Strike

Wednesday.

9:00 AM.

Pier Three of East Port.

A damp, salty sea breeze swept through the harbor.

The sky was gloomy, and the distant sea was a shroud of grey.

A cargo ship had just docked, its hull slowly bumping against the wooden pilings with a dull thud.

Ordinarily, the stevedores would have already begun unloading by now.

Cranes would whir to life.

Handcarts would line up.

The entire pier would be as bustling as an anthill.

But today was completely different. A massive crowd of workers had gathered by the dockside. No one was working, and no one was speaking; everyone just stood there, staring in the direction of the Port Authority.

The atmosphere was stiflingly tense.

A foreman walked over quickly, clutching a clipboard, his face grim.

“What are you all standing around for?”

“The ship is here!”

“Get to work!”

No one moved.

Dozens of workers remained rooted to the spot.

The foreman raised his voice.

“Did you hear me?”

“The merchants are already rushing us!”

Just then, someone in the crowd spoke up.

“Tom is dead.”

The voice wasn't loud, but it brought an instant hush over the area.

The foreman's expression stiffened.

The speaker was a middle-aged stevedore. His face was smeared with coal dust, and his eyes were red.

“He died last night.”

“The hospital sent word this morning.”

“That's the third one.”

Murmurs immediately broke out around them.

“Not the third.”

“The fourth.”

“There was another unloader last week.”

“I knew him.”

“I heard he was gone the day after they took him in.”

Sweat began to bead on the foreman's forehead.

“That's the hospital's business.”

“What does that have to do with work?”

“Nothing to do with it?”

Someone in the crowd sneered.

“Then you carry the crates.”

“We're not doing it.”

The voices grew louder and more numerous.

“That's right!”

“We're not working!”

“Who knows if I'm next!”

“The Port Authority has to give us an explanation!”

The foreman panicked.

“You're causing a riot!”

“Who's going to take responsibility if the shipment is delayed?”

A grey-haired veteran worker suddenly stepped forward.

He had worked at the docks for over twenty years, and almost everyone knew him.

The old man pointed toward the distant hospital, his voice hoarse.

“My son was sent there yesterday.”

“He still hasn't come out.”

“And you're telling me to keep working?”

The crowd fell completely silent.

No one spoke.

The sea breeze blew past.

Everyone's face was grim. Because over these past few days...

More and more people were falling ill. At first, it was just a few, but then it became a dozen, then dozens.

Now, even the dockworkers were starting to succumb.

No one knew the cause, and no one knew when their turn would come.

Fear was spreading.

Just then, several carriages pulled up in the distance.

A few workers hopped down from them.

As soon as they approached...

...someone in the crowd recognized them.

“They're from Pier Five.”

“Did they stop working too?”

“I heard they struck yesterday.”

The news spread like wildfire.

The expressions of more and more people shifted. If only Pier Three struck, the Port Authority could still suppress it. But if the workers of the entire East Port went on strike...

...then this was going to be a massive ordeal.

In the distance, the cargo ship's horn sounded again, low and drawn-out, but no one spared it another glance.

The sea breeze, mingled with coal smoke, blew in from the River Thames as the gloomy sky pressed down on the harbor.

A cargo ship returning from the Indian Ocean route was slowly docking.

Its hull was encrusted with salt, and the flags on its masts fluttered loudly in the wind.

Hundreds of workers gathered on the shore.

No one was working.

No one was unloading.

The cargo ship sat beside the pier.

Yet no one approached.

From a distance, it looked as if the entire port had been put on pause.

And as time went on, more and more people gathered.

East Port had never been just a British port; it was the throat of the Empire.

Goods from all over the world passed through here.

Tea.

Cotton.

Spices.

Rubber.

Opium.

Coal.

Machinery.

Hundreds of ships entered and left every day.

And just as many countless people arrived here daily.

At the very front of the crowd was a group of local stevedores.

East Enders.

Their clothes were ragged.

Their complexions were sallow.

Faint traces of coal dust still lingered on many of their faces.

Most of them were born in London; their fathers had worked at the docks, and their grandfathers before them. They had hardly ever left the East End in their entire lives.

Beside them stood a large contingent of Irish workers. Ever since the Great Famine, a massive influx of Irish immigrants had poured into London.

A significant portion of them had found work at the docks.

They worked for lower wages and labored more desperately, which frequently led to clashes with the local workers.

But today, no one was bickering. Everyone stared at the Port Authority building because more and more people were dying.

Death did not discriminate by nationality, nor did it care about accents.

Not far away, several tall Black workers sat on cargo crates.

Hailing from West African colonies, they handled the heaviest physical labor. Their shoulders were as broad as walls, and a single one of them could usually do the work of two or three ordinary stevedores.

But now, they too had halted their labor.

One of the men held a pipe, silently gazing toward the hospital.

His companion had been sent there just the day before yesterday and had yet to return.

On another side, a group of Indian sailors huddled together.

Turbans were wrapped around their heads, and their skin was tanned dark by the sea breeze.

They conversed in a language incomprehensible to the onlookers. Most of them were from Bombay and Calcutta, traveling back and forth across the globe aboard the Empire's merchant vessels.

Just a few months ago, they had been in the Arabian Sea, yet today they stood on a London pier.

Yet no matter where they came from, the news they had heard recently was identical.

Someone was sick.

Someone was missing.

Someone was dead.

Panic was spreading.

Further away, a few Chinese sailors leaned against a warehouse wall.

They were few in number, only seven or eight, mostly from the coastal areas of Guangdong.

Having arrived in London through ocean trade, they usually lived in the narrow alleys of the East End near the riverbank.

Due to the language barrier, they rarely participated in the disputes of the British workers.

Yet at this moment, they were not working either.

Because one of their own had also fallen ill. No one knew the cause, and even less who would be next.

The sea breeze blew continuously, mixing together a cacophony of languages—English, Irish, Hindustani, Cantonese, Arabic, and various regional dialects. The entire pier resembled a massive melting pot.

The wealth the Empire plundered from all corners of the globe converged here, drawing in countless laborers from across the world as well.

On ordinary days, these men would fight over a few pennies, brawl over the loading order, and curse at each other for a seat in a tavern. But today, everyone stood on the same side, because fear possessed far more power than poverty.

“Have they figured it out yet?”

Someone in the crowd suddenly shouted, but no one answered.

Immediately after, another voice said, “Two more died last night.”

The news spread rapidly, and a commotion instantly broke out all around.

“Which district?”

“Near Warehouse Six.”

“There again?”

“I heard they've already cordoned off an entire street.”

“Nonsense! I just came from there this morning!”

All sorts of rumors circulated through the crowd, indistinguishable from the truth. But the more uncertain they were, the faster the panic spread. No one trusted the authorities, and no one trusted the newspapers.

For the past two weeks, the Port Authority had insisted that the situation was under control, and the hospital claimed it was merely a common infectious disease. Yet the list grew longer, the sick multiplied, and the death toll continued to climb.

Everyone could feel that things were steadily worsening, though no one knew the true cause.

Just then, an official from the Port Authority hurried out of the office building, attempting to soothe the crowd.

“Gentlemen! Please remain calm! City Hall has already established an investigation team!”

However, his voice was instantly drowned out.

“An investigation?”

“You've been investigating for two weeks!”

“And what are the results?”

“Nothing at all!”

“My brother is already dead!”

“And you're still investigating!”

Anger began to spread. More and more people pressed forward, and the scene showed signs of spiraling out of control.

In a corner of the pier, a few Chinese sailors sat by some cargo crates. They didn't join the shouting, choosing instead to smoke in silence.

One of the young men was named Chen Afu. He was twenty-three years old, from Xiangshan County in Guangdong, and had been away from home for five years.

To support his family, he had boarded an ocean-going merchant ship from Hong Kong, traveling through Southeast Asia, India, and the Suez Canal before finally arriving in London.

The first time he saw the River Thames, he had stood in a daze for a long time.

Because the river here was grey, and the sky was grey, completely unlike his hometown.

Afu exhaled a plume of smoke, his expression turning grim as he watched the striking crowd in the distance.

Beside him, a companion lowered his voice and asked in Cantonese, “Ah Sheng still isn't back?”

Afu shook his head slightly.

“No.”

Three days ago, Ah Sheng had developed a fever and was sent to the hospital. There had been no news of him since.

They had gone to ask once. The hospital staff said he was still alive, but no one had seen him, and they had no idea how he actually was.

Afu didn't press further.

Back in his hometown, he had seen how a single word from a foreigner could leave local officials trembling in fear. How much less could he do, a mere laborer drifting in a foreign land?

The sea breeze blew past, and the ship's horn sounded again in the distance.

Afu instinctively reached into his shirt to touch the letter in his pocket.

The envelope was worn from being folded and unfolded so many times. In the top-right corner was a Queen Victoria stamp from British Hong Kong, and the back was densely covered with postmarks left along the way from Hong Kong, Ceylon, Suez, and Southampton.

It was a letter from his mother.

The letter said everything was fine at home, his younger brother was already able to work in the fields, and someone from the village had gone to Nanyang to make a fortune and had built a new house.

At the very end, she had only asked him one question: “When are you coming home?”

Afu didn't know how to answer.

Because he didn't know himself.

The ship was always sailing, moving from one port to another, to the point where he sometimes couldn't even tell which country he was in.

The only certainty was that this place was not home.

Heated arguments erupted again in the distance, with more and more people shouting for a total shutdown.

Afu slowly stood up, looking toward the grey shroud of London.

Chimneys continuously belched black smoke, church spires were swallowed by the thick fog, and carriages traversed the streets. This was the capital of the wealthiest empire in the world, and the largest city he had ever seen.

Sadly, it would never be his home.