Chapter 32: Yangcheng

The spring breeze in Modu had just turned the willow branches by the green moat green, and Jiang Ruiyuan burst into Li Yuxuan's courtyard like a gust of wind, brandishing a telegram: "Jingxing, hurry and pack your gear!"

Li Yuxuan was squatting under the pomegranate tree, cleaning rifle parts, and looked up at the sound: "Young Master, what's the matter? So urgent."

Sun Xiansheng's letter arrived! Jiang Ruiyuan's face flushed, and he thrust the telegram into his hand, "Summon me to Yangcheng, they say they've arranged a job for me, I can lead troops!"

Although the ink on the telegram paper was scribbled, the words between the lines radiated an uplifting force. Li Yuxuan pressed the thin sheet, and his heart warmed—Yangcheng was after all the Revolution center, always better than toiling on gunmaking in Modu, a place of many competing forces.

"I'll go prepare right away." He neatly packed away the rifle parts, turned and entered the house. His luggage was simple: a few sets of changeable clothes, a well‑worn copy of "Tactics," and the Military Dagger he had brought back from Germany; in no time he bundled them into a pack.

Three days later, the passenger steamer arrived at Yangcheng dock. The humid air, infused with the scent of kapok, hit his face; the dock was filled with short‑sleeved porters, bamboo‑hat fishermen, and soldiers shouldering rifles. Cantonese shouts rose and fell, starkly different from the rugged atmosphere of the north.

Jiang Ruiyuan led Li Yuxuan straight to the military government headquarters. Sun Xiansheng was out and had not returned; the one who received them was a Cantonese army commander surnamed Chen, who spoke stiff official Mandarin to inform them that Sun Xiansheng had appointed Jiang Ruiyuan as the chief of staff of the Cantonese army's Second Detachment.

Stepping out of the military government gate, Li Yuxuan couldn't help but ask lowly, "Young Master, is this the job Sun Xiansheng arranged?" Though the title "Second Detachment" sounded impressive, in reality it was only the strength of two battalions, its weapons all old Hanyang‑made models, the soldiers mostly local farmers, and even the formations were not properly aligned.

Jiang Ruiyuan, however, was full of vigor: "Having a title is already good; with gradual management we can achieve success." He turned to ask the sentry about the barracks' location, but the sentry's string of Cantonese, spoken and gestured, left him stunned on the spot.

Li Yuxuan shook his head inwardly: this Cantonese is like birdsong; how could the principal possibly understand it? From now on, not only must he handle military affairs, but he may also have to serve as an interpreter.

In the following months, it became the most headache‑inducing period for Li Yuxuan. Jiang Ruiyuan wanted to train the troops according to the Beiyang army regulations, but the Cantonese army officers were hypocritical—many of them were close allies of Chen Jiongming, and they looked down on this "chief of staff from another province," treating drills perfunctorily while scrambling for the pay when it came time to receive it.

At dusk that day, Jiang Ruiyuan, seething with anger, returned to his quarters and slammed his military cap onto the table: "Damn it, these people are all hypocritical! Jingxing, do you think being chief of staff is still so stifling?"

It turned out that in the morning he went to inspect the post, and the company commander gave the excuse that the soldiers had "gone home to transplant rice seedlings"; in the afternoon, when he tried to repair the old guns in the armory, the ordnance officer claimed the "parts had already been requisitioned," hitting a wall at every turn.

Li Yuxuan was cleaning his weapons and sighed lightly at the words: "The anti‑outsider sentiment in the Cantonese army is rather terrifying." Yet, thinking of Chen Jiongming's long‑standing, tangled influence in the army, Jiang Ruiyuan, a rootless outsider like a floating duckweed, "to think of seizing control is a fool's dream."

Gazing at the heavy setting sun outside the window, his mind grew increasingly vexed: why does time crawl so slowly? He had been in Guangzhou for over half a year, the troops were still not properly trained, relations with the Cantonese army had not improved, and even Sun Xiansheng was busy juggling various forces, leaving him no time to attend to him.

"Now we have no money when we need it, and the only troops are the dozens of old comrades brought from Shanghai," Li Yuxuan thought, growing more frustrated, "The principal is gloomy all day; in this situation, it would have been better to stay abroad in the first place." At least in Germany there were familiar barracks, senior brothers and teachers, plus a later‑generation succubus. In America there was a future president like Roosevelt, stronger than enduring this oppression here.

But that thought vanished in an instant. If he truly left, he could never let go of Jiang Ruiyuan, the accompanying brothers, nor the yearning in his heart to "make the country better."

The stifling years tormented them like this. Jiang Ruiyuan gradually lost the vigor he had upon arrival, staying shut indoors reading all day, occasionally drinking with a few equally disillusioned revolutionaries, and returning to stare dreamily at maps. Li Yuxuan poured his effort into those dozens of old comrades from Modu, training them covertly and repairing weapons, at least preserving some foundation.

During that time they returned to Xikou. Li Yuxuan's son was already over four, a lively boy who shouted "Dad" whenever he saw him, brandishing a wooden gun and saying he would "beat the bad guys." Looking into the child's clear eyes, Li Yuxuan's gloom eased a bit—no matter how hard things were now, he still had to fight for a decent tomorrow for future generations.

Jiang Ruiyuan lingered in Xikou for three days; before departing, he took out all the personal funds given by Mrs. Wang, and instructed Li Yuxuan to deliver them to the Arms Factory: "Produce more shells; there will be a time when they are needed."

Returning to Yangcheng, the situation remained unchanged. Until the late spring of 1919, a sudden storm finally caused ripples in this stagnant pool.

That day Li Yuxuan was repairing a mortar in the barracks when the bustling noise of the market rose. Stepping outside, he saw tens of thousands of students brandishing slogans like "Return Qingdao to us" and "Abolish the Twenty‑One Demands," shouting as they surged toward the Shamian concession; even some young soldiers of the Cantonese army leaned against walls, eyes flashing with a different light.

"What are they making a fuss about?" Jiang Ruiyuan, who had somehow appeared beside him, furrowed his brows.

News quickly spread—at the Paris Peace Conference, although Huaxia was a victorious nation, the Great Powers forced it to hand over Qilu's interests to Japan. Students in Yanjing were the first to strike, followed by students and workers in Shanghai and Yangcheng.

"Good!" Jiang Ruiyuan slapped his thigh hard, his eyes reigniting with fire, "It should have been like this all along! We were suffocating to death in the barracks; better to see the blood‑spirit of these young people!"

He turned and rushed to the military government, saying he would request an audience with Sun Xiansheng, "We cannot let the students suffer in vain."

Li Yuxuan watched the surging crowd on the street, hearing those youthful yet resolute shouts, and his heart was suddenly shaken. He recalled the students he had taught at the First Normal School in Hunan, and the workers sweating like rain at the Weixian Arsenal, suddenly realizing his previous outlook had been too narrow—changing China has never been only about the rifle barrel, but also about these deeply rooted, indomitable forces among the people.

The wind of 1919, bearing a different aura, brushed Yangcheng.