“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.
THE PLOT HAS NOW TURNED as we expected. The Pacific Improvement Company is more than happy to honor the Chinese lease to China Point, but they adamantly refuse to allow them to rebuild, and they have had a city ordinance passed to put teeth in this repudiation of reconstruction. The Chinese, in response, and under the stewardship of their tong, have enlisted the legal services of one Albert Bennett Fox, Esq. I am reliably informed that he is a rabid antitrust advocate with an abiding passion for going after the railroads on any pretext whatsoever. I can only offer the fishermen my best wishes. Though, in truth, I’m sadly persuaded it will be a very long trek in search of recourse, compensation, or even justice.
As it now stands, aside from those few diehards who are taking shelter under canvas so as to continue to fish at the height of the season, most of the Chinese have already moved on from China Point. Some joined relatives in other rickety, rock-bound coastal villages like Point Alones, Cypress Point, Pescadero Point, and Point Lobos. However, other, more intrepid souls simply moved on and leased more land on McAbee Beach in Monterey. The Chinese refugees were back in full operation within two weeks. By way of comparison, it will most likely take the city of Salinas two years to accomplish full recovery.
All the while, the fishing has never stopped, and another Chinese village just seemed to appear overnight like a fairy ring of mushrooms on a fresh-mowed pasture. I have an abiding respect for the ingenuity these people display in every aspect of their lives. I truly believe they could build a viable community from almost anything at hand. They let nothing go to waste and find purpose for discarded materials that others would overlook. They are tenaciously loyal to family and clan first, but usually come together in solidarity where their mutual interests are concerned. I’m convinced the Chinese will always garner profit in whatever field they employ their considerable talents.
November 23, 1906
A FEW MONTHS HAVE PASSED since my last entry concerning this matter. Recently I received word from Dr. Fiche, only now returned from his field trip. He said he had stored my material in the antique documents vault at the university before he left, but would return them forthwith. He added that he had not been able to discover as much as he would have liked about the artifacts, but the objects were most certainly very old. Dr. Fiche stated further that he thinks the three scripts carved into the stone might be fifteenth-century Mandarin Chinese, Medieval Persian, and possibly an Indian script that he could not pin down without further research. He assumed it was a form of Tamil Cyrillic, or some other closely linked language. He believes the large jade seal was an artifact of some importance, and he put forward that it must have been the property of a notable Chinese official. A valuable piece of pink jade of that size and perfection, carved and engraved as it was with such precision, could only have been the property of someone of great importance. But until accurate translations could be made of the archaic inscriptions, nothing more could be determined.
I wrote back to Professor Fiche and thanked him for all his help, promising to communicate what details, if any, I could discover about the inscriptions. I asked him to use his best efforts to locate a Chinese-language scholar, which I assumed would be no easy matter under the circumstances.
The arrival of my package from Dr. Fiche has occasioned many hours of cold and painful introspection. No scholar trained in the sciences can ever relish the idea that an important discovery, no matter how culturally obtuse it may seem, can be arbitrarily withheld or hidden based on the whims of those who are too ignorant to comprehend the importance of such knowledge. For those educated to understand these matters, and who thus appreciate the significance of such information, all attempts at suppression would seem like rank cultural hubris or worse. My own profound disappointment was almost too painful to acknowledge. How much more so would it be for those dedicated scholars who had spent their professional careers in search of examples of the very objects I had seen, touched, and, in my poor way, cataloged. I didn’t know offhand who those scholars might be, but I was sure they were out there in the world somewhere. My frustration concerning the now hidden artifacts was only matched by my anger at being hoodwinked by that rascal and rogue, Red Billy O’Flynn, may he ultimately suffer the agonies
