Chapter 1381 - Three Men in a Slum
After seeing off Wu Zhixiang, Zhao Yingong returned to his study and checked for the latest news. His foremost concern was the Merchants Bureau cargo ships heading north.
The twenty sand boats carried not only fifty thousand shi of grain but also large quantities of cargo. Liaodong lacked everything, especially cotton cloth and raw cotton. To survive that bitter cold, soldiers needed adequate winter clothing beyond mere food. Historically, the Ming court transported vast quantities of cloth and cotton to the various Liaodong guards every year. Thus, the sand boats were loaded with cold-weather supplies.
Since this northbound grain transport was officially sanctioned, transport fees were fully reimbursed by the Ministry of Revenue. And with the status of "official ships," they were exempt from various taxes when entering any port or waterway. To pass up this opportunity for a bit of "official smuggling" would be pure waste.
Carrying private cargo had always been a primary revenue source for canal boats. Sea transport of grain and pay naturally called for the same profit-seeking approach.
Besides cotton clothes and cloth, there were large quantities of "Mongolian goods"—iron woks, tea bricks, and the like. Trading with Mongolian tribes and purchasing horses was important business for the Guan-Ning Army. The horses they acquired were not only used to replenish cavalry but also resold inside the pass at considerable markup. These commodities would have no trouble finding buyers once they arrived.
Yet sailing during summer carried great risks. Typhoons posed a significant threat, and the sand boat sailors were unfamiliar with the coastal route to Liaodong. This time, Zhao Yingong chose not to deploy his own navigators and core crew as he had done for the Japan trade. Instead, he relied entirely on the original sand boat sailors, sending only a few trusted aides to accompany the fleet.
Ancient navigation lacked both weather forecasts and accurate charts. Sea vessels faced constant peril, and shipwrecks were alarmingly common. In Zhao Yingong's research of historical Liaodong sea transport records, accounts of ships destroyed and crews killed by storms were too numerous to count. References to "drifting losses" appeared everywhere. This made him deeply anxious about the safety of this coastal shipping operation—more anxious, in fact, than he had been about the Japan trade. For this reason, he had sent pigeon trainers aboard each ship, releasing a bird every three days to report voyage progress and conditions.
The news that came back offered some reassurance. Though the ships had paused several times to wait out unfavorable winds, they had been steadily heading north. No vessels had been damaged or run aground. The voyage appeared to be proceeding smoothly.
The next piece of news concerned the "Rice Riots" that had swept through the four prefectures of Northern Zhejiang and Southern Jiangsu. Zhao Yingong was shocked. He had known about the Lin'an County incident a few days earlier but hadn't given it much thought at the time. Such things were hardly unusual—peasant uprisings, peasant riots, and the like had never truly ceased. Looting a rice shop during famine amounted to little more than "eating from rich households." The government probably wouldn't bother pursuing it too seriously.
But the disturbances had exploded across so many prefectures and counties within mere days! Driven by a modern person's political instincts, Zhao Yingong immediately suspected that someone was manipulating events from behind the scenes—or at the very least, coordinating the unrest.
He knew perfectly well that the recent spike in rice prices was directly connected to the Merchants Bureau's massive purchases. If anyone cared to trace the cause, the Bureau could not escape blame.
Purchasing and shipping out vast quantities of grain during a famine... The thought made Zhao Yingong's blood run cold. That charge was solid. If someone truly used this to incite the common people, with one man sparking the flame and ten thousand responding, the consequences would be unimaginable. His own reputation would be ruined, and he would have to flee in disgrace.
"Quickly! Send messengers everywhere—I want detailed reports on the Rice Riots!"
Outside Hangzhou city lay a place called Nanxiawa—"South Lower Depression." It was a lower corner, or in modern terms, a slum.
This was where refugees fleeing famine congregated. Whenever disasters struck elsewhere, victims would swarm toward the provincial capital from every direction, supporting the elderly and carrying children, hoping to scrape together a meal. Some died here and became roadside corpses. Some survived the famine and returned home. Some settled permanently. Nanxiawa, true to its name, was low-lying and dotted with puddles. Whenever the Fuchun River rose, the area flooded. The land could neither be farmed nor built upon. And so it became a patch of unclaimed wasteland.
Refugees had settled on this wasteland, erecting shacks from whatever scavenged waste materials they could find. Gradually, it evolved into the kind of shantytown that sprouts up in any city. The ground was naturally low; sewage refused to drain. When it rained, water pooled immediately, mixing with garbage to form a stinking, desolate mud pit.
Except for the poor who had no other refuge, anyone passing by covered their nose and hurried on.
Among these densely packed hovels, near a graveyard, stood a shack where three men currently sat around a small, broken table missing one leg—the gap propped up with broken bricks. They drank strong wine, and on the table sat a large bowl of river snails serving as a side dish. In Jiangnan, this was the cheapest meat one could find. By any riverside, you didn't even need to buy them—just take a bowl and grope along the bank.
Though not yet dark, the room was very dim. An oil lamp already burned on the table. The shack had been cobbled together from broken bricks, small stones, rotting planks, rice straw, and mud. It had no proper windows—only a hole cut in the wall, fitted with a piece of broken translucent shell that someone had discarded. The roof of bamboo strips and rice straw hung so low that anyone of average height would nearly graze their head upon standing.
Despite the cramped, crude space, the owner kept it remarkably clean within possible limits. Bricks supported a bamboo bed board—a rarity in this neighborhood. Atop it lay a torn kang mat, frayed but wiped clean. A battered bamboo hat hung on the wall. Against another wall, a wooden board propped up as a table held paper, ink, brush, and inkstone—cheap goods of the sort accountants used—but proof nonetheless that the resident was a literate "scholar."
On the table sat several dirty, dented pewter wine warmers and three chipped, cracked bowls serving as cups. The air reeked of dregs from low-quality yellow wine.
Foul alcohol fumes, the sweat of three men, a table heaped with snail shells—anyone who burst in would assume they were drinking happily. And that was precisely the appearance these three cultivated to cover their meeting.
Hao Yuan, the man who had stood out during the Rice Riots days earlier, was prominent among them. He wore a patched jacket, idly toying with his "wine bowl."
Of the other two, one was Cao Guangjiu of the Broken Boots Party, dressed like a down-and-out scholar. The other had a face covered in scars, fierce-looking—none other than Gou Chengxuan, who had escaped from Lingao years before.
After fleeing the routed army on Hainan Island, Gou Chengxuan had made his way back to Guangzhou through untold hardships. He hadn't dared show his face—such a catastrophic defeat would inevitably implicate many people. A man of uncertain identity escaping from a shattered army might easily be beheaded as a bandit spy. So he concealed himself in Guangzhou. Though he still had twenty or thirty taels of silver on him, he didn't dare display it, surviving instead by begging.
A chance encounter brought him face to face with Lin Ming, who was searching for his sister-in-law in Guangzhou. Gou Chengxuan's intimate familiarity with Lingao and the bandits made him a treasure to this clueless Brocade Guard. After several nights of conversation—during which Lin Ming extracted much valuable intelligence—he instructed Gou Chengxuan to return to Lingao as a spy, giving him silver for expenses. But Gou Chengxuan, already frightened to his core, had no intention of going. Using the pretense of sneaking back to Lingao, he fled instead.
His conscience gnawed at him—the consequences of offending someone from the Brocade Guard were severe. He dared not remain in Guangzhou. Seeing that Guangdong had become a nest of troubles, he fled northward to Jiangnan.
His luck held. Shortly after arriving in Jiangnan, his knowledge of bandits and Australian goods caught the attention of a wealthy household, which took him in as a retainer. Thereafter, he lived without want for food or clothing.
Gou Chengxuan never understood why his master had sheltered him—until recently, when he learned that his master had taken notice of the bandits years ago.
A year prior, Gou Chengxuan had been ordered to Hangzhou to investigate Master Zhao's background. The moment he saw Wanbi Bookshop and Phoenix Mountain Villa, he knew the bandits' black hands had finally reached Jiangnan.
His first instinct was to flee for his life. But then he reasoned: the realm was in chaos, yet Jiangnan at least remained a place with functioning law. It was also thousands of li from Hainan. Even if this Master Zhao possessed three heads and six arms, wouldn't he still have to behave as a submissive subject of the court?
Though his master took great interest in the bandits, he clearly did not approve of Master Zhao's various activities. Obviously, he and the bandits were not on the same side. Under his master's protection, Gou Chengxuan could not only stay safe—he might even find an opportunity for revenge. He knew the Ming destroying the bandits was probably impossible, but personally killing a few bandits and dealing them a blow? That might still be achievable.
Unfortunately, the bandits consistently employed the tactic of colluding with officials and gentry within the Ming realm. This bandit surnamed Zhao had used some "Australian witchcraft" to bewitch the local Hangzhou gentry beyond reason. Rumor had it he had also cultivated relationships with Fushe scholars. By now, he was considered a man of standing in the area. Gou Chengxuan himself couldn't touch him. Even his master was somewhat wary. He was told only to keep constant watch on Master Zhao's movements.
Intelligence on the sericulture improvements, loan issuances, and silk price manipulations Zhao Yingong conducted in Hangzhou was all delivered to his hands by dedicated personnel. He summarized and organized everything.
Gou Chengxuan was intimately familiar with these tactics—carbon copies of what had been done in Lingao. This Bandit Zhao was audacious indeed, burrowing under the court's very nose to "transform Xia with Yi."
Yet his master never reacted to the news and observations he compiled. Just when Gou Chengxuan began to lose hope for his vengeance, the master finally sent him out on a mission.
His task: maintain contact with the man named Hao Yuan and relay the master's instructions. As for Cao Guangjiu—he was another contact the master wished him to maintain.
(End of this chapter)