Chapter 2084 - A Memoir of Liberation (Part 1)

From Yuejiang Tower, Xiong Wenchan lowered his telescope, his hands trembling visibly. Chang Qingyun murmured urgently: "Your Excellency, there's no time to lose..."

Before he could finish, a tremendous roar erupted from the river. Zhujiang's main gun belched a column of thick smoke skyward. A shell soared upward, shrieking as it arced down toward Zhaoqing.

Imperial Chronicles, April 1735 Edition — "Centennial Special Issue: The Liberation of Guangdong"

Cannon Thunder Over Antelope Gorge — My Experience of Zhaoqing's Liberation

Editor's Note: This article is excerpted from the memoirs "The Baton Under the Star-Fist Banner" by former Army Major General Liu Xing. His accounts of the spiritual condition of the old Ming forces, the ideological impact on the Guangdong people following the Fubo Army's arrival, and the liberation of Zhaoqing possess invaluable historical significance. With permission from Comrade Liu Xing's descendants, our editorial department excerpts portions for publication in the "Centennial Liberation of Guangdong Special Issue." Minor abridgments have been made.

I was born in Gaoyao County of the former Zhaoqing Prefecture, Guangdong. Being the second son, my childhood nickname was "Liu Erzai"—Second Boy Liu. My family were military households; generation upon generation, we served as soldiers. Young comrades today probably don't understand this and assume military households were proud soldiers, distinguished and admired. That's not how it was, comrades. The glory of military service belongs to our epoch-making Fubo Army. In the old society, the saying went: "Good iron isn't made into nails; good men don't become soldiers." Being a soldier meant being looked down upon, lumped together with peasants and craftsmen—and in certain ways, military households suffered even greater oppression than ordinary commoners.

Under the false Ming, military households were stratified by rank. Those like baihu commanders naturally enjoyed distinction and prosperity, their hereditary offices descending through generations. But ordinary military households? Euphemistically speaking, we were the lords' tenant laborers. In truth, we were the lords' slaves—exploited and oppressed just like any other bondsmen. We too numbered among those the Fubo Army came to liberate.

My family fared somewhat better than most, because my grandfather had once served as a retainer to a baihu household and had helped raise the future baihu, Sun Shiwan. Owing to this connection, the Sun family remembered my family's faithful service and treated us with measured consideration. Thus we bore lighter oppression. Others weren't so fortunate. Most of my childhood playmates came from military households, and their families lived in grinding poverty. After a year of backbreaking labor for Sun Shiwan, they'd receive only a few hundred jin of grain—barely enough to stave off starvation. For this reason, ordinary commoners refused to marry their daughters into military households—who willingly condemns their child to poverty and abuse? As a commoner, if you avoided the cities and never encountered officials, you'd escape the worst oppression. But military households toiled daily under their officers' watchful eyes: laboring until utterly exhausted wasn't enough; the slightest defiance brought "military discipline"—dozens of strokes with the rod, skin torn and flesh split open. Being beaten to death was far from uncommon. The dead were simply dragged out and buried in unmarked graves in the wilderness—treated worse than household slaves.

So many military households fled. Our garrison had originally counted over a hundred military households—one soldier per household meant over a hundred troops nominally. But by the time I was born, only twenty or thirty households remained. The scene was one of utter decay and desolation. Apart from Baihu Sun Shiwan's family, even the zongqi and xiaoqi (company and squad leaders) who ranked as "officers" lived in grinding poverty.

With life so bleak, military households grew reckless; discipline collapsed utterly. Those who enlisted as garrison troops fled real enemies swift as the wind, yet pillaged their own people with fire-like ferocity—completely lacking any consciousness of protecting civilians with weapons in hand. Within their home garrison, neighbors knew neighbors, limiting how far they could go. But outside troops? Strangers in unfamiliar territory would loot and terrorize civilians without restraint. I was "fortunate" enough to witness this firsthand.

I had a close friend named Hou Haisheng—I called him Brother Hai. His mother's surname was Hou; his father, surnamed Hai, had married into the family as an in-law. The maternal grandfather's family had operated a pork shop in Zhaoqing for generations—they'd lived decently. But his mother was a compulsive gambler who lost everything, then hanged herself in shame. His father fell gravely ill from grief and became bedridden. Brother Hai barely managed to keep things together, scraping by with nothing to spare for schooling. Yet even Brother Hai, struggling as he was, found himself entangled with Guangxi troops. That year the Fubo Army had just won their great victory at Chengmai. When news reached Zhaoqing, panic rippled through the city. The then-Governor-General of Liangguang, Wang Zunde—the very man who'd instigated the war—was terrified of the Council's retribution and transferred the Wuzhou garrison to reinforce Zhaoqing. The Guangxi soldiers possessed no fighting spirit whatsoever. They never trained; once in Zhaoqing, they simply went out looting shops and assaulting women. The "wolf soldiers" among them not only robbed but murdered at will. Everyone lived in constant fear.

We heard incessant reports: such-and-such shop was smashed; such-and-such young wife was violated; soldiers killed someone here or there—the whole city descended into chaos, chickens flying and dogs jumping in panic. My sisters at home smeared soot on their faces and hid indoors, not daring to venture out. One day I went to deliver firewood to Brother Hai's family. I'd barely exchanged a few words with Uncle Hai when a neighbor burst in, shouting that Brother Hai was brawling with Guangxi soldiers. I later learned that three Guangxi soldiers had taken his pork without paying. Brother Hai was stubborn by nature—he grabbed one by the collar and demanded payment. The soldier sneered: "I don't even pay when I visit whores—your few pounds of pork mean nothing!" And they started fighting.

I was frantic with worry, fearing the soldiers would kill him—these military thugs wouldn't hesitate to murder over trifles. I ran home, gathered friends, grabbed clubs and pikes, and rushed to the scene. Brother Hai was powerfully built and holding his own one against three. We hurried over ostensibly to "break it up," locking arms to separate the combatants while giving the three soldiers a thorough beating in the confusion. Before they could return with reinforcements, we hid Brother Hai and his father at my house. The soldiers couldn't locate their target and didn't dare cause trouble at the local garrison, so they simply smashed Brother Hai's shop to vent their rage. Later Wang Zunde was literally frightened to death by the Council's advance, the Guangxi troops withdrew to Wuzhou, and the matter was dropped.

Brother Hai later enlisted alongside me. He served the Council and the people with distinction, but tragically sacrificed his life during the liberation of Manila, never seeing final victory. That farewell in Guangzhou became our last meeting forever!

PS: Next update—Volume Seven, Guangzhou Governance Arc, Section 270

(End of Chapter)