From street tabloids to the first newspaper of the Republic of China

September 3rd, cloudy.

Lin Wangzheng took to the streets again, strolling around the French Concession, eventually arriving near the Bund.

He had already interviewed ten people throughout the day yesterday, which was quite efficient, but he felt it wasn't enough.

Street surveys alone cannot provide a comprehensive understanding of rickshaw pullers' situations. One needs to follow them and systematically observe their working and living conditions to obtain a more complete picture.

On the dock side, there were even more drivers, a mix of all sorts of people.

"Report! A newly published report!"

"The Times, the Times! Liang Yinbing announces his withdrawal from the Progressive Party! 'The Strange Question of the So-Called National System' is published in Beiping, and Yuan Shikai is furious."

"Besides these, what other news is there?"

"The Shenbao newspaper today published a notice exposing Xue Dake's trip south, where he allegedly bribed journalists with 150,000 silver dollars!"

"Hey, give me one."

"Here you go!"

"Let me see... Someone allocated 150,000 yuan to the Shanghai Movement's press, advocating for a change in the form of government and the restoration of the monarchy... All colleagues in this newspaper... All shareholders, apart from normal business profits, and all staff members and editors, apart from salaries and dividends, have never received a single penny of allowance from any other organization or individual... As long as co-governance exists, we will absolutely not support a single day of restoration... This *Shen Bao* newspaper is truly tough!"

The news vendor and passersby were talking quite loudly, and given the sensational news, the newsstand was quickly surrounded.

Lin Wangzheng didn't buy it, but he realized that the nonchalant man he met yesterday was probably Xue Dake.

The purpose of going to the newspaper was probably to bribe Shi Jiaxiu, but Shi Jiaxiu turned the tables and published it in the newspaper. Now the whole of Shanghai knew about his little scheme.

However, this action also demonstrated that Shi Jiaxiu and his fellow newspaper bourgeois were firmly opposed to Yuan Shikai's attempt to become emperor; otherwise, there would have been no need to make such a big fuss.

Lin Wangzheng shook his head, banishing the matter from his mind, and began looking for a target.

In his opinion, Shi Jiaxiu simply doesn't understand the principle of "eating the sugar coating and firing the cannonball back"...

As for Liang Yinbing's announcement, he understood its underlying meaning, and the matter ended there...

The controls here are relatively lax, and the drivers gathered together, smoking and chatting.

"Hey! Did you guys know that there was an explosion at Jinliyuan Wharf last month? A rickshaw driver surnamed Tang was caught in the crossfire for no reason!"

"I've heard about it, what exactly happened?"

"The matter is like this, it involves Zheng Rucheng, the military governor of Songhu..."

Lin Wangzheng moved closer, squatted down next to the group, and listened patiently.

Before long, he figured out what had happened—

In the latter half of last month, Zheng Rucheng, the garrison commander of Songhu, was escorting his wife and children back to their hometown when he was assassinated by revolutionaries. The assassin threw a bomb from the boarding area of ​​the cruise ship, but due to excessive force, the bomb exploded ten meters away from Zheng Rucheng. Zheng Rucheng and his entourage were unharmed, but Tang Hengzi, a rickshaw driver who was soliciting business at the dock, had his right ribs and right arm blown off.

This incident caused quite a stir, and many newspapers published it at the time. However, Lin Wangzheng was busy conducting undercover investigations at the beggar's den during those days and thus overlooked the matter.

When the rickshaw pullers heard the details, they were filled with sympathy and sighs.

After all, the whole thing was quite dramatic.

Did Zheng Rucheng deserve to die? He was no good. He carried out a reign of terror in Shanghai, brutally massacring revolutionaries and progressives, posting notices everywhere declaring, "Anyone who harbors bandits will be executed." He was infamous, with the saying, "The garrison headquarters is a gate to hell; once revolutionaries go there, they never return." Praised by Yuan Shikai as a "pillar of the southeast," he was essentially a mad dog under Yuan's command. Killing him was too lenient a punishment.

Such a person was naturally a thorn in the side of the revolutionaries, and it was historically necessary to get rid of him as soon as possible.

Unfortunately, this assassination operation was detached from the masses and inadvertently harmed the vulnerable working class.

Reality is reality; it can't be perfect as predicted. Unexpected things will always happen. Since revolution inevitably involves bloodshed, it's destined to establish a new order amidst chaos…

But the newspapers only focused on Zheng Rucheng and the arrested revolutionaries, making no mention of Tang Hengzi's fate. His ending remains unclear, and there's no record of compensation—this is the greatest tragedy...

Lin Wangzheng asked out of curiosity what was on his mind:

"Sir, do you know what happened to this driver surnamed Tang afterward?"

The storyteller shook his head and said:

"I don't know much about what happened after that. I only remember that he bled a lot and his arm was blown apart. We rushed him to the hospital in a panic, each of us paid a little money, and then we didn't care about the rest. We didn't have the ability to care about it."

Lin Wangzheng nodded, then asked:

"What about the car dealership? This injury happened while towing the car; hasn't the dealership offered any assistance?"

A driver scoffed, his tone mocking:

"In the eyes of those who sit in offices, we rickshaw pullers are less valuable than animals. When the livestock that pulls the millstone dies, the owner is still saddened; but when the rickshaw puller dies, the rickshaw company rents the rickshaw to someone else the next day without even asking a question."

Lin Wangzheng remained silent.

Based on what he knows so far, the fate of this driver surnamed Tang is sealed. Even if he receives effective medical treatment, he won't be able to pull the cart again after recovering from his injuries.

If you can't pull the cart, you won't have any income; without income, your family will break apart.

Unable to cope with setbacks, they may commit suicide or descend into depravity...

Who knows, one day, a beggar surnamed Tang might appear in some beggar's den...

"Ugh."

Lin Wangzheng sighed, took out his notebook, and wrote a line.

Tang Hengzi, a victim of the Jinliyuan Wharf bombing, is currently unaccounted for and has no means of support.

After finishing writing, he asked the coachman who knew the inside story for Tang Hengzi's address, intending to go and see the coachman, but no one knew it.

The driver glanced at him, noticing he wasn't an ordinary person, and asked:

"Are you a reporter?"

"Yes."

"What's the point of writing all this?"

Lin Wangzheng did not answer the question.

He firmly believes that any change must begin with revelation.

As long as someone writes it down and exposes the areas that need changing to the light of day, it will definitely be useful!

......

A while later, it was noon.

Lin Wangzheng did not rush to find the injured driver, but instead interviewed a few more people.

He specifically found a rickshaw shop in the French Concession. There were more than a dozen rickshaws parked in the courtyard, and rickshaw drivers were coming and going. Some had just rented a rickshaw and were about to start work, while others were returning home after work to pay their rickshaw rental fees.

The boss was a man in his fifties, wearing a silk shirt, a gold ring on his hand, and a cigar in his mouth. He sat behind the counter doing accounts, and he moved the abacus with great skill.

Lin Wangzheng squatted at the door, offered a few cigarettes to the idle coachman, and asked casually:

"Aren't you all going to get to work?"

One of the drivers eagerly answered:

"How can we start work if we can't get a car?"

The current situation is "too many people and too few cars," with several drivers relying on one car. If they can't get a car, they can only wait, and the car rental company owners can take the opportunity to raise the rent.

Especially in the French Concession, there were approximately 10,000 rickshaws, with an average of three to four people on each rickshaw, leading to congestion and frequent accidents on narrow roads. In addition, the "uncivilized" behavior of rickshaw drivers hindered the development of tram services, and the Municipal Council proposed a reduction plan this year, which has been met with widespread dissatisfaction among rickshaw drivers.

Lin Wangzheng chatted for a few more minutes, then asked again:

"What about the rent? How is the daily rent calculated?"

A rickshaw driver, with a cigarette dangling from his lips, said:

"The rent in the concession area was mostly five or six cents. Once you rented it, you had to pay it every day, regardless of wind or rain, or whether there were customers or not. If you couldn't pay, you wouldn't be able to rent a car anymore."

Another driver added:

"More than that! License plate fees, vehicle inspection fees, traffic violation fines... you have to pay for all of them yourself. If the car breaks down, you have to repair it yourself; if you lose your license plate, you have to pay for it yourself. Driving a car is like driving your ancestors."

Lin Wangzheng knew the situation and silently kept it in mind:

"Would you like to own your own car?"

The drivers all shook their heads.

I've always dreamed of owning one.

"Yes, it's just a dream now."

"If I had a car, would I have to put up with this nonsense?"

The market price of a rickshaw is about one hundred silver dollars, and a strong young rickshaw driver's annual income is barely enough to cover that amount. However, they still need to eat, drink, wear clothes, and live in the house, and there are other expenses at home. Therefore, buying a rickshaw is something that is unattainable for rickshaw drivers.

But if you own your own car, your annual income can easily double.

There aren't that many lucky "Xiangzis" in the world!

Lin Wangzheng wrote these things down, offered a cigarette to one of the people, and then left the car dealership.

......

in the afternoon.

The dark clouds dispersed, and it looked like the rain wouldn't fall.

Lin Wangzheng paused the interview and randomly followed the driver, walking and running.

A robust rickshaw puller surnamed Liu had only been pulling the cart for a little over two years, but his back was already severely hunched, and he had useless plasters stuck to his waist. Even so, he dared not stop running.

This man ran very fast, taking passengers from Nanjing Road to the Bund, then running back empty, before returning to the designated area to wait for more passengers. He went back and forth without daring to stop for a moment.

Lin Wangzheng was exhausted. He kept running and stopping, and eventually lost track of the pursuer. He could only wait on the Bund.

Fortunately, the driver didn't rush to finish his trip. After dropping off his passenger, he returned to the same spot and turned at an intersection. As his wheels slightly touched the edge of the sidewalk, a Vietnamese policeman rushed over, swung his baton at the car, and then launched into a tirade of abuse.

Lin Wangzheng couldn't understand what was being cursed, but the rickshaw driver surnamed Liu clearly did. He endured the insults, bowed, apologized, and took out two jiao (0.2 yuan) from his pocket to hand over.

"Gibberish...I'll take your chicken..."

The Vietnamese police officer took the money, but still pried off the license plate, left a comment, and walked away.

Lin Wangzheng, looking puzzled, scratched his head and stepped forward to ask:

"Brother Liu, what is that policeman saying?"

Brother Liu gave a wry smile, bent down slightly to pick up the license plate, and wiped off the dust.

"You need to go to the police station to pay a two-dollar fine; you can't drive here today..."

Lin Wangzheng patted him on the shoulder in comfort:

"Does this happen often?"

Brother Liu was in low spirits, and his eyes were a little red.

“It happens every day… The police can find any excuse to fine you… If your car is dirty, they'll fine you; if your headlights aren't working, they'll fine you; if you drive too fast, they'll fine you; if you drive too slow, they'll fine you… Once, I picked up a customer and brought him here. The customer got out and left. I was just about to turn around when a policeman came over and said I was obstructing traffic and pried off my license. I tried to reason with him, and he picked up a stick and started hitting me.”

Lin Wangzheng memorized these words, sighed, took out two silver dollars, and handed them to Brother Liu:

"Keep it; it's a stipend for the interview. Everyone gets one."

Brother Liu looked up in disbelief, but after hesitating for a moment, he accepted the money because he really needed it.

"Young sir, which newspaper do you work for?"

"......declare."

"Okay, okay, go ahead and write. If you need any help, just come here and find me anytime."

......

A day has passed, and it's the morning of September 4th.

The dark clouds that dispersed yesterday have gathered again today.

Shanghai was still Shanghai, everything was as usual, and apart from Lin Wangzheng, no one cared about the rickshaw drivers' survival.

Today, Lin Wangzheng was wandering around the Shiliupu area because Jinliyuan Wharf was located there. He wanted to find the injured rickshaw driver, so he could only try his luck here.

As a result, they found a driver surnamed Zhu, who was somewhat different from the other drivers.

Because this driver surnamed Zhu was a monthly hire.

These are chauffeurs employed by wealthy families and paid a fixed monthly fee, similar to private drivers. Chauffeurs who hire on a monthly basis have more stable incomes and higher salaries than other chauffeurs, and most of them live with their employers.

These kinds of rickshaw pullers live a relatively comfortable life and have a respectable lifestyle.

Therefore, one cannot simply generalize about a group.

The rickshaw driver, surnamed Zhu, was employed by a foreign firm manager. In addition to being responsible for the manager's family's daily transportation, he also had to transport the manager's visiting guests. However, he would earn an extra two cents for each trip.

With nothing else to do, he rested downstairs and chatted with Lin Wangzheng for a while.

After chatting for a while, Lin Wangzheng asked:

"Brother Zhu, have you heard about the explosion at the docks nearby?"

Brother Zhu's expression changed drastically, and he nodded:

"I witnessed it with my own eyes; it happened on the 17th of last month."

Lin Wangzheng continued to cast his bait:

"I heard a coachman was injured. Do you know him?"

Brother Zhu looked unwell and said in a hoarse voice:

"I know him. His surname is Tang, and his name is Tang Hengzi. He's from my hometown."

"How is he?"

Lin Wangzheng was somewhat anxious.

Brother Zhu took a deep drag on his cigarette, the smoke billowing from his nostrils, obscuring his face before quickly dissipating, revealing faint redness around his eyes.

He didn't speak until the cigarette had burned out:

"That bomb was meant to kill. Half of his body was blown to pieces. He didn't have money for treatment, so the rickshaw drivers present chipped in to pay for it. But how long can that last? In the end, the rickshaw company didn't care, and the concession, Zheng Rucheng, and the revolutionaries all turned a blind eye. What can you do?"

The implication is that the person is already dead.

My condolences...

Lin Wangzheng felt a pang of regret, his emotions a complex mix: "The head of the family is dead, what about his family?"

Brother Zhu's voice was deep:

"His eldest child is only six years old, and his youngest has just learned to walk. His wife cries all day long, but it's no use. Without money, they'll still starve to death... What can a woman do in Shanghai? We have limited resources. We help her out when we can, but that's not a long-term solution. I heard she's become a prostitute now; it's a quick way to make money..."

For families of low-level rickshaw pullers, if the head of the household is still alive, the wife will usually do odd jobs to earn five or six silver dollars a month, which is enough to supplement the family income.

However, now that the head of the household is dead, earning only five or six silver dollars a month is clearly not enough to support the family.

Falling into prostitution during a sudden crisis has become the "fate" of many.

Lin Wangzheng recalled that in his previous life, a scholar had specifically calculated the ratio of open prostitutes to the total urban population in Shanghai during the early Republican era, which reached an astonishing 1:137. There were more than 20,000 openly operating prostitutes, not even counting the "illegal" clandestine prostitutes!

Within the French Concession, the area from the Eight Immortals Bridge to Rue Edward was a hub for brothels, and the police station was one of the accomplices in "forcing women into prostitution."

Lin Wangzheng was somewhat saddened by this and pleaded:

"Brother Zhu, could you take me to see this person's home?"

Brother Zhu glanced at Lin Wangzheng and asked:

"What do you want to do?"

Lin Wangzheng pulled out his press pass, indignantly:

"I will expose all of this to the world!"

......

In the evening, a light rain was falling.

Wasteland at the docks along the coast.

Brother Zhu asked his host for leave and brought Lin Wangzheng here.

A few bamboo poles and tattered mats formed makeshift shacks, huddled together. There was no running water, no electricity, and the latrine was right outside, reeking of foul odors. The ground was muddy, making a squelching sound when you stepped on it. Mosquitoes were so numerous that you could grab a handful with just one hand; people with anemia couldn't come here.

It's raining heavily outside and lightly inside.

Led by Brother Zhu, Lin Wangzheng went into a low shack and closed the oil-paper umbrella in his hand.

Inside was a simple wooden bed, on which lay a woman and two children. An oil lamp was lit on a table beside the bed.

When the woman saw someone come in, she quickly sat up, woke the children, told them to go out, and made a move to take off her clothes.

"Yingzi, it's me!"

Brother Zhu growled, his eyes bloodshot.

Seeing his fellow villager's family reduced to such a state, how could he not be moved?

The woman hugged the child tightly, lowered her head, and remained silent.

Brother Zhu suppressed his anger, moved a wooden box from the corner, and asked Lin Wangzheng to sit down and talk.

Lin Wangzheng did not sit down immediately, but took advantage of the dim light to look around.

There was nothing in the room except a few tattered clothes, a kettle, and a few sets of bowls and chopsticks. In the corner, a broken enamel basin was visible in a pile of straw, with some blackened medicine residue at the bottom.

"This is a reporter from the Shen Bao newspaper. They want to interview you about your husband."

Brother Zhu pointed to Lin Wangzheng and introduced him.

Upon hearing this, the woman buried her head in her knees and said in a tearful voice:

"Brother, Old Tang is dead!"

"I know he's dead! It's precisely because he's dead that we can't let his death remain unexplained!"

Brother Zhu slapped his thigh and said.

Lin Wangzheng watched from the side, then took out two bags of dried meat and handed them to the shivering child.

The woman cried for a long time before she calmed down. She raised her head, smoothed her hair, and asked:

"Ask whatever you want."

Lin Wangzheng nodded, squatted down beside the bed, and asked:

"Could you tell me about Brother Tang's condition after he was injured?"

The woman blurted out:

"We ran out of money and were kicked out of the hospital. He was covered in pus and was just waiting to die. A detective from the concession came to question him once, but left after covering his nose. The car dealership owner came to collect the car rent once, saw his condition, and cursed him."

"His brothers brought him money and medicine, but it was no use. He just lay there, howling for days, and then he died."

Lin Wangzheng listened in silence, then asked:

"Where is it buried?"

The woman fell silent.

Brother Zhu patted Lin Wangzheng on the shoulder and pointed in a direction:

"That one."

The French Concession forbade Chinese citizens from being buried there; if they wanted a suitable grave, they had to go to the Chinese-controlled area. They would find a mass grave, dig a shallow pit about half a person's depth, wrap it in a straw mat, and hastily bury the child.

Lin Wangzheng was speechless, remained silent for a long time, and then asked a question he already knew the answer to:

"Is life easier when a man dies?"

The woman answered with a sob.

The starving children wolfed down the dried meat.

Brother Zhu covered his face, his shoulders trembling.

The wife of a rickshaw driver, whose husband was killed in a bombing, received no compensation, no relief, and not even a word of concern from outsiders. She had no choice but to use her body to earn a living.

If someone hadn't happened to hear the name Tang Hengzi, he would have been buried in the mud like thousands of others who died silently, never to be mentioned again.

In the end, Lin Wangzheng left behind five silver dollars and left.

His figure looked weak and powerless, growing smaller and more blurry under the streetlights of the main road, until it finally disappeared into the shadows.

......

September 6th, evening.

Lin Wangzheng finished his final interview and returned to his small hotel on Dongxinqiao Street in the dark. The cigarette in his mouth glowed and dimmed, just like his fluctuating emotions.

These days, he has traveled to many places, met many people, and asked many questions.

We originally planned to find at least thirty rickshaw drivers, but we ended up interviewing fifty, which is something to be happy about.

However, some of the drivers' words made him really unhappy.

he asks:

"Why do you think you pull the cart while others ride in it?"

The drivers' answers were all the same:

"Bad luck."

"What can I do about my miserable life?"

"You have to pay for the sins you committed in your past life."

"They have money, I don't, that's just how it is."

Fifty people, fifty stories.

But ultimately, these fifty stories all boil down to one thing.

When rural areas went bankrupt, people flocked to the cities. Finding no work in the cities, they became rickshaw pullers. Once they started, they were exploited layer by layer by the rickshaw companies, layer by layer by the police, and then trampled on by unreasonable passengers. When they fell ill, no one cared; when they grew old, no one inquired; when they died, no one buried them. From beginning to end, they weren't "living," but simply "enduring." Enduring today, enduring tomorrow, enduring until they died someday.

"What did you see this time?"

Shen Zishi went downstairs to cook a bowl of noodles and brought it up for Lin Wangzheng as a late-night snack.

Lin Wangzheng thought for a moment, and finally forced a smile:

"I have witnessed many tragedies that I had never seen or even imagined before."

Shen Zishi knew that he was always in a low mood after each interview, so he patted him on the shoulder and lit him a cigarette.

"You're a real man; you can't afford to have any mental issues."

Lin Wangzheng nodded.

Shen Zishi pushed the noodles in front of Lin Wangzheng's table, and handed him a copy of the "Shenbao" newspaper, gesturing for him to take a look.

Lin Wangzheng took the bowl while eating his noodles, and the headline that caught his eye was—

Huang Yuanyong's Announcement Opposing the Monarchy and Resigning from His Employment with a Yuan-affiliated Newspaper

The content is:

[I have now left Beiping and have relinquished all my previous positions as the Beijing correspondent for the Shenbao newspaper, as well as the writing assignments I received for the Shanghai Asia Daily. My stance on the current situation is the same as that recently announced by my colleagues at the Shenbao newspaper. This is a formal declaration.]

The content was very simple: Huang Yuanyong clearly expressed his opposition to the imperial system, announced a break with Yuan Shikai, and severed all ties with the Asia Daily.

"Stranger, I don't want to hear him."

Lin Wangzheng showed no respect whatsoever to this journalist who was later hailed as "China's first reporter".

Even if this person's "Yuanyong Communications" dared to speak the truth, dared to criticize the powerful and wealthy, and dared to expose the darkness, criticizing Yuan Shikai and the revolutionaries at the same time, what does it have to do with him?

Does that mean he doesn't dare?

The phrase "breaking ties with Yuan Shikai" implies that there had been a "honeymoon period" beforehand.

During that honeymoon period, Huang Yuanyong submitted a press secrecy ordinance to Yuan Shikai. His suggestion to review and legally intervene in newspapers of the opposition party and those who betrayed the party went beyond the professional duty of journalists and ran counter to the principles that reporters should uphold.

Yuan Xiangcheng attached great importance to this regulation, and then the disaster was reported in the year of Gui Chou.

The original owner's father was arrested and imprisoned in the military and political law enforcement department that year, where he died.

Lin Wangzheng was not the original owner, but he occupied the original owner's body and could not help but feel the original owner's obsession at all times.

Therefore, he didn't have much affection for Huang Yuanyong.

"Too late, this kind of thing is the least valuable," Shen Zishi mocked.

After finishing his noodles, Lin Wangzheng took out his notebook and opened it. Looking at the densely packed interview records, his logic became clearer and clearer.

The most urgent task is to write the story of this "one person"!

He picked up his pen and spread out the manuscript paper.

The light from the oil lamp flickered on the wall, casting the room in a dim and intermittent manner.

The night wind outside the window blew in from the Huangpu River, making the manuscript papers on the table rustle.

He picked up his pen and wrote the title on the manuscript paper.

[The Life of Oxen and Horses: Interviews with Fifty Rickshaw Drivers]

Then, several introductory paragraphs flowed smoothly.

The people of Shanghai are very familiar with rickshaws. In 1864, a Frenchman named Milà brought them from Japan to Shanghai. At that time, they were called "Eastern rickshaws," lightweight and agile, faster than sedan chairs and cheaper than horse-drawn carriages. In just one or two decades, they spread from the foreign concessions to Beijing, Tianjin, Hankou, and other places, becoming the main mode of transportation in the city. According to a statistic from 1913, there were over 500,000 rickshaw pullers nationwide, with 70,000 to 80,000 of them making a living in Shanghai alone.

It is now the fourth year of the Republic of China. In the streets and alleys of the concessions and Chinese-controlled areas, rubber wheels roll incessantly day and night. At the front of each wheel is a person, hunched over, their legs flailing as they run. Every day, we passengers go up from one alleyway to another, drop a coin, and leave without looking back. Has anyone ever looked down to see what kind of person that panting, sweat-drenched rickshaw puller is? Where does he come from? How many meals does he eat a day? Where does he sleep at night? How many times has he been beaten by the police? Will he ever have a chance to rise above his circumstances?

[Our reporter randomly interviewed fifty rickshaw pullers on the side of the road, in front of car dealerships, and in shantytowns. The following is a record of their exact words and firsthand accounts.]