The hotel was about half a li from the Imperial Maritime Customs, and according to the current administrative divisions, it belonged to the International Settlement.
Lin Yuchan wished she could bring a camera—this was truly the authentic “Ten-Li Foreign Settlement”! Even old photographs couldn’t restore this atmosphere.
When she was in Guangzhou, her status was that of a bought servant girl, running around daily on her master’s orders, with no leisure time for sightseeing.
But this time her mindset was completely different. She was now a “respectable woman”—to put it nicely, a free person—who could walk as far as she wanted without worrying about being dragged back.
Buildings lined both sides of the streets densely: simple Western-style buildings, two or three-story Chinese houses, and many wooden row houses similar to the later shikumen—these were cheap rental housing built and developed by foreigners for Chinese residents. Tattered clothes hung outside the small windows, indicating the dense population here.
Guangzhou had an exclusionary local culture. Foreigners were required to live in the small Shamian concession, and foreign trading houses like Dent & Co. were all located next to the concession. Even twenty years after the Treaty of Nanjing was signed, foreigners still didn’t dare venture alone into the old city’s alleys, fearing they might have bad luck and get hit with bricks.
Shanghai was completely different. Years of warfare between the Taiping Army and the Qing court had created massive numbers of refugees in the Jiangnan region, who flooded into the concessions in waves seeking shelter. The government couldn’t stop them, foreigners had no solution, so they could only accept it.
This created the peculiar situation of “Chinese and foreigners living together.” Behind a bright and beautiful Western-style building, there might be hidden hovels with sewage flowing everywhere. Sunny courtyards hosted barbecue lunch parties, while just beyond the thick hedges came the wailing of little beggars.
Chinese constables wore Western-style uniforms, strutting arrogantly through the streets and alleys.
Chinese coolies were chained together, breaking stones and building roads with worried faces, widening narrow Chinese streets into “roads” that foreign carriages could traverse.
Pedestrians had blurred faces, wearing seemingly copy-pasted expressions of indifference, hunched over, hurrying from unknown origins to unknown destinations.
In the Qing Dynasty, simply staying alive was a high-risk endeavor. Unless one was precisely born into a family of wealth and status, the vast majority of people on this land lived each day with an element of life-or-death randomness.
Even sitting at home, concentrating on just getting by day to day, when plague struck, bandits invaded, or famine swept through, no one could escape.
So it was no wonder most people carried that muddled, dazed quality. After all, not knowing how long one might live, why think long-term?
But looking carefully, one could still see that these people’s eyes held rich lives, small pleasures that could be savored within the confines of a snail shell. Their parents, wives, children, in-laws, sisters, tomorrow’s breakfast, next month’s funeral, the new outfit they hoped for during New Year…
Yet whenever they encountered strangers, that tiny, insignificant glimmer quickly dimmed, and ordinary people retreated into their cocoons, becoming part of countless indifferent spectators of the times.
Cook Mrs. Sun frowned, quickly walking around a group of coolies, saying to Lin Yuchan: “Shanghai has complete foreign goods. I want to buy some Western spices. Will you come with me?”
Lin Yuchan shook her head: “I want to walk around by myself. See you at dinner.”
Mrs. Sun: “But…”
The concession had a mixed population, with very few women walking alone.
But thinking again, the young widow was bold and didn’t care about appearances. She worked for the Maritime Customs, backed by all the foreign powers—nothing serious should happen.
Mrs. Sun left with concern. Lin Yuchan turned and ran off happily.
She looked up to read the signs of various shops, searching for the two characters “Yixing.”
While searching, she inexplicably thought: “What am I looking for him for? Shopping and needing a man to help carry things?”
Probably still worried about his safety. Young Master Su had boarded the wrong ship while seeking refuge, thinking it would just be a “Pearl River night cruise,” only to find himself smuggled halfway across China. He was surely completely in the dark, and even if there was an organization here, who knew if they would recognize Jin Lanhe—better he not be bullied by local thugs.
But after walking several streets and tripping five or six times from not watching the road, she saw no shop names related to “Yixing.” As for the symbol of two stacked copper coins, it was nowhere to be found.
She could only guess that perhaps the Heaven and Earth Society didn’t establish itself in the concessions?
She didn’t dare search too far, so she simply returned to the Bund, repeating the route of 21st-century tourists, amusing herself by guessing the location of the “three kitchen pieces.”
The foreign goods all over the street weren’t surprising to her. Before long, her attention was suddenly drawn to a brick-and-wood Western building.
A brass plate was nailed to the building’s entrance: “North China Herald.”
“There are already newspapers now?” Lin Yuchan thought like a country bumpkin.
The North China Herald was published weekly, and its readers were naturally the foreigners residing in Shanghai. Lin Yuchan curiously inquired—it only accepted annual subscriptions, priced at fifteen taels of silver.
Ordinary people couldn’t afford it.
The newspaper office’s lobby kept some old papers for people to browse. The doorkeeper, seeing she could read English, assumed she was some foreigner’s maid and didn’t chase her away, even gesturing toward a stool in the corner.
Lin Yuchan thanked him and picked up several recent newspapers to read slowly.
The content was varied: shipping schedules, rental advertisements, Chinese and foreign business news, and current affairs commentaries.
“Republican Abraham Lincoln elected President of the United States… American Civil War breaks out in full… Britain declares neutrality…”
“Russian Tsar Alexander II implements social reforms, abolishes serfdom, issues decrees, vigorously promoting industrial development…”
“Johann Philipp Reis demonstrates his invention of a rapid communication device (tentatively named telephone) in Frankfurt, causing sensation…”
“Steam age coming to an end? New internal combustion engine patented, to be displayed at Third London World Exhibition…”
Of course, there were also many current affairs reports about China. Most were notifications of local official appointments and dismissals, or travel warnings: “Rebels have roamed into such-and-such province and place, expatriates should avoid travel.”
Heaven and earth overturned, stars shifted, some people marked time in place while others rushed forward by any means necessary.
Suddenly, Lin Yuchan spotted an inconspicuous notice in the corner.
“Qing minister Hung-Chang Lee arriving in Shanghai shortly to handle rebellion suppression and naval organization matters…”
Lin Yuchan read that pinyin several times—
“Li Hongzhang?”
Compared to the large, bold “Lincoln” nearby, this name appeared utterly ordinary, looking at first glance like a small advertisement squeezed into the margins.
Lin Yuchan concentrated, about to read the details, when she heard growing commotion outside, with someone crying out desperately.
“Good gentlemen, please take pity and shelter this child who’s about to starve to death… we can work like oxen or horses… my little girl is very obedient, just ten catties of rice, ten catties of rice for one little girl, she can do any work… even as a child bride…”
A group of refugees who had just fled into the concession, wearing no complete clothing, so hungry their ribs protruded and bellies were swollen, knelt at the newspaper office entrance.
The children were pitch-black, with grass markers stuck in their hair, mouths open, too weak to cry loudly, sobbing while clinging to their parents’ legs.
With frequent warfare in Jiangnan recently, such refugees appeared daily, begging on the streets, sleeping rough, and selling sons and daughters. County and concession authorities organized many corpse collection teams that could fill several carts daily.
The Chinese doorkeeper quickly ran to the entrance, loudly driving them away: “Go away, go away! This is a foreign establishment—no disturbances allowed!”
At the same time, he said to Lin Yuchan: “Miss, don’t look anymore, leave quickly! These people are like locusts—once they latch onto you, they won’t let go!”
But the refugees became even more determined not to leave. A bare-chested woman shouted, “Foreign gentlemen are merciful! Just give us something to eat! Even one or half a wen is fine—the child is starving to death!”
A little girl was dying of hunger, one foot swollen, her thumb bloody where she had eaten the skin off it herself.
The shouting alarmed the newspaper office editors. A foreigner dressed like a missionary came downstairs to investigate, shaking his head repeatedly after understanding the situation.
“Too pitiful… too barbaric… In America, abolitionists are defending black slaves’ freedom with their lives, yet these Chinese couples sell their children like cats and dogs—simply incomprehensible.”
“John,” the missionary called to the Chinese doorkeeper, “drive these despicable slave traders away. I don’t want to hear these poor children’s wailing.”
The Chinese doorkeeper picked up a stick and began driving people away.
“Get lost, get lost! You just want money, but foreign gentlemen don’t fall for that!”
Lin Yuchan had already left the newspaper office, watching the refugees’ cries with pity, the silver dollars in her hand developing ideas of their own.
If these children starved to death, their fate would probably be the mass grave, same as Lin Ba’mei in her previous life, right?
They were selling for much less than Lin Ba’mei had. Lin Yuchan counted her savings—enough to buy three children.
But what after buying them? Have them serve as maids? Support them for nothing? Or release them to run naked in this dangerous society?
Their parents got money, bought rice, could eat their fill for a few days—then what?
What about those thousands upon thousands of refugees she hadn’t encountered?
“I can’t save all these people.”
Moreover, she had to be cautious. The Qing Dynasty had many survival skills, one being “don’t flash wealth.” A single woman throwing around silver dollars for charity—being seen doing this would not be good.
After hesitating back and forth for a long time, she walked toward a wonton stand at the intersection. The wonton stand owner was a broad-shouldered, bear-like uncle who didn’t look like he sold wontons but rather like he slaughtered pigs.
“How many bowls of wontons can this silver dollar buy?” she asked.
The owner estimated roughly and said gruffly: “About a hundred bowls. Miss planning to entertain guests at home?”
“Please make a hundred bowls and call the street beggars to eat them…”
She wouldn’t show herself to avoid being remembered.
Before she finished giving instructions, she looked up and was stunned.
Someone was being even more saintly than her. A scholar in silk robes happened to pass by, couldn’t bear watching this tragedy of selling children, wiping tears while pulling out his money pouch.
“I’m not buying your children. Quick, take this money, go eat some hot wontons over there. This child is almost starving to death—don’t eat too fast… hey hey, line up, don’t fight!”
Whoosh—all the refugees on the street surrounded him.
“Great benefactor, save us! We haven’t eaten for three days either…”
“Sir, may you live a hundred years! My sister is sick and dying, could you give a little more…”
“Benefactor, accept my bow! My wife is about to give birth, please give some money to find a midwife…”
The great benefactor distributed his wealth, suddenly realizing the atmosphere was wrong. The starving people around him hadn’t decreased, but were gathering more and more!
A Western leather wallet quickly emptied. He said apologetically: “That’s all I have. Everyone dispersed.”
How could the refugees disperse? An old woman said pitifully, “Sir, you gave the life-saving money to others—do you have the heart to let this old woman starve to death?”
The great benefactor was in a dilemma, and could only search his pockets again, pulling out a package of delicate pastries he had prepared as his snacks.
The old woman snatched it away, quickly kowtowed to him, and limped away.
Once this started, the refugee crowd exploded.
“Sir, sir! Your wallet looks old too—why not give it to me for some life-saving food!”
“Sir is a bodhisattva incarnate! Your foreign handkerchief is dirty too—why not give it to the child for a belly band, it would be warmer at night…”
“Come quickly! There’s a great benefactor here giving away money, first come, first served!”
…
Clinging to him like flies were no longer just refugees. Lin Yuchan saw at least five or six street ruffians swagger over to fish in troubled waters. She watched this poor great benefactor surrounded in the middle, with people stripping his clothes, his shoes, his pockets—it was highway robbery.
All the idle people on the Bund came to hear the news, watching with sympathetic smiles.
Lin Yuchan couldn’t bear to watch anymore. She turned and ran two streets away, grabbed an idle constable, and slipped him a dime.
Moments later, a shrill voice rang across the Bund: “Constables coming! The Sikh police are coming! Everyone run!”
Everyone knew Indian constables were fiercer than Westerners. The crowd finally scattered in confusion.
The great benefactor had been picked clean, his silk robe and shoes gone, his undergarment torn in several places, his hat askew, belt pulled off, even the small jade clasp decorating his braid torn away—utterly disheveled.
Only then did Lin Yuchan see his appearance.
He was about thirty-something, with thick eyebrows and deep-set eyes. Normally, he should be a distinguished, handsome uncle, but his current typhoon-aftermath appearance really couldn’t inspire admiration. Yet even facing such disaster, his eyes remained calm and clear, completely different from the numb indifference of most Chinese people of this era.
Seeing such a rare species even more saintly than herself in the Qing Dynasty for the first time, Lin Yuchan felt this uncle was especially endearing. She wanted to comfort him, but felt she wasn’t qualified. The property he’d just been robbed of was worth at least a hundred taels of silver.
That constable—not a Sikh, just an ordinary Chinese person—looked at the man and laughed: “Want to do good deeds in Yangjingbang? These unruly people would be polite if they only stripped one layer of your skin! Leave quickly, don’t cause me trouble!”
The rich young master had become a fallen sparrow, still hadn’t quite recovered, and nodded in bewilderment.
He sat alone by the roadside, holding up his loose trousers, covered in dirty handprints and mud.
He tried to stand but stepped barefoot on stones in the road, feeling sharp pain in his sole, and plopped back down.
He reached out his hand, wanting to say something for help, but didn’t know what to say.
But everyone around was watching the excitement, discussing from far away, afraid that getting too close would result in him grabbing them to complain, and they couldn’t clear themselves of involvement.
He looked dazedly at these sneering faces, the humiliation and disgust of being stripped by refugees surging up, revealing grief and anger in his eyes.
Until, from the gray crowd of people, a girl in azure robes boldly stepped forward, with neatly combed braids and cautious, careful eyes.
“Here. Call a carriage home,” Lin Yuchan finally couldn’t help but be charitable, wrapping a silver dollar in her handkerchief, bending to hand it over. “Get a doctor to look at you. Don’t expose wealth carelessly next time.”
She suddenly thought that when Su Minguan watched her playing Lei Feng, he probably had this same frustrated feeling of disappointment.
The great benefactor was stunned for a long time, trembling as he accepted her handkerchief.
He vigorously wiped the dirty handprints on his body, shaking his head with a bitter smile.
“Thank you, miss, for your righteous assistance. I… I never imagined China had become like this.”
This comment made Lin Yuchan shiver all over. Why did this tone sound so foreign…
Just like her own thoughts when she first arrived in the Qing Dynasty.
And his complete unfamiliarity with Chinese customs—could it be…
She had a bold idea, made a gesture, and asked softly: “Do you have a health code?”
The great benefactor looked up blankly: “Ah? Oh oh, ah.”
Lin Yuchan didn’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved. No reaction at all—seemed to be a native.
The great benefactor struggled to climb up awkwardly, accidentally dropping his hat.
Along with the hat, the braid sewn to the back of the hat also fell to the ground.
He quickly picked up the hat, nonchalantly put it back on, covering a head of hair parted three to seven.
Lin Yuchan’s heart felt like ten thousand Pleasant Goats galloping through.
What the heck? Baa baa baa?
This was 1861, not 1911!
In this great Qing nation of two hundred million men, how many had already secretly cut off their braids?
This person was not simple. She caught up with the great benefactor, trying to stay calm as she gave him code words:
“Sir, in the pine and cypress forest, Hong is the surname…”
“Reunion today in the pavilion…”
“Capital in hand, the world is all the same…”
She went through all the provincial recognition codes Su Minguan had mentioned, but got no response. The great benefactor looked at her with belated wariness, asking: “Miss, are you a fortune teller?”
Lin Yuchan pressed her lips together, feeling that her uncle’s emotional intelligence was truly worrying.
She laughed openly: “Have you ever seen a swindler who pays out money?—Hey, driver!”
Continuing to pester would make her look like a crazy woman. She waved for a rental carriage, had the driver help the barefoot great benefactor up, then waved: “One dollar should be enough. Goodbye, be careful not to get taken on a long route.”
The man sitting in the carriage only then belatedly remembered he was taking money from the young lady for nothing.
He quickly fumbled in his chest for a business card, presenting it with both hands.
“Miss, if you have time, come to my trading house—I’ll pay you back.”
Lin Yuchan took it. The business card had been crumpled by countless grabbing hands until it was wrinkled, but she could still make out the characters.
Rong Hong
Boya Trading House, General Manager
Address: No. X Saigon Road, French Concession, welcome to visit for foreign goods trade…
“A businessman?” Lin Yuchan thought in surprise. “At his rate of scattering money, even Young Master Qi could go bankrupt later than him.”
There was English on the back too. The content was similar to the Chinese, except for an added line under the name.
Yung Wing
Bachelor of Arts, 1854, Yale College, Connecticut
Buzzing sounds filled the air as if ten extra suns had appeared in the sky. Lin Yuchan watched the rickshaw’s retreating figure, feeling her eyes were about to be dazzled blind, murmuring: “Is that the Yale I’m thinking of…”
There were plenty of people using prestigious school credentials to swindle. But if he were a fraud, why not write “Yale” in Chinese characters? If he specialized in swindling foreigners, shouldn’t he pretend to be a prince or duke for proper operation…
Besides, with his gullible personality, if he were a fraud, he’d be exposed as soon as he opened his mouth.
So… was it real?
She hadn’t even seen a Yale academic genius in her previous life!!
A Yale graduate who traveled thousands of miles back to China, only to be bullied like this by a bunch of refugees and street thugs—it was… quite pitiful.