The Chinago Page #2

"The Chinago" is a short story by Jack London that explores themes of identity, conflict, and cultural clashes in the context of the Chinese immigrant experience in early 20th-century America. Set against the backdrop of the California Gold Rush, the story follows the life of a Chinese man, whose struggles with prejudice and societal expectations reveal the harsh realities faced by immigrants. London's vivid storytelling captures both the resilience and vulnerability of his characters, highlighting the complexities of race and humanity in a rapidly changing world.

• Novel

								

coolie with a report like a pistol-shot. These reports were frequent
when Schemmer rode down the furrowed field.

Once, at the beginning of the first year of contract labour, he had
killed a coolie with a single blow of his fist. He had not exactly
crushed the man's head like an egg-shell, but the blow had been
sufficient to addle what was inside, and, after being sick for a week,
the man had died. But the Chinese had not complained to the French
devils that ruled over Tahiti. It was their own look out. Schemmer was
their problem. They must avoid his wrath as they avoided the venom
of the centipedes that lurked in the grass or crept into the sleeping
quarters on rainy nights. The Chinagos--such they were called by
the indolent, brown-skinned island folk--saw to it that they did not
displease Schemmer too greatly. This was equivalent to rendering up to
him a full measure of efficient toil. That blow of Schemmer's fist had
been worth thousands of dollars to the Company, and no trouble ever came
of it to Schemmer.

The French, with no instinct for colonization, futile in their childish
playgame of developing the resources of the island, were only too glad
to see the English Company succeed. What matter of Schemmer and his
redoubtable fist? The Chinago that died? Well, he was only a Chinago.
Besides, he died of sunstroke, as the doctor's certificate attested.
True, in all the history of Tahiti no one had ever died of sunstroke.
But it was that, precisely that, which made the death of this Chinago
unique. The doctor said as much in his report. He was very candid.
Dividends must be paid, or else one more failure would be added to the
long history of failure in Tahiti.

There was no understanding these white devils. Ah Cho pondered their
inscrutableness as he sat in the court room waiting the judgment. There
was no telling what went on at the back of their minds. He had seen a
few of the white devils. They were all alike--the officers and sailors
on the ship, the French officials, the several white men on the
plantation, including Schemmer. Their minds all moved in mysterious ways
there was no getting at. They grew angry without apparent cause, and
their anger was always dangerous. They were like wild beasts at such
times. They worried about little things, and on occasion could out-toil
even a Chinago. They were not temperate as Chinagos were temperate; they
were gluttons, eating prodigiously and drinking more prodigiously. A
Chinago never knew when an act would please them or arouse a storm of
wrath. A Chinago could never tell. What pleased one time, the very next
time might provoke an outburst of anger. There was a curtain behind the
eyes of the white devils that screened the backs of their minds from the
Chinago's gaze. And then, on top of it all, was that terrible efficiency
of the white devils, that ability to do things, to make things go, to
work results, to bend to their wills all creeping, crawling things,
and the powers of the very elements themselves. Yes, the white men were
strange and wonderful, and they were devils. Look at Schemmer.

Ah Cho wondered why the judgment was so long in forming. Not a man on
trial had laid hand on Chung Ga. Ah San alone had killed him. Ah San
had done it, bending Chung Ga's head back with one hand by a grip of his
queue, and with the other hand, from behind, reaching over and driving
the knife into his body. Twice had he driven it in. There in the court
room, with closed eyes, Ah Cho saw the killing acted over again--the
squabble, the vile words bandied back and forth, the filth and insult
flung upon venerable ancestors, the curses laid upon unbegotten
generations, the leap of Ah San, the grip on the queue of Chung Ga, the
knife that sank twice into his flesh, the bursting open of the door, the
irruption of Schemmer, the dash for the door, the escape of Ah San, the
flying belt of Schemmer that drove the rest into the corner, and the
firing of the revolver as a signal that brought help to Schemmer. Ah
Cho shivered as he lived it over. One blow of the belt had bruised his
cheek, taking off some of the skin. Schemmer had pointed to the bruises
when, on the witness-stand, he had identified Ah Cho. It was only just
now that the marks had become no longer visible. That had been a blow.
Half an inch nearer the centre and it would have taken out his eye. Then
Ah Cho forgot the whole happening in a vision he caught of the garden
of meditation and repose that would be his when he returned to his own
land.

He sat with impassive face, while the magistrate rendered the judgment.
Likewise were the faces of his four companions impassive. And they
remained impassive when the interpreter explained that the five of them
had been found guilty of the murder of Chung Ga, and that Ah Chow
should have his head cut off, Ah Cho serve twenty years in prison in New
Caledonia, Wong Li twelve years, and Ah Tong ten years. There was no use
in getting excited about it. Even Ah Chow remained expressionless as
a mummy, though it was his head that was to be cut off. The magistrate
added a few words, and the interpreter explained that Ah Chow's face
having been most severely bruised by Schemmer's strap had made his
identification so positive that, since one man must die, he might as
well be that man. Also, the fact that Ah Cho's face likewise had been
severely bruised, conclusively proving his presence at the murder and
his undoubted participation, had merited him the twenty years of penal
servitude. And down to the ten years of Ah Tong, the proportioned reason
for each sentence was explained. Let the Chinagos take the lesson to
heart, the Court said finally, for they must learn that the law would be
fulfilled in Tahiti though the heavens fell.

The five Chinagos were taken back to jail. They were not shocked
nor grieved. The sentences being unexpected was quite what they were
accustomed to in their dealings with the white devils. From them a
Chinago rarely expected more than the unexpected. The heavy punishment
for a crime they had not committed was no stranger than the countless
strange things that white devils did. In the weeks that followed, Ah Cho
often contemplated Ah Chow with mild curiosity. His head was to be cut
off by the guillotine that was being erected on the plantation. For him
there would be no declining years, no gardens of tranquillity. Ah Cho
philosophized and speculated about life and death. As for himself, he
was not perturbed. Twenty years were merely twenty years. By that much
was his garden removed from him--that was all. He was young, and the
patience of Asia was in his bones. He could wait those twenty years, and
by that time the heats of his blood would be assuaged and he would be
better fitted for that garden of calm delight. He thought of a name for
it; he would call it The Garden of the Morning Calm. He was made happy
all day by the thought, and he was inspired to devise a moral maxim on
the virtue of patience, which maxim proved a great comfort, especially
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