“Uncle Afu was brought here as a pig-boy and has been here for over ten years.” Liang Xian excitedly climbed over a low wall, taking a shortcut to the outskirts of the under-construction train station at Mission Bay, saying as they went, “He said he was a Hongmen boss in Guangdong, a ninth-rank gatekeeper who had rebelled and killed officials. We didn’t believe him at first. But this time, when the cable broke and he was crushed by steel rails, he was in agony but didn’t make a sound…”
Su Minguan couldn’t help but remind him: “A ninth-rank gatekeeper isn’t a boss.”
“Anyway, he’s a very formidable person…”
Liang Xian suddenly stopped speaking, turning back in confusion to carefully examine Su Minguan’s face.
“That’s not right… Uncle Afu said Hongshun Hall’s Jin Lanhe had a big beard and was a mighty hero who should be fifty-nine years old this year… How old are you? Are you even thirty?”
Lin Yuchan couldn’t believe it as everything suddenly connected, and she understood completely.
She whispered in Su Minguan’s ear: “When we rescued pig-boys in Guangzhou, there were Hongmen brothers among them, but not many.”
“Because many had already been sold overseas in advance.” Su Minguan quickly responded, his eyes flashing with the same excitement, “Peru, Cuba, America. They’re everywhere.”
They had fallen halfway through and hadn’t seen the outcome of the uprising: that bearded, mighty Jin Lanhe had failed to lead his comrades to forge a new world. He had died for the cause, beheaded by government soldiers, staring with unseeing eyes at his fallen brothers.
Liang Xian led the way around a hillside where a row of small white tents was pitched in a depression.
Those were the Chinese workers’ quarters. The white engineers and supervisors lived in train cars.
America’s east-west railroad artery had been completed, but many branch lines were still under construction. Under California’s blazing sun and among towering mountains, countless Chinese workers’ figures could still be seen everywhere.
The evil exploitation continued.
Lin Yuchan hesitated for a moment, then followed. Since there were no train tickets anyway, Chen Lanbin had decided to establish the consulate first, and the overseas students were still at the San Francisco hotel. Exhausted from travel, they were all catching up on sleep.
Missing one helper shouldn’t be a problem.
Su Minguan lifted a tent flap—inside was the smell of sour rice, with black cotton batting exposed on bedding, and several emaciated men lying there.
His expression moved slightly as he studied them for a long time, then called softly: “Brother Afu.”
Chinese worker Chen Afu struggled to sit up, then laboriously crawled up. A blackened pumpkin stem hung from a red cord on his chest, swaying back and forth, looking rather comical.
“Min… guan? You’ve grown so big! I thought you were all…”
They hadn’t seen each other for over ten years. Last time they parted, it was in war-torn Guangzhou. Su Minguan was still a young man who hadn’t had time to burn incense and worship ancestors, and wasn’t very obedient.
Afu cried like a child, tears flowing down the wrinkles on his face as he sobbed and asked about various people by name. Su Minguan answered each one. Most were no longer alive.
Afu raised his hand wanting to touch his head, but his arm was too heavy to lift. Only then did Su Minguan notice that his hands were blackened, and his bare, withered feet and toes were also an abnormal grayish-black color. He was feverish and covered in cold sweats—symptoms of sepsis after infection.
“I’m fine.” Afu smiled weakly, “Got crushed by steel rails, saw a doctor, and will be better after resting for a while. Sit down, sit down!”
Su Minguan asked suspiciously: “What kind of doctor?”
Afu proudly pointed to a skeletal Chinese worker beside him: “Before A’Shuang was sold as a pig-boy, he studied medicine with a master in Macau! The railroad company also sent medicine—very effective, no problem!”
The named A’Shuang smiled honestly, but when Afu turned away, he shook his head slightly at Su Minguan.
Su Minguan lowered his eyes and said nothing.
Lin Yuchan examined several bottles of Western medicine beside Afu’s pillow, frowning as she discovered they were opium-containing painkillers.
Afu said they had been trapped by corrupt officials and treacherous merchants working together, stuffed into ship holds, and sold to America. A small sailing ship crammed with four hundred people—after three months at sea, only half remained, the rest having died of illness and starvation, thrown overboard one after another. Afu was clever and had picked up a pumpkin before boarding. When hunger and thirst reached their limits, a few bites of shriveled pumpkin flesh saved his life. Upon reaching America, he hung the remaining pumpkin stem around his neck as a talisman. This pumpkin stem had blessed him through countless avalanches, cave-ins, and landslides, making him one of the most senior surviving Chinese workers on the Central Pacific Railroad.
Lin Yuchan remembered the people rescued from pig-boy cages years ago—He Weicheng had also been withered like a corpse then, barely surviving with his life, never gaining weight afterward. Afu’s situation then must have been similar, except he didn’t even have a chance to rest and recover. Upon arriving in America, he immediately began laboring, consuming his life bit by bit. That he had persisted until now was also a miracle.
Of the pig-boys who came on the same ship as him, those still alive could be counted on one hand.
Afu pointed outside. On a small excavated slope, people had placed some wooden tablets, a wooden Guan Gong statue, a large pit in the ground with an empty bowl containing a few grains of rice beside it, a plate of dried salted fish, and several cigarette butts.
On one wooden tablet, three characters missing strokes were written with a brush: Hongshun Hall.
This was the Chinese workers’ mobile shrine and memorial tablets. During festivals, when homesick, missing their mothers and children, or wanting to speak to any deity, they would shout into the pit in the ground, transmitting their wishes to the other side of the earth.
Railroad construction was deadly work, and in a foreign land where they couldn’t speak the language, just staying alive was difficult enough. If not for the capitalists’ excessively harsh exploitation this time, the Chinese workers who accepted their fate would never dare to rise in resistance.
“White devils work eight hours a day for forty dollars a month.” Afu waved his hand angrily, gasping as he spoke, “We work eleven hours a day for only thirty dollars a month, and payment isn’t even on time. Recently, it’s been too hot, with heatstroke cases daily. Several of us brothers discussed it and decided to just lie down and stop working! Who knew the devils would cut off water and food to the worksite, leaving us to fend for ourselves, wearing us down! Little Xian speaks good English and is quick-thinking, so he volunteered to negotiate with the devils, only to get beaten!”
Not only beaten but also sued, just bailed out with a criminal record. Lin Yuchan thought to herself.
Afu cried then laughed, saying: “Brother Minguan, now that you’ve made it big, you don’t need to worry about us half-dead old bones. Our lives are tied to these railroad ties, but you’re different. You should go to New York to do business, buy mansions, show people that we Chinese aren’t stupid or dumb, that we can also make big money…”
Afu’s status in Guangdong’s Hongmen wasn’t high. After coming to America, thinking his comrades at home had all perished, to maintain the lineage and also to band together for survival, he had painstakingly built up an overseas “Hongshun Hall” along the railroad tracks—though its function was roughly equivalent to a Chinese neighborhood committee—and had already become a leader among the Chinese workers.
Su Minguan was silent for a moment, nodded, and quietly hid the gun at his waist under his clothes.
“What do you plan to do next?” he asked.
“What else can we do?” Afu spat, “Fight the devils to the death! If we bow our heads now, they’ll treat us even less like humans in the future!”
Inspired by Afu, Chinese workers at the same worksite also mustered courage and began striking. But everyone struck very civilly, just lying in tents and under tree shade, brewing tea and using this rare time to rest and relax. No matter how the white supervisors cursed, they remained unmoved.
Suddenly, there was commotion outside the tent. Liang Xian was cursing and fighting with someone again. Afu hurriedly crawled out to look and was so angry that he started coughing.
Two tall, burly redneck whites jumped down from horses, strutting with legs apart, smashing the small “Hongshun Hall” shrine to pieces. They wore cotton jackets and canvas work pants, faces full of thuggish air, carrying Winchester 1866 repeating rifles—standard cowboy punks.
The lying Chinese workers got up in twos and threes, watching warily.
“Chinese go die!” One cowboy swung his fist at Liang Xian, “Don’t follow American rules in America, go back to China and drink your rat soup!”
Liang Xian was small but truly agile, dodging several big fists and asking with chest out: “Are you sent by the railroad company to negotiate?”
“Negotiate my ass!” The cowboy laughed loudly, “Don’t worry, the boss has already hired a hundred blacks to replace your jobs, twenty-five dollars a month, the blacks are fighting to get in, haha! They’ll be in position next week! Don’t work and watch your rice bowls!”
After the Civil War, a large batch of freed slaves emerged. Due to long periods of unpaid labor in cotton fields, many former slaves had developed lazy, slacking habits. Without skills and facing severe discrimination, they could hardly find decent work. But when Chinese workers united to resist exploitation, capitalists often hired cheaper blacks as temporary replacements, forcing the Chinese to submit.
Afu was unwilling, gesticulating and arguing in broken English: “Two blacks can barely do one Chinese worker’s job, and we’re all skilled workers…”
The cowboy sneered coldly: “But the blacks are obedient.”
As he spoke, he grabbed the pumpkin stem on Afu’s chest, yanked him close, and used his rifle barrel to poke at Afu’s shin.
Afu, bent from years of heavy labor and seriously ill, couldn’t dodge in time.
He wasn’t poked. The rifle barrel was blocked by someone’s foot.
Su Minguan held the gun barrel, his face cold, looking down and asking Afu: “Is this how they usually treat you?”
The cowboy was furious, and both surrounded him to beat him up. Su Minguan hooked up the broken “Hongshun Hall” wooden tablet with his toe, grabbed a rifle with his left hand. The cowboy tried to snatch it back while little Liang Xian tripped him from below. Quick as lightning, one cowboy was thrown out. The other became furious and raised his rifle—
Bang!
Su Minguan lifted the gun barrel upward. A flash of fire, and sparks flew from the distant steel rails.
The cowboy was pressed down by his rifle on the uncomfortable gravel, with a foot still stepping on the gun barrel, his neck red with anger.
“You… what’s your work number… you’re delaying the construction schedule, causing company losses, you’ll have to pay compensation… wait for the subpoena…”
“Go ahead and exaggerate when you report back.” Su Minguan stepped on one rifle, bent down to confiscate the other, pressed hard with his toe, and very politely cupped his hands, “Please inform them that the lady who was nearly shot by you is an attaché to the Qing envoy, holding a diplomatic passport. If this matter escalates, let’s see who gets subpoenaed first.”
Lin Yuchan had been pushed eight zhang away by him and couldn’t even hear the gunshot. But this didn’t prevent him from exaggerating to scare people.
She smiled from afar, deliberately waving a stack of bills and shouting in English: “We’re not afraid of him! We can afford San Francisco’s best lawyers!”
The cowboy was dumbfounded, not knowing when this group of Chinese workers had latched onto such powerful backing and had gotten himself into a diplomatic lawsuit. He had originally just come to intimidate people on orders!
These cowboys were similar to Shanghai street thugs. They did as much work as they were paid for and would never take extra risks.
They exchanged glances, mounted their horses, and left dejectedly.
The surrounding Chinese workers stuck their heads out in disbelief.
It was the first time they’d seen Americans lose face at a worksite, actually beaten by Chinese people!
Only the little cook Liang Xian clapped and laughed: “Jin Lanhe lives up to his reputation, haha, satisfying! Fantastic!”
Su Minguan looked at him with slight amusement. He had been warily silent this morning, but his stance changed quickly.
But Afu’s expression became complicated for a moment. Su Minguan saw it.
“Brother Afu, did I cause trouble in the hall?” He half-knelt, reorganizing the broken little shrine, restoring various memorial tablets to their original state, using the tone of that little brother from years past, “What do you think we should do?”
Afu, after all, had years of experience dealing with American capitalists. He stood up tremblingly and said seriously: “Six or seven years ago in Nevada, everyone also had conflicts with white bosses, got physical, and stopped work. That very night, a group of drunk Irish ruffians who were also building roads came to the Chinese tents looking for trouble and beat one person to death. This strike failed, and those who participated were instead whipped. I’ve always suspected the American bosses instigated the Irish to teach us a lesson.”
Su Minguan nodded, his expression gradually becoming serious.
“This time we also need to be prepared.”
Afu grinned and directed several Chinese workers to move the bedding in the tent. Underneath were hidden two steel rods with barbs, apparently dismantled from some building materials.
“This isn’t enough.” Su Minguan immediately judged, “We need guns. Best would be those repeating rifles that those ruffians just used—powerful enough. Also, we need to set up some obstacles for them. Is there any explosives here?”
…
Several Hongmen veterans discussed details of “armed resistance.” Lin Yuchan couldn’t join the conversation and could only listen quietly.
She thought of the impression of “railroad-building Chinese workers” in later history books: they were hardworking and never resisted, content with extremely low wages, to the point of being hated by whites who thought Chinese people were stealing jobs that belonged to them…
This wasn’t entirely true. On scattered railroad worksites, resistance never stopped. It’s just that these bottom-level workers with no education and barely able to maintain their health could never fight experienced railroad tycoons.
Capitalists brought in black labor, instigated Irish workers to cause trouble, provoked racial conflicts, and profited from it all. Even to suppress strikes, they wouldn’t hesitate to make Chinese workers bleed.
Chinese workers were diligent, practical, and technically skilled. For profit, capitalists were reluctant to fire them all. When the Chinese occasionally resisted, they chose to kill chickens to scare monkeys, using some unlucky person’s blood and life to make others comply and return to work.
After all, bullying the Chinese costs nothing. No one would sue, no one would report it, and their homeland wouldn’t send warships across thousands of miles to avenge them.
This was American soil. The struggle environment was much harsher than Shanghai’s foreign concessions or the “Dafeng Cotton Mill.”
Cook A’Xian rang a bell. Afu clapped his hands, and the Chinese workers gathered in twos and threes.
Afu coughed and greeted her like a big boss: “Minguan, and this Sister Lin, have some home cooking.”
The railroad company had cut off water and food to the worksite. The Chinese workers paid out of their own pockets to buy cheap corn grits from nearby villages. A’Xian cooked them into porridge and somehow obtained dried oysters and preserved vegetables, barely managing to piece together some Guangdong flavor.
Lin Yuchan hesitated. Su Minguan gave her a look, telling her to sit down and eat together.
This precious little bit of food was bought with the Chinese workers’ blood and sweat money. But if she declined, it would seem distant.
Lin Yuchan was also from humble origins and had no aversion to these mushy dregs. She smiled her thanks, sat on the ground, and took a bowl.
Afu and the Chinese workers were pleased, discussing in low voices: “Minguan made money but didn’t forget his roots. The girl he found is also a good person.”
Lin Yuchan took the opportunity to say: “Minguan beat up those two white devils today, tomorrow there’ll surely be more trouble. Brothers, I can’t eat your food for nothing, if there’s anything I can help with…”
Afu quickly became serious: “Sister, we know you have money, but we don’t want money, we just want to stand up for ourselves. People in foreign lands can’t be impulsive. We’re already half-buried old bones who can’t drag down you young people.”
His illness magnified his stubbornness. After saying this, he raised his eyebrows with an air of “if you dare throw money at us, we’ll break off relations.”
Lin Yuchan had nothing to say and held her bowl, drinking a few sips of corn porridge.
The corn grits were extremely coarse, the dried oyster flavor was also strange, and the mixed color was indescribable. Somehow it reminded her of those days working like a slave at Defeng Trading, being bullied, given leftover porridge full of saliva to drink… eating halfway through, being made to empty chamber pots…
Knowing she shouldn’t, she couldn’t help her stomach churning for a moment. She turned and ran a few steps, vomiting all the corn porridge onto a pile of railroad ties.
Her throat burned hot, her face was on fire, and she felt deeply ashamed. Was this “from luxury to frugality is difficult”? She wasn’t actually that precious!
Su Minguan followed to her side, handed her hot tea, and asked softly: “Not feeling well?”
She shook her head, rinsed her mouth with tea, and came back full of tears, feeling that the rapport she’d barely built with Afu and the others would probably be broken again now.
Just as she was about to apologize, suddenly the Chinese worker A’Shuang who knew some medicine examined her carefully.
“Sister, are you sick? These past years, everyone’s headaches and fevers have come to me. If you don’t mind…”
Lin Yuchan weakly extended a hand for the barefoot doctor to feel her pulse, smiling apologetically: “Just spent over a month on a ship, feeling a bit weak…”
Barefoot doctor A’Shuang suddenly smiled meaningfully, showing gums bleeding from scurvy.
“Congratulations.”