Early the next morning, the railroad remained shut down. The Qing diplomatic mission was still stranded at the hotel.

Golden sunlight spilled through clouds, illuminating the rolling hills of San Francisco’s urban area, painting them in rich green hues. Clusters of pansies swayed charmingly in the breeze on the hotel’s windowsills.

Lin Yuchan dressed neatly and, though she had little appetite, still ate a few spoonfuls of oatmeal. Su Minguan had the bellboy bring fresh milk, which he boiled and cooled to lukewarm, added sugar, and coaxed her to drink sip by sip for nutrition.

He watched this energetic girl as she combed her hair, shaped her eyebrows, gently tightened the sash at her waist, then bent to put on comfortable cloth shoes… He had to admit she didn’t need to rest in bed like an invalid.

But he still hesitated a moment and said: “A’Mei…”

Lin Yuchan turned with a charming smile: “I know—I haven’t forgotten anything that midwife told me yesterday. No wandering around, no causing trouble, no eating random things, not getting too tired…”

Su Minguan felt he was being annoying, so he shut up, trying to find that old carefree state. He pulled her shoulders close, sniffed her hair ends that carried a faint gardenia perfume scent, and whispered: “Be careful.”

They split up to act. After breakfast, Lin Yuchan first intercepted Rong Hong and told him about the stock appreciation. When the Central Pacific Railroad Company first issued stocks, Rong Hong had also bought a little, intending to support American railroad construction.

Who knew Rong Hong’s mind wasn’t on making money at all? Hearing the stocks had risen dozens of times, he just said “Mm” and smiled: “I’ll ask when I have a chance. Today I’m taking the children to visit the local public elementary school. Miss Lin, are you coming?”

Seeing her shake her head, he waved and hurried off with the children, like a dutiful mother duck.

Envoy Chen Lanbin was preparing to visit Chinatown to meet local merchant leaders, layering on his official robes. Before he left, Lin Yuchan politely requested an audience and talked for half an hour.

Then she gathered her spirits, went out to take the public carriage, and headed straight to the building housing the Central Pacific Railroad Company’s San Francisco office.

Taking the elevator, she didn’t go to the seventh floor but instead went to the sixth.

The sign for “Southern Pacific Railroad” gleamed brightly.

That Central Pacific Railroad clerk had casually mentioned that this “Southern Pacific” was currently their strongest competitor.

The walls displayed photographs of well-dressed gentlemen, all introduced as Southern Pacific’s directors and managers. Lin Yuchan pushed open the door, glanced around, and saw a white-bearded gentleman at a solid walnut desk discussing something with his secretary.

“Mr. Hopkins,” Lin Yuchan smiled sweetly, waving familiarly, “Forgive me for not making an appointment today. But there’s something very important…”

The white-bearded man indeed turned around. Several staff members were also puzzled.

“Madam, you are…?”

Lin Yuchan smiled, pointed at the ceiling, and gestured “shh”: “I’m a Central Pacific Railroad Company shareholder. Just ten minutes of your time.”

Currently, American railroad companies received national subsidies for every mile of track laid. Central Pacific’s Chinese worker strike causing railroad shutdown meant lost ticket and freight revenue on one hand; every day Chinese workers rested, massive government subsidies would fly into other railroad companies’ accounts.

If anyone was most delighted to see Central Pacific’s strike and shutdown, it would be Mr. Hopkins, the Southern Pacific boss before her.

After several exchanges, Mr. Hopkins was overjoyed and personally invited Lin Yuchan into his office.

That afternoon, at the Central Pacific Railroad worksite.

The strike led by Afu continued. Due to the worksite being cut off from water and food, Chinese workers had to start providing for themselves, rapidly consuming their meager savings, with some beginning to complain.

Afu dragged his sick body and beat his chest, using his over ten years of railroad construction experience to guarantee that, holding out at most one more week, the white bosses would likely partially compromise and give everyone an extra half-month’s grain.

But this had little effect. Many Chinese workers weren’t sold pig-boys but had borrowed money from their hometowns and voluntarily crossed the ocean to pan for gold. Most of their hard-earned savings were sent back to China through intermediaries. They had their calculations. Every extra dollar wasted here meant squandering a month’s sustenance for families back in the countryside.

“Alright, alright, Brother Afu, we all know you have backbone, but we also need to make a living! Prices are high in the big port—how long can our savings last?”

The common term among the Chinese was calling San Francisco “Big Port,” meaning big city. California’s capital, Sacramento, was “Second Port,” and so on.

Some thought more, secretly complaining: “Afu’s time is short—wanting to be tough before leaving, to die like a man, is understandable. But we still have to stay in America for half our lives—why follow him in this nonsense?”

Su Minguan sent away the Western doctor he’d called for treatment and hurried over upon hearing the news to mediate.

“Since you know Afu is sick, why the cold sarcasm? I’m here to support you—I won’t let you lose your rice bowls!”

Just as they were arguing, dust suddenly rose on the dirt road as several unfamiliar handcarts appeared alongside.

“Fellow countrymen! Come lend a hand!”

The cart pushers were also a group of Chinese. Some recognized them—all restaurant and grocery store owners from San Francisco’s Chinatown.

They unloaded baskets from the carts. The Chinese workers came closer, and their eyes widened.

Three baskets of soybeans, five baskets of rice, one basket of pig and beef offal, a bag of cured pork, a basket of dried squid, several cans of smoked fish scraps, over ten heads of cabbage, plus bamboo shoots, seaweed, and sauce made from chopped cabbage…

And a basket of wet, palm-sized California red abalone!

California’s coastline was rich in giant abalone. Americans dared not eat them, so these sold very cheaply in Chinatown Chinese restaurants—a whole one for just a few dozen cents.

“All imported from Hong Kong and Guangdong. The abalone was caught today—very fresh.” The restaurant owner introduced with a smile, “There are also apple pies and sausages from the neighboring restaurant that went bad, and they didn’t want them. They’re just slightly sour—we Chinese don’t mind, and they’re edible when heated. I brought them all. Everyone works hard—come eat a good meal.”

The hungry Chinese workers cheered wildly.

Little A’Xian immediately set up the pot.

Only Afu was slightly suspicious, asking: “Who paid for all this?”

He immediately looked toward Su Minguan.

“What Chinese person has that much money?” The restaurant owner laughed, “It’s the boss of ‘Southern Pacific Railroad Company’ who heard about your strike and was afraid his workers would follow suit, so he bought food from me to subsidize them. These few carts are just leftovers, delivered on the way, as he said he admires your toughness! Don’t be polite—white devils love doing random charity, and I should thank you for giving me business! Hah, having money is everything!”

Su Minguan feigned surprise and laughed: “When bosses fight each other and buy people’s hearts, we benefit like fishermen. This is called reaping profits.”

Afu was both surprised and amused, thanking the restaurant owner.

The well-fed Chinese workers rekindled their fighting spirit, and actions began escalating. That very day, they started writing leaflets, declaring that if equal pay for equal work and reduced working hours weren’t met, they would begin tearing up the railroad.

This move would anger the capitalists. Afu was half excited, half nervous, warning everyone: “Don’t sleep tonight.”

The Chinese workers moved the “Hongshun Hall” memorial tablets into the tents, preparing to face another round of iron fists.

When news reached the Central Pacific Railroad Company, President Stanford was at his wits’ end, scolding each of his ineffective subordinates.

He had thought that after a few days of hunger, these cowardly Chinese would submit and obediently return to the worksite. He hadn’t expected the “friendly competitor” to intervene—this was provocation!

“Tomorrow night is the shareholders’ banquet. They want to strangle us at this moment—dream on! Tell Charlie and his boys to get ready! Hmph, I’ll make these greedy yellow people pay the price!”

The Central Pacific Railroad Company’s performance was growing rapidly. To reward shareholders and promote their company, they held banquets every quarter, inviting major Bay Area shareholders to attend.

Due to clear, warm weather, this outdoor banquet was set on the Pacific Club lawn on one side of Alamo Square. This was elevated ground in central San Francisco, planted with centuries-old pines and cypresses, with rows of Victorian houses standing in nearby neighborhoods—any frozen frame would be a standard postcard scenic photo.

Near evening, red and yellow colored balls and banners hung from trees, and hot grills glowed orange. A buzzing new generator was brought to the lawn, lighting a row of fashionable, bright, newly-produced graphite filament incandescent bulbs. A large inflatable locomotive model swayed in the wind, with giant “Central Pacific Railroad” advertising slogans visible everywhere, ensuring the company stole the show.

The on-site band played the cheerful, lively popular folk song “Oh! Susanna.” Twenty years ago, gold prospectors had sung this ballad as they poured into California. This wild world, dominated by gold mines and rifles, had air that reeked of overnight riches.

Elaborately dressed gentlemen and ladies arrived by carriage. Railroad company president Leland Stanford beamed with a smile, greeting various shareholder sponsors.

Lin Yuchan poked her head out from the carriage window, was dazzled by the glaring lights, withdrew, and adjusted her collar.

For the overseas trip, she had prepared a complete set of Chinese formal wear—naturally, according to her aesthetics, not the cumbersome, oversized style. After arriving in America and seeing local Chinese dress styles, she had someone find a tailor shop in Chinatown to alter it to be more streamlined and form-fitting.

Clusters of elaborately dressed gentlemen and ladies chatted, laughed, and drank like a large Shanghai foreign settlement party.

The difference was that today’s guests were either rich or noble, incomparable to the sailors and nouveau riche who traveled to the East.

In comparison, Lin Yuchan felt that investing a few hundred dollars to be listed among invited major shareholders was somewhat fraudulent.

It was quite reasonable. Since the Central Pacific Railroad Company went public, though stock prices had been rising, there were inevitable fluctuations. Those shareholders who had invested in original stocks, seeing prices double or triple, were quite satisfied and sold their holdings early. Or when stock prices moved sideways, they chose to cash out for profits and avoid risks.

Very few people like Lin Yuchan could buy stocks and then leave them alone, with hearts like still water, not looking for seven or eight years, holding until now when they had multiplied dozens of times.

So the current shareholders, though their holdings were similarly worth tens of thousands of dollars, had much higher entry costs than Lin Yuchan. In other words, they were all richer than she was.

The shareholders included both men and women. But without exception, every female guest had a male companion—either husband, father, brother, or romantic partner. When greeting people, they always stood beside their male companion, with few acting independently.

Lin Yuchan could only follow local customs. She quietly observed people’s behavior, quickly familiarizing herself with American Western social etiquette.

The carriage stopped, and the driver helped her down.

The doorman guiding guests saw a yellow face and looked at the invitation with surprise, checking for quite a while before showing a professional smile: “Sir and madam, please come in.”

Mr. Stanford was glowing, nimbly jumping onto the podium to introduce this banquet’s special guests—celebrities among the shareholders.

“…Let us welcome the president of California Bank, the honorable Mr. William Ralston! His bank holds one-tenth of Central Pacific’s shares, making great contributions to Western railroad enterprise…”

Financial tycoons applauded each other as warm applause rang out and the band dramatically played background music.

“…Our San Francisco native, satirist Ambrose Bierce—”

Book fans among the guests loudly laughed and recited his famous lines: “Patriotism is the last refuge of scoundrels, haha!”

The shy writer held his drink, waving to the audience below, asking everyone to buy his new book.

“The Gold Rush’s biggest winner, Mr. Levi Strauss!”

The Levi’s founder wore his signature blue jeans, shaking hands and chatting with Mr. Stanford.

When California discovered gold, others frantically rushed to pan for gold, but only this shrewd businessman noticed that prospectors’ clothes and pants wore out easily, so he invented durable, shrink-resistant canvas work pants that sold immediately upon production, earning him more than gold panning.

Gold would eventually be exhausted, but demand for “jeans” never ceased. This wild, tough clothing full of pioneer spirit had become a concrete representation of the “American Dream.”

“Would you like to custom-order thick, durable jeans for your railroad workers?” Levi Strauss pretended to be mercenary, speaking in an exaggerated German Jewish accent and joking with Mr. Stanford, “Order wholesale from me for a 20% discount!”

The guests laughed heartily.

“…Young inventor Mr. Thomas Edison, who happens to be visiting this week—perhaps many don’t know him yet…”

Edison looked nervous, wearing an ill-fitting formal suit as he took the stage and bowed.

“Uh, honored to meet everyone. I’m developing a machine that can speak, a phonograph… Yes, no no, not a telephone, but something that records sound in grooves, then through vibration, reproduces… This isn’t fantasy, I have experimental manuscripts… If, if you wealthy gentlemen would be willing to donate a little…”

With America’s economy booming like the rising sun, various charlatan inventors were rampant. Edison’s speech didn’t receive much response. Amid a buzz of chatter, he awkwardly left the stage and took a brandy from a waiter.

Only Lin Yuchan widened her eyes, desperately tracking that unremarkable figure in the bizarre, extravagant atmosphere.

It’s E—di—son!

Go chat him up! Invest! Be his patron!

Just as she was about to step forward, she suddenly heard Mr. Stanford’s booming voice.

“Haha, today we have a small surprise, an unexpected guest… I just learned that our company is famous not only in Europe and America, but even someone from the Chinese Empire on the other side of the earth has made substantial investments in our company, showing confidence in us… This noble lady from the East, don’t be shy, let everyone see this face that combines beauty and wisdom!”

Lin Yuchan was suddenly called out, her cheeks warming slightly.

But she was prepared. This once-in-a-century foreign shareholder was the railroad company’s living advertisement. Capitalists definitely wouldn’t pass up this self-promotion opportunity.

She raised her face with a sweet smile, taking the arm of her male companion beside her.

At the same time, at the Mission Bay railroad worksite, Su Minguan finished dressing in work clothes and distributed Winchester 1866 repeating rifles to several sturdy Chinese workers, quietly explaining usage tips.

“Are the roadblocks all ready?”

“A’Xian, are the telegraph lines normal?”

“No impulsiveness. The first shot must not come from our side.”

“Everyone, listen to Brother Afu’s commands.”