Chapter 182: Building a Harmonious Lingao (Part 1)
After the prisoners were processed, a disagreement arose over their disposition.
Standard procedure was straightforward enough: combat prisoners would be interrogated, screened, and registered before undergoing "purification" and assignment to labor-reform teams under Wu De's unified management. The battle had yielded captives of multiple nationalities, and under normal circumstances, all would receive equal treatment as forced laborers. But the Navy lodged a special request for the two Spaniards to be recruited directly. The transmigrators knew precious little about the rigging techniques used on this era's large sailing ships, and these particular Spaniards possessed exactly that expertise.
A nationalist faction led by Dugu Qiuhun, however, opposed any such preferential treatment with considerable vehemence. These Spanish scum, they argued, had sailed to China's coast with dreams of robbery and easy riches—outright pirates, nothing more. That they hadn't been hanged at Bopu was already generous beyond measure. Recruiting them would be tantamount to worshipping foreigners.
In the end, the Navy lost to the nationalist arguments. Even Mr. Wen, who typically favored their proposals, withheld his support. His reasoning was characteristically simple: "This violates regulations."
The two Spaniards did receive some minor consideration, however. They were grouped with the Indian prisoners for labor duty—the Indians weren't Spanish compatriots, but they spoke enough Spanish to provide some company. As for the Malay pirates, nobody spared a thought for their fate. After a cursory screening, they were dispatched directly to the quarry.
Tan Ming emerged from the Bopu infirmary on trembling legs. Last night had felt like a brush with death itself. He'd jumped for cover quickly enough, but during the retreat, enemy shells had screamed past behind him, sending stones flying in all directions. His head had been pelted with debris—without his Type-80 steel helmet, his skull would have cracked open like a melon.
Fortunately, it was just scrapes. Whether he would survive what lay ahead was another matter entirely.
He touched the gauze wrapped around his head. The iodine-treated wound still throbbed painfully. Damn, wasn't this exactly like before? No—worse than before!
Tan Ming's resume before the transmigration read like a catalog of dead-end jobs: security guard, general laborer, a brief stint as an oil worker, and even online-game power-leveling during his more desperate stretches. He'd operated printing machines at a cardboard factory and eventually landed in office furniture sales. None of those positions, however unglamorous, had ever required him to risk his life. Now here he was, fighting under artillery fire, seriously doubting he would live long enough to see this revolution succeed.
He fished a cigarette pack from his pocket—militia members received one pack monthly—and examined the waterproof, crush-proof case that had protected his property so admirably. Due to yesterday's battle, the Executive Committee had granted all combatants a full day's rest.
Squatting at the infirmary entrance, he lit up and took several long puffs to settle his nerves. He was hungry but had no appetite. The cafeteria offered the same dreary fare: no oil, no meat, nothing but fish, shrimp, and rice, everything else perpetually scarce. Back on construction sites, at least he could fill his belly with pork ribs and chicken legs.
The more he dwelled on it, the more frustrated he became. What devil had possessed him to join this transmigration in the first place? He shuffled back to his dormitory in a foul mood, only to find an Executive Committee notification waiting on his bed. He tore it open and discovered a special supply voucher inside—his spirits lifted immediately.
There was also a notice of five hundred bonus points, but this virtual number meant little to Tan Ming. The supply voucher was far more practical.
Special supply vouchers were reserved for scarce goods, typically issued to transmigrators performing dangerous or heavy labor. One voucher could be exchanged at the Planning Committee for cigarettes or items this spacetime could not yet produce: candy, cola, and similar luxuries. Alternatively, it could be traded at the cafeteria for instant noodles with vegetables and an egg.
Also enclosed was an invitation printed on local paper: please attend the "Commendation Assembly" in a few days.
Now this was more like it. Tan Ming thought, At least they remembered us—those of us who bled and struggled. The Executive Committee cadres aren't total bastards after all.
After considerable discussion, the Executive Committee had settled on the following rewards for Bopu battle participants:
Recipients would receive "Bopu Defense" armbands or shield badges—the former for military personnel, the latter for participating non-military personnel.
The Bopu Defense armband was fashioned from red felt with white characters, thirty millimeters wide, embroidered with "Bopu" in clerical script and "1628" beneath. Recipients could sew it onto the left sleeve of their uniform.
The shield badge should have been metal, but the Industrial Department couldn't locate suitable cheap material, so they opted for the same felt construction. The design featured a shield with a flat top, containing a black ship silhouette beneath radiating dawn light, with broken masts below symbolizing victory over the pirates. "Bopu 1628" ran along the bottom. This badge could be sewn onto any official uniform.
Other material rewards were distributed as follows: transmigrators received one special supply voucher and two hundred bonus points. Locals received twenty-five-kilogram salt vouchers and four-kilogram rice tickets. The salt vouchers could be exchanged at salt shops, and some salt merchants would purchase them outright, effectively making them circulating securities.
Finally, battle reports would be compiled, and special commendations would be awarded for outstanding performance.
Wu Mingjin sat in his inner office, deeply troubled.
Three months had passed since these bald bandits came ashore. Spring Festival was approaching, yet not only were they showing no signs of leaving—their buildings kept growing larger and more numerous by the day. Even their market was flourishing.
At Ma'ao salt fields, they had clashed with the Gou family. The Gous were a formidable clan: externally connected to pirates, internally connected to local government, deeply rooted local tyrants whose misdeeds the county magistrate could only pretend not to see. Wu Mingjin had originally hoped for a tiger-fighting-tiger scenario—even if the bald bandits couldn't be driven off immediately, at least both sides might inflict mutual damage. Instead, the baldies had crushed the Gou family like a man swatting a fly. Within days, Gou Manor had ceased to exist. Even Gou Er, for all his deep roots in the city, had fled with his tail between his legs.
These foreign barbarians from Australia did at least respect Ming law, which provided some relief. Salt Field Village's salt tax, surcharges, and miscellaneous levies were all paid in full. But these baldies, claiming the roads were too poor for proper tax delivery, had forced a road right up to Wenshui Bridge and erected a two-story tower there. Now their people were always watching from that tower—obviously monitoring the county seat's every move.
And that wasn't all. The baldies were aggressively recruiting under the guise of organizing militia. Reports suggested they had already assembled several thousand men, all equipped with muskets and cannons, drilling daily. More ships filled Bopu Bay with each passing week. Wu Mingjin understood perfectly well that he was now completely surrounded by these baldies' sphere of influence. Unless the imperial court dispatched troops to drive them away, how long he could remain in this county seat depended entirely on how long they chose to let him stay. If fighting broke out, Wu Mingjin had no doubt the city's shameless runners would immediately surrender.
His petitions to the prefecture had vanished without a trace. His letter to Guangzhou requesting help from fellow graduates had received no response. Yet the East Gate Market had somehow become the county's most prosperous bazaar. Daily, crowds streamed from the city along the main road. The county's grain poured steadily in; illicit salt poured steadily out.
As a proper seventh-rank magistrate, all he could do was watch from the city walls while his realm slipped away. The county had neither money nor soldiers—just a besieged, lonely city.
Recently he had learned the baldies had taken Baitu Village. He didn't particularly care about Baitu itself—it was merely a settlement of escaped households from elsewhere, unregistered, paying no taxes, nothing to do with the county proper. But from this action, he sensed a deeper unease: the baldies' tentacles were reaching across the entire county.
Sure enough, days later, village headmen secretly reported that the baldies had summoned leaders from villages on both sides of the Wenlan River to Bairen Fortress.
Wu Mingjin didn't know the phrase "encircle cities from rural areas," but he understood the meaning well enough. He quickly dispatched county officials including Wu Ya and Fu Baiwen to the surrounding villages, warning them not to collude with the baldies and swearing that "when imperial troops arrive, the baldies become ash; collaborators will face dire consequences." This managed to make some villages waver in their allegiances once again.
Just as he was pondering his next countermeasures, a runner burst in with news: the baldies had sent an emissary!
Wu Mingjin shivered involuntarily. He had dispatched people that very morning to investigate last night's artillery sounds and the fire at Bopu. They hadn't yet returned, but the baldies had already arrived at his door.
Normally, to avoid implication in any dealings with these foreigners, he never personally received baldy envoys—he always sent his secretary instead. But this matter was too critical. He needed to understand what the baldies were planning.
"Summon the secretary!" he ordered. "Change clothes! Open court!"
"Open court?" The runner couldn't believe his ears. Weren't guests normally received in the reception hall? Why open court when there were no complaints to hear?
"That's right—open court!"
Xiong Buyu arrived as envoy, leading a contingent of more than ten men. Wang Ruixiang walked at the head of the column, fully armed with an entrenching tool shouldered, followed by twelve hand-picked soldiers. All stood over 170 centimeters tall and bore rifles fitted with gleaming bayonets. Behind them trundled seven or eight wheelbarrows loaded with bundled packages and wooden boxes.
What kind of county seat is this? Xiong Buyu marveled as they passed through the gate. The poorest small town in his hometown's poorest county had been a hundred times more prosperous than this place. The only cross-town road was at least stone-paved, with a scattering of shops along both sides, but the buildings were uniformly low, dilapidated, and pathetically cramped. He could see the county yamen from the city gate itself.
The procession swaggered through town, drawing stares from every direction. Xiong Buyu carried a large envelope containing the Executive Committee's letter to Magistrate Wu. Onlookers pointed and whispered among themselves. Several ragged children suddenly darted up, calling out in accented but clearly Mandarin-based pronunciation: "Candy, candy!"
Xiong Buyu couldn't help but be amused. Apparently the old American-soldier trick of handing out sweets actually worked across centuries and cultures.
After tossing out some candy to the delighted children, the procession reached the county yamen. The hall drum at the entrance clearly hadn't been beaten in ages—it was covered in a thick layer of dust. A similarly dusty official boot sat forgotten in the hanging shoe box. The group followed the runners inside, and Wang Ruixiang spoke quietly to his soldiers, stationing two men at each doorway as they proceeded.
Finding himself led to the main hall rather than a reception room, Xiong Buyu grew puzzled. Then a side door swung open to reveal a man in his forties: white-faced, well-maintained, wearing the official robes of his station.
The attending runners called out in unison: "Magistrate Wu is in session!"
The hall drum sounded three times. Runners holding execution rods called "Oh—" in ritual acknowledgment and filed into the hall, forming wing formations on either side. Everything fell silent.
(End of Chapter)