no olfactory sensibilities whatsoever.

In short, I believe this conflict between the land agents and the Chinese came about as a result of the confluence of all these elements in an environment of rising property values and much increased revenue brought in by visitors who came to enjoy the pristine beauty of the Monterey Peninsula. As far as the Pacific Improvement Company was concerned, lease or no lease, China Point, with its accompanying perfume, was anything but a jewel in the crown of civic pride, and naturally the company sought any legal means to reclaim the land.

The Chinese, however, would not be bullied. They held a well-drafted, ironclad ninety-nine-year lease, and were not about to relinquish it without very substantial compensations, which the PIC could ill afford after the added damage expenses brought on by the earthquake. Even with the tacit backing of the railroad, which held a strong vested interest in the increased tourist trade, little or no legal progress could be made on the matter.

It was soon after the earthquake that the commandant of
the Presidio sent a company of the First Squadron of the Ninth Cavalry down to their old tent camp and parade ground adjacent to China Point. They were sent at the request of Sheriff Robert Nesbitt to help keep order and prevent looting after the quake. These hearty buffalo soldiers had recently served with distinction in the Philippines, and they presented a formidable and reassuring presence. This move also served the Army commandant’s purposes, as his troopers’ new barracks at the Presidio had also sustained damage. Thus he needed to bivouac some of his men until proper repairs could be completed.

A short while later I made the acquaintance of the dashing young cavalry officer in charge of these soldiers. His name was Captain Charles Young, and a more intelligent and perspicacious officer would be hard to find. To tell the truth, I was somewhat surprised by the extent of this officer’s education until I discovered that he had graduated fifth in his class at West Point. Indeed, he was only the third black cadet to matriculate with honors from the Army academy, and had shown special aptitude in engineering and the sciences. Since his men were encamped close by, Captain Young often came by the laboratory to pay his respects. He displayed knowledgeable interest in our work, and was in the habit of asking the most intelligent and interesting questions. As fate would have it, Captain Young and I would become involved on the periphery of a local tragedy.

O
N THE EVENING OF
M
AY
16 I enjoyed a very pleasant dinner with Dr. Trimmer and his wife. It was during after-dinner coffee that Rhoda Trimmer drew our attention to a strange glow to the west. Soon afterward the sound of fire bells was heard.
Concerned with the safety of the laboratory, I took my leave and went off with Dr. Trimmer to see what was happening, and to lend our services to any who might be in need. When we drew close, we discovered that the Chinese fishing village at China Point was fully engulfed in flames and smoke. Due to the steady winds and the poor building materials employed by the Chinese, the furious conflagration traveled unimpeded across the length of the village in less than fifteen minutes. The presence of our intrepid volunteer fire company meant little to the sad outcome of the disaster, as there was no adequate water source to feed the pump wagon aside from the bay. However, there wasn’t enough fire hose to reach that far, and even if there had been, the pump wagon didn’t possess the power to lift the water that high. As a result, there was little chance of extinguishing the flames, and so everybody just stopped and watched the village burn to the ground.

Captain Young sent his men to help the fire company, but it was obvious to everyone that the fire had grown out of all proportion to the abilities of even the bravest bucket brigade. The sole grace to the whole tragedy was the fact that, though they were now homeless, no Chinese had lost their lives or been injured. Realizing that the survivors must be sheltered from the elements, Captain Young ordered his sergeant major to gather up as many campaign tents as he could find from the Presidio’s storehouse, and to erect them on the parade field adjacent to his own encampment. He also made sure that food and drinking water were brought in for the dispossessed.

The next day, on the way to work, I returned to the scene of the fire to survey the damage. I was disgusted to find a good number of local ne’er-do-wells scavenging through the smoldering wreckage for anything of value. They brazenly looted
charred scrap right under the tearful eyes of the traumatized survivors. Sadly, the Chinese were helpless to stop them until Captain Young told his men to run off the looters and guard the Chinese while they searched for whatever possessions they could still salvage from the fire.

Eventually, small collections were taken up by various church groups to help feed and clothe the survivors, but little else could be done to assist in their relief, as more than a few citizens were quite satisfied to see the village gone. These whispered sentiments saddened me more than anything else.

Two days later, while teaching a class at Hopkins, I was surprised by a visit from Sheriff Nesbitt and Captain Young. They were accompanied by a demure young corporal who seemed rather downcast and distracted. Once I had dismissed my students, I invited my visitors to retire to my office for what looked to be a very serious conference indeed. I only assumed this because Sheriff Nesbitt, normally a smiling, good-natured peace officer, bore the appearance of a fellow now deeply haunted by serious concerns.

Sheriff Nesbitt informed me that he was now quite sure the fire that destroyed the fishing village had been an act of arson. The blaze had begun in a communal hay storage barn on the south end of the village. The prevailing winds blowing south to north, as they usually do at that time of year, had rapidly driven the conflagration through the tightly packed village.

When I asked Sheriff Nesbitt why he suspected arson, Captain Young quickly interjected that six of his men had seen a man run from the barn just before the flames broke out. His men were squadron buglers and concert musicians who had gathered about a small campfire to practice pieces for a company concert. The troopers had evidently seen the arsonist quite well when he ran away.

I told Nesbitt and Young that I couldn’t imagine what the crime had to do with Hopkins, as I couldn’t imagine we harbored any blatant arsonists. Sheriff Nesbitt didn’t find my response the least bit amusing, and I will never forget the exchange that followed. Sheriff Nesbitt looked at me with knitted brows. “Dr. Gilbert, just when exactly was the last time you spoke with a man in your employ called Billy O’Flynn, known in some quarters as Red Billy?”

I was of course stunned by the question, but I told him all that I knew of Mr. O’Flynn, his rather sudden departure from our employ due to some kind of reconciliation with the Southern Pacific, and how he and his family had left Pacific Grove some weeks past as far as I knew. I asked Sheriff Nesbitt if he had made inquiries with O’Flynn’s other employers, and he answered that everyone interviewed had stated the very same facts and presumptions.

“But why would you be asking after Mr. O’Flynn?” I asked.

Captain Young then spoke up. “My men are the best skirmishers and pickets in the Army. General Abernathy called us his Night Owls. My boys can spot a vole at fifty yards on a moonless night. That’s how we stayed alive all those months in the Philippines.” Captain Young looked to his corporal for confirmation and received it with a nod. “And to that end, they swear that they witnessed a man run from the barn just before the flames appeared at the doors. The culprit was remarked by my men as a figure of unusual appearance, primarily because he seemed to have a dark complexion crowned by a mane of bright, copper-colored hair.”

Sheriff Nesbitt stepped in to save time. “The only man that fits that description is Mr. Bill O’Flynn . . . The question is, to what purpose would a man, who has supposedly migrated north to work for the Southern Pacific Railroad, secretly return to burn
down an innocent Chinese fishing village where, according to what you’ve told me in the past, he was so well received and respected for his fair dealings?”

I admitted to them both that I had no idea why these presumed crimes might have transpired, all the time secretly suspecting that some dangerous impasse had taken place between O’Flynn and the Chinese. Perhaps the conflict had something to do with O’Flynn’s secret discovery. I’m ashamed to say that this scenario suddenly fit and reinforced all my irksome suspicions. But at the time I saw no reason to express them publicly.

Sheriff Nesbitt went on to say that he had set an investigation in motion, but that without more substantial evidence, he knew not where to turn. He could petition for a general warrant of arrest against Mr. O’Flynn, of course, but not knowing where he had gone, or even if he was indeed the true perpetrator, left the sheriff with little to take before Judge Kimmerlin as proof of culpability.

Further inquiries made with the Southern Pacific Railroad revealed that Mr. O’Flynn had most assuredly not been reemployed in any capacity whatsoever. The company claims to have had no dealings with their erstwhile employee since he’d been paid off and invalided out years before.

In the following weeks nothing could be discovered of O’Flynn’s whereabouts or place of present employment. The Southern Pacific adamantly denied any knowledge of him and offered to open their employment rosters for official inspection.

In any case, I was never again officially consulted on the matter. Nonetheless, for warrantable reasons, my interest was understandably affixed, and I continued an informal investigation of my own, which I’m sad to report has revealed little to illuminate the situation aside from my affirmation that the facts presented here are true and unadulterated.

For the life of me, I cannot fathom the purpose or motive for what O’Flynn has been accused of doing. He might well have had some troubling disagreement with the Chinese, but could it have been so dire as to drive the Irishman to arson and possible murder? But on second thought, it cannot be denied that over the centuries the Irish have been known as masters of the incendiary art. Cromwell’s General Monck was once quoted as saying that an Irishman would happily burn down his own house just to enjoy the pleasant afterglow, but he would much prefer to burn down his landlord’s manor first. Be that as it may, Sheriff Nesbitt is of the opinion that perhaps O’Flynn committed arson on behalf of a third party, but without hard evidence he doesn’t propose to cast a wide net to find the culprits. Suspicion and implied accusations would only cause bad feelings all around. And though it saddens me to say so, I find myself in total agreement. Justice, I fear, will have to wait upon future events to sort matters out.