Three days later, the convoy finally rattled and swayed into Jiangning territory.
At this time, there was not yet a single bridge across the Yangtze River that could carry automobiles.
They stopped at Pukou. Tie Kun went to negotiate at the docks and chartered two barges towed by a small steamship. The two trucks were driven aboard, and everyone stayed in the vehicles as they crossed the river together.
The river was broad, its gray, murky waters stretching so far that the opposite shore was nowhere to be seen.
Chen Mo looked out through the truck window. In the distance, several warships flying the Rising Sun flag lay anchored in midstream, their gun barrels pointed at the sky.
By the time they reached Xiaguan Wharf, it was already around three or four in the afternoon.
The river wind was fierce, blowing so hard people could barely keep their eyes open.
Chen Mo jumped down from the truck and stretched his stiff back and waist.
Dust sifted down from his body in soft showers.
After three days on dirt roads, every inch of him was coated in that fine yellow dust.
When Li Jinrong crawled out of the Ford, the smile had already vanished from his face.
He looked like an eggplant wilted by frost—ashen-faced and filthy, his hair a tangled bird's nest.
Listless, as though someone had hollowed him out.
The high spirits he had shown over breakfast in Dezhou three days ago had long since been jolted out of him.
The more than eight hundred li from Dezhou to Jiangning had been nothing but dirt roads covered in loose gravel. The truck bucked like a grain sieve, and riding in it was about the same as sitting on a vibrating platform.
Jiangning Wharf, Xiaguan.
Xiaguan Wharf in 1932