Chapter 217: Reasonable Burden
In ancient China, tax revenue seldom served the public good. What officials called "taxation" amounted to little more than systematic wealth extraction—funds siphoned away to sustain the ruling class. The suffering of common people, the improvement of their circumstances, received scant consideration. The public services and welfare programs that modern governments undertake simply lay beyond the imperial imagination.
Dynastic revenues flowed almost entirely toward three destinations: the imperial household, the military, and the sprawling bureaucracy. Even so, at the slightest tremor of crisis, officials would wring their hands and cry of "insufficient state funds." Their solution was invariably the same: surcharges. Each new round of surcharges became a carnival for officials at every level—and a catastrophe for the common people beneath them.
Consider Lingao itself. Though the Great Ming collected over seven thousand shi of grain taxes annually from the county, one would be hard-pressed to identify any tangible benefit these taxes provided. In two centuries, the government had constructed precisely one water conservancy project. The Wenshui Bridge might charitably count as a second—though after two hundred years, it remained the sole example.
The common people supported their government. Yet beyond the most basic "rough peace" of bare survival, that government returned nothing to Lingao's inhabitants. Disaster relief? That depended on privately organized charity granaries. Defense against bandits? Ordinary villagers had to take up arms as militia themselves. A full third of the annual grain tax—over two thousand shi—went directly to the auxiliary stipend for Hainan Island's garrison troops. But when land bandits and sea pirates ravaged Lingao's villages, those same government soldiers, sustained by the people's grain, were nowhere to be found.
If the transmigrator regime intended to win the people's trust, they would have to shatter this thousand-year pattern and forge a truly modern state system. Common folk might lack formal education, but when it came to their own interests, they possessed an unerring instinct. They could discern precisely who worked on their behalf and who merely fed upon them.
The conference opened with a speech from the county's Vice-Magistrate. Wu Ya had never encountered such a situation. His only prior experience with public assembly was presiding over court cases, where plaintiffs and defendants knelt below the bench, eyes averted, with at most a handful of idle spectators lingering near the door. Now he sat shoulder to shoulder with a group of "baldies," while several hundred local notables watched from below.
Fortunately, Wang Zhaomin had already written his speech. Wu Ya merely had to read it aloud. The transmigrators had thoroughly reviewed this bland, inoffensive address to ensure it contained no hidden schemes from the yamen side.
There had been considerable bargaining over the speech's content. The transmigrators naturally wanted the Lingao county yamen's support to appear "clear and unambiguous," while Magistrate Wu preferred language that remained murky and equivocal. Wang Zhaomin's final draft had emerged only after a full day of consultation between both parties' chief writers. In the end, everyone declared themselves satisfied.
Originally, Wu Ya had resisted delivering the speech personally. Old Master Wu certainly had no desire to appear at such an occasion—it would leave him no room for future denials. Thus the scapegoat became his deputy. Wu Ya had initially planned to use his superior rank to pressure the County Sheriff into serving as his own scapegoat, but the baldies had firmly refused. A Vice-Magistrate was, after all, the county's second-in-command. His presence carried far more persuasive weight with common folk than a half-official, half-clerk position like Sheriff.
And so, only under duress, did Wu Ya serve as the yamen's representative. A red envelope containing eighty liang of silver from the transmigrators somewhat soothed his wounded spirit.
The Vice-Magistrate spoke of the county's grave situation in light of the sea pirate threat, and of the importance and necessity of organizing local militia for joint defense. Then he announced that the proposal for county-wide joint defense—initiated by Damei Village—had been stamped and approved by the county yamen. The militia organization would bear the name "Bairren Society." The government would issue formal documents authorizing it to organize, train, and command the militia.
Bairren Society would establish a "public office" at the East Gate Market to serve as the militia's administrative body. It would also collect militia funds and provisions from villages that joined the society.
The head of Bairren Society would naturally be Wu De. Though he was no military leader himself, militia society heads were typically local gentry who served as intermediaries between the government and the villages. As the newly appointed People's Commissioner for Civil Affairs, Wu De was well-suited for this government-facing position. Moreover, the role would introduce him to the county's prominent figures, facilitating future work.
Wu De was not wearing training clothes that day. In fact, all transmigrators attending the meeting had dressed more formally than usual. Of course, "formal" did not mean suits and ties—simply nothing as colorful as the everyday training uniforms. Today he wore an '87-style blue Navy officer's spring-autumn dress uniform, stripped of rank insignia. It looked quite dignified.
Wu De delivered his speech in Mandarin, with Xiong Buyou and several others providing simultaneous interpretation into Lingao dialect, Hainan Mandarin, and Hokkien.
Bairren Society, he declared, would prioritize the interests of the entire county's people, strive to shoulder the responsibility of maintaining county-wide peace, and, under the correct guidance of Emperor Chongzhen, with the care and concern of Lingao county yamen's officials at all levels, and with the support of the county's gentry and common folk, unwaveringly uphold the principle of "eliminating the strong and supporting the weak, protecting the territory and securing the people," making new contributions to the stability and prosperity of all Lingao and the creation of a harmonious Great Ming society.
This novel-sounding boilerplate intrigued the attendees. The only awkward moment came when Wu De mentioned Emperor Chongzhen—Wu Ya and others on the podium immediately stood and shouted "Long live the Emperor," while the assembled delegates below dropped to their knees with a rustle.
After the glorious and correct boilerplate concluded, the meeting moved to its main agenda: levying grain and labor.
The newly appointed People's Commissioner for Civil Affairs approached this matter with considerable caution. Levying grain and labor was complex and delicate work. The transmigrators possessed neither governmental authority nor detailed information—only the deterrent of force. Based on their consistent experience, such burdens typically fell upon society's lowest strata. Since they could not yet change the underlying social structure, their only option was to keep grain levies within bearable limits and avoid excessive exaction.
Therefore, this burden imposed by the transmigrator collective upon Lingao's people was named the "Reasonable Burden."
The "Reasonable Burden" would be collected on a village-by-village basis. Each village would report its own capacity.
The self-reporting format was adopted because the transmigrators temporarily lacked time to conduct a complete survey of the county's land and harvests, making precise burden control impossible. Though obtaining the tax registry data from the yamen would not be too difficult, such records were notoriously inaccurate, riddled with errors and omissions. Officials treasured them only because they represented the sole basis for collecting grain taxes. Land concealment in the late Ming had reached epidemic proportions; the registries could not possibly reflect villages' actual production levels. Using such data would only perpetuate—or worsen—an already unreasonable tax burden.
Though some transmigrators argued that self-reporting would inevitably lead to underreporting, Wu De pointed out that even with concealment, it was still an improvement over the registries. First, each village knew its actual production, so reported figures at least would not exceed what they could bear. Second, given the transmigrators' current authority and their legend of "commanding supernatural powers," villages would not dare report figures that were insultingly low—if such cases occurred, they could make an example of one to warn a hundred. Third, Wu De believed this approach demonstrated a spirit of equal consultation, beneficial for winning hearts and minds.
Sure enough, when the method was announced, a collective sigh of relief passed through the crowd. The villages had feared the transmigrator collective would make outrageous demands. Now they simply needed to self-report their "voluntary contributions."
Everyone understood this kind of voluntary contribution. Whenever the government undertook major projects, they resorted to "voluntary contributions" or "happy donations" and similar euphemisms. These were easier to manage than regular grain taxes, and with some bribes to the handling clerks, one could even bargain.
"Report figures based on your village's actual situation," Wu De said amiably. "Contribute according to your ability."
The venue immediately buzzed with discussion. The village delegates had expected to receive a number to take home and fulfill. Now, suddenly, it was self-reporting—and some felt they could not decide on their own authority. After all, once a figure was reported, it became binding. Reporting too much or too little would both be inappropriate.
Huang Bingkun saw an opportunity. He spoke up deliberately: "This is a major village matter. We cannot decide ourselves—we must go back and discuss."
Those around him found this reasonable. Someone stood and requested permission to return home and consult with the village elders before reporting. Many others chimed in their agreement.
Good, Huang Bingkun thought. With so many villages scattered at various distances, the journey back and forth would take at least four or five days. Add the inevitable wrangling within each village—that would consume several more days. By the time they reconvened, a full half-month would have passed.
Wu De was prepared for this. He asked villages to first tally how many could decide their "Reasonable Burden" amount on the spot, and how many needed to return home for discussion. They should submit the lists.
After tallying: approximately eighty villages could decide on the spot; the remaining two hundred-odd required further consultation.
"Those who can decide on the spot will report their figures shortly," Wu De announced. "Those who need to discuss may return home after the meeting. Report your figures to the public office by the fifteenth of the second month."
With that, Huang Bingkun's hope that the meeting would adjourn first was utterly dashed. The conference continued.
After the "Reasonable Burden" was settled, Wu De announced the labor levy requirements.
The labor problem proved far more difficult than the grain question. Lingao did not lack land—it lacked labor. Though migrants from the mainland arrived each year, acclimatization issues meant mortality ran high. For small households, labor represented the family's very survival. For wealthy households, labor meant acquiring more wealth—so even those with many farmhands, servants, and tenants were unwilling to send their people away to work.
(End of Chapter)