Chapter 707 - Entering the Pearl River
The Yong'an Ju teahouse hummed with its customary bustle—though Guangzhou's teahouses bore little resemblance to their counterparts in Jiangnan or the capital. Here, the dim sum was more refined, the spaces grander and airier. Most establishments rose two or three stories, with ground floors soaring to the height of an ordinary two-story building. With the Mid-Autumn Festival approaching, every teahouse displayed an impressive mooncake signboard in its main hall: seven and a half chi tall by four and a half chi wide, intricately carved with classical figures, flowers, birds, insects, and fish. The craftsmanship was exquisite, many pieces adorned with gold leaf that gleamed magnificently in the lamplight.
Teahouses had always served as neutral ground where men of various trades gathered to conduct business. Though every main hall displayed the obligatory red paper notice proclaiming "No Discussion of State Affairs," state affairs were not merely discussed here—decisions were made. Fates were sealed.
By unspoken custom, patrons of different status and occupation kept to their own kind. Within each establishment, separate halls formed distinct worlds. One such hall, called Tingquan—"Listening to the Spring"—drew men in servants' blue robes and small caps. These were no ordinary servants, the kind who endured beatings and abuse. No one in Guangzhou dared look down upon them, for they were the trusted attendants, gatekeepers, and personal retainers of high officials and nobles alike. Each wielded considerable influence; each possessed his master's ear. Matters that proved intractable through the yamens' proper channels could often be resolved here with surprising smoothness—provided one approached the right man with the right amount of silver.
Morning was the teahouse's busiest hour. The ground floor was packed to bursting, the upper stories more than half-filled. Every hall entrance rang with competing voices: hawkers crying their wares, singers performing, patrons calling for service—a cacophony that somehow cohered into vibrant, pulsing energy.
Amid the bustle sat a young man alone at his table, drinking tea. Before him rested several small bamboo steamers containing the season's appropriate dim sum. He did not look around conspicuously, yet his eyes occasionally flicked toward the main entrance.
Before long, a short, middle-aged man entered through the hall door. His gaze swept the room and immediately found the solitary figure. He crossed the floor and dropped heavily into the opposite seat. A waiter hurried over to pour water and brew tea.
"Drink." The young man reached for the teapot.
"No need for ceremony." The newcomer carried himself with unmistakable self-importance. "Did you bring the money?"
"Naturally." The young man's voice dropped as he drew a paper note from his sleeve. Intricate patterns, crisp paper, vivid color printing—unmistakably a Delong promissory note, redeemable on sight throughout the province. Such notes were impossible to counterfeit.
The middle-aged man examined it closely. Fifty taels, payable on demand anywhere in Guangdong. A satisfied smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Good—you're a straightforward man." He slid a small bundle from beneath the table. "Everything you asked for is inside."
The young man nodded, opened a corner of the package, and examined its contents with care. Inside lay several small folding memo books, each bearing tiny paper labels. He studied them methodically, and only when satisfied of their authenticity did he give his approval.
"Don't worry—it's all genuine." The middle-aged man popped a shrimp dumpling into his mouth and smiled. "These items aren't exactly rare treasures, but they're stored in His Lordship's private study. Ordinary people can't get within ten paces of it—every step along the way costs money..."
He pocketed the note, tucking it securely into his boot, then launched into a lengthy account of the difficulties he had overcome—a transparent effort to demonstrate that the bundle had been quite reasonably priced.
"Consider this the beginning of our acquaintance," the young man said. "If future matters arise, I hope I may trouble you again."
"Of course, of course." The middle-aged man drained his tea and departed.
The bundle contained copies of Gao Shunqin's memorials from the past month, along with drafts of his correspondence with figures in the capital. For a high provincial official, these constituted extremely confidential materials—the sort typically secured in one's private study, never entrusted to advisors for safekeeping. But as the saying went: "You can guard against thieves by day, but never against the thieves in your own house." Given enough silver, even concubines and servants could be persuaded to secretly copy such documents.
The bundle soon passed through a courier station and into Lin Baoguang's hands. After careful review and the elimination of irrelevant portions, he swiftly reached his conclusion: Gao Shunqin's long campaign to expel the Portuguese from Macau had finally been set in motion.
What interested Lin Baoguang most was not the memorials themselves. For any proposal to gain imperial approval and become an edict, a single memorial would never suffice. Extensive groundwork was required beforehand—cultivating Grand Secretaries, various ministry officials, and securing political support. Some negotiations turned on matters of policy; others on exchanges of interest. And in the late Ming, factional struggles always demanded consideration.
By comparison, private correspondence—where opinions were exchanged and favors requested—held far greater reference value. By reading such letters, one could gauge precisely how far a particular matter had progressed.
Based on these letters, Gao Shunqin had largely completed his groundwork. Once the memorial was submitted, approval seemed highly likely. The ancients possessed little understanding of maritime trade's true significance, and the Portuguese and their partners were hardly gentle souls—their commerce was often accompanied by naked robbery, murder, and arson.
Taking everything into account, the Chongzhen Emperor would likely issue an edict next year prohibiting Portuguese trade, just as historical records indicated.
The puzzle was this: why was Li Fengjie displaying such unusual anxiety over the matter? Portuguese trading rights had no intersection whatsoever with his interests. His concern for the Portuguese ran so deep that if they learned of it and confirmed the news, his request would certainly be refused.
Lin Baoguang could not fathom what made Li Fengjie so invested in the Portuguese attitude. In the original timeline—at least during the Ming dynasty—the Portuguese could be considered obedient to Guangdong's local officials. Even a minor Deputy of Xiangshan County had once marched boldly into Macau, dragged members of the Portuguese Senate before his court, and had them publicly caned.
Fresh intelligence soon arrived: Li Fengjie's envoy to Macau was not one of his own advisors, but rather an old acquaintance of the transmigrators—Li Luoyou.
Li Luoyou had lived in Macau since childhood, studied under the Jesuits, and maintained extremely close ties with the Portuguese. He also preserved strong connections with officialdom. When Wang Zunde had sought to cast cannons in Guangdong using Portuguese pieces as models, Li Luoyou had handled everything personally. That Li Fengjie would now dispatch him to liaise with the Portuguese was entirely expected.
Lin Baoguang decided to cable Lingao immediately, asking Jiang Shan and the others to have Gu Baocheng arrange someone in Macau to contact Li Luoyou and uncover the full story.
On September twentieth, after several days of rest while awaiting reinforcements and supplies, Chen Haiyang finally launched the operation to penetrate the Pearl River's inland waters. Led by the survey ship Haitian, he commanded the special expeditionary force out of the Sham Shui anchorage and into the Pearl River proper.
From the Pearl River Estuary into the inland waterways and up to Guangzhou, two routes existed. The first was the outer passage: proceeding upriver from east of Macau, passing through the Bogue, crossing two sandbanks, and arriving directly at Huangpu. This was the primary route for merchant vessels bound for Guangzhou; navigation conditions were relatively favorable.
The second was the inner passage: proceeding upriver from west of Macau, crossing the Hengsha Shoal, then reaching Xiangshan. From there, one continued upriver through the Bogue to Huangpu. Since this route traversed numerous shoals and tributaries, it generally suited only smaller vessels.
Chen Haiyang possessed Haitian's survey data along with intelligence gathered from local sailors and veteran boatmen. He decided to take only the outer route for this maiden voyage, prioritizing the fleet's safety. His ultimate destination was the Bogue itself. If possible, he intended to establish a stronghold there to secure the strategic chokepoint—eliminating the need to fight through it on every subsequent voyage to Guangzhou.
The fleet weighed anchor at Sham Shui with the twin-masted survey ship Haitian in the lead, sailing past the waters east of Macau. It was a perfect autumn day, blessed with gentle breezes. The freshly scrubbed ships from the Sham Shui anchorage sailed in formation under full canvas. Imperial red flags with golden streamers rose on the mainmasts; countless banners fluttered in the wind. Cannons thundered; bugles rang out. A squadron of steam-powered landing craft churned forward on the fleet's flanks, trailing plumes of thick black smoke. Behind them came clusters of small boats in tow. Marine flags flew proudly above it all.
The Portuguese in Macau knew this was the Australian fleet. A few days earlier, the Macau Senate had dispatched envoys to Hong Kong Island, where both sides had exchanged gifts and opinions. Due to the transmigrators' support for Jesuit missionary work in Lingao and their ongoing trade with the Society of Jesus, the Portuguese were not unfamiliar with these newcomers. What worried them was the Australians' sudden appearance at the Pearl River Estuary—not only had they routed a pirate gang in these waters, but they had also constructed fortifications on Hong Kong Island.
Chen Haiyang offered his assurances: the Australian fleet harbored no designs whatsoever on Macau. The Portuguese remained fearful and not entirely convinced, but the disparity in power left them no choice except to greet these newcomers peacefully. They even permitted Australian vessels to enter Macau for supplies.
Chen Haiyang noted that Macau's harbor held four large galleons along with five or six smaller vessels. In terms of scale, Portuguese naval strength in East Asia remained formidable. Without the advantages of modern weaponry, propulsion, and ship design—relying on traditional vessels and arms alone—they would prove a dangerous adversary.
In the distance, smoke puffed from a fortress, followed by the rumble of cannon fire. The Portuguese were firing a salute.
The Macau forts discharged their guns, followed by the Portuguese ships in harbor firing in unison. The fleet responded with salutes of its own. The entire Pearl River Estuary boiled with white smoke and thundering artillery—announcing the transmigrators' formal arrival on the mainland.
(End of Chapter)