Courtyard House: Home Alone

Lin Yifan mounted his horse and turned back to raise his whip.

"Let's go!"

With a light flick of the whip, the chestnut horse neighed and charged down the mountain path. Lin Yifan did not look back, but his spiritual power surged backward like a tide, deeply imprinting the figure of the deputy commander-in-chief and this ancient and resilient land into his memory.

Three days later, at the Wuhan Customs Wharf in Hankou, a child dressed in school uniform arrived in a rickshaw. This person was Lin Yifan, who had come all the way from the Taihang Mountains. He paid the fare and sent the driver away.

Then, he wandered around the dock alone. The dock was quite lively with people coming and going, and there were Japanese patrols carrying Type 38 rifles.

He occasionally weaved through the crowd, his leather boots making a rhythmic sound on the bluestone slabs. Lin Yifan mingled among the porters and passengers, his gaze sweeping over the various vessels moored on the river—military transport ships flying the Rising Sun flag, merchant ships marked with the Japanese flag, and several British freighters billowing black smoke.

His spiritual power silently spread out, like an invisible net covering the entire dock area. Thirty meters to the left, two plainclothes agents were exchanging glances at the entrance of the teahouse;

Ahead, under the pier, three Japanese soldiers surrounded an old woman selling cigarettes, seemingly questioning her about something; further away, a patrol boat slowly passed by on the Yangtze River, leaving a long trail on the water.

"Young sir, would you like to take a boat ride?"

A middle-aged man wearing a short jacket with a front opening approached, holding a palm-leaf fan with the character "福" (fortune) printed on its surface.

Lin Yifan's mental energy swept over his entire body—there were no weapons, the wear and tear on the soles of his shoes was consistent with the characteristics of long-term sailing, and there were calluses on his hands but they were not caused by holding a gun, but by years of pulling ropes.

"To Chongqing," Lin Yifan said in a low voice, "It's urgent, we're leaving tonight."

The man's eyes lit up, and he closed his palm-leaf fan: "What a coincidence! The 'Jiang'an' cargo ship departs at midnight tonight, carrying tung oil to Yibin, with a stopover in Chongqing. But..."

He rubbed his fingers together. "With all this chaos, boat tickets are three times more expensive than usual."

Lin Yifan pulled a silver dollar from his pocket (space), its surface still slightly oxidized. He didn't ask the price, simply flipping the coin between his fingers, letting the morning light dance on its surface: "Is this enough?"

The man's Adam's apple bobbed. This silver dollar was enough to buy half a boat ticket and get change. He instinctively glanced around, then used his palm-leaf fan to shield Lin Yifan from view: "Young sir, may I speak to you in private?"

The two walked to a secluded spot piled with sacks. The man put away his palm-leaf fan, his expression becoming much more serious: "To tell you the truth, the 'Jiang'an' flies the British flag, and the captain is a Scotsman named MacDonald."

The Japanese soldiers didn't dare to openly investigate him, but recently the docks were under strict control, and identity checks were required to board the ships. He lowered his voice, "At your age, dressed like this, alone..."

"I have a travel permit."

Lin Yifan pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket—it was "issued" after leaving Beiping for easier travel. The man took the pass, examined it against the light, and said, "Ten o'clock tonight, No. 3 Pier, look for the person carrying the 'Fuji' lantern."

The man smiled, revealing teeth stained yellow from smoking. "My name is Lao Zhou, from Chongqing. If you need a place to stay when you get there, you can look for the 'Xinglong Inn' at Chaotianmen and mention my name."

He turned to leave, then turned back and added, "Young sir, there's an operation at the dock tonight. You'd better not wander around. Find a teahouse and wait there until after 9 PM."

Alternatively, you can buy your ferry tickets directly on board.

Lin Yifan nodded. He sat in the "Wangjianglou" teahouse near the dock for the entire afternoon. His second-floor window seat overlooked Pier No. 3. His mental energy remained constantly alert, taking in all unusual activity within a hundred meters—at three o'clock in the afternoon, a group of Japanese military police escorted a bloodied prisoner across the dock, and the onlookers were dispersed by whips;

At 4:17, the Japanese patrol boat docked to refuel. Several sailors went ashore to buy sake and got into an argument with the shopkeeper in front of the grocery store.

At 9:40 PM, Lin Yifan left the teahouse. The fog had thickened, and the gas lamps on the dock cast dim yellow halos in the damp, chilly air. He moved along the shadows of the cargo piles, his mental energy anticipating the routes of each patrol team, like a fish swimming through gaps in the seaweed.

Near Pier No. 3, Old Zhou was talking to a foreigner with a high nose and deep-set eyes. The man was wearing a tweed coat, his hat pulled low, and he was carrying a windproof lantern with the words "Fu Ji" painted in red on the lampshade. Seeing Lin Yifan approach, Old Zhou waved: "Captain McDonald, this is the young gentleman I was talking about."

The foreigner turned around, the light from the kerosene lamp illuminating his freckled face and grey-blue eyes. His Chinese, though heavily accented, was surprisingly fluent: "Good evening, young man. Zhou said you're in a hurry, rushing to Chongqing to see your parents?"

Lin Yifan nodded, his mental energy sweeping over the captain's entire body—no weapons, a half-empty bottle of whiskey and a tattered Bible in his pocket, and a yellowed photograph of a plump woman in an apron stuffed in his boot.

"My mother is about to give birth," he said, his tone subtly tinged with anxiety. "I want to get home before the baby is born."

McDonald's expression softened. He pulled a silver flask from his pocket, took a swig, and offered it to Lin Yifan: "Want a sip? Scotch whisky, it'll chase away the chill from the river."

Lin Yifan waved his hand in refusal. The captain shrugged and stuffed the flask back into his pocket: "Right! You're still a child, children shouldn't drink. I like sensible children."

He turned to Lao Zhou, "Take him to the lower deck, storage room C-7. We'll arrive in Chongqing by noon tomorrow. Don't let him come up until then."

Old Zhou responded and led Lin Yifan toward the end of the pier. The outline of the cargo ship was faintly visible in the mist, with the English letters "Jiang'an" painted on the hull, and a line of smaller text below: "Glasgow, 1934".

"The captain is religious," Old Zhou explained in a low voice as they walked. "He goes to church every Sunday, and he's very grumpy on days he doesn't drink. But he's a good man. Last year, he rescued seventeen refugees who had escaped from Nanjing, hiding them in barrels of tung oil and transporting them to Yichang."

They descended the gangway to the deck. The cargo ship was being loaded; cranes were hoisting huge wooden barrels into the hold, and the air was thick with the pungent smell of tung oil. Old Zhou led him through narrow passages, past mountains of burlap sacks and wooden crates, finally stopping in front of a rusty iron gate.

"C-7 was originally a place for laying cables."

Old Zhou pushed open the door. The room was small but clean. A kerosene lamp hung from the ceiling, and straw and an old blanket were laid out beside it. "The toilet is at the end of the corridor. Someone will bring food during mealtimes. Remember, no matter what happens upstairs, don't make a sound, and don't come out."

Lin Yifan thanked him and went into the storage room. Old Zhou locked the door from the outside, and his footsteps gradually faded away.