The following was inspired by a friend who spent some months in the Shanghai Tunnels under Portland, Oregon.
I trust his stories because him and I have shared a many creepy moment with spirits.
From Sunlight To Shadow <!– @page { size: 8.5in 11in; margin: 0.79in } P { margin-bottom: 0.08in } –>
From Sunlight to Shadow
The last newspaper I had seen said
1850 June something, but then
again, I couldn’t be blamed for not
keeping up on the goings on, as I
didn’t call anywhere home and I lived as I could.
I sat by my camp fire that morning, and read again the short note from a long distant friend.
“Your friend Dan….stop…..Here in Stump town stop.
Gold discovered in California…..stop.”
I had heard of this “Stump town” ……how it got its name in the first place was the whole area had been clear cut, and the town build, only trouble was the stumps, which they didn’t see fit to remove at the time.
The closer I got to town, I would hear one word more and more in conversations around one camp fire or the other; the men all spoke of the “crimper”, or just “the crimps”
Every night it seemed, I would be amused by old men telling of how one of their fellows would walk into a saloon and never walk back out, perhaps never to be seen alive again.
One old gentlemen, who indulged quite freely and often of the brown jug being passed around; spoke of, looking a man right in the face, turning for just a second at some fight breaking out at one end of the long bar, and when he turned back around, that man had vanished.
Logic told me these old guys were trying to throw a scare into me; young man as I was at the time.
Logic also told me that along with these yarns, that, great amounts of whiskey was being consumed; so the reader will surely forgive me if I seemed to have believed, then , it was all a very tall tale.
A half dozen or so men brushed past me on the semi narrow; what passed as a sidewalk, and I could tell by their dress and —if the ladies pardon me, their smell—that they were from some logging camp.
“Whewww ! “ was my one thought and another followed close behind.
“Now I know what they mean by ….”blowin’ into town “… It was explained to me later that conditions in a logging camp were rather primitive.
For example; as I was told, men slept with their boots on, to assure they would have them next morning.
The reader must keep in mind that with out this foot wear; the men couldn’t make a living and put food on the table.
I found out later on as well, that they bathed every six months or so when they got paid.
I slung my pack down along side a round fountain made of stone, sloshed water on my face as a horse was allowed to slack his thirst just to my right.
This was the border, as it was, from the higher class area, to what was known back then as “The Old North End” ……the seedier side of town.
A place that had a saying as I found out “There is a bar on every corner, and three or four in between”
Bathing; taking random dips in cold creeks and lakes with my cloths on the bank, had gotten real old, so I sought out one of the many Chinese laundries in the area and found a cheap boarding house for a few nights.
A welcome tub and a shave and I was ready for come what may. So I thought at any rate.
A very interesting — contrast of the senses– was taking place as I walked along.
Where this indeed was a fresh water port, the tall ships and the men who sailed them; both Captains and crew, resounded with the sea’s power, majesty and glory.
Wandering around the docks, I discovered that the longest voyage from this port was Shanghai China.
By ship it was a 3 year trip at best, depending on what other ports the ship pulled into.
( Hence the term “A slow boat to China” )
Tales of far away places allured me as I was swept into a bar by a large man with a meaty arm around my shoulder; tales of strange lands and even stranger women, filled my ears as I downed my first shot of whiskey.
As I downed my second shot, I heard rough banter from the tables behind and to my left I could see the images of the four men playing poker through a haze of gray smoke that hung in the air like a thick blanket.
I had been to other saloons before this large stranger escorted me through the doors of this place, and now I was faced with a problem.
I wanted to keep drinking and I didn’t want to lose my spot.
Whoever had designed this place, must have had a IQ that surpassed the weight of 10 horses, for at my feet; running the full length of the long bar, was some thing like a very shallow feeding trough and small towels hanging from brass hoops spaced several feet apart.
It was a simple matter then to; and the reader will excuse me once again, to relieve myself where I stood.
(The term “Belly up to the bar” got its start at this time because of this very thing)
As I slammed down the shot glass for yet a third time, I let loose with…. (now you can call it what you will, a belch, a burp I don’t care) what ever it was; it was loud, and it was long, with a very fine balance of sounds between a peel of thunder and a canon shot.
It was then the night started to get strange; well, to be more accurate, very atypical for me and what I was used to.
I had been drunk before, if fact, it had been commented on many times in my hearing, that I was one to “hold my liquor”, yet something about that belch seemed to act as trigger.
My head started to spinning much more intensely then I ever remembered just a drink would; and with a stagger and a sudden shove, I was pushed into one of the more darker corners of the room.
The lights; the sounds of the rough banter and the thick pale of smoke all vanished at once, and I knew no more.
—————————————————–
Chapter 2
I rolled over and reached for the cup I had set on the night stand of the boarding house, and to my growing dismay, found it wasn’t there.
The thought I was dreaming came to me; and in my present state of hang over, which I might add here, was worse then I ever had before; I was convinced this was a alcohol induced hallucination from which I’d wake up.
The fact that my surroundings were so shockingly changed, led me to believe even more this was a mere dream, and if it was a dream, it was terribly real.
The next second a man’s feet, minus shoes, jabbed into my back, and from yet another part of the room, I heard another mans raspy coughing, and the unmistakable sounds of snoring.
It was only when the smell hit my nose, a stench would be a better term, was I able to force my eyes open.
For some reason unknown to me, I was in a room made out of rough hewn rock; this I could tell by the feel of dampness; this too seemed to reek with the same smells of decay, rot, and human waste.
I gained my feet with the aid of the wall, and in doing so, one of my hands found what had to be the frame of a window with rusted iron bars set very close together.
To the right of this, by about three feet, was the corner. A ledge had been fashioned and what I knew to be a brass chamber pot sat there.
When a man shuffled over and relieved himself in front of me, I found myself thinking that: “If this was indeed a dream, I would give almost anything never……to……dream again as long as I lived”
It was …too, too …….real
“Too bad young fella “
The voice came from a grizzled old man who had found a place to hunker down beside me.
“This is my third time, I can’t handle it no more, I know I’ll die here in darkness, either in this vile place, or on the high seas.
He had been a logger working in one of the many logging camps. He was a bigger man and he had woken up to salt air and shouted commands.
He recalled the long voyage and only two others from the camp.
They drew straws one night, and by the next morning, one of his mates was never seen alive again.
“I can’t say if he fell over board or not, but I remember the sea was calm that night and no one heard a scream and the common cry of “man over board”
I saw his face knot up as he remembered something else about that night.
“The meat ……we had been at sea for months it seemed, where did the meat come from ?
It also tasted unlike any other meat I had ever eaten.”
(It was known as “The Custom of the Sea”
The Shanghaied (or harpooned) men aboard ship were considered the lowest of the low; the lice and rats had more rights aboard ship then these men.
The reader will remember that I had heard some of these voyages lasted for 3 years and they often ran out OF food on the high seas.
At any given time there could be 3 or more men who had been shanghaied would be aboard; but no more then 5; a mutiny would be possible with a greater number, and the man with the short straw became the stew.
You did NOT want to be shanghaied in Portland Oregon in the mid 1800’s …..trust me)
He was almost in tears by now, his voice growing even more plaintive.
“They laced your drink son” ……he went on.
“More ‘n likely Kelly an his boys”
Talking was better then thinking of what this was man was saying, so I asked him about this guy; Kelly.
“Gold was discovered you know, and in San Francisco, and one of the worst kidnappers—or best, depending on which way you looked at it I guess— for forced labor was a man named Joseph “Bunko” Kelly.
He was so good in fact, that the powers that be, ran him out of town, and he came north to ply his trade”
I wondered about why forced labor.
The old man looked at me oddly.
“Don’t you think boy ? “
Gold. Men are getting rich there……I’ve been a sailor and made the crossings and it doesn’t pay a lot; a man can barley put food on the table.
The trade ships pull in and men would go over board to make their way south and to their dreams of fortune.
They drugged me, as they did you, and sooner or later, you’ll be sold to for $50.00 by a Captain who needs a replacement crew so he can take his ship back out to sea.
“The hardest part is Son, was the fact that as far as my family and loved ones were concerned; I was a dead man, as I wouldn’t be seen around these parts again for another six or seven years “
I shuttered at his words, at the same time the temperature seemed to drop 30 degrees in as many seconds as it hit came to me full blast.
This was no dream !!!
The old man rambled on; seemingly lost in his own world, or reliving a tragic nightmare, I couldn’t say which at this point.
“I remember once the knock out drops (Pure Opium) they used wasn’t strong enough and I was in a semi fog for three days before I was led through the tunnels to the water front and aboard a waiting ship”
I heard a sharp gasp as he remembered.
“Another man; closer to a boy, in that he looked a mere Eighteen, divided the long nights between sad laments that we were all dead men and doomed, …..to long and loud wails augmented by wild fits of rage as he yelled and pounded on the low ceiling above us.
I should mention that his only reward, was the three large men who pulled him out of the cell and beat him to silence”
——Chapter 3 ——
I had drifted off once again into a foggy haze, I noticed this happened soon after we were provided a few slices of stale bread and a tin cup of water.
Another dream ?…….I still cant say, but when I next came to my senses, there came the impossible sound of a woman crying. A hallow, plaintive sound as if heart, no, her very soul had been torn from her body.
I say impossible because, to my simple logic, in this place of damp walls and even darker shadows; a woman, much less one crying, simply had no place here.
The cry became a hideous shriek. The words sounded as if they had been ripped from her body
“I want my baby ……..where is she ?!?!
I recoiled as if I’d been punched and clamped my hands to my ears, as the sound rebounded off the walls and went flying around like a crazed and blinded bat.
I sat stunned.
I shuddered.
Because I didn’t know which was worse; the ear piercing screams; the very essence of the hearts agony of loss and grief, that seemed to rip through my head, or the sudden and laden filled silence that had caused me to sit bold upright.
The resounding sound of a hand on flesh tore through the air, followed closely by a harsh deep voice.
“Shut up you worthless whore!”
Again, another whimper another solid sounding smack.
“I spoke with your mother and she said she never wants to see you again, in fact, she also said that she wished you had never been born!!”
I heard that same voice chuckle deeply and burst into an all out belly laugh; which was joined by others, laughing and gruff voices and also what sounded like heavy clubs beating on a wall.
The girl, I knew, was wishing with everything she had in her, that she hadn’t of banished the stories now, the notices that hung on the walls in local Grange Halls, how they warned of young women not going to dances alone, or any of the pool halls or restaurants in that knotted and twisted maze that made up the water front.
(White Slavers, as they were known as, also patrolled the Old North End and made use of the Underground as well, to break the spirits of the woman they abducted by confining them in a room not much bigger then a small closet in total darkness, so they then could sell them to other cities, and or, to the highest bidder.
These woman would some times becomes pregnant, and as soon the baby was weaned, the two were separated, never to be united again, as once the woman WAS sold, no one heard from, or saw her, ever again.
—————————————————
In 1850 men were indeed getting rich; either from the land; gold found at Sutter’s Mill .The sea; the selling and trading of goods from lands far away, or at the expense of able bodied men, no matter if they were loggers, cowboys, ranch hands, or drifters.
To be forced to work on the high seas, eaten if there was no more food
Women; a lot of them Native American, Chinese and other emigrants, also disappeared, only to be sold to a far away city, never to be heard from again.
This is the seedier side to the history of a young city in the Great North West that would be one day be known as Portland Oregon
There’s not much more to say really.
In the year 2009, you can still see these dark and secret places (places KEPT in secret because of greed and misguided ambition)
I welcome you to, walk from sunlight to shadow.
Be amazed and informed as Michael Jones, of the Cascade Geographic Society, unveils the oral history of this dastardly practice that flourished between 1850 (when gold was found in California) to the start of WW2 in 1941.
At the height, the boom years as it were, 1870 to around 1917 or so, some 3000 souls a year disappeared from this fresh water port.
Hear Mike tell the stories he has gathered over the years from the men who had actually walked there; who had lived and walked the tunnels and through the basements and arch ways of Portland’s Underground.
