Chapter 398 - Camp Panic
"Of course we stand with the soldiers. They're the ones shedding blood and sweat for the transmigration enterprise—we cannot let their hearts grow cold!" Ma Qianzhu didn't hesitate. "But I understand what you mean—our own backsides aren't clean either." He gave a mocking laugh. "To be honest, none of this would be a problem if you people weren't constantly cozying up to feudal landlords."
Wu De offered a dry laugh but said nothing. Ma Jia likewise maintained a diplomatic silence—he always stayed out of topics with political overtones.
"Since we can't carry out direct expropriation-style nationalization, let's go with compensated nationalization instead. For servants who perform well and are willing to work with us long-term, we'll pay to redeem their freedom." Ma Qianzhu finished his complaint and pressed on.
Wu De nodded. This was probably the only approach that would satisfy both sides.
Only then did Ma Jia offer his opinion: "A redemption system causes relatively little damage to both parties' interests. The redemption price should be tiered based on the servants' age and sex, using market prices as reference to establish uniform pricing."
"Don't let those landlord gentry haggle," Ma Qianzhu said. "We must set a maximum price cap. We won't accept absurdities like a girl priced at one hundred taels."
"Strictly speaking, this is compulsory redemption—the master has no choice but to agree. The redemption price is essentially symbolic," Ma Jia said.
"What about runaways?"
"We naturally won't get involved with runaways. We'll simply consider them free people. Otherwise what would we do—send them back to their masters?"
"Of course not," Wu De said. "For runaways from other places, as long as they become part of our system, we refuse to acknowledge their former servitude status."
"As for local runaways," he continued, "we'll help them redeem their freedom as you just described."
"We could set a statute of limitations—say, one year. If the master comes to claim them within one year, we'll pay to redeem them according to policy. After the deadline, their servant contracts become void," Ma Jia said.
"That's good—well-reasoned and justified." Wu De expressed his approval.
"As you wish. As long as our red flag flies over Bairren City, you can set whatever legal provisions you like," Ma Qianzhu said indifferently.
Ma Jia departed the Executive Committee compound and returned to the farm's coffee house. The members of the Law Club were buried in their files—some leafing through books, others drafting documents. Occasionally someone would huddle with a colleague to discuss a point. The tables were piled high with paper scrolls, folders, ink bottles, unwashed pen nibs, and inkstones for grinding ink—dip pens were now dipping traditional pine-smoke ink imported from Guangzhou. The modern and the traditional had achieved a peculiar synthesis here.
Empty kvass jugs, wine bottles, cups, clay ashtrays stuffed with cigarette butts, and plates smeared with food scraps cluttered every surface. The place resembled a garbage dump.
"Everyone's working hard!" Ma Jia called out in greeting. "How's progress?"
An Xi replied, "Almost done. Just a few more documents to wrap up."
"Everyone push a bit harder. Those merchants have been stranded in Bopu for over a week now. Let's finish up so they can be on their way." Ma Jia encouraged the group while pouring himself a small glass of rum, tossing it back in one gulp.
"So the Maritime Law was officially approved?"
"Yes, it passed. Not easily!"
A small cheer arose from the people buried in their work.
An Xi said, "All day, everyone was worried—if it hadn't passed, or if major revisions were required, much of our work would have been wasted."
"There were some modifications and adjustments, but mostly within expectations," Ma Jia said. "A few minor corrections may be needed here and there. The five-masted ship case will require some revisions." He pulled a document from his briefcase. "There are about twenty-odd changes."
"Alright, we'll correct them right away."
Ma Jia nodded. The stimulating burn of the strong liquor had raised a sweat all over his body, followed by a wave of exhausted weakness. Three consecutive hours of article-by-article debate over the Maritime Law in the Executive Committee meeting room the night before had left him utterly drained. Many Executive Committee members had vehemently opposed certain provisions.
He had anticipated that matters involving the redistribution of interests would never pass easily. Some department heads might not directly oppose it themselves, but they would surely send proxies to vigorously "open fire." If he lost during the hearing phase, there would be no hope for the subsequent vote. So before the meeting, Ma Jia had mobilized all members of the Law Club to conduct mock Q&A sessions anticipating every possible objection from each department.
"We must absolutely avoid being stumped by questions at the meeting, and our answers must be completely logically airtight," Ma Jia had said at the preparatory meeting.
Fortunately, when it came to logic and argumentation, law school graduates still held certain advantages. Their preparation had been close to perfect—but talented people always existed in the world, and the transmigrator collective was no exception. At the meeting, Ma Jia could tell that several committee members had arrived prepared with their own high-caliber advisors backing them. If he hadn't done his homework thoroughly, he wouldn't have dared claim he could hold his own in that internal debate.
Until the final vote count was announced, he hadn't dared assume his proposal would pass.
The merchants and sailors who had been rescued from the five-masted ship and temporarily detained in Bopu had spent seven or eight days in anxious uncertainty. After landing, they had been treated reasonably well—someone had taken them to bathe and change clothes. They were housed in a large rectangular building. Large buckets of ginger soup had been brought over to ward off the chill. Their personal belongings had been returned intact. The only drawback was the crowded conditions—many fishing boats had come to shelter from the recent storms, so a building meant for twenty people now housed more than forty. They received two hot congee meals a day. The rice was rough-milled but free of any impurities, and they could eat as much as they wanted.
Apart from using the latrine, these people weren't allowed to leave the building. Sentries guarded the door. Anyone who wanted to use the toilet had to obtain a "toilet tally" from the sentry.
Even when they could go outside, all they could see was a brick-paved courtyard. The courtyard contained several similar buildings, all apparently packed with people. Bamboo fences surrounded the yard, densely covered with thorny climbing vines. The main gate was likewise guarded by sentries who lit bonfires at night. The overall atmosphere was that of a large prison.
In reality, the place was the Bopu Port Detention Center, designed to accommodate fishermen, sailors, and merchants temporarily stranded due to storm shelter, shipwreck, or similar circumstances. Concentrating them in one location served both quarantine and counterintelligence purposes.
This state of affairs made them deeply uneasy. Could it be that they had merely escaped one set of pirates only to fall into the hands of another? Looking at the soldiers outside carrying bird-shot guns, it seemed entirely possible. Contemplating such a terrible prospect, some lamented their ill fortune. Small peddlers calculated that being robbed by pirates had already caused them severe losses—if they were now extorted for ransom on top of that, they would be utterly ruined. They spent their days sighing and groaning.
They had already learned from the people managing the detention center that they were in Lingao, under the control of the Australians. The reputation of the Australians had spread somewhat along the Guangdong coast. Most people knew their goods were often of exceptional quality, but who would have expected their fighting prowess to be so formidable! The thought of not knowing how these foreigners would deal with them left the survivors feeling anxious. Some tried to pay for information, but to no avail—neither the overseers inside nor the sentries on guard showed any interest in bribes. Their refusal to accept money and their stony silence only deepened the captives' anxiety.
Then, one early morning, breakfast was particularly sumptuous. Besides the congee—which was mixed with plenty of fish and shellfish—vegetables had been added. After they finished eating and the workers cleaned up, someone came to tell them to gather their belongings.
"Uh, Old Chen, what's happening that we need to pack our things?" someone asked.
"Good news. Congratulations to everyone." The man called Old Chen was named Chen Zhonghuan, one of the older immigrants who had arrived in Lingao in the first batch of mainland migrants after D-Day. Originally a fisherman, his household registration was placed under the Bopu Commune. Chen Zhonghuan had fallen gravely ill shortly after arriving in Lingao—he was on the brink of death when doctors from the Health Department saved his life. From then on, he regarded the Australians as his benefactors and became extremely enthusiastic about everything. Being old and frail, Wu De had assigned him a leisurely job specifically managing the port's temporary detention center.
But his words turned everyone's faces ashen. Chen Zhonghuan thought of himself as something like an innkeeper, but these people saw him as a jailer. In prison, the word "congratulations" was the last thing you wanted to hear—it usually meant you were about to meet your maker.
Making matters worse, the morning's breakfast had been especially sumptuous. This had originally been Wu De's kindness—to give these victims of pirates a good meal before departure so they would leave with a favorable impression of the transmigrator collective. But they interpreted it as a "final meal" before execution. The room immediately descended into chaos: some wept, some screamed, some fainted on the spot. Chen Zhonghuan stood there in bewilderment, waving his hands: "What's gotten into all of you? You'll be heading home soon—what's there to cry about?"
The words "heading home" only deepened the misunderstanding, and pandemonium erupted. Despair is contagious. This group had barely escaped with their lives at sea and had spent the days since their rescue in constant anxiety about their fate. Now, hearing they were about to be executed, all the accumulated pressure exploded at once. Following someone's sudden shriek—"I don't want to die!"—cries and screams filled the room.
"No one's going to die—" Chen Zhonghuan was aghast, wondering how things had come to this.
But no matter how he shouted and explained, his voice was drowned out by the clamor of dozens of people wailing and screaming. Chen Zhonghuan was so frightened he quickly summoned the soldiers standing guard outside. The entrance of soldiers with gleaming bayonets only made those inside even more desperate—everyone thought the slaughter was about to begin. Some simply knelt on the ground motionless, ready to receive the fatal blow; others hurled themselves against the walls; still others grabbed whoever was next to them and began fighting. Weaker people were trampled underfoot, letting out agonized screams. Some were already bleeding... The scene was complete chaos.
"This is bad! It's a camp panic!" The sentry who had entered was none other than Huang Ande. After returning to Lingao with Liu San, Wu De had observed that he was tall, strong, and had a military background, so he'd been assigned to return to his old profession. Huang Ande took things as they came; he was now an educational soldier receiving training at the new recruits' training camp. Today happened to be his day to stand guard at the detention center.
"A what?" Chen Zhonghuan asked urgently.
"A camp panic!" Huang Ande, a former soldier, knew how terrifying this could be.
So-called "camp panic" often occurred in military camps or prisons—places where many people were packed into small spaces with high stress levels throughout the group, teetering on the edge of collective breakdown. Once someone screamed from a nightmare, it often triggered a chain reaction, sending the entire group into a hysterical state that could lead to people killing each other, with countless casualties. The consequences were extremely severe.
Huang Ande had witnessed a camp panic while serving in Shandong. Once it spiraled out of control, even generals and commanders on the scene couldn't suppress it—let alone a few soldiers. With just these few people, there was no question of stopping it; charging in would likely only get them killed.
"Quick, get out." Huang Ande quickly pulled Chen Zhonghuan through the door. The other sentry hurried out as well, his face pale.
Huang Ande fell back about a dozen steps with the others. He took a bullet and percussion cap from his belt and loaded his weapon in one smooth series of motions—this loading procedure, broken down into twenty-five steps, was something he performed more smoothly than any of the other educational soldiers in his training class.
With his loaded rifle in hand, he calmed down somewhat. Remembering the emergency response training he had received before taking up guard duty, he shouted to the still-dazed Chen Zhonghuan: "Quick, go ring the alarm bell!"
"I'm on it!" The old man's legs suddenly found their vigor, and he actually jogged off.
The educational soldier standing next to Huang Ande fumbled to load his rifle, repeatedly failing to fit the percussion cap.
"Don't panic!" Huang Ande said, trying to calm him. "What's your name?"
"Qian—Qian—Duo!"
"Sounds like you don't have much money at all," Huang Ande joked.
"Right, right. Just a poor man." Qian Duo's nerves steadied somewhat, and he finally managed to fit the percussion cap. "What if they rush out? Should we shoot?"
"Don't worry—they won't rush out." Huang Ande knew that during a camp panic, people typically fought each other in place rather than fleeing.
Then the alarm bell rang. The detention center was not far from the quarantine camp. An infantry company stationed there with riot control equipment heard that something had happened and immediately dispatched an infantry platoon.
Huang Ande could see from a distance more than thirty men in rattan helmets and rattan armor, carrying bamboo rods and rattan shields, marching toward them in formation while chanting cadences. Chen Zhonghuan hurried over and began gesturing and explaining to the officer in charge.
"Attention! Tear gas ready!" Under the platoon leader's command, a squad holding single-use grenades ran up and deployed in a line.
"You can't use tear gas!" Huang Ande had learned in weapons class that they were loaded with pepper powder and classified as "non-lethal" riot control weapons. But a camp panic wasn't an ordinary riot—using them wouldn't just fail to disperse the crowd; it would cause even greater chaos. He rushed forward and, in his agitation, forgot the military salute he had learned, instead dropping to one knee before the platoon leader. "Sir! You mustn't use it!"
The platoon leader was startled. "Who are you?"
"I'm one of the sentries here." Huang Ande waved his hands urgently. "This is a camp panic! If you fire tear gas in there, things will get even worse. A lot of people will die!"
Seeing the platoon leader still hesitating, Huang Ande shouted: "I was a soldier before, and I've seen this! The only thing to do is rush in and suppress it directly!"
The platoon leader wasn't from the Ming military and didn't know what a "camp panic" was, but seeing Huang Ande's grave expression and hearing him say that tear gas would kill many people, he ordered them not to fire the tear gas and instead sent men in directly to suppress the situation.
"Two by two—grab one person at a time and drag them out," the platoon leader directed.
With the riot infantry's rapid intervention, the disturbance in the detention center calmed down within ten-odd minutes. But tragedy had already struck—three people had been severely injured in the chaos, and almost everyone bore some wound.
Wu De hurried over and watched the blood-covered wounded being carried out, his face turning pale. This was the first time they had encountered such a bizarre incident.
Chen Zhonghuan was so frightened he dropped to his knees before Wu De: "Officer Wu—Chief Wu—I didn't say anything wrong, I swear—"
"Get up." Wu De waved his hand. "This isn't your fault."
"Thank you, Chief." Chen Zhonghuan quickly got to his feet.
"Were you the one who said it was a camp panic and that we shouldn't use tear gas?" Wu De walked over to Huang Ande.
"Yes, it was me—"
"You're a soldier!"
"Yes! Educational Soldier Huang Ande! I was the one who said it!" Huang Ande quickly recalled what he had learned in recruit training—head up, chest out, speaking loudly.
"How did you know this was a camp panic?"
"I used to be a soldier in Shandong. We had a camp panic in our camp once—I witnessed it."
"Good—your handling of this was excellent!" Wu De said to the cadet beside him, "Tell Wei Aiwen—Educational Soldier Huang Ande handled a crisis appropriately. Give him a merit for this!"
"Thank you, Chief!" Huang Ande said loudly, rendering a somewhat awkward military salute.
Jiang Qiuyan also came rushing over. As a psychologist, he was intensely interested in "camp panic," this group psychological phenomenon. Of course, there was a practical element to his interest as well: the transmigrators' military forces were growing larger, and the quarantine camps constantly held thousands of people. If an incident like a camp panic occurred, the consequences would be unimaginable.
As soon as he arrived, he pulled Chen Zhonghuan, Huang Ande, and the others aside to ask about the situation. He also questioned several participants—these people had been completely drained by their earlier outburst and lay limp on the ground. Now that they had heard the Australians harbored no intention of killing them, their hearts finally began to settle. But none of them could clearly describe what had happened in that moment—their minds had gone completely blank.
"It was caused by excessive psychological stress," Jiang Qiuyan concluded. "A concentrated release of accumulated pressure."
"Psychological stress? We've been giving them good food and drink since they came ashore."
"Good food and drink, true—but people in an unfamiliar environment still easily accumulate stress. And the living space was too crowded." Jiang Qiuyan said. "I'll give them some opium tincture and let them have a good sleep, and they'll be fine."
(Chapter End)