Chapter 741 - Zhang Jiqi and Lin Xianming
At the place nearest to the two men, a three-masted wood-hulled warship was undergoing hull installation in the dock. Workers labored on the scaffolding while hull planks, steam-bent into calculated arcs, were hoisted in bundles by steam cranes and distributed to the various installation stations.
This warship, assembled with iron ribs and steam engines manufactured using advanced technology from another spacetime, would become the most powerful war machine of this era.
On the largest slipway, the wrought iron keel of another, smaller armed three-masted ship had already been laid. Numerous gas engine-driven cranes were maneuvering iron ribs close to their designated assembly positions on the keel. Workers wearing safety helmets bustled back and forth under the foreman's direction, following signals from red and green flags. Work chants and whistles rose and fell in coordinated rhythm.
Zhang Jiqi stood on the dock of Project 854, observing the hull planking progress. He wore blue denim work clothes and a rattan safety helmet. In the entire Bopu Shipyard, his status was the highest among indigenous employees; his title was "Shipbuilding Technician"—unique not only within the shipyard but among all indigenous workers. By comparison, Lin Xianming and Lu Youtian, who had migrated from Baitu Village with him, were merely Associate Technicians. Of course, even Associate Technician status was impressive; indigenous workers who understood mechanical systems well enough to earn a "Mechanic" rating could already walk with their heads held high.
Although Zhang Jiqi's formal education was limited, his comprehension was formidable. He particularly possessed that gift endemic to traditional Chinese craftsmen: the ability to remember almost everything he observed. Once Wen Desi showed him the details of a ship model, he would retain numerous specifics. He might not grasp the "why" behind certain design structures, but he could at least quickly understand the "how." For the Senators, this sufficed—what they needed now were workers with exceptional hands-on capability, not designers.
Zhang Jiqi had originally been a shipwright. After receiving guidance and education from Wen Desi and others over the past few years—particularly after learning various European ship designs and construction techniques—he had integrated Chinese and Western knowledge, refining his shipbuilding skills to a remarkable degree. He had become the most important indigenous technical resource at the shipyard. He was responsible for the final assembly of Project 854.
On the rails, baskets of specialized iron nails and clasps for assembly were being unloaded from flatbed cars pulled by diesel locomotives. These components were manufactured in the Metalworking Workshop where Lu Youtian served as Workshop Director—Lingao's standard parts factories didn't produce these specialized items; most metal parts required for shipbuilding were manufactured by the shipyard's own workshops.
On the scaffolding, workers installed hull planks precisely as they had been trained. The sounds of hammers and drills rose and fell in overlapping rhythm. Occasionally, calls of "Watch out!" could be heard. Following the sound, a red-hot rivet would arc through the air, be caught firmly by a riveter above using iron tongs, inserted into its rivet hole while still hot, and quickly hammered tight with a sledgehammer.
Other workers were busy caulking with a mixture of hemp fibers, tung oil, and oyster shell lime. The process had been strictly calculated to optimize production efficiency.
Each shipbuilder underwent thirty days of training. They didn't need to master much theoretical knowledge or learn specialized crafts; they didn't require extraordinarily high comprehension—they simply needed to follow the master. Workers of this type didn't need to understand shipbuilding, only how to hammer nails, drive rivets, install planks, and caulk. This approach dramatically simplified the training process for shipbuilders.
A steam whistle sounded—the signal for shift change. Night shift personnel were lining up to enter the factory. Zhang Jiqi's quitting time had also arrived, but he had no intention of leaving. Work at the shipyard had reached unprecedented intensity; currently, six ships were under construction on the slipways simultaneously, yet there were very few mechanics capable of providing technical guidance.
Zhang Jiqi didn't possess consciousness like "laborers are the masters," but he harbored the simplest feeling of gratitude. This wasn't merely about material benefits—back in Baitu Village, the Lin family had also treated him, a shipwright, as an honored guest. Rather, the respect and understanding he received here were unobtainable anywhere else.
Zhang Jiqi understood clearly: in terms of learning and ability, the Senators were hundreds and thousands of times more capable than him, yet every one of them treated him politely, asking him to sit when conversing. Some Senators would even offer him cigarettes. This differed from the courteous attitude of the Lin family in bygone days. Zhang Jiqi recognized the distinction: in Baitu Village, his security depended entirely on his skill. Once he grew old and frail, or once his technical secrets became obsolete—once he became useless to the Lin family—all courtesy and material comforts would evaporate.
But here, he worried about none of this. The Australians not only didn't covet his skills but constantly taught him completely new techniques. As long as he worked earnestly, he received generous pay. Even when he eventually became too old to work, the Australians wouldn't abandon him—the treatment the Australians gave their subordinates was astonishingly good. There had been several casualty accidents at the shipyard, and the compensation was generous. Ordinarily, masters who were willing to provide a few taels of "burial silver" were considered kindhearted. But the Australians not only gave burial silver—they also cared for the families of deceased or injured workers: schooling for children, support for the elderly, jobs for those willing to work. Even for workers disabled by occupational injuries, appropriate tasks were arranged so they wouldn't be left destitute.
This thing the Australians called "Welfare" filled Zhang Jiqi with trust in them. He was willing to give all his strength and skill in their service.
Zhang Jiqi emerged from the duty room adjacent to Dock Number Zero—this dock earned its name from the "Ship Number Zero" it had once built—and decided to get something to eat first, then inspect the shipbuilding progress in other slipways and docks to see if there were any problems requiring his attention.
The shipyard canteen was essentially a large shed by modern standards, but for 17th-century workers, having shelter from wind and rain was already quite decent. Rows of wooden long tables and food serving windows gave many Senators a familiar sensation. However, in terms of variety, it couldn't compare with 21st-century canteens—just the same fixed few options, nothing rich or colorful. Protein came mainly from seafood; eggs and meat were rare sights.
But for indigenous workers, having enough brown rice to fill their bellies was already an excellent meal. Adding some fish sauce and vegetables constituted wonderful gourmet fare. Naturally, Zhang Jiqi's canteen privileges were slightly more generous than theirs; some vegetables and fish or meat with every meal left him very satisfied.
All indigenous employee canteens under the Transmigrator Group weren't free but provided monthly meal ticket allocations to subsidize workers. The allotment roughly ensured they could eat their fill, guaranteeing physical strength and basic nutritional needs. Workers wishing to eat better could purchase additional meal tickets. All meal tickets were valid only for the current month, ensuring workers consumed the food themselves rather than buying it to take home to families. In the past, factories had issued meal allowances directly, only to discover that most workers used the currency coupons to subsidize household expenses rather than eating. Malnutrition had occurred repeatedly.
Zhang Jiqi belonged to the high-income stratum among indigenous employees—according to Du Wen's classification, he qualified as part of Lingao's "Labor Aristocracy." Moreover, Zhang Jiqi had no wife or children; as a bachelor, if he was full, his whole family was full. Naturally, he was far more generous in eating and drinking than ordinary workers.
Zhang Jiqi purchased a portion of Fried Rice Noodles with Shellfish and Seasonal Vegetables. The fried rice noodles were made from rice flour mixed with sweet potato flour, stir-fried over high heat until glistening with oil—the favorite meal of workers whose daily diets lacked fat—but also the most expensive. Most workers typically bought cheaper Soup Rice Noodles. He also purchased a bottle of Kombucha (Red Tea Fungus); the sweet-sour taste was perfect for drinking after a meal.
Kombucha was a beverage that indigenous workers rarely purchased; it was prepared primarily for Senators working at the factory. So whenever Zhang Jiqi tilted back his head to drink Kombucha, it would draw a burst of envy from the workers—a fact that also made him quite proud.
Zhang Jiqi carried his plate piled high with rice noodles back to the table—a full 250 grams. For workers engaged in heavy physical labor, this was nothing. Plenty of workers ate half a kilogram or even a full kilogram per meal.
He spotted Lin Xianming sitting at a table, head bent over a portion of brown rice with only vegetables for a side dish. He couldn't help feeling surprised. Lin Xianming was the shipyard's General Woodworking Foreman, titled Associate Technician. Between rank salary and title salary, his income was only slightly less than Zhang's. Furthermore, his children were all adults; wife and children all had jobs. He shouldn't need to economize to this extent.
"Old Lin," Zhang Jiqi set his plate opposite him and sat down. "Why are you eating like this?"
"Ah, it's you." Lin Xianming appeared listless. As General Woodworking Foreman, he had been swamped with woodworking assembly tasks recently. Like Zhang Jiqi, Lin Xianming hadn't gone home for several days. "The burden is too heavy."
"You must be joking. Your son and wife both have jobs and income—they earn enough for themselves. What burden?"
Lin Xianming sighed. "Who told me to be surnamed Lin?"
The Lin clan's activities had remained vigorous. Many poor immigrants surnamed Lin, coveting relief from the clan, had successively joined the Lin unified clan association. The result was that Lin Xianming's economic burden as Clan Head had grown enormously.
Although as Clan Head he could collect contributions from clansmen to help impoverished new members, after the Lin family came to Bopu, his authority was not what it had once been. He could no longer shout an order to open the ancestral hall and arrest disobedient clansmen to be beaten, made to kneel, fined, or even directly executed.
Although current Lin Clan activities remained frequent, after experiencing two dismemberments, cohesion had weakened. Having lost major income sources and been integrated into Lingao's security system, the tangible benefits the clan provided in terms of economic interests and safety had dwindled dramatically.
Distant branches within the clan, whose voices had once carried little weight, now began to disregard the main branch's authority—resentment over unfair interest distribution in the Lin Clan's past gradually resurfaced. For Lin Xianming to maintain the entire Lin Clan under these conditions, he had to pay a greater price than before. Ancestral worship ceremonies had to be grander, various clan activities more frequent. Meanwhile, the newly joined Lin clansmen almost universally required relief, yet many established clansmen were unwilling to pay out of pocket to help them. They viewed these people as having no genuine relation to their main family—money spent on them was money wasted.
In the past, clan expenses could be rigidly apportioned to each branch. Now many clansmen refused to pay or paid less, and the deficit was essentially filled by him alone. On one hand, apportionment income was steadily declining; on the other, various expenses refused to decrease and had actually increased. Lin Xianming's burden had naturally grown heavier.
Zhang Jiqi was somewhat aware of these matters. He observed with a degree of detachment, watching the fire burn from the opposite bank. After all, Zhang Jiqi harbored old grievances with Lin Xianming over interest distribution from the past. But now he felt more open-minded about things; besides, the two sides had generally cooperated amicably in Baitu.
"How is Gonglao doing?" Zhang Jiqi inquired with feigned concern. In truth, he harbored the deepest dislike for this so-called "Nephew." That arrogant and rude young master demeanor had always annoyed him—though on the surface he always generously expressed affection and tolerance for this "Nephew." But during shipyard worker qualification assessments, he had unhesitatingly given both Lin Gonglao and Lin Gongxun zeros. He had secretly rejoiced when Lin Gonglao was transferred to Sanya earlier in the year.
"Suffering greatly!" Lin Xianming's heart ached for his son; he couldn't help sighing and lowered his voice. "Someone sent word back saying many died in Sanya from malaria. But the project is progressing quickly."
"Rest assured. Gonglao is young and healthy."
"One can only think that way." Lin Xianming looked worried. "Enough about Gonglao; he's an adult. It's this clan business that gives me headaches. Expenses are enormous, and everyone refuses to contribute—just looking out for themselves."
"Old Lin, why do you insist on struggling to support the clan? It's become your personal burden. Is it worth it?"
"Sigh, sometimes I think it's not worth it either." Lin Xianming ate a mouthful of boiled vegetables, chewing without appetite. "But our clan fled from Fujian to Hainan and managed to grow to this size. I'm not reconciled to watching it simply scatter."
"You're not reconciled, but others don't care," Zhang Jiqi said. "Consider this Joining Clan business. People who have absolutely nothing to do with your clan, just sharing the same surname 'Lin,' are taking monthly money from you for free. This isn't Baitu Village of old—everyone here lives on wages. Is this worth doing? Do you owe them something, or do you expect some benefit from them?"
Lin Xianming also felt it was pointless, yet he still clung to the traditional concept of "the more clansmen, the better."
"Many clansmen means not being bullied—there is strength in numbers," Lin Xianming said.
"Hehe." Zhang Jiqi laughed. "Old Lin! Your head isn't working! Strength in numbers—that was for Baitu Village. Your whole family is now in Bopu. If you still want 'strength in numbers,' what exactly are you preparing to do with that strength?"
Lin Xianming was startled, immediately grasping the implication. He broke out in a cold sweat.
"The government is the government, the clan is the clan—two unrelated things. Even the biggest clan dares not fail to pay imperial grain and taxes... How could the Chiefs not understand this principle?"
"When I say you're muddled, you're muddled." Zhang Jiqi glanced around. "Think for yourself. Unless the Chiefs truly, as you say, 'understand this principle'—why did they take a dozen households from your clan, and even Gonglao, to Sanya? Yet you still engage in this Joining Clan business, constantly recruiting people!" He shook his head repeatedly. "Little brother, I'm not trying to scare you—if this goes on..."
This sentence struck like a thunderbolt, leaving Lin Xianming stunned. It was a long while before he could stammer: "Unlikely, surely. I... We... Our Lin family has no disloyal heart!"
"Whether you do or not isn't for you and me to decide." Zhang Jiqi slurped his fried rice noodles, a knowing smile spreading across his face.
Watching Lin Xianming leave the canteen in a daze without even finishing his meal, Zhang Jiqi felt a twinge of satisfaction. You, Lin Xianming, befuddled by being Clan Head! What the Australians most forbid is clans. You still want to conduct grand Lin Clan activities? I reminded you for the sake of old sentiments—otherwise, you'd be facing home confiscation and clan extermination!
While Zhang Jiqi and Lin Xianming were having this conversation, Lu Youtian was eating at another table with Jiang Ye and colleagues. By custom, factories usually had 2-3 Senators with professional expertise on night duty, ready to guide work and solve problems at any time. They generally lived in specialized "Senator Offices" and theoretically ate separately, but many found waiting for the Senator Canteen to deliver food both troublesome and unappetizing—the meals arrived cold—so they simply went directly to the Staff Canteen. This practice had the incidental benefit of closing the distance between themselves and indigenous workers.
Lu Youtian wore black, grimy work clothes, drenched in sweat. The Metalworking Workshop contained furnaces, forging equipment, sand casting, and general casting operations—indoor temperatures remained above 40°C at all times. Lu Youtian had ordered a large plate of Vegetable and Prawn Fried Rice and was wolfing it down while chatting with Jiang Ye and the others about work.
"Chief Wen says to sheath the ship bottom with copper. How do we make these copper sheets? Hammer them? Like beating gold leaf?"
"Rolling mills making copper sheets isn't a problem," Jiang Ye said. "The issue is how to actually sheath them on. I haven't figured that out yet."
Lu Youtian still couldn't quite envision it: "The ship bottom is enormous. How large should the copper sheets be to work properly?"
At this moment, Zhang Jiqi approached—with Senators present, he felt he should absolutely come over to pay his respects. After exchanging greetings, the group continued discussing the craft of copper sheathing at the dining table.
"I've seen Chief Wen's ship model. The copper sheets are small pieces nailed to the ship bottom with nails. The edges interlock with each other." Zhang Jiqi said. "That should work."
Zhou Bili nodded: "So that's how it's done! But the area of a ship bottom isn't small. Copper sheet consumption definitely won't be trivial."
"That's the Planning Agency's affair. I assume there are some copper reserves." Jiang Ye drained a bottle of iced Kvass in one gulp. "Besides, our rolling mill should be more capable than the British; the copper plates we roll out will be thinner."
(End of Chapter)