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

Lin Wangzheng smiled, not rushing to ask about the incident, but instead first asking in a reassuring tone:

"Brother, what is your surname?"

"No, no need for formalities... My surname is Chen!"

"Okay, I'll just ask a few simple questions. You don't need to be so nervous."

"well."

Brother Chen nodded repeatedly.

Lin Wangzheng asked softly:

"Can you tell me what just happened?"

Brother Chen subconsciously touched the wound on his face, thought for a moment, and replied:

"I was working inside, moving type blocks, when I heard someone shouting something outside... something like, 'Stop!' I just turned to look at the door when there was a 'bang,' and then I knew nothing more..."

He pointed to the cut on his face, still shaken:

"When I got up, this is what happened. My ears were ringing, and at first I couldn't hear anything. It took a long time before I realized there was someone lying on the ground... it was..."

He pointed to the two workers covered by a white sheet.

Lin Wangzheng wrote down these words and asked:

"And now? Are there any other injuries?"

Brother Chen relaxed, touched himself all over, and said somewhat uncertainly:

"It doesn't hurt, but I feel unwell all over. Especially my stomach... it feels like... like it's churning, and my chest feels uncomfortable too..."

Bomb explosions primarily kill through shrapnel and shockwaves. Even if someone isn't instantly killed by shrapnel in a close-range bomb attack, the powerful shockwave acts like a "high-pressure wall," instantly compressing the body. This compression causes the chest and abdomen to deform rapidly, leading to violent compression, displacement, and collisions of internal organs. Air-filled hollow organs such as the lungs and gastrointestinal tract are most vulnerable because the drastic change in gas volume under pressure can cause alveolar tearing, gastrointestinal rupture, or bleeding.

The most dangerous thing is that these "hidden injuries" are not easy to detect. Many people seem fine on the spot, but will suddenly collapse after a while.

Lin Wangzheng intensified his questioning:

"Are you experiencing any worsening symptoms? For example, coughing up blood, blurred vision, feeling cold, thirst, or weakness?"

Since only an hour has passed since the explosion, internal bleeding would not be felt immediately.

Brother Chen shook his head and said:

"No, even if there were, there's nothing we can do. That's fate... I've been doing this for five years. Who would have thought that coming out to do a job would lead to something like this..."

After saying that, he lowered his head, with a calm resignation to his impending death.

Lin Wangzheng heard the familiar words and fell silent for a moment.

Actually, he didn't have any good solutions. Although the charitable hospitals in the Shanghai-Nanjing International Settlement had the capacity to handle surgical procedures, their survival rate was not high.

To put it bluntly, right now we can only wait to die. Not only is there no cure, but we also can't afford it.

Hospitals, concession authorities, newspaper owners... it's impossible for them to be so kind as to take full responsibility for the medical care of these printing workers.

Lin Wangzheng knew better than anyone that this "bad luck" was the result of the entire system.

Indifferent colonizers, ruthless drummers of imperial rule, revolutionaries with confused political agendas...

He didn't ask any more questions, and just squatted there, waiting for Brother Chen to calm down.

After a long while, Brother Chen finally looked up, his voice a little hoarse:

"Please, young sir, you must spread our message."

Lin Wangzheng nodded.

Brother Chen pointed inside the newspaper office, his tone indignant:

"A few days ago, someone delivered a letter. He just passed by the door, dropped the letter, and ran away. He even put up a big-character poster at the door saying that this newspaper could not be published in Shanghai. I don't know about the rest, but the manager and the others knew about it and even had the police guard it."

"We were terrified! But if we didn't work, we'd starve to death. Either way, we were going to die, so we had no choice but to grit our teeth and keep going... Who would have thought... who would have thought that someone would come today?"

Lin Wangzheng quickly jotted down the contents.

[A printing worker surnamed Chen stated that the newspaper did receive an anonymous warning letter before its opening, but management ignored it, only requesting police protection. The workers, driven by necessity, worked in fear and anxiety, never expecting the explosion to occur.]

Then he asked:

"Brother Chen, do you know who wrote those warning letters?"

Brother Chen thought for a moment and said:

"I can't read all the characters, so I don't know who wrote it. But I heard the manager and others mention it, saying it was something like 'revolutionary party' or 'anti-Yuan,' basically saying that this newspaper can't talk about the emperor, or it will be very serious."

Lin Wangzheng paused for a moment.

He really is a revolutionary.

Ugh......

He sighed inwardly and continued to ask:

"Do you know what newspapers usually print?"

Brother Chen suddenly became excited:

"I'm just a laborer. The layout and proofreading are done by the people upstairs. I only handle operating the machines, applying ink, and changing paper. I don't even understand what's being printed."

"I'm just trying to make a living. What does it matter to me whether someone is an emperor or not? I don't even know what the president looks like, let alone the emperor. Whether someone is the emperor or the president, I still have to work and eat."

This is very blunt, so blunt that it's almost painful, but it's the truth.

He paused, then asked with grief and indignation:

"Tell me, why do those revolutionaries only bomb us and not the managers? They're the ones who are writing the articles!"

Lin Wangzheng repeatedly comforted him.

He calmed down after being comforted.

Unexpected disasters are not something everyone can easily accept.

"Now that you're injured, will it affect your work?"

Lin Wangzheng asked the key question.

Brother Chen looked at his disheveled appearance and remained silent.

A young man in his early twenties standing nearby suddenly spoke up, his tone full of anger:

"Fuck your ass!"

Lin Wangzheng turned to him and listened quietly.

The young man's face was covered in dust, but the anger in his eyes was unmistakable.

"I've worked at other newspapers, and I've never encountered anything like this. This one's even worse—someone died just two days after opening. I've finally figured it out: no matter how much money you offer, you can't work for a newspaper like this!"

Lin Wangzheng wrote down these words.

The young man said again:

"If I had known those big-character posters were real, I would have quit long ago."

Lin Wangzheng hurriedly pressed for an answer:

"What is written?"

The young man answered:

"The notice was posted on the utility poles for the local residents, saying 'We are not responsible for accidental injuries,' but who knows when they'll come and bomb us? I hate them so much!"

As he spoke, he raised his hand, which was covered in blood and gore:

"My hand is injured like this, and it will cost money to heal it. If I don't heal it, I can't work. If I can't work, I won't have money, and if I don't have money, I can't heal it."

"Sir, what should we do?"

Lin Wangzheng opened his mouth, wanting to say something, but swallowed the words back.

What else can be said?

He said, "Things will get better." He didn't even believe it himself.

He didn't believe it even more when they said, "The Municipal Council and the Conservation Committee will take care of you."

Say "I'll help you"? He's already in a state of decline; how many people can he help?

Lin Wangzheng closed the notebook, vigorously wiped his face twice, went to find Shi Jiaxiu, and asked for more than twenty yuan.

Upon returning, he distributed two dollars to each of the injured printers.

No one refuses, because if you refuse, you lose everything.

When he was assigned to Brother Chen's group, he hesitated, wanting to say something but too embarrassed to speak.

Lin Wangzheng noticed his embarrassment and comforted him:

"This is the interview allowance from the Shen Bao newspaper; everyone receives it."

Brother Chen gripped the silver coin, trembling as he said:

"Thanks."

.......

Suddenly, a cry rang out from the crowd of onlookers.

Lin Wangzheng was startled and immediately turned his head to look at the sound.

Two disheveled women forced their way through the human wall and ran into the inner area.

The man in front of me was in his thirties, wearing a blue cloth jacket, his face flushed, and tears were streaming down his face.

She ran while shouting:

"My husband! My husband! Where are you?!"

The sound was sharp and piercing.

A police officer recognized her and, with a sorrowful expression, led her to the body of the Chinese constable and ripped off the white sheet.

“Wuwu!”

The woman collapsed instantly, sobbing uncontrollably as she lay on the corpse, crying, "Wake up! Wake up! Didn't you say you'd go home after your shift? The children are waiting for you!"

Her hands groped around on the corpse's face, as if confirming it was a real person, or as if trying to wake it up.

But once a person dies, they are dead. There are no secret arts in this world that can bring the dead back to life.

Lin Wangzheng watched silently from the side, without any intention of stepping forward to ask questions.

In his eyes, the Chinese police were the tentacles of the colonizers and, compared to the workers, were not worthy of sympathy.

But he also knew that life wasn't easy for the lower-ranking Chinese constables either. They bore the burden of colonial oppression while being oppressed by the colonizers—this was the duality of many Chinese constables.

This duality only proves that the Chinese police can be won over, it doesn't mean that everyone is on the same side.

Sympathy, and only from a humanitarian perspective, is sympathy for them becoming victims of class struggle.

A woman in her forties squeezed through the crowd from behind, her face also covered in tears. Although she wasn't crying as loudly, her whole body was trembling.

The surviving printers saw her, and they gathered around her to the bodies of the two printers. They bowed their heads, and no one spoke.

The woman slowly squatted down, lifted the white cloth covering the two corpses, and then tightly covered her mouth.

Her husband and son both died in the explosion.

"My son!"

The woman screamed and threw herself onto the two mangled corpses, her voice filled with heart-wrenching anguish: "You're gone! How am I supposed to live now?!"

The cries echoed through the streets, like knives.

The printers, who had miraculously survived, all wiped away their tears.

Gradually, more people pushed their way to the front and shouted from outside the human wall.

"Where's my man! Where did you put my man?!"

"Father! Father! Are you inside?"

"Brother! Bro! Come out here!"

The arrival of family members caused shouts, cries, and curses to mingle together.

Fortunately, the vast majority of people were reunited with their families.

It's good that you're still alive; as long as you're alive, there's hope.

Lin Wangzheng watched all this, opened his notebook, and held the pen on the paper without writing a single word.

It's not that I don't want to write, it's that I can't write.

Because these emotions cannot be written down.

He wrote about these people and printed their names in the newspaper. Readers might see it, sigh, or say "poor thing," and then turn the page to the next article.

For these people, the word "pitiful" cannot describe the collapse of their world.

So he closed his notebook, left the silver coins next to the two women, and stepped outside the crowd, not intending to interview the family members.

Journalists should possess basic human compassion. To interview these families now and ask, "How do you feel about your husband's death?" is no different from being an animal. He already has the answers to the more practical questions; there's no need to stab him in the back.

Once the crying subsided, he reopened his notebook and wrote down a note.

Relatives of the deceased and injured arrived at the scene one after another, their cries deafening and heart-wrenching. Reporters, unable to bear asking further questions, stepped aside. They only wished the world knew that these cold corpses had been the pillars of several families. Their deaths shattered the world for those families. But in the end, the bodies of the revolutionaries remained unclaimed.

......

As night deepened, the crowd gradually dispersed.

Most of those who left were curious passersby, while nearby residents remained, wanting to see how the matter would ultimately be handled.

Everywhere you look, people are talking quietly.

Lin Wangzheng didn't leave; he wandered around the area, listening intently and occasionally interjecting a few words.

The owner of the grocery store across from the Asia Daily sat on a stool by the door, holding a palm-leaf fan in his hand, fanning himself as he spoke:

"I told you so! This newspaper won't last long."

The surrounding residents nodded in agreement.

Lin Wangzheng stopped out of curiosity, squatted down next to the boss, and asked:

"Uncle, why do you say that?"

The grocery store owner glanced at him, thought the young man looked friendly, and didn't try to hide anything.

"Look at all of Shanghai, how many people oppose the imperial system? This newspaper insists on speaking for the imperial system, aren't they just asking for trouble! Do they really think the revolutionaries have no backbone... They're just unable to show their faces in public, not because they're dead!"

A woman sighed and said:

"That's true, but the people who were killed in the bombing were killed in a terrible way."

"What's so tragic about it?"

The grocery store owner raised his voice: "Why didn't they think about the consequences when they started this newspaper? They received so many warning letters, and they still didn't take them seriously. Now someone's been killed in the bombing, who's to blame? Blame this unrepentant newspaper!"

That makes some sense.

The woman frowned and said with displeasure:

"Those workers are here to work, not to speak for the emperor. We can't just blow them up like that!"

The grocery store owner did not refute this.

Lin Wangzheng looked up and asked:

"Uncle, may I ask you a few questions?"

"Go ahead and ask."

"Have you seen those warning letters before?"

The shopkeeper shut his mouth, glanced at Lin Wangzheng again, and suspected that he was not a good person. He pondered whether he should give the child a fan.

Seeing that the situation was not good, Lin Wangzheng quickly took out his press card:

"I'm a reporter from the Shen Bao newspaper!"

The shopkeeper squinted, using the light in the shop to make out the contents of the document, nodded, and slowly said:

"I've seen it all before. They even posted a notice on my door, clearly stating that 'anyone who dares to advocate for the imperial system will be punished by heaven,' warning us to move out as soon as possible, and that they would not be responsible for any accidental injuries."

He paused, then lowered his voice:

"I knew something bad was going to happen. Think about it, are those revolutionaries people someone you can mess with? They even dared to kill the garrison commander, so what's bombing a newspaper office?"

Lin Wangzheng wrote down these words, feeling somewhat helpless.

Did these revolutionaries think that as long as they gave prior notice, they could absolve themselves of responsibility?

Is it really worthwhile to do this instead of properly mobilizing the masses...?

Lin Wangzheng thought for a moment, then asked again:

"Uncle, what do you think? Should this newspaper be located in Shanghai?"

The grocery store owner curled his lip and shrugged, saying:

"Whether they run the business or not is their business, I don't care. But they can't let it affect our business. If they bomb it once today and once tomorrow, who will dare to open a shop here? Let alone open a shop, no one will even dare to live here."

"The landlord just came by and said he wants to take back the property and won't rent it to this newspaper anymore. What will happen next? I'm afraid it won't end well. I guess there will be a lawsuit, and it will definitely be a very ugly end."

What if it explodes right in front of your own door one day?

Lin Wangzheng nodded, thanked him, and turned to the other person.

It was an old tailor, wearing reading glasses, holding a teapot, and cheerfully discussing the matter with someone else.

Seeing Lin Wangzheng turn his head, he took the initiative to ask:

"Young man, are you a reporter?"

"right!"

Lin Wangzheng nodded emphatically.

The old tailor stroked his beard, sipped his tea, and said:

"I've lived most of my life, and this is the first time I've seen someone blown up so close with my own eyes. In this day and age, people risk their lives just to run a newspaper. It's truly absurd..."

Lin Wangzheng's eyes lit up, and he moved closer to him:

"Sir, could you tell me exactly what happened?"

The old tailor readily agreed, pointing to the alleyway entrance not far away:

"I saw it with my own eyes: three people sneaking out from that direction. Two walked in front, one after the other, with another person trailing behind at a distance, presumably to provide cover. The two in front reached the newspaper office entrance, where the Englishmen called out to them, and their plan was immediately exposed. They stood outside and dropped bombs. In a flash, the entrance was blown to smithereens, and several people were lying on the ground."

Lin Wangzheng understood and quickly pressed for an answer:

"And what about the person behind them?"

"Him? He threw down a stack of flyers and disappeared into the alley!"

"I see..."

"If running a newspaper leads to a bomb being thrown at it, and someone even dies, what's the point of running a newspaper? If you don't win people's hearts, it's useless no matter where you run it. If you have a point, what's there to be afraid of? Young man, don't you agree with me?"

The old tailor asked a question.

Lin Wangzheng replied with a smile:

"That's right! Sir, it seems you also think this newspaper is unreasonable?"

The old tailor didn't answer. He picked up the teapot, took a slow sip, and turned his face away.

This action has already provided the answer.

Lin Wangzheng then turned to the other people and asked them some questions, receiving similar answers.

He sympathized with the dead, but did not approve of the newspaper; he opposed violence, but even more so the imperial system.

No one said it was good that the newspaper office was bombed, nor did anyone say it shouldn't have been bombed.

Everyone was saying the same thing:

"What does it matter to me whether it's an imperial system or a revolution? But this newspaper is hated, so it should move out."

Lin Wangzheng finished interviewing the public and wrote a line.

[The monarchists ran newspapers in the foreign concessions, and the revolutionaries responded with bombs. Who were the dead? Not the "literary advisors" of the Beiyang government, not the politicians at the decision-making roundtable, but the fallen revolutionaries, the gatekeepers, and the printing press operators.]

......

Just as Lin Wangzheng was about to leave, someone grabbed his sleeve.

Looking back.

He was a teenager wearing a gray short-sleeved shirt with flour stuck to his cuffs, looking like a shop assistant from a nearby store.

Lin Wangzheng stopped and asked in confusion:

"Young man, what can I do for you?"

The young waiter leaned closer to him and whispered:

"The horse-drawn carriage that rescued people belonged to Renji Hospital!"

Lin Wangzheng's breathing quickened, and he asked:

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure! I have good eyesight!"

The young man pointed in the direction of "Maijia Circle" and said, "I recognize the vehicles from Renji Hospital. A little while after the explosion, several horse-drawn carriages came and took away the seriously injured people from the ground."

Lin Wangzheng shook his hand, thanked him repeatedly, and then turned and ran south.

Renji Hospital is located on Shandong Road, and Wangping Street is also part of Shandong Road, less than a kilometer away.

He ran incredibly fast, his footsteps making a light, clattering sound on the gravel path. Streetlights swept past overhead, their dim yellow light casting shadows that stretched and shortened.

In no time, he arrived at the entrance of Renji Hospital, took a few breaths while supporting himself on his knees, straightened his collar, and strode into the hospital.

This hospital was the first Western-style hospital in Shanghai, founded in 1844 by William Lawrence, a medical missionary of the British Christian London Missionary Society. At that time, the Daoguang Emperor was still on the throne, the smoke of the Opium War had just cleared, and Shanghai had only been open to foreign trade for a year.

Over the decades, this has become one of the well-known hospitals in Shanghai, primarily serving Chinese patients.

Although it is not directly under the jurisdiction of the Municipal Council, it is the closest to it, and it should be the one to accept the wounded.

Because it was originally a charitable hospital, it was completely free for a long time. It was not until 1904 that a tiered fee system was implemented, but it was still free for poor patients, only the level of resources allocated to them was different, thus earning it the reputation of "benevolent and compassionate."

The main gate is a black iron fence, and a bronze plaque that reads "Renji Hospital" hangs on the gateposts, gleaming with a dim yellow light under the gate lamp.

The three-story brick and wood structure of the Western-style building stands quietly, with the ground floor serving as the outpatient department and the upper floors filled with wards.

The outpatient hall was brightly lit, with black and white checkered tiles on the floor. The walls were snow-white, and an oil painting hung at intervals.

The air was filled with the smell of disinfectant, which made people feel a little dizzy.

Lin Wangzheng subconsciously took out a cigarette, but then realized he was in the hospital and quickly put it away.

The female nurse on duty at the triage desk looked like a student from the affiliated nursing school; she was writing something with her head down.

"Da, da, da—"

Rhythmic footsteps sounded.

The nurse looked up at the sound and immediately straightened up when she saw someone coming.

As Lin Wangzheng drew closer, her eyes grew brighter and brighter.

So handsome!

Lin Wangzheng was doing it on purpose, of course. He leaned against the triage desk, revealing a gentle smile:

"Miss, aren't you afraid to be on duty alone?"

This distance is approaching the closest possible social distancing.

The female nurse slightly averted her gaze, stammering slightly:

"It's my duty... Sir, is this an emergency?"

Lin Wangzheng shook his head, staring intently into the nurse's eyes, appearing very sincere:

"Here's the thing, I have a few friends... they were just brought in, injured in the blast. Could you tell me their room number? I'd like to see them."

Upon hearing this, the nurse's expression changed drastically, and she stammered, unable to answer.

Even if she's still a bit of a fangirl, she knows this person isn't looking for a "friend".

"Is that friend of yours yourself?"

The nurse asked cautiously.

Lin Wangzheng laughed out loud, no longer bothering to hide anything, and pulled out his press pass, waving it in front of the nurse without letting her see it too clearly:

"To be honest, I am... a reporter from the Times, currently covering the Wangping Street bombing. I need to interview the injured, and we're just a few more people short. Could you tell me which ward they are in?"

When the nurse heard that he was a reporter, she lowered her guard a little and then looked back at his face. After thinking for a moment, she gestured for Lin Wangzheng to come closer.

Lin Wangzheng obediently bent down, not caring whether he was being taken advantage of.

The necessary price to make big news!

The nurse leaned close to his ear and whispered:

"The English are in single rooms on the third floor, east side; the Chinese are in large rooms on the second floor. And... the one who threw the bomb is in the basement's epidemic isolation ward—don't tell anyone I told you that!"

Being handsome definitely has its advantages!

Lin Wangzheng smiled, stood up, and nodded, saying:

"They are collectively referred to as sources when speaking to the public."

.......

The basement corridor was long and dimly lit.

Besides the smell of disinfectant, there was also a faint musty smell, which was very unpleasant.

Besides the isolation wards, this place actually serves as a warehouse and morgue. It's chilly, and walking around here makes your hair stand on end, as if behind one of those doors are rows of cold corpses.

Lin Wangzheng's expression remained unchanged as he walked slowly.

"Thump, thump, thump..."

The dull sound of footsteps echoed in the corridor.

Two Chinese constables sat at the door of a ward at the far end.

They had batons tucked into their waistbands and revolvers on their shoulders, all smoking heavily, heads down, lost in thought.

Before Lin Wangzheng even got close, a Chinese constable stood up, his eyes filled with hostility:

"What are you doing!"

Lin Wangzheng pulled out his press card and explained:

"I'm a reporter from The Times, and I'd like to know about the situation of the injured in the bombing."

Hua Bu walked over, blocking his path, his tone harsh:

"A repeat offender, not allowed to see him."

Lin Wangzheng did not retreat; he stopped in his tracks.

"I'm just asking a few questions. I'm not going in; I'll just stay at the entrance. Could you please do me a favor?"

"I said no, and that's final. Can't you understand human language?"

Hua Bu pressed his hand on the baton at his waist and roared.

Lin Wangzheng wanted to try again and was about to pay to settle the matter when Hua Bu suddenly attacked, pulling out his baton and swinging it at Lin Wangzheng's thigh.

"Snapped!"

The stick struck the thigh muscle with such force that it went straight to the leg bone.

Lin Wangzheng's legs went numb, and he almost knelt down. He gasped in pain, and a thin layer of sweat appeared on his forehead.

"hiss!"

He gasped, gritted his teeth, and remained silent.

Hua Bu was momentarily stunned by this reaction.

He knew how painful a slap could be, so he didn't continue to hit harder, instead raising his baton to threaten:

"If you don't get out of here, I'll break your legs!"

Another Chinese constable stepped forward and took his hand:

"Old Li, that's enough, he's not a criminal after all."

The baton was slowly lowered.

The newly arrived constable stared at Lin Wangzheng, his voice low and menacing:

"Our brother died, right here on Wangping Street. The people inside are the culprits. For both moral and legal reasons, we must keep a close watch on them. I hope you can understand."

Lin Wangzheng nodded.

The constable who had assaulted Lin Wangzheng remained hostile, pointing his finger at Lin's nose:

"You reporters, you come here asking all sorts of questions, then go back and write articles, collect your royalties, and live the high life. What about my brother? He's being taken away to be burned tomorrow, have you even asked him about it?!"

Lin Wangzheng, enduring the pain, took out five silver dollars and handed them over:

"I know you two are in a bad mood. My personal ability is limited. Take this money, buy some paper money for my brother, and give the rest to his family for me."

The two Chinese constables were stunned.

Lin Wangzheng stuffed the money into the hand of the police officer who had assaulted him, saying:

"I'm not here to cause trouble. I just want to know what's going on with the person inside."

The constable who had assaulted Lin Wangzheng clutched the silver coin, remained silent for a few seconds, then pulled Lin to the corner and whispered:

"You can't say I told you!"

Lin Wangzheng assured:

"Not all news here will be published; all information will be kept anonymous."

Hua Bu's attitude softened somewhat. He pointed to the ward and said:

"The person inside hasn't woken up yet, and we don't know what's going on. We can only wait until his injuries heal a bit before we can torture him. As for whether there's any conspiracy behind it, it's pointless to ask now. But what I can tell you is that his condition has stabilized. Both his hands are broken, but his life is not in danger."

He weighed the silver dollar in his hand and continued:

"I thank you for this money on behalf of my fallen brothers! Just one more thing, don't pry into this matter any further. The more you know, the more trouble you'll cause. Be careful when you write this."

Lin Wangzheng nodded, cupped his hands in greeting, and left the place, limping.

He stood at the hospital entrance for a while, glanced at the full moon, and then wrote down a few words.

There were at least three assassins, whose identities are currently unknown. One died at the scene, one was seriously injured and arrested, and the whereabouts of the third remain unknown. The seriously injured person had both arms blown off, but is not in life-threatening condition and remains in a coma. They have not yet been interrogated. More information is pending.