Beiyang Dream

Chapter 77 Silver Faith is Ruthless

March 8th, morning, half an hour before the Pontianak riots.

The third door panel of "Fuxing Wholesale Market" on Meixian Street has just been removed.

Ye Afu dusted the cabinet with a feather duster. After dusting the cabinet, he laid out the Four Treasures of the Study: a Duan inkstone, a wolf-hair brush, and a notebook of red-lined letter paper. He then took out a cow horn seal, pressed it on the inkpad, and tested the color.

This is the daily morning lesson for the clerk at the post office. Money passes through hands, written agreements serve as proof, and seals are the guarantee; nothing can be done carelessly. These are the teachings of Ye Youcai, the father of Ye Afu.

The so-called "mail delivery agency" was a bit like an old-fashioned courier service... oh, it should mean "slow mail," because it was never fast. And the "mail delivery agency" didn't survive on speed. Its foundation was guaranteed delivery!

"Silver" actually refers to remittances from overseas Chinese, while "letter" and "remittance" have the same meaning in the Minnan, Hakka, and Chaoshan dialects. A remittance agency (also called a remittance bureau) was a shop that delivered money and letters for overseas Chinese from Guangdong and Fujian who went to Southeast Asia.

At that moment, Ye Afu's cousin, Ye Laixing, was sweeping the floor. When he reached the doorway, he suddenly muttered, "Brother Afu, there are few people on the street today." Ye Afu didn't even look up. He picked up his brush, dipped it in ink, and wrote down yesterday's expenses in the ledger...

"With Jinlanshan and Fangyitang handling matters," he wrote as he spoke, "who would dare to go out on the streets?"

Before the words were finished, a muffled "bang" came from the direction of Yoshiwara Japan Street.

Then came a series of gunshots, crackling and popping, somewhat like firecrackers being set off during the Lunar New Year.

Ye Laixing's hand trembled, and he dropped the broom in fright.

Ye Afu paused, his brow furrowing.

"Brother Fu, it's a gun..." Ye Laixing's voice trembled.

"I know." Ye Afu put down his pen, walked to the door, and listened intently.

The gunfire was intense for a while, then subsided. Interspersed among it were shouts, which were difficult to make out clearly.

At this moment, Ah Gui, a patrolman under Pontianak Kapitan Liu Shi'an, ran past the street corner, banging a gong and shouting in Hakka:

"Neighbors, don't panic... The actions of the big shots from Jinlanshan and Fangyitang are none of our business... We should continue to open for business as usual..." Ye Afu breathed a sigh of relief.

Fifteen minutes later, a rubber tapper named Chen Shuisheng sat at Ye Afu's table. He was in his early fifties, with deep wrinkles on his face, but his eyes were full of hope.

"Brother Afu, as usual, send it to Haifeng, Shanwei, my hometown." Chen Shuisheng took out a blue cloth bag from his pocket, opened it layer by layer, and inside was twenty-one yuan and silver. He then took out a yellowed photograph. In the photograph was a young man in his early twenties, wearing a long gown, standing in front of the ancestral hall.

"This is my son. He sent it last month, saying he passed the imperial examination." Chen Shuisheng grinned. "This time I'm sending twenty dollars and silver to help him buy paper and pens so he can study hard. There's also one dollar for the approval fee."

Ye Afu took the silver dollars and weighed them one by one. This was the rule, to prevent the inclusion of copper or lead.

He wrote in the ledger: "Chen Shuisheng, sent to Haifeng, Shanwei, 20 yuan in silver, 1 yuan in processing fee, totaling 21 yuan."

Then I picked up my pen and wrote on the red-lined paper:

"My son, seeing this letter is like seeing you in person: Your father is doing well in Pontianak. Your wages for the rubber plantation have been paid, and I am sending you twenty silver dollars today. You can buy paper and pens, study diligently, and pass the imperial examination as soon as possible to bring honor to our family. How is your mother at home? Your father misses her dearly. Your father..."

After writing it down, he read it aloud to Chen Shuisheng. Chen Shuisheng was illiterate, but he listened attentively. When he heard "bring glory to the family," his eyes lit up, and he rubbed his hands together, saying, "Brother Afu, write a few more lines, write a few more lines... Just tell him not to worry about the money, to eat when he should eat, and to spend when he should spend. His father is in Pontianak, and he still has the strength to earn more."

Ye Afu nodded and added, "Don't worry about saving money, your health is the most important thing."

Then seal the letter and stamp it with the ox-horn seal of "Fuxing Letter Issuance Bureau".

He handed the receipt to Chen Shuisheng: "You can set sail in three days and arrive in Haifeng in half a month. Take the 'Guangchanglong' ship; it's very safe."

Chen Shuisheng took the money, carefully put it in his pocket, and then took out two copper coins and placed them on the counter: "Brother Afu, have some tea."

Ye Afu pushed it back: "Uncle Chen, no need. The approval fee has already been received."

"Yes, yes," Chen Shuisheng insisted, putting it down. "You write a letter home for me; this is my payment."

Ye Afu was about to push again when Chen Shuisheng turned and walked towards the door.

Just then.

A piercing scream rang out from the street corner, in Hakka dialect, the voice cracking:

"The barbarians are coming to kill us!!"

Ye Afu was immediately filled with alarm bells.

In Pontianak, conflicts between indigenous people and Chinese were commonplace. Every few days, Dayak people would storm into the Chinese quarter, looting shops, killing people, and setting fires. There were more indigenous people, and the Dutch would also take sides. Whenever trouble broke out, the Chinese in Pontianak only had one option: to retreat to Xiaolanfang.

Ye Afu had escaped seven or eight times before, so he was already very familiar with the route.

The escape process consisted of three steps: first, close the shop; second, take the silver and letter; and third, run south. After crossing the wooden bridge, there was the Luo family's Xiaolanfang, where there were three large enclosed buildings with walls twelve feet thick, capable of squeezing in thousands of people.

He yelled at his cousin, "Laixing! Put the door panel up!"

He then shouted into the inner room, "Uncle Ye! The account books! The bank notes!"

Uncle Ye, the accountant, is sixty years old this year. He has difficulty walking and came out of the inner room with a heavy iron box in his arms.

"The account book! The money and mail received today!" Uncle Ye shoved the iron box into Ye Afu's hand, his old face ashen. "Quickly! Retreat to Xiaolanfang!"

Ye Afu took the iron box; it was heavy, probably weighing thirty pounds. Inside were the silver dollars he had received yesterday, official letters, and unsettled account books. He rushed into the counter and stuffed all the unmailed letters into his canvas bag. Each letter had a sum of money on the back, ranging from three to five dollars to two or three dollars… totaling over three hundred silver dollars. Adding the contents of the iron box, he couldn't carry it all by himself, so he gave the box to his cousin and carried the bag himself. Chen Shuisheng was still there, standing frozen at the door. Ye Afu tugged at him: “Uncle Chen, let’s go!”

The four of them rushed out of the mail brokerage. Ye Afu took one last look at the signboard: "Fuxing Mail Brokerage, Guaranteed Delivery," written in gold on a black background by Luo Zhenxing of Xiao Lanfang. He gritted his teeth, turned, and ran.

The bag was heavy. Inside were over three hundred silver dollars, weighing more than twenty pounds. There were also forty-seven letters, each carrying the story of a family—a wife and children waiting for food, an elderly mother needing money for medical treatment, and children needing tuition fees for school.

You absolutely mustn't lose it!

The streets were in complete chaos.

Sister Xiang, the proprietress of "Guangfa Grocery Store," rushed out carrying a wooden box. The box opened, and copper coins scattered all over the ground. She bent down to pick them up, but was knocked down by someone behind her, her hand was stepped on, and she screamed in pain.

Ye Afu tried to help, but Chen Shuisheng grabbed him, saying, "Let's go! We can't worry about that now!"

The four ran south for a while. Uncle Ye couldn't run anymore, so Chen Shuisheng simply carried him on his back. This old rubber tapper was over fifty years old, and he didn't even pant while carrying someone, although the veins on his forehead were all bulging. He took off running.

A group of people ran half a street away, followed by the howling of the natives, a loud, guttural sound.

Ye Afu turned around and saw a dark mass of bare-chested men, wielding barangas and carrying rattan shields at their waists. There were also many men carrying old-fashioned flintlock pistols, hacking and slashing at anyone they saw and looting any shop they encountered. A local chieftain dressed in a silk shirt rode on horseback, brandishing a saber that only Dutch officers would use.

"Split up!" Chen Shuisheng shouted, pulling Ye Laixing into the alley on the left.

Ye Afu tried to shout "Don't separate!" but it was too late. A lead bullet grazed his ear, struck the bluestone wall, and sparks flew. He gritted his teeth and charged forward.

The wooden bridge is not far ahead. On the other side of the bridge is Luo's young Lanfang...

But on this side of the bridge lies hell.

Several members of the Fangyi Hall were desperately resisting the natives, wielding eight-section swords and short guns as they fought. One of the members cut down a native, but was himself hit in the chest by a musket shot, blood spurting high and splattering all over Ye Afu's face.

Ye Afu charged forward with his head down. Almost there, almost there…

My left leg went numb, like I'd been hit by a hammer.

He staggered a step, looked down, and saw a hole torn in his trouser leg, from which blood gushed out.

He was shot.

He gritted his teeth and hopped forward on one leg. Another lead bullet flew by and struck his right knee. He seemed to hear the sound of bones cracking, and then he collapsed to the ground.

His face hit a rock, breaking half a tooth, and his mouth was full of blood.

The canvas bag was flung out, and silver dollars clattered all over the ground. The envelope, however, remained intact inside the oil paper package.

Ye Afu crawled forward.

His palms burned as he rubbed them against the bluestone. He crawled over a corpse, a Japanese woman in a kimono, an arrow lodged in her chest. He crawled over a pool of blood, still warm and steaming.

He finally climbed to the canvas bag. He reached out to grab it, but a foot stepped on his hand.

Looking up, he saw the native chieftain on horseback, who had dismounted. He was wearing the silk shirt he had just stolen, a royal blue with a floral pattern, which didn't fit him very well; the sleeves were too long. He was carrying the Dutch officer's saber in his hand.

The leader squatted down and asked in broken Hakka, "Hand over the silver!"

Ye Afu didn't speak, he just gripped the canvas bag tightly.

The leader laughed and slashed open the canvas bag with a knife. Oil paper packets spilled out, revealing letters and silver coins wrapped in red paper. The leader picked up a packet, tore it open, and the silver coins clattered to the ground, bouncing on the bluestone slab.

"That's it?" the leader sneered, kicking Ye Afu. "You'd risk your life for a few bucks?"

Ye Afu remained silent, simply gathering the scattered letters one by one and clutching them to his chest. There were forty-seven letters, not one could be missing. The leader frowned. He didn't understand why this Chinese man was so desperately protecting a few letters. He understood the value of money, but what use were the letters? He raised his knife, about to strike when suddenly...

"Bang!"

A shot rang out.

It wasn't the muffled thud of a native matchlock gun, but a deadly, sharp crack.

The leader had a gaping hole in his forehead, and his skull exploded, spraying red and white blood all over Ye Afu's face. He held the knife, froze for a moment, and then fell straight down.

Ye Afu looked up blankly.

On the wooden bridge, refugees surged forward like a tide. Amidst the crowd, dozens of young people stood against the flow. They wore mottled clothes—short jackets, undershirts, some even shirtless—but all had red cloths wrapped around their arms. They all held guns!

The leader was a young man in his late twenties, dressed in a silk shirt. He had handsome features, but his face was ashen. He was also carrying a rifle, the butt of which was still resting on his shoulder, indicating that he had just finished firing.

That is Shang Dequan.

Behind him, dozens of rifles were held up haphazardly, all of them Type 1888 Commission Rifles, German-made, with five-round magazines, requiring the bolt to be pulled back after each shot.

"Aim..." Shang Dequan roared, his voice hoarse, "Shoot the ones with guns!"

"Bang bang Ken..."

A flurry of gunfire ensued, and four natives carrying matchlock guns fell to the ground. One had his chest blown open, two had their heads blown open, and the third was clutching his stomach and screaming in agony, his intestines spilling out onto the ground.

The natives were stunned. They had never seen anything like it before. When had the Chinese become so ruthless? And their weapons were more formidable; they didn't need to be lit, just pulled the trigger and fired—much faster than a flintlock pistol!

Taking advantage of the brief moment, Shang Dequan yelled to the two young men beside him, "Awang, Aqiang! Help!"

Two young men gritted their teeth and rushed out to Ye Afu's side. The short and stocky Aqiang picked him up, while the tall and thin Awang went to pick up the canvas bag. The bag was too heavy, and he couldn't lift it, spilling some silver coins.

"Believe! Believe!" Ye Afu struggled on Aqiang's shoulder, blood bubbles coming out of his mouth.

The young man named Awang gritted his teeth, tore off his outer coat, spread it on the ground, gathered up the silver dollars, letter, and account book, tied a knot, and slung it over his shoulder. As the three ran back, the local lads finally reacted, howling and trying to give chase. Several matchlock guns fired again, lead bullets whizzing past. Shang Dequan raised his gun again, squinted his left eye, aimed, and pulled the trigger.

"Bang!"

A native man holding a matchlock gun fell backward.

He pulled the bolt, the spent cartridge ejected, and landed with a "clang." He aimed again and pulled the trigger.

"Bang!"

again.

The marksmanship was so ruthless that it stunned the natives. They stopped and stared at the young man in the silk shirt from afar. The way he fired the gun didn't resemble a gangster's henchman or a street patrolman; it was more like... like those Dutch celestial soldiers!

Awang and Aqiang finally dragged Ye Afu back to the bridgehead. Shang Dequan glanced at Ye Afu's legs; his left leg was a bloody mess, and his right leg was even worse injured, with a bullet hitting his knee.

"This leg is probably ruined," Shang Dequan said in a low voice.

He glanced again at the bundle Ah Wang was carrying: "What's this?"

"Approved letters... account books..." Ye Afu's consciousness began to blur, and he murmured, "Forty-seven letters... three hundred and twenty-one silver dollars... can't lose Shangdequan." He paused, took the bundle, and felt its weight. He untied it and saw blood-stained silver dollars and letters wrapped in oiled paper. The top letter's envelope was soaked in blood, but the words were still legible:

"Respectfully presented by your son, Acheng, at the Pontianak dock to my beloved mother."

Below that was a line of smaller print: "Fifteen silver dollars in return, hoping Mother will buy some clothes."

Shang Dequan remained silent for three seconds.

"Put it back," Shang Dequan waved his hand, "and give it to Mr. Luo."

The two young men carried Ye Afu toward Xiao Lanfang.

At 1 p.m. on March 8, two or three hours had passed since Ye Afu was shot and fell to the ground.

First, he felt his left leg disappear, then his right, and finally his body felt light. His ears were filled with chaos: the sound of wind, crying, and the howls of foreign demons. The bag of silver tokens in his arms ached in his chest, but he wouldn't let go of the tokens—it was etched into his very bones!

For a moment, he felt like he was about to float away.

Then, his body slumped, as if he were being lifted up. A jolt followed, and a sharp pain shot through his legs. He groaned, and then light returned to his vision. In the light, he first saw the barbed wire.

The wooden stake was wrapped with a dense network of barbs, which must have been very painful to prick someone. Several strong men were also there, desperately twisting the barbs with pliers.

Ye Afu's mind went blank: Why are they wrapping so much wire around their heads? Has the rubber been tapped today? Are there any letters to send...?

Then he saw the gun.

It wasn't one of those old-fashioned flintlock pistols that Ah Gui carried while patrolling the streets; it was a long, gleaming black weapon with a gleaming bayonet stuck in the barrel. Dozens of young men were carrying it, some of whom he recognized—they had all sent letters and money through the Fuxing Post Office. Now they stood imposingly outside the north gate of Xiaolanfang, each holding that long weapon. How impressive!

He carried his two young men, panting heavily, through the open north gate.

Inside the North Gate, Ye Afu squinted.

A dozen or so foreigners, all dressed in identical white shirts and wearing strange iron hats, each carrying a long foreign rifle. The leader, a foreigner with a scar on his forehead, was looking north through binoculars.

Ye Afu's heart skipped a beat. These were foreign soldiers! They looked much stronger than the Dutch soldiers from Pontianak! What country were they from? Could it be... that Xiao Lanfang also had foreign support behind her?

Further in, the sounds and smells of people rushed towards them. It wasn't the crying and bloodshed of Pontianak Street, but a different kind of hopeful, reassuring hustle and bustle. Women's shouts, the clanging of metal, the cries of the wounded, the mingled aromas of herbs and rice porridge… Several Hakka women with their hair in buns, sleeves rolled up to their elbows, were tearing white cloth, stirring the porridge in a large pot. Ye Afu saw the eldest daughter of the Luo family, who had just returned, deftly bandaging a wounded man's bleeding arm.

"Make way! Seriously injured! Make way!"

The young man carrying him shouted as he pushed through the crowd. Ye Afu was laid down on a door panel under the eaves. The intense pain surged up again, his vision went black, and a buzzing sound entered his ears.

It's a northern accent, a bit harsh:

"...Remember this! Behind us is the Beiyang Army! And the foreigners from Germany!"

"When that man from Rasultan arrives, put it in the rubber drying area before you start processing it!"

"Don't even think about catching them alive! I only want the dead! We need to eliminate as many as possible! For every one you kill, you get five silver coins! Wounding them won't do, only killing them counts!" Ye Afu tried to turn his head and peek through the gaps in the crowd.

Under the old banyan tree in the middle of the rubber drying field stood a man, wearing a silk shirt covered in dust. He wasn't very old, but the words he spoke... were truly ruthless and vicious!

His vision began to blur again, and in his last moments of consciousness, the words of that Northerner still echoed in his mind:

"No prisoners... eliminate as many as possible... You Northnecks are ruthless!"

It's ruthless, but it seems to make sense. If we eliminate all the enemies, won't things be better in Pontianak and Xiaolanfang?

His head lolled to the side, and he lost consciousness completely. The last sound he heard came from the direction of the rubber drying yard; someone was shouting at the top of their lungs:

"They're here! The barbarian army... has reached the north bank of the Pontianak River!"

"Cannons! They're pushing cannons!"