Chapter 169: Lin Gonglao and Zhang Jiqi
Transporting the population and materials presented an entirely new challenge. The evacuation of Gou Manor had been an overland operation, but this time everything would travel by sea—an opportunity to gain valuable experience for the mass migrations that lay ahead.
"The Navy can dispatch landing craft," Chen Haiyang offered. "The Dengyingzhou is committed to the Guangzhou route and can't be reassigned."
"What's the Fubo's capacity?"
"Seventy to eighty souls." Chen Haiyang ran the figures in his head. "Less than the Dengyingzhou—the cannons and ammunition eat up considerable tonnage."
"And the six transport vessels?"
"All smaller craft. Thirty to forty people each." He continued his mental calculations. "We also captured two 200-liao ships from the village, plus five or six smaller boats. All serviceable. Capacity shouldn't be an issue."
"Transit time by sea?"
"With sailboats, generous estimate—two days."
"Provisions?"
"Grassland-5 will do the job. Durable and filling." Chen Haiyang's tone made clear his personal opinion of the rock-hard rice cakes.
"Moving the people poses no real difficulty—a single wave with the larger ships will handle it. Common folk travel light. But the timber, iron, hemp, and tung oil will occupy significant tonnage."
Xi Yazhou interjected, "The Army should partially withdraw. With five platoons and three cannons deployed here, we've left home somewhat exposed."
Dongmen Chuiyu proposed a solution: "Starting tomorrow, each departing ship carries one squad. Troop transport and escort combined. We'll maintain one platoon here until the new vessel launches." He paused. "Is Bopu prepared? Over five hundred people arriving all at once!"
"Wu De has it in hand. Housing construction is still underway, so they'll use the quarantine camp initially—it's standing empty."
"With the Fubo stationed here, does that compromise Bopu's defenses?" Wen Desi recalled the tensions.
"Four fishing trawlers are sufficient. They're all equipped with breech-loading cannons—high mobility, high speed, high firepower. Anyone attacking them would be committing suicide."
"Tomorrow, the first wave moves the entire Lin and Lu families." A slight curve played at the corner of Wen Desi's lips. "Leave Shipwright Zhang behind to continue building."
The following day, Baitu Village erupted into chaos. Adults shouted, children wailed, and women keened in distress. But the transmigrators had come prepared: they had already determined who would depart first and who would follow, distributing color-coded paper slips accordingly.
On the beach, rope lanes had been set up with matching colored flags at each station. Slip holders simply followed their color to the correct vessel, and the system worked without confusion. The ships had brought hundreds of strapped rattan baskets and lengths of rope for handling luggage.
"Can this old ticket still board your passenger ship..." Li Haiping hummed to himself from the Fubo's stern castle, watching the struggling procession below—streams of elderly villagers, young children, and bundle-laden families shuffling along under the soldiers' urging.
Lin Gonglao cast a sideways glance at the humming "bald bandit." It was a strange tune—as strange as their clothing. The clan elder had called these newcomers "Chiefs," bowing and scraping before them in a display that turned Lin Gonglao's stomach. But he understood the elder's fear. He had witnessed firsthand what their firearms could do. That checkpoint stockade—including the cannon they'd purchased—had cost the village hundreds of liang. The short-term workers stationed there hadn't come cheap either. A hundred local bandits couldn't have touched the fortification, yet these strangers had smashed through it in minutes.
Now he was a captive, his future uncertain. The thought gnawed at him. Lin Gonglao was a member of the Lin clan proper—the clan leader was his own uncle. Born and raised in Baitu, he had never known hardship, belonging by birthright to the village's ruling class. Like the other second-generation Lin and Lu sons, he had shown little interest in his ancestors' shipbuilding craft, learning only the rudiments before abandoning it entirely. Martial pursuits suited him better—leading short-term workers through their drills, and dragging anyone who displeased him to the Shenming Pavilion for a beating. He had strutted through the village as if he owned every stone of it.
Those days, obviously, were finished.
His irritation mounting, he suddenly felt someone bump into his back. He whirled around to find Wang Sangou—a bachelor in his fifties who served as a clan-kept laborer, essentially a communal slave to the Lin family.
Already seething with resentment, and now struck by a slave? His back throbbed from the impact. Rage ignited. His palm shot out in a vicious slap, followed by a kick.
"Coffin scraper! You blind?!"
Wang Sangou had been shuffling along in line, burdened with bags, when the blow connected. The strike and kick sent him sprawling in a heap. Several young Lin clansmen spotted his ridiculous pose and burst into laughter. The older clan members grimaced and quickly pulled the laughing children away.
The assault blocked the queue. Soldiers rushed over to clear the jam. From his vantage point on the stern castle, Li Haiping observed the entire scene and shook his head slowly. Such a tiny place, yet already there are petty tyrants.
"Who's that?" someone asked.
"Lin clan, apparently. Word is the kid's quite full of himself. Even after the elder surrendered, this one stayed resentful," Li Haiping remarked.
"Tough character?"
Lin Gonglao, having vented his spleen on Wang Sangou, felt considerably refreshed. Victoriously, he added a few more kicks for good measure. Just as he was warming to his work, a burly man shouldered through the crowd, cudgel in hand.
"What the hell is going on here?!" The man's voice boomed across the beach. "Nothing better to do than brawl?!"
"I dare not—I dare not—" Wang Sangou scrambled to his feet, hands raised in supplication. "No fighting, no fighting—"
But Lin Gonglao was young and hot-blooded. He had not yet adjusted to his altered circumstances, and he faced the newcomer with all his former arrogance:
"I'm disciplining my slave—what concern is it of—"
WHANG.
Stars exploded across his vision. When consciousness returned, he found himself sprawled on the ground, his skull blazing with pain. He touched it gingerly—a substantial bump was already rising. The "bald bandit" loomed over him, cudgel in hand, regarding him with cold contempt.
"Do you know basic manners? 'This master' this, 'this master' that—you think I'm the same generation as your father?"
Lin Gonglao nearly choked on his fury. But he understood the principle that wise men don't fight impossible battles. He rose in silence and prepared to leave.
"Hold it." The voice came from behind. Lin Gonglao forced down his rage and turned, straining to appear docile.
"What?"
"You're clearly strong. Help the old man carry his things."
Lin Gonglao almost exploded—but the throbbing in his skull served as a pointed reminder: times had changed. Reluctantly, he stooped to pick up one of Wang Sangou's baskets. The old man frantically waved him off.
"Did you grow up eating shit?" The man's words sliced like a blade. "A young fellow carrying just that?"
Lin Gonglao silently added two more bundles to his load, mentally cursing eighteen generations of these bald bandits' ancestors.
As he trudged through the line, a sudden burst of laughter erupted behind him. He didn't need to look. He knew it wasn't the Lin clan laughing—it had to be the laborers and their ilk. People who had once smiled obsequiously at him, never daring to meet his eyes, now laughed at him openly.
Seething with bitter resentment, he followed the crowd to the gangplank. Straw packs were piled nearby—one for each passenger. Opening his, he found a bamboo tube with a stopper, apparently for water, along with something wrapped in paper. He tore it open slightly: biscuits.
Thoughtful preparation. Lin Gonglao touched the swelling on his head, wondering what the future held. For the first time, a thread of genuine fear wound through him. He was beginning to understand a simple truth: the world extended far beyond Baitu Village now.
Zhou Dongtian returned to the stern castle with evident satisfaction. Li Haiping chuckled. "Playing social justice warrior, are we?"
"With brats like that, you have to knock the arrogance out of them early—otherwise they'll cause no end of trouble later. This world is ours now!" Zhou Dongtian twirled his cudgel with practiced ease. "I even held back. Otherwise I could have left no visible marks at all... just internal damage."
"Careful—corpses are useless to us." Li Haiping privately wondered why the Executive Committee had assigned this printer here. Probably for interrogations. He and Zhou shared quarters, and he often saw the man return late at night wearing a mysterious smile. Eventually he learned the truth: the Security Group called for Zhou whenever they needed someone questioned.
After dispatching the first wave of evacuees, Wen Desi personally inspected the confiscated treasures. The timber reserves were abundant: camphor, fir, and pine totaling over five hundred logs. Various hardwoods—Hainan sandalwood, Guangdong lychee wood, ironwood—numbered over one hundred logs more. There were more than a thousand bamboo poles. Stores of pig iron, tung oil, yellow hemp, white hemp, palm fiber, and oyster shells rounded out the inventory.
The warehouses yielded a bounty of ship fittings, including several forged four-claw iron grapnels, abundant sails, ropes, and nails, and a considerable weapons cache. Wen Desi's inspection turned up over ten cannons—all British-made, specifically East India Company 24-pounder ship guns. Short-barreled carronades, a design unique to Britain. The "unusable" muskets proved to be British-made matchlocks. The English presence here was clearly significant.
According to Shipwright Zhang, "Red-hairs" occasionally called at the village for fresh water and minor repairs, paying in powder, weapons, and foreign silver.
"You can repair red-hair ships?" Wen Desi asked.
"Red-hair ships differ from ours in many ways—but ships are ships," Shipwright Zhang replied respectfully. He was in his early forties, possessed the finest craftsmanship in the village, built the largest vessels, and was said to have "many ingenious ideas."
"Could you build a red-hair ship?"
The shipwright hesitated. "The sails..." He trailed off. "We lack sufficient cloth." He thought for a moment longer. "Also, the rigging is complex. The operating mechanisms are intricate. Without foreign craftsmen to guide me, I probably cannot replicate them."
"These things I know—"
Shipwright Zhang glanced at this "bald person" with surprise. Could such a pampered-looking gentleman actually understand these matters?
"Then I am willing to try."
"What's your name?"
"This humble one is Zhang Jiqi."
Wen Desi paused, then laughed aloud. "Good, good. Come to our place, and you'll truly live up to your name." Jiqi sounded exactly like the word for "Machine"—a perfect fit for the industrial future awaiting him.
(End of Chapter)