Chapter 1505 - Street Lamps

Every afternoon, an attendant took the day's outgoing mail to the relay station—the Australians called it a "post office." Some of Manager Qian's slips bore notations such as "Regular," "Telegraph," or "Express." Following Wang Xinglong's instructions, Lin Ming copied these markings onto the envelopes.

He guessed these might be some manner of commercial code. True to his principle of not asking unnecessary questions, he never inquired. Yet Wang Xinglong soon explained that these merely indicated the dispatch method.

"'Regular' is the normal post—by coach and ship, dispatched according to the usual schedule. 'Express' is urgent—sent the same day, arriving twice as fast as Regular..."

"Like the difference between ordinary court dispatches and eight-hundred-li urgent couriers?"

"Exactly. Mr. Lin's comparison is apt. But the court's courier stations are reserved for official use—how can commoners access them? Only high officials and gentry occasionally benefit. We merchants normally use 'flying feet'—fast enough, but expensive. For someone like me, from a backwater, even flying feet couldn't be found. When urgent news had to be sent, the only recourse was to dispatch a shop hand personally. The Australians are far more considerate of us merchants..."

"The Australian relay stations are open to merchants as well?"

"How could they not be? Even dirt-poor peasants can post a letter for a few fen—though only within Qiongzhou Prefecture. Routes into Ming territory are fewer, and for those you must send Express."

Lin Ming knew that the courier system placed a tremendous burden on the court, which had even disbanded stations to cut costs. The dismissed couriers had rioted or turned bandit—incidents had occurred in Guangdong as well, though the province was peaceful and prosperous enough to suppress them.

Who would have thought the Cropped-Hairs not only maintained a courier service but made it accessible to common folk—utterly inconceivable! To his mind, apart from "buying popular support," such expense was meaningless.

He could not voice this opinion aloud, however. Wang Xinglong, though unshaven, was a "Cropped-Hair enthusiast" who would not tolerate the slightest criticism. Lin Ming watched with a cold eye, aware that the boy harbored improper designs on his cousin. In the Ming, custom and propriety would have checked such impulses; here in Lingao—this "ritual-ruined, music-destroyed" land beyond civilization—such things went unremarked. In just a few days, Lin Ming had learned that making a living here was easy, opportunities for fortune plentiful, and tales abounded of men rising to wealth within a year or two. As a consequence, propriety and decorum counted for little.

"What, then, does the 'Telegraph' notation mean?"

"'Telegraph' is the electric telegraph." Wang Xinglong's eyes lit up with excitement. "Speaking of the telegraph, that truly is miraculous! Submit a letter here at the post office, and even if the recipient is a thousand li away, it arrives in the blink of an eye. I have no idea what technique the Australians employ!"

He explained that much of Haixing Store's thriving business depended on this telegraph. The head office in Guangzhou exchanged market information with Lingao via Hong Kong's post office: what was rising in price in Guangzhou, what was in high demand, what was overstocked or declining—within a day or two Manager Qian would know, and could instruct branch managers across Qiongzhou to buy or hold off accordingly.

"Even financial settlements can go by telegraph—far more convenient than bank drafts or exchange notes."

Lin Ming shook his head repeatedly, utterly unable to believe such a thing existed in the world.

"Mr. Lin doesn't believe me. Next time I send a telegraph, let's go together," Wang Xinglong laughed. "It will open your eyes."

Lin Ming remained half doubtful, half believing. Since arriving in Lingao, there had been far too many novel things, all exceeding his imagination.

While they chatted idly, another attendant delivered a box of incoming mail—this was Wang Xinglong's responsibility. Every day, Haixing Store dispatched stacks of letters and also received large quantities. Wang Xinglong opened and read each one, then drafted "summaries" based on the key points—Manager Qian was far too busy to read every letter himself. Some letters reported price fluctuations; those did not even require summaries, only figures to be entered on special lined forms—"tables," as Wang Xinglong called them.

The two stopped chatting and busied themselves with work. With only the two of them in the office, silence descended. They worked until noon, when an apprentice arrived, as usual, bringing wash water for face and hands before serving lunch—meat and vegetables, modest portions, but rice aplenty. Lin Ming, accustomed by nature to fine fare, had eaten poorly for months; now his appetite was keen and he ate his fill.

Wang Xinglong ate sparingly—he finished the dishes but took only one bowl of rice. Seeing Lin Ming's appetite, he laughed, "Mr. Lin's appetite is more like a warrior's than a scholar's."

Lin Ming started. "To tell the truth, I haven't had a proper meal in years..."

Wang Xinglong said, "When I first came to Lingao, I too ate as though reincarnated from a starving ghost. I wolfed down white rice without even touching the dishes. Back in Laizhou, even our family couldn't afford rice at every meal." He shook his head, seemingly overcome with emotion. "I never imagined such a place could exist in the world where even porters and day laborers eat their fill of rice and noodles..."

Lin Ming had noticed this too. At Weimin Inn the night before, he had eaten at a public canteen: behind a long counter under glass covers sat great platters heaped with food—vegetables, tofu-skin, noodles, meat, pickles, seafood, rice, steamed buns... Diners took a plate and helped themselves to whatever they wished; at the end of the line they paid. The cost was modest, yet one ate well, and the meal concluded with a bowl of broth garnished with a few vegetable leaves and a film of grease.

Though unfamiliar with the local exchange rates, Lin Ming roughly estimated what similar fare would cost in Foshan under Ming rule. His conclusion: people of comparable standing in the Ming could not afford it.

For grain and vegetables here to be so inexpensive meant production must be extraordinarily high. Yet the Cropped-Hairs encouraged industry and commerce, freely permitting peasants to relocate to towns for work and trade, with no apparent anxiety about abandoned fields or unworked land.

The Cropped-Hairs must possess some secret technique for farming. If he could obtain this secret and present it to the court, would that not be a tremendous achievement?

Lin Ming was lost in thought when Wang Xinglong excused himself—he was going out "to stroll the streets" with his cousin.

"Stroll the streets?" Lin Ming was startled. In the Ming, most cities closed their gates after dark, and street barriers were locked; curfews were common. Because there were no streetlamps, night travel was unsafe. Except during festivals like the Lantern Festival, few ventured out after lighting time. He hastened to warn:

"It's already lamp-lighting time; it's pitch black outside, and you're taking a woman along..."

Wang Xinglong laughed. "Mr. Lin, you don't know—the night here is quite lively, and night-walking is perfectly safe. Come out to the street and see."

Lin Ming followed him out, half believing, half doubting. Though dusk had not yet fully fallen, the iron posts along the street—whose purpose he had wondered about—were already lit. Bright flames leapt behind glass shades, casting a glow that far outshone oil lamps or candles, even surpassing the finest "Australian wax" candles.

Lamplight stretched along the street as far as his eye could see, bathing the road in daylight brilliance—one could read or write in the open, let alone walk.

Lin Ming clutched Wang Xinglong's arm as if his very soul had fled. "These—are streetlamps?"

"Exactly." Wang Xinglong beamed. "Didn't I say so?"

"An entire street... fitted with streetlamps?!" Lin Ming was reasonably well-informed. He knew that within the palace in the Capital and in the mansions of great lords, stone lanterns lined long corridors and were lit at night—already an extreme indulgence. He had suspected that these iron posts with glass shades might be streetlamps but could not believe the Cropped-Hairs would possess such resources to spend on lamp oil—and besides, what use was street lighting at night?

"Not just this street. All of East Gate Market, Bopu, the county seat—every market town has streetlamps burning throughout the night. Quite a few shops do business until the third watch or even through until dawn."

The street where Haixing Store stood was not a busy thoroughfare; by now most shops had closed, and pedestrians were few. Yet those who passed strolled at ease, evidently unconcerned about any curfew. Lin Ming steadied himself and was about to speak when Wang Jinchun emerged from the shop's side door. Her attire differed from the day before: pink silk ribbons on her double buns, a blue cotton dress of the Australian type over which she wore an embroidered silk vest. Her hem reached only to her knees, exposing calves in white stockings; on her feet, black cloth shoes. She carried a woven-grass handbag.

Lin Ming exclaimed repeatedly to himself, Outlandish costume! But Wang Xinglong had already gone to meet her with a face full of smiles.

"Cousin, is Mr. Lin coming with us?"

"No, no—Mr. Lin is not coming. He's just stepping out to see the night scenery." Wang Xinglong did not mince words. Lin Ming cursed inwardly, Dissolute lecher! but aloud said, "I have long heard that Lingao's night scenery is like a painting. I'll merely take a look. Please, go about your business..."

Wang Xinglong, no longer inclined to small talk, was about to lead his cousin away, but Wang Jinchun proved more helpful: "Mr. Lin, if you like the bustle, why not take a walk along East Gate Avenue? Go east from here, turn left at the second intersection. That's the liveliest place, with so many shops—even if you don't buy anything, it's pleasant simply to look around."

Lin Ming thanked her politely. Wang Xinglong was already pulling his cousin away. Seeing them actually holding hands as they walked, Lin Ming cried inwardly, Scandalous! Scandalous!