Gold Mountain

Advance praise for

Gold Mountain

Ling Fan felt like my indomitable best friend—I was rooting for her as she faced impossible stakes and truly terrifying villainy. I loved this book!

—Karen Bao, author of The Dove Chronicles series

"Gold Mountain is the unforgettable tale of Tam Ling Fan: a story of strength, courage, and resilience that not only brings the past to vivid, complex life, but has much to say about the present. Set within the perilous world of nineteenth-century Chinese sojourners building the Transcontinental Railroad, Ling Fan’s journey is thrilling, engrossing, and moving. I couldn’t put it down."

—Kate Racculia, author of Bellweather Rhapsody

Text copyright © 2022 by Betty G. Yee

All rights reserved. International copyright secured. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of Lerner Publishing Group, Inc., except for the inclusion of brief quotations in an acknowledged review.

Carolrhoda Lab®

An imprint of Lerner Publishing Group, Inc.

241 First Avenue North

Minneapolis, MN 55401 USA

For reading levels and more information, look up this title at www.lernerbooks.com.

Image credits: vectortwins/Shutterstock.com (mountains); aekky/Shutterstock.com (texture).

Main body text set in Janson Text LT Std.

Typeface provided by Adobe Systems.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Yee, Betty G., 1966– author.

Title: Gold mountain / by Betty G. Yee.

Description: Minneapolis : Carolrhoda Lab, [2022] | Audience: Ages 11–18. | Audience: Grades 7–9. | Summary: Fifteen-year-old Tam Ling Fan disguises herself as her twin brother, journeys from her village in China to California, and works as a laborer on the Transcontinental Railroad—where she faces danger on multiple fronts—to earn the money her family desperately needs. Includes author’s note.

Identifiers: LCCN 2021016023 | ISBN 9781728415826 (lib. bdg.)

Subjects: CYAC: Foreign workers—Fiction. | Chinese—United States—Fiction. | Disguise—Fiction. | Railroads—Fiction. | Sabotage—Fiction. | Central Pacific Railroad Company—Fiction. | Sierra Nevada (Calif. and Nev.)—History—19th century—Fiction.

Classification: LCC PZ7.1.Y436 Go 2022 | DDC [Fic]—dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021016023

Manufactured in the United States of America

1-48775-49186-10/7/2021

For Bake Quin and Suy Kue.

And for the unnamed workers of the Transcontinental Railroad.

Chapter

1

They came in the darkness of early morning.

The hammering at the front door echoed through the courtyard and rolled up to the second floor where Tam Ling Fan’s family slept. It startled her brother, Jing Fan, awake and made his coughing start up again. Across the hall, Ling Fan pushed her silk quilt aside and thrust her feet into her slippers. She lit a taper from the brazier burning in a corner of her room and stepped into the corridor. Baba passed her, a lantern in his hand.

Stay here, Baba told her quietly. He was still in his daytime attire, a long gray tunic edged with silk. Take this. He pressed a piece of folded paper into her hand. She knew without looking that it was the railroad contract. Keep it safe.

Grotesque shadows flickered along the walls as he descended to the lower level. Ling Fan hurried to the low latticed wall overlooking the courtyard. From there she saw Baba cross to the outer door and unlatch it. The door flew open and four men pushed inside. Two held lanterns suspended from long bamboo handles, while the other two seized Baba’s arms.

How dare you put your hands on the magistrate? Ling Fan shouted down at them. She made a dash for the staircase, but somebody grabbed her arm. Aunt Fei had slipped out of her room, silent as a gui. Her grip was like a clamp, but her eyes were bright with fear. Ling Fan tried to shake her off.

Don’t! Aunt Fei hissed, drawing her back into the shadows. Ling Fan couldn’t see the men below now, but she could hear them.

Tam Chung Ha, you are under arrest for conspiring with the outlawed Taiping Rebellion, a tenor voice declared. Ling Fan would’ve gasped, but her aunt had clapped a hand over her mouth. She knew that voice. It was Ghong Fok, Baba’s second in command. What was this nonsense? The rebellion had ended almost three years ago, back in 1864. And her father had had nothing to do with it!

Is it conspiracy, Baba asked calmly, to refuse to execute a poor man for stealing rice to feed his family? There was no fear in his voice.

It is when that order came from the provincial prefect, Ghong Fok replied. But you can explain that to him. To the men restraining Baba, he added, Bring him.

No scuffle, no sounds of struggle. The outer door closed softly, leaving Ling Fan and Aunt Fei alone with the sound of Jing Fan’s coughs.

Chapter

2

One more. One more would do it.

Ling Fan kept her eyes on the cluster of oranges that hung on the branch just above her head. Gingerly, she took a step onto the slender branch that grew just below, keeping a tight grip on the leaves behind her with one hand while she reached out as far as she could with the other. Her fingertips brushed the fruit; she set it swaying on its stem. She slid her bare foot out farther onto the branch and felt it bow beneath her weight. At the same time, she heard a loud crack. Ling Fan threw herself back against the trunk with a gasp, her heart beating in her throat.

She looked down through the leaves of the tree. The ground was very far way. Ling Fan swallowed and closed her eyes, cursing her plan to steal Widow Chang’s oranges.

She wished with all her heart that her twin brother, Jing Fan, were with her now. He was the brave one. The smart one. The strong one. All their lives she had run after him, copying everything he did, but now that he was gone, she knew she had never been anything but his shadow.

Aiya! a voice shouted from below. What are you doing up there? Get out!

Ling Fan cracked one eye open just enough to see Widow Chang’s old manservant glaring up at her from the base of the tree. In one hand he held a lantern to ward off the early-morning darkness, and in the other he clutched a long bamboo pole with two sharp hooks at the end.

Get out! he shouted again, thrusting the pole at her as though she were a pesky animal. Ling Fan scrambled from branch to branch, one arm hugging her bundle of oranges close as she dodged the pole’s hooks. Finally, she reached a branch that hovered just above the stone wall that surrounded Widow Chang’s orchard. She hopped onto the wall and shimmied down awkwardly. Once on the ground, she ran as fast as she could without looking back.

Ling Fan flew down winding dirt paths through the sleeping village of Lo Wai. Past the well, over the little footbridge that crossed the brook, past vegetable gardens and storage sheds. Finally she had to stop because of the stitch in her side. She squatted down and tried to calm her ragged breath enough so she could listen. No sound of running feet behind her. Sweat and panic drained out of her and left her feeling weak with relief.

Ling Fan opened the cloth sack. Seven enormous oranges stared back at her. Eight would have been better. The number eight was auspicious, and Ling Fan felt that she needed all the good fortune she could find. Still, seven was better than none.

She shouldered the sack and continued to the passageway that connected several homes in the village. It was meant to serve as an escape route from attacking bandits, but Ling Fan had often used it to sneak in and out of her house undetected.

The sky lightened as she climbed a set of steps that led to a narrow passageway in the back of her house. Ling Fan ducked into her bedroom as the rooster next door bawled its morning greeting.

The surge of energy from running through the village disappeared. Pearly gray light filtered through the lattice window, revealing her writing table, her chair, and her chest of clothes in the corner. The light made everything look as though she was seeing it underwater. Ling Fan felt like she was underwater too.

Down the hall, something shattered on the floor. Ling Fan ran to the kitchen, where she found Aunt Fei bent over the remains of a broken bowl. Tangerines from Jing Fan’s funeral altar had rolled every which way across the floor.

Aunt Fei!

It’s all right, Aunt Fei said. Her head was bowed. A wisp of gray-streaked hair had escaped the bun clasped tightly at her neck. Although she was Baba’s older sister, Fei was not an old woman. Still, the past two months had worn deep lines into her face. I knocked over the incense burner, that’s all. I’m so clumsy. She stood awkwardly, balancing on her tiny bound feet, clutching the shards of the broken bowl. What’s that? Aunt Fei pointed with her chin at the sack that Ling Fan still held.

Oranges. I thought if we gave some to the guards at the prison, they might be more willing to let us see Baba today. She spoke quickly, hoping her aunt wouldn’t ask how she had gotten them.

Aiya! Aunt Fei tsked and shook her head dismissively. Well, you’d better get ready to go. We have to be at the village gate when Farmer Tan comes around with his cart. At least she hadn’t thought to wonder where Ling Fan had come by such fine fruit.

Ling Fan retraced her steps down the drafty hall to her room. The heavy scent of incense was everywhere. It hung in every corner of their house, buried itself in her hair, clung to the fibers of her clothing, and followed her whenever she went out into the village. Ling Fan imagined that if ghosts had any scent at all, it would be the thick, sweet odor of incense.

Her brother had never liked the smell. If he was up in heaven now, he’d be waving a fan and holding his nose as the earthly gray-white plumes of smoke brought him his money, his food, and the best wishes of his living family. Ling Fan smiled despite herself. It was easier to think of her brother swatting at smoke than to feel the hole that seemed to be eating her from the inside out.

Jing Fan had been dead for a week. Ling Fan knew that, but she still caught herself listening for his voice or expecting to see him come around a corner. She caught herself saving up bits of news and snippets of gossip to tell him when she saw him next. He had been her best friend; they told each other everything. Now, when there was so much to say, there was nobody to say it to. She felt ready to explode.

Ling Fan sat down at her writing table and stared at her pen and ink set. Ever since they learned how to write, she and her brother would leave messages for each other on scraps of paper. A joke here, a good-natured insult there. She missed finding his notes almost as much as hearing his voice.

The heavy scent of incense made her head ache. She thought of all the scraps of joss paper money the family had burned earlier that week, the sweet smoke carrying it all to Jing Fan in heaven. Aunt Fei had even fashioned tiny pieces of paper clothing for him. If all those things could get to him, couldn’t her own words reach him the same way?

She took out her calligraphy pen, a brush made with the finest goat and weasel hair. She mixed some water in the ink and dipped the pen into it. On a scrap of paper, she wrote, Baba is still in prison. Aunt Fei and I are going to Peng Lu this morning to give him the news about you. What’s going to happen now?

She rolled the paper up tightly and thrust it deep into her brazier. The edges of the paper caught the flame, and black smoke started to curl upward. The acrid smoke was nothing like incense, but for the first time in days Ling Fan felt her shoulders relax as she watched it rise, knowing that her brother would receive her news. She wondered what he would say if he could answer.

Perhaps he would remind her that Ghong Fok would never admit Baba was innocent, and that the provincial authorities could keep Baba locked up for the rest of his life. They’d made it clear that Baba would only be freed in exchange for an enormous bribe—tens of thousands of wen. Perhaps Jing Fan would apologize for not being alive to earn that money.

If he hadn’t died, he would’ve been Baba’s salvation. He would’ve gone to America with the railroad contract that Baba had gone to such trouble to get for him, made a fortune in America—the legendary Gold Mountain—and returned with more than enough to secure Baba’s release. Instead . . .

Ling, hurry up! Fei called.

Ling Fan pulled on a quilted jacket over her loose cotton tunic and trousers. She pushed her feet into a pair of cotton shoes as she replaited her hair. As she hurried from the room, she saw, out of a corner of her eye, a reflection glide across the dusty surface of the mirror by her doorway. Jing, she thought reflexively before the icy shard of memory made her flinch. She turned her face resolutely away.

Looking at herself was still too much like looking at her brother. She would see his strong square jaw, his thick eyebrows over honey-brown eyes. She would see his thin lips that quirked into an easy smile. Looking at herself was like looking at a ghost.

Ling Fan met her aunt in the front courtyard by the little koi pond. Aunt Fei was wearing her heaviest padded jacket, a blue one embroidered with silver cherry blossoms, and had tied a scarf over her hair. Together, they stepped through their compound’s outer door and onto the path that wound through the village.

They walked slowly, Ling Fan matching her stride to her aunt’s elegant, swaying gait. Years ago, her aunt—like most girls of their class—had undergone the excruciating foot-binding process. Now, walking anywhere on her five-inch feet was an ordeal, but Fei maintained that her Golden Lotuses were worth the agony. They were her greatest source of vanity and the cause of countless arguments with Ling Fan’s father. He had insisted his daughter would never be subjected to what he considered a brutal act of mutilation.

As a little girl, Ling Fan had been fascinated by her aunt’s tiny feet. She and Jing Fan used to dare each other to steal Fei’s embroidered shoes from her bedroom. Ling Fan loved how the beautiful silk shoes were not much bigger than her own small hand, the pointed toes ending just beyond the tip of her middle finger. Her aunt told her romantic tales of how men swooned over women who had the perfect Golden Lotuses, whose gait reminded them of beautiful flowers swaying in the wind. Ling Fan spent hours imitating the elegant swaying stride of women walking on their bound feet.

All that changed the day Ling Fan’s cousin Ming started the process. Ling Fan would never forget seven-year-old Ming weeping over the pain and begging her mother to undo the linen cloths that were tightened around her folded feet day after day. Secretly, Ling Fan was glad that her father had forbidden it. She realized now that in this, as in so many other things, her father thought differently than most of the villagers. Could this be why they hadn’t objected to his arrest?

Ling Fan and Aunt Fei passed the Lo family’s mud-brick house. The door gaped open, and the single window stared blankly out at them. Two days ago, the Lo family had piled all their possessions into a wheelbarrow and headed deeper into the countryside, trying to flee the illness that had fallen on the village like raiding bandits.

Ling Fan kicked at a large lump of coal, trying to get it to roll down the path. She could feel her aunt’s silent disapproval but kept at it anyway. They passed two more houses that stood silent and empty. Normally, the village would be bustling with activity: people scattering grain for chickens, gathering vegetables from their garden, or leading goats or oxen to the nearby stream. Today, Ling Fan counted only a handful of villagers scattered here and there, looking like lost gui in the early-morning fog. One of them was Widow Chang.

Widow Chang’s compound was near the center of the village, at the juncture of its three main paths. Nobody entered or left Lo Wai without passing her home, and it was Widow Chang’s pleasure to know of everyone’s comings and goings and doings. Jing Fan used to say Widow Chang was like a giant spider sitting on her web.

This morning, Widow Chang was sweeping in front of her compound, but when she saw Ling Fan and her aunt coming down the path, she went inside and closed the door. Ling Fan saw her standing at a window, looking out at them as they passed.

Ling Fan held the sack of oranges closer to herself and drew the sleeves of her jacket over her hands. The fabric caught against the half-healed scabs on her knuckles.

A few nights before Jing Fan died, Ling Fan had gone to Widow Chang’s to beg for some of the medicinal herbs that grew in her garden. She’d hammered at the door until her knuckles bled, but Widow Chang never answered. Later, the widow was heard telling neighbors that she’d been out tending other sick folk, but Ling Fan remembered seeing the light in the widow’s window go out when she started knocking. Losing a few oranges was the least the old woman deserved.

Ling Fan wanted to kick the lump of broken coal at Widow Chang’s house, but Aunt Fei gripped her elbow, as though she knew what Ling Fan was thinking, and led her onward.

A year ago, Ling Fan’s family had walked through the village like royalty. People were always giving them little presents: a branch of lychee nuts, a bag of apples, a wooden toy bought at the market. But now that Baba had been taken away to Peng Lu Prison, people turned away from their greetings and whispered things that Aunt Fei told Ling Fan not to believe.

For weeks, Ling Fan had perched on the end of her brother’s bed, talking late into the night, trying to piece together the truth. They agreed that the accusations against Baba were ridiculous. True, he often disagreed with the emperor’s government, but he firmly believed that violence was never an option. There are other ways to bring about change, he’d always told Ling Fan. With the right lever, you can move the world.

And it was true that Baba had many unconventional ideas. Letting Ling Fan learn side by side with her brother was one example. Refusing to have her feet bound was another. She’d often heard him arguing with Ghong Fok about the nuances of the emperor’s laws. More than once Ghong Fok had stormed out of Baba’s study, fuming that Baba was far too lenient with criminals.

It had been Ghong Fok who led the charge against her father. Ling Fan suspected he had tired of arguing with Baba and had decided to simply sweep him aside. He’d succeeded. Nobody had raised a voice or hand to help Baba. She wished she had a dozen pieces of coal to kick at the people who’d turned their backs on her family.

They arrived at the village gate, an ornamental arch guarded by a pair of fierce stone lions. The sun’s rays were just turning the layer of early spring clouds a warm peachy glow when Farmer Tan drew up beside them in his oxcart. Ling Fan and her aunt climbed onto the back of the cart and settled down amidst his piles of winter melon, white radishes, and yams. The market was five miles away, along one branch of the Pearl River, just beyond Peng Lu Prison.

Every Thursday for the past month, Ling Fan and her aunt had ridden in Farmer Tan’s cart, arriving at the prison just after the sun came up. They stood in a little hall along with a few other ragged visitors waiting for a chance to see a relative or friend. After a while, a guard would come out of an inner room and read a name or two from a list in his hand. The lucky visitors were led deeper into the prison. Everyone else was told to come again the following week.

Last Thursday, Ling Fan had seen a barefoot man press a package into the guard’s hand. A moment later, that same man had been ushered in for a visit. Afterward, it was all she could think about. She wondered what had been in the package. Not money—it had been far too large, and the man far too poor. Whatever it was, it gave Ling Fan a ray of hope. There was more than one way to open the door to see Baba. And she was ready to play the game.

The next afternoon she’d spotted the oranges hanging from a high branch in Widow Chang’s orchard. Big beautiful ones, the color of summer dawn. Oranges were scarce this year, and Widow Chang guarded her orchard as carefully as a pile of gold. So Ling Fan had resolved to climb over the wall and steal them.

Now Ling Fan hugged the sack to her chest and made herself breathe as the guard emerged with his list. She had to try. She had to see her father!

She pushed forward and managed to bump the guard’s elbow sharply. When he glanced at her, she tipped her sack open just enough to reveal the treasure within. The guard snorted, but a dizzying moment later, he was taking the bundle of oranges and gesturing for Ling Fan and Aunt Fei to move deeper into the prison. Ling Fan’s heart leapt.

Once the outer door closed behind them, the guard led them to a smaller room. Who have you come to see?

Tam Chung Ha, Ling Fan said, hating how much her voice wavered.

Wait here. He stepped out and closed the door. His footsteps echoed down the hall.

Only one chair sat in the room. A window was set high in the wall where pale light peered in, barely pushing back the shadows in the corners. Chipped plaster clung to the walls like half-healed sores. Ling Fan paced from one end of the room to the other, energy coursing through her, making her entire body tingle. She couldn’t help grinning in triumph at her aunt. It worked! My plan worked!

Aunt Fei grunted. We were lucky. Besides, it was only a matter of time before it was our turn anyway. She gestured at the chair and said, Sit down, in the fussy tone she used when she had nothing else to say or do.

Ling Fan shook her head, fighting back a surge of resentment. It had been like this all her life. If her brother had been the one to think of offering oranges to the guard, Aunt Fei would’ve praised his ingenuity.

Aunt Fei sighed and sank into the chair, wincing at the pain in her feet. Ling Fan hovered near the door, listening to the sounds in the hallway. She tensed