Chapter 213: The Conference (Part 1)
Fu Buer set out on his journey with complicated feelings. This was his second trip to the "bandits." But this time, he went as a leading figure from his village.
In Meiyang Village, the largest landowner and most authoritative voice belonged not to Fu Buer but to his clan uncle, Fu Yousun. The meeting invitation had been addressed to him. But this clan uncle was an old rustic recluse who rarely left the village. To him, even a county yamen clerk was a great personage—let alone these overseas guests who had arrived in great iron ships. Having heard that the "bandits" were enormously formidable, he imagined them as demons with green eyebrows and red eyes, and he absolutely refused to go, even if it killed him. With no other choice, the clan sought help from Fu Buer—the only person among them who had actually dealt with the "bandits." Fu Yousun's concubines and sons all came weeping and kneeling in his hall, begging him to go on their behalf, and they presented him with many valuables.
Though somewhat apprehensive, Fu Buer had, after all, been a prisoner of the "bandits" and knew these people, while formidable, were not evil. They were reasonable and could distinguish right from wrong. Now they were holding some "consultative conference"—probably just a matter of levying grain and assigning labor. He'd joined the suppression force back then and been captured, yet they hadn't killed him. Attending a meeting now was even less likely to cost him his life. His former farmhand Ma Peng was said to be working for the "short-hairs" too, and had even brought his old mother to live there—a gang that allowed subordinates to support their elderly mothers couldn't be all bad. Besides, he couldn't resist the temptation of the valuables Fu Yousun had sent, nor his clansmen's desperate pleas. He readily agreed.
When Fu Buer's wife learned he was going to the conference, she made quite a scene in private, refusing to let him go. Last time, he'd insisted on joining that Huang fellow in the fighting and gotten himself injured—thank goodness they'd spent money to ransom him. Now he was going to walk right into the trap again? She made such a fuss that Fu Buer had no peace for days. In the end, he still set off for the conference with a young servant.
Fu Buer's village actually lay not far from Baireng Rapids—counting the winding route rather than the straight-line distance, it was about forty-some li. In ancient society, that was already considered quite distant. Even with good roads, an ordinary person would need four or five hours on foot, let alone in a remote county with terrible road conditions.
Winter was the season for long journeys in Lingao. Temperatures were pleasant, with neither typhoons nor prolonged rains. Roads stayed dry and easy to travel. Most rivers had dropped low enough to wade across, eliminating the need for long detours to find fords or bridges.
Still, venturing out wasn't easy. Hainan had no donkeys or mules; unless you were gentry rich enough to keep sedan chairs or the even rarer horses, whether landlord or farmhand, everyone traveled on two feet. Fu Buer's advantage over ordinary peasants lay in having a household servant to carry his luggage. The fourteen- or fifteen-year-old lad, hearing he could accompany his master to East Gate Market, was far more enthusiastic than his elder. He'd packed everything the night before.
Traveling in ancient times was difficult. Inns were rare. Unlike the ubiquitous lodging houses in martial arts stories, real accommodations could only be found in larger market towns or cities. And you couldn't dashingly demand "a first-class room"—even single rooms were uncommon. Even when single rooms existed, inns didn't provide bedding; travelers had to bring their own.
Food and water couldn't be secured without passing through larger market towns either. So food, bedding, utensils, clothing—everything had to be brought along. Packing all this made for a substantial bundle.
Setting out from the village, after walking several hours, they encountered others from various villages also going to "attend the meeting." The representatives sent by each village varied—if not clan elders, then wealthy households, baojia headmen, or local gentry. Some villages sent their resident xiucai or tongsheng—these people at least had some worldly experience. Everyone traveled together for company and courage. Most were quizzing each other, trying to learn what other villages were prepared to offer to appease the "baldies." Everyone figured that judging by this group's conduct, they probably didn't care for money, making labor levies more likely.
The gentry traveling in sedan chairs or on horseback with large retinues naturally wouldn't mingle with these commoners. A few poor xiucai without sedan chairs trotted alongside the gentry's conveyances, panting as they conversed—eager to demonstrate their superior status over the mud-footed peasants beside them.
Amid the chatter, they arrived near the Wenlan River bank. This was already "baldy" territory. The roads became wide and level, stirring up no dust underfoot. By the roadside stood a wooden shed with a soldier in gray uniform and leather belt, holding a black musket, standing ramrod straight. Seeing the gleaming blade fixed to the muzzle, Fu Buer couldn't help shivering—months ago, he'd watched that kind of blade pierce the chest of a dying militiaman from a neighboring village as easily as cutting tofu.
Inside the shed were several tables—the kind only the wealthiest local households used. Behind the tables sat several people handling business. They wore clothes similar to the soldiers, just without weapon belts. Outside the shed stood a signboard with writing. Fu Buer couldn't read, so he asked a tongsheng to read it aloud. It turned out conference attendees needed to verify their invitations and register here.
He saw four or five children around ten years old standing outside the shed, dressed like those inside, except with red cloth strips tied at their necks. They wore their hair short like the short-hairs and stood with chests puffed out, directing arrivals to line up and register in order.
"I've heard the short-hairs bought countless young children from the mainland. These must be them," a scholarly-looking man said to someone nearby.
"I just don't know what they want these half-grown children for."
"Who knows? This lot's schemes run deep—our Lingao is in danger," the scholar declared with theatrical alarm.
Fu Buer couldn't worry about all that. He simply followed the crowd forward. When his turn came, the person behind the table looked at his invitation and took a stiff small paper card from the desk, with a thin string attached to it. He began writing down Fu Buer's village name and personal name.
"Is this your attendant?"
"Yes," Fu Buer replied quickly. "A household servant of mine."
The clerk glanced at the boy and wrote in the remarks column: "Attendant: one male youth."
"Hang it around your neck," the gray-clad man instructed. "This is your conference credential. With this card, you can stay and eat for free at the designated places—don't lose it. Without this card, you'll be arrested where you're going."
"Yes, yes." Fu Buer hurriedly hung the card around his neck and stepped aside.
He heard an argument break out in a nearby queue. "I'm sorry, but you can bring at most five attendants to the conference."
"I won't eat your food—I've brought my own provisions!" A man who looked like a gentleman was arguing.
"That won't work either. There simply isn't room to accommodate that many people."
The gentleman exploded. "What are you so uppity about! Aren't you that fellow from the front village who was so poor his ass was hanging out, who still hadn't passed the exams at forty? Follow the 'baldies' for a few days and you think you can rebel!"
The crowd stirred. A "real baldy" emerged from behind the shed—wearing colorful short clothes—and spoke in a low voice: "Who wants to rebel?"
Everyone fell silent at once. The clerks who were "fake baldies" all snapped to attention. Someone called out, "Reporting, Chief—"
"No need for reports." Dugu Qiuhun's gaze swept over the gentleman at the table. "You want to rebel?"
Having dealt with locals at East Gate Market for so long, though Dugu Qiuhun couldn't speak the Lingao dialect, he'd picked up a fair amount of the local Hainan Mandarin.
The gentleman naturally understood him. Seeing this "real baldy" emerge, his courage had already shrunk considerably. Questioned like this, he nearly wet himself with terror. He stood there speechless.
Someone nearby hastily interjected, "Chief, nobody's rebelling. We're all good people, good people."
Dugu Qiuhun heard someone call himself a "good person" and felt rather awkward—it made him feel like a "Japanese devil" from the movies. He waved his hand. "Continue registering!"
The gentleman was helped aside. Sycophants fanned him and brought water. After a good while, he recovered. His bluster had naturally vanished—he meekly registered his five attendants and went on.
Fu Buer watched this little drama with some satisfaction. In the past, these gentry all had their eyes on top of their heads. Before the "baldies," weren't they just as deflated?
"Look at the state of the world today—" A sour-faced scholar passing by was about to say something when someone grabbed his arm. "Do you want to die!"
Fu Buer didn't understand what this meant and walked on by himself.
Baireng Rapids was somewhere Fu Buer had stayed awhile—as a prisoner, he'd spent dozens of days in the thatched sheds inside the wire enclosure outside the bandits' fortress. Coming back now, he couldn't recognize anything. Houses had gone up everywhere—all built with red bricks and red tiles. Though the style differed quite markedly from local buildings, they looked both sturdy and attractive. Compared to them, his clan uncle Fu Yousun's manor seemed positively crude. The market streets were paved with bricks and stones, and there were quite a few shops along the way. The streets were crowded with people—some from various places coming to trade, mixed with many real and fake baldies walking and talking. Fu Buer looked around with fresh eyes. When he asked a shop clerk what this place was, the clerk looked at him like he was an idiot.
"This is East Gate Market, of course—you came here without knowing?"
So this was the famous East Gate Market! Fu Buer knew of this place. He'd even sent his farmhands here to sell grain and have rice milled. From them, he'd learned that this place was flourishing, with cheap salt and many fine goods to buy, plus buildings bigger than he'd ever seen.
While looking around, someone approached and asked, "Are you a conference delegate?"
"Yes, yes, I'm from Meiyang Village." Fu Buer quickly pulled out the paper card on his chest to show him.
"I'll take you to your lodging." The person was very polite.
He was taken to an inn—newly built, an impressive two-story red brick building. Inside, the many corridors and staircases left him dizzy. Especially the doors in the corridors—he couldn't even count them. He was assigned a double room with two beds. The room even had candlesticks ready—quite thoughtful and convenient.
(End of Chapter)