The fragrance of early spring flowers floated over Golden Gate Park. Dawn had not yet broken, and several bright stars hung on the deep blue canopy of sky.
A muffled rumble from nowhere broke the pre-dawn silence. Immediately after, the stars reversed course, and the Earth shook violently.
Rumble, rumble…
People didn’t even have time to scream. Enormous cracks in the ground split open City Hall, closely-packed high-rise buildings collapsed with thunderous crashes, and the elevator in the “Painted Stone Hotel” suddenly plummeted to the ground. In the Masonic cemetery, the ancient tombstone of His Majesty Emperor Norton I cracked into pieces, whistling as it crashed toward the church on the hillside below.
At 5:12 AM on April 18, 1906, a magnitude 7.8 earthquake awakened all of America. Just 75 seconds later, prosperous San Francisco was already devastated.
Citizens in nightclothes ran disheveled into the streets, horrified to see that familiar buildings and streetscapes no longer existed. Countless people who hadn’t escaped in time were trapped under broken bricks and splintered wood. The entire city was mangled and bloody, groaning among severed limbs and corpses.
Located in the city center, the once lively and bustling Chinatown streets instantly became ruins. In the deathly silence, flames leaped from broken timber, starting from Kearny Street and spreading along California Street and Sacramento Street.
“Help—”
Due to exclusion and discrimination, these Chinese residential areas were dense and crowded, without any fire safety facilities. The fire quickly spread, turning Chinatown into hell on earth.
Refugees hiding and shivering in the ruins scrambled to escape. Bound-footed women carried babies on their backs, sturdy Chinese laborers shook blood dripping from their heads, carried injured companions, clutched clothing and money salvaged from the ruins, and stumbled forward in tears.
“Feng Ru, run!”
Someone shouted.
That Guangdong tenant in his twenties, trapped under a wardrobe and just awakening from unconsciousness, first instinctively rushed toward the fire—he must have lost his mind!
“I won’t leave! My machines…”
In the warehouse behind the wooden house were piled countless mechanical parts: nailed timber, canvas, rubber tires, half-finished engines, countless blueprints and models…
Feng Ru frantically rescued these things, box by box.
“My airplane… woo woo, my airplane…”
“You can’t even save yourself, still thinking about airplanes!”
Not until flames burned his hands did someone drag him, rolling and crawling, out.
…
Sixty percent of citizens were homeless. Chinese, blacks, and whites crowded into high open spaces, huddled together in terror regardless of race, watching the rolling smoke raging in the city.
There were even rumors that insurance companies wouldn’t compensate for earthquake damage but would compensate for fire damage, so many people returned to the ruins to set fires.
The great fire burned for three days and nights, leaving San Francisco unrecognizable.
The paralyzed municipal government began stumbling operations, distributing tents, water, and bread.
But there was no share for the Chinese. These Chinese immigrants who paid taxes to America and contributed to American construction, the Chinese Exclusion Act didn’t recognize their citizenship.
Qing Minister to the United States Liang Cheng rushed over through the night, breathlessly informing everyone that the court had learned of the disaster through telegraph and planned to allocate tens of thousands of taels of silver to aid disaster-stricken overseas Chinese. However, the money was still en route, so everyone should hold on a little longer.
Anti-Chinese elements celebrated the disaster, taking the opportunity to celebrate Chinatown’s disappearance and calling for driving away all these homeless “yellow peril” people.
“Best if that profiteer surnamed Su got shaken to death too, so he can’t act arrogant in the city anymore!”
Before the words finished, they heard the sound of wheels in the distance. A team of Chinese laborers pushed carts and carried loads, struggling to climb over ruins to reach Golden Gate Park, skillfully setting up tents and tables.
Their appearance was also very disheveled—some had much of their hair burned off, with fresh scabs on their faces. But everyone was in high spirits, with “California Yixing Trading and Transportation Company” clearly printed on their dirty uniforms.
“Very sorry to disappoint you all. My boss is vacationing at Lake Tahoe, didn’t lose a single hair, and can return tomorrow—Hey, line up to register, don’t push, please!”
The last sentence was shouted to the Chinese refugees. In the post-earthquake Bay Area filled with wailing, Yixing Company had somehow obtained precious pickled vegetables, white rice, and tea, and was cooking tea and porridge for the Chinese. The aroma quickly wafted out.
The chattering white people swallowed their saliva and glared at the Chinese speaker. He was about forty or fifty years old, with solid muscles hidden under his long robe, a hint of fierceness in his brow—clearly someone who had clawed his way up from the bottom, not to be trifled with.
They fell silent and grumbled as they walked away.
Liang Xian sneered coldly and continued calling Chinese people to collect supplies while helping register the names of casualties.
He had been running the California Zhigong Hall for over ten years. Su Minguan said he wanted to train young people, so he relinquished his position as dragon head early and concentrated on business. Unexpectedly, a boss is still a boss—when others mentioned Chinese associations, the first name that jumped to mind was still his.
Liang Xian wasn’t discouraged. In the Hongmen, seniority was accumulated. This natural disaster was his responsibility to shoulder alone.
Of course, everyone recognized him. Half the Chinese in the big port paid membership fees, and seeing Yixing Company was like seeing family. Holding their porridge, they greeted him gratefully.
“Brother Liang is well, the company is well, we are also well! Just our homes all burned down, sigh…”
Only one thick-browed, bright-eyed young man, slurping his porridge loudly, asked naively who this impressive-looking character was and what he did.
Liang Xian walked to him and cupped his hands.
“You’re Feng Ru, right?” He smiled. “From Enping, Guangdong, a mechanic who just moved from New York. Welcome… The hall holds a reunion every year—we haven’t had time to invite you this year. Don’t be shy, coming to the big port makes you family. Whatever difficulties you have, just speak up. Same treatment whether you join or not.”
Feng Ru looked back at Chinatown burned to charcoal and nodded with a bitter smile.
Since three years ago, witnessing the Wright brothers’ airplane take flight, he had resolved to build China’s airplane. America wouldn’t let the Chinese into higher education, so he went to New York to work and study part-time. The Wright brothers kept their technology strictly secret, so they bought newspapers and magazines to draw models from scratch. Without funding, he used his years of work savings, even selling his new bride’s jewelry, researching and experimenting day and night…
Three years of hard work, today reduced to ashes.
Feng Ru looked at this equally haggard Hongmen boss before him and suddenly lost control, crying loudly.
Almost every Chinese person in the park was in tears. Liang Xian patted his shoulder and turned to comfort others.
San Francisco’s Chinese were not defeated by disaster. After burying their relatives, they began rebuilding their homes.
Taking advantage of low land prices, Yixing Company seized the opportunity to buy up land on a large scale. As Hongmen property, they built more fire-resistant brick houses and used their status as major taxpayers to convince the municipal government to install fire hydrants and water mains. Then, at almost give-away low prices, they rented or loaned sales to former Chinese residents and merchants, severely slapping the faces of those who advocated “taking the opportunity to drive the Chinese out.”
Hongmen’s prestige was unprecedented, their power greater than ever. When people discussed Zhigong Hall, they began mentioning Brother Liang first, then Boss Su.
However, post-disaster reconstruction involved many matters, and Liang Xian also had headaches.
Yixing Company provided money, giving each disaster-stricken Chinese family cash aid to help them restart their businesses.
Chinese people were cunning—grateful as they were, many opportunists inevitably came to fish in troubled waters, falsely reporting losses and casualties to defraud more aid. The fire had destroyed many people’s immigration and identity documents, so people came from less disaster-affected outer areas, or impersonated deceased relatives’ families to claim money. Some even threatened that if Hongmen didn’t give money, they would report them to city hall for illegal activities or to the consulate for conspiracy and treason.
Liang Xian wasn’t good-tempered to begin with. After a morning of intimidation and coercion, he had shouted away over ten people. Looking at the ruins still standing outside the window, he angrily drained a cup of tea and smashed the teacup on the ground.
The Yixing Company accountant beside him trembled: “Brother Liang, calm down.”
“Chinese people scheming against Chinese people—what kind of talk is that!” Liang Xian roared. “Did Yixing’s money blow in with the wind?”
He remembered his childhood days bleeding and sweating on railroad construction sites. Once in Nevada, his small team had endured enough oppression and finally worked up the courage to strike, only to be coldly mocked by another team of Chinese workers who took the opportunity to work overtime and steal their jobs, making their strike a joke. The ringleader was fired, and he was whipped. Two months without wages.
Decades later, no progress.
But looking at the motherland across the ocean, wasn’t it also years of internal strife and chaos, only knowing how to bully the weak and exploit the powerless, while being submissive to outsiders, bending over backwards… equally decades without progress.
The accountant sighed: “When people are poor, their ambitions are short. Everyone is scared of poverty.”
Just as he was feeling frustrated, someone knocked requesting an audience.
“Brother Liang,” Feng Ru also learned others’ manner of address, shyly cupping his hands, “I want… want a loan.”
“For what?” Liang Xian was in a bad mood and asked, “How much money?”
The so-called loan didn’t expect repayment. The fire had made many Chinese into black market residents, with credibility relying entirely on conscience. When the time came to default and run away, no one could find them.
Feng Ru openly said he wanted three thousand dollars.
Liang Xian immediately flew into a rage, face darkening as he made a gesture to see him out.
Others could restart their businesses with a hundred dollars—who was he, some big boss, asking for three thousand right off? Did he think they ran a charity?
Feng Ru neither humble nor arrogant, explained: “I cannot give up. I want to rebuild my machinery factory. When I build the airplane, I’ll return to New York as an engineer, save monthly salary, and repay every cent of this money without delay.”
Liang Xian: “What’s an airplane?”
Seeing that he didn’t understand airplanes, Feng Ru immediately got excited and grabbed a paper and a pen from the table to start drawing.
The accountant: “Hey, don’t draw randomly, use this sheet…”
“It’s using internal combustion engines to manufacture flying machines that can be freely piloted… Now the court is corrupt, and the military and government are incompetent. Japan and Russia wage war freely on our soil, while China has no national defense capability. The court only knows how to buy warships, each costing millions of silver taels. But airplanes are cheap and labor-saving, with greater utility. If we could have hundreds of aircraft, even thousands of planes guarding each port, the interior could remain secure…”
As Feng Ru spoke, he unconsciously gestured animatedly, his eyes shining.
Liang Xian frowned and exchanged glances with the accountant, as if they’d heard a wildly off-key opera.
This morning, they had already heard countless similar stories: how important their business was, how great their enterprise was, how they absolutely couldn’t abandon their efforts, please Brother Liang must lend a hand…
And this Craftsman Feng had particularly rich imagination, simply taking things from Western science fiction novels as real.
“That’s right,” the accountant remembered something and quietly told Liang Xian: “Westerners are indeed making flying machines, but more fail than succeed, and quite a few people have died. Some places have even passed laws banning this stuff.”
And this mechanic before them, in his twenties, entirely self-taught, without even a proper prototype to show—he looked refined and scholarly, but his ambitions were a bit too grand.
Liang Xian raised his hand to interrupt Feng Ru’s words and said indifferently: “Since this is an enterprise beneficial to national defense, why not apply to the consulate for funding? They have forty thousand taels of disaster relief silver that should be in place by now. Doing well and mixing in some official position wouldn’t be difficult. Coming to us undervalues yourself.”
Feng Ru’s face reddened slightly as he said quietly: “It’s precisely because no one in the court is willing to see me that I…”
Liang Xian sneered coldly, thinking: So you’re treating us as suckers. Think highly of us.
Three thousand dollars could aid dozens of Chinese families. He didn’t intend to waste time on this suspected swindler.
Feng Ru saw Brother Liang’s expression, lowered his head with a bitter smile, and prepared to take his leave.
This expression wasn’t the first time he’d seen it. For three years, he had run out of funds countless times and sought funding from Chinese compatriots, always seeing the same look.
This couldn’t be blamed on them. Who could believe that Chinese people could rely on their strength to independently build airplanes?
The accountant collected the simple blueprints Feng Ru had drawn, planning to return them. Feng Ru waved his hand, indicating they should keep them.
Just as he turned around, he suddenly heard someone call softly outside the door—a woman of considerable age.
“A’Xian.”
The Brother Liang, who had just been calm and strategizing, immediately became respectful upon hearing this call.
“Mrs. Lin? You’ve returned? Are you injured?”
Feng Ru saw a skirt hem flash past the doorway and wondered to himself.
Could this be an even bigger boss than Brother Liang?
“He has some scrapes, nothing serious.” The person outside exchanged pleasantries with Liang Xian, then suddenly changed topic: “That craftsman—I suggest still providing support. I know the risk is high, so I’ll pay personally. I’ll sell some stocks, and the money will be available next Monday. Then we’ll hold another fundraiser in Oakland. You go arrange the disbursement first.”
Liang Xian quietly objected: “Madam, teacher’s wife, you’re getting old and don’t know how treacherous the world is. Nowadays, swindlers have many tricks, not like in your day…”
“Fine, fine, even if he’s a swindler, I’ll treat it as gambling. If I lose the bet, I’m willing.” The woman said with a laugh. “Tell him not to think about repaying money. As long as he can build an airplane, money isn’t a problem.”
Feng Ru vaguely listened to their conversation, his heart jumping up and down, finally settling into a position of wild joy.
He couldn’t help shouting across the space: “I will! I’ll build it! Thank you, Brother Liang! Thank you, Mrs. Lin!”
On September 21, 1909, after experiencing countless experiments, injuries, failed test flights, and factory fires, Feng Ru once again piloted his aircraft for a test flight in Oakland. This time, the airplane swayed and soared 2640 feet, then slowly landed on the grass, 1788 feet farther than the Wright brothers’ first flight record.
The watching Chinese and Western reporters were stunned. After a long while, they burst into cheers, lifting Feng Ru high as he emerged from the cockpit.
This was the first airplane independently developed and manufactured by Chinese people, only six years after the Wright brothers, and technically even surpassing the latter. Reporters immediately excitedly sent telegrams, declaring: “In aviation, Chinese people have left white people behind! This is the Oriental Wright, a mechanical genius! We must keep him in America, can’t let Europe steal him away!…”
Liang Xian cheered along with others, touched his rough face, and felt it hurt a bit.
But someone still wouldn’t give him face. Lin Yuchan squeezed through the crowd and forcefully slapped Liang Xian’s shoulder, announcing victory like a little girl with pride.
“How about that, Brother Liang? I didn’t misjudge, did I?”
Liang Xian maintained his dignity, as stubborn and unconvinced as in his youth.
“This time you got lucky.” He graciously admitted defeat. “But I still say the same thing—when people get old, they become gullible. You still need to be careful of swindlers…”
Just as he was speaking, a subordinate came to report that the man surnamed Sun from the Honolulu branch, who had come fundraising, was still loitering in the hall.
“Tsk, another swindler.” Liang Xian cupped his hands to bid farewell to Lin Yuchan. “I’ll go deal with this.”