The Bund Chronicles, Chapter 22: The First Construction of Shanghai, A Shared Anticipation

The charcoal in the clay stove flickered, casting an orange glow across Chen Lin’s face and bathing his features in warmth.

He picked up a spiced bean with his fingertips, popped it into his mouth, and chewed gently before raising his eyes to the men gathered around him.

"As you uncles have just said," his voice was low, yet it carried clearly over the wind outside the shed, "it’s a stroke of luck to find a few months of work throughout the entire year. For the rest of the time, we’re stuck with odd jobs, with our wages dictated by others."

The men lowered their heads; some picked at their sleeves with calloused fingers.

A piece of wood in the stove crackled and popped, sending sparks flying and illuminating the worry etched on their faces.

Chen Lin leaned forward and continued, "I have an idea. We were the first ones to build concrete structures. In the coming years, development in the Foreign Concession will expand rapidly, requiring a massive amount of labor. We have no shortage of men here—as many as you need—but what is missing is a professional construction team."

The atmosphere in the shed began to stir. Some men lifted their heads, casting quick glances at their neighbors; others rubbed their hands together, their eyes gradually brightening.

Li Yunshan was the first to speak. His voice was gruff and tinged with an earnest honesty: "Manager Chen, we trust you! You tell us how to do it, and we'll do it!"

"That's right! We trust you!" The others nodded in agreement, their voices filled with irrepressible excitement. Some even clenched their fists.

The firelight reflected on their faces, bringing a touch of warmth even to their wrinkles.

Watching these simple, honest men, Chen Lin felt his heart soften. In this strange new era, these people might well become his first "foundation."

He tapped his fingertips against the edge of the table and said in a steady voice, "Very well, then I will be blunt. I want to establish a firm that specializes in building houses for others."

The men held their breath; even the sound of the burning charcoal became audible.

"We will follow the company model used by the foreigners," Chen Lin continued. "I will provide the capital to purchase specialized construction tools. You uncles will serve as the founders, contributing your craftsmanship as your stake. The brothers working under us can be full-time construction workers, drawing a salary twelve months a year."

...

Chen Lin painted a bright future for them: stable wages, dividends, and no longer having to bow to the whims of landlords and foremen.

It might have sounded like building castles in the air, but as he spoke, his eyes were bright and his tone was solid, devoid of any pretense—he truly believed in the future of this construction company.

He knew well that in the coming decades, the Shanghai Bund would transform into the "Paris of the East."

The limited territory of the Foreign Concession constrained its growth, yet it paradoxically sent the real estate market into a frenzy. He understood clearly how profitable this industry would be during its upward trajectory.

Weren't the British currently flooding the Great Qing with opium just to complete their bloody primitive accumulation? It was exactly like the Spanish and Portuguese looting the Americas centuries ago.

If Chen Lin wanted to change the era, he needed his own primitive accumulation. But he could not plunder like the foreigners; he had to rely on his own wits to extract profit, bit by bit.

Selling the patent for the coagulant to Dent at a low price was meant to generate startup capital for this construction company. His advice to Dent to open cement and coagulant factories in the Concession was also to pave the way for his firm—it would make building houses much easier in the future.

Most of those construction workers were landless peasants. They were either tenant farmers for landlords—praying for rain in the spring and fearing floods in the autumn, only to end up hungry—or they worked odd jobs, where they might have work today but go hungry tomorrow. They were even worse off than independent farmers, living the most precarious of lives.

The foremen were slightly better off, but they were still just laborers. Much like the Ming Dynasty, the Great Qing held craftsmen in low regard, classifying them among the "lower nine" social tiers.

But if they followed Chen Lin's plan, things would be different: foremen could become bosses with shares and dividends; ordinary workers could have stable incomes, at least matching that of long-term hired hands. How could they possibly refuse such terms?

As Chen Lin expected, everyone nodded in agreement.

The details of how to establish the company, whose name it would be registered under, and how to operate it would have to be figured out slowly. Fortunately, Chen Lin had time; as long as it was settled before the completion of the Dent & Co. building, it would suffice.

Beyond making money, Chen Lin had other motives: he wanted to use this company to gather a force around himself.

At critical moments, these workers, accustomed to taking orders, would be his support.

Of course, that was a long-term goal. For now, the most urgent task was to finish the building.

Over the next few days, Chen Lin lived on the construction site. He oversaw the load-bearing walls, the evenness of the facade plastering, the meticulousness of the interior decoration, and even the laying of the piping.

The sun rose and set, and that unprecedented building on the Bund took shape day by day—the brick seams grew neater, the walls smoother, and from a distance, it already possessed the grandeur of Western architecture.

...

In the county magistrate's police station, the oil lamp flickered dimly, the wick occasionally popping.

Chief Tie Liang summoned all the runners under Liu Wei's command and questioned them one by one. After more than an hour, he finally extracted useful information from one of them.

"You killed a fisherman from the Yangjingbang area?" Tie Liang’s voice turned heavy as he tapped his fingers on the table. He despised bullying, even though such things were not uncommon in the county.

The runner fell to his knees with a thud, his knees cracking against the blue bricks, his head bowed almost to the floor. "Chief Tie, it was Foreman Liu who did it! We just followed along; we didn't touch him, we really didn't!"

"What family does that fisherman have left?" Tie Liang asked, his tone softening slightly.

The runner hesitated, his voice muffled. "Uh... he has three children. Two boys and a girl."

He didn't dare mention that they had also sold the fisherman's mute wife.

"Three children? How old are they?"

"The eldest boy is thirteen or fourteen, the younger boy is about ten, and there's a little girl, about six or seven."

Hearing this, the glimmer of hope that had just surfaced in Tie Liang’s heart sank again. He knit his brows into a knot—a thirteen or fourteen-year-old child, no matter how clever, could not possibly have subdued Liu Wei.

Liu Wei might not have been a master martial artist, but he wasn't someone a half-grown boy could easily take down. Moreover, the way Liu Wei died was so bizarre; how could such a method be the work of a child?

Regardless, the three children had lost their parents, and he couldn't just ignore them. Tie Liang reported the matter to Magistrate Wu Yun and applied for a two-hundred-wen subsidy, intending to deliver it to the children.

But when he arrived at Yangjingbang, he found only an empty, dilapidated thatched hut.

Most of the thatch on the roof had fallen off, the window paper was riddled with holes, and the withered grass in the yard swayed in the wind. It was clear that no one had lived there for days.

Tie Liang stood at the gate, a heaviness settling in his chest. He wanted to ask the neighbors, but the people in this area had long since moved away; there was no one left to ask.

He sighed at the desolate hut and could only trudge back in frustration.

...

At that moment, Chen Lin was at the Liru Bank, depositing the fifty thousand silver yuan he had received from Dent.

Dent & Co.'s funds were also held at this bank, so Chen Lin did not receive physical silver, but rather a bank note. He looked at the numbers on the document, tracing the paper with his fingertips—these foreigners truly were the pioneers of finance; many of their methods were similar to those of the future, which saved him a lot of trouble.

"Congratulations, Jack." Dent signed the receipt, looked up with a smile in his blue eyes, and reached out to shake Chen Lin's hand. "You are a wealthy man now."

His grip was firm, his distinct knuckles clutching Chen Lin's wrist with a touch of Western enthusiasm.

The news spread quickly through the Concession. Some said Mr. Dent was honorable and trustworthy, while others remembered the name "Chen Lin"—to conduct such a large business deal with Dent, this young man was no simple person.

After the deposit, Chen Lin specifically withdrew one hundred silver yuan to test the system.

When those gleaming Spanish silver coins were placed into his hands, he felt a shiver run through him—the serrated edges of the coins pressed against his palm, and a chill spread from his fingertips, but their heavy weight warmed his heart more than the charcoal in the clay stove.

He didn't linger and went straight to the construction site, called over the foremen, and gave each of them five silver yuan.

Han Zhongxin took the coins, tucked them into his chest, and straightened his back, his mouth stretching into a wide grin. "Master! Don't you worry, we will definitely work hard!"

The others nodded in agreement, calling him "Master" repeatedly, their warmth suggesting they had practically sold themselves to Chen Lin.

Chen Lin smiled helplessly and patted Han Zhongxin on the arm. "Uncles, please, don't call me that. We are partners; you are also bosses of the company. At the end of the year, when we make a profit, everyone will get a dividend."

Li Yunshan scratched his head, looking embarrassed. "Manager Chen, since we’ve taken your money, we must do the work. Just tell us what to do. We’re just simple men; if you don't say anything, we won't know what to do."

The others nodded, their eyes full of anticipation.

"For now, the most important thing is to finish the Dent & Co. building," Chen Lin said, his voice lowering as his gaze swept over them. "This project will be the free advertisement for our 'Shanghai First Construction.' Once the building is finished, we will have no shortage of work."

He named his construction company "Shanghai First Construction," or "Shanghai First" for short. The name was quite different from the conventions of the time, but the foremen had no objections—as long as they could make money, they didn't care what it was called.

Next, Chen Lin had to find someone to register the company in the Concession. Han Zhongxin and the others became the registered owners on paper, but they signed a nominee shareholding agreement: Chen Lin held eighty percent of the shares, the three foremen held five percent each, and the remaining five percent was distributed among the first batch of workers.

Since Chen Lin provided all the capital, no one had any complaints about this arrangement.

After making these arrangements, Chen Lin gave them a new task: to go to the surrounding areas and recruit skilled craftsmen into the company. In mid-19th-century Shanghai, a skilled craftsman was more precious than silver.

...

In the nearby town of Yangjing, a small courtyard was quiet.

The magnolia tree in the center of the yard rustled in the wind. The stars in the sky were as dense as scattered silver, falling to the earth and casting faint shadows.

Liu Lihua and Miaomiao sat on the steps, looking up at the stars. Miaomiao pulled at her sleeve, her gaze drifting.

"Missing your brother again?" Liu Lihua turned her head to look at Miaomiao’s profile, her voice soft. "How about we go see him?"

Miaomiao shook her head, her large eyes sparkling. "Miaomiao doesn't miss Brother; I want Brother to focus on making money. As long as I'm full, that's enough."

She paused, then suddenly looked at Liu Lihua. "Sister, is it you who misses Brother?"

The question was so direct that the tips of Liu Lihua's ears turned red instantly. She reached out and pinched Miaomiao's cheek, looking embarrassed. "Don't talk nonsense."

Just then, the wooden gate of the courtyard creaked open, and a gruff voice echoed in: "You two girls, what are you doing here?"

It was Liu Lichuan.

He was burly, and standing at the gate, he blocked nearly half the entrance. Behind him followed a tall boy—he looked about the same age as Chen Lin, but he was a head taller, his shoulders broad enough to carry two bags of rice, his arm muscles bulging like small buns, and his stride was powerful and purposeful. One look was enough to tell he was a martial artist.