Chapter 37: Interrogating the Captives (Part 2)
“My name is Zhang Xingjiao, and I was originally a tongsheng,” the man said, kneeling and trembling. Guo Yi and the others had not imposed their modern concept of equality on the captives; the pressure of inequality was a useful tool.
“A tongsheng?” Mu Min frowned. “A virgin? Does he practice some kind of virgin boy kung fu?”
Xiong Buyou stifled a laugh. “It’s tongsheng,” he corrected, “a scholar who has not yet passed the xiucai examination.”
They all looked at the man more closely. Though his clothes were tattered and his skin was dark, his hands and feet were not rough. He was not a man of the laboring class.
“I have not succeeded in my studies,” Zhang Xingjiao said, a self-deprecating sigh escaping his lips. “My family has been farmers for generations, and our ancestors passed down a few acres of land. But there is a large clan in our village, the Gous. A few of them have become rich, and they have connections with the clerks in the yamen. They are tyrants. My father, unable to bear their bullying, sent me to study, hoping I would pass the imperial examinations and bring honor to our family. But I was useless. I failed again and again.”
His face flushed with shame. “Studying costs money. My family sold some of our land, and still we struggled. Then, our buffalo died suddenly. Everyone said the Gous had done it, but we had no proof, and no power to sue. My father, consumed by anger and anxiety, fell gravely ill. We had no money for medicine. In desperation, we sold our remaining four acres of land. We should have gotten a good price, but the Gous, with their connections in the yamen, prevented anyone else from buying and drove the price down. We received less than half of what the land was worth.”
“Forced sale,” Mu Min murmured, her voice filled with sympathy.
“The land was sold, but when my father learned of it, his anger only grew. A few months later, the money was gone, and so was he.” Zhang Xingjiao wiped away a tear. “But that was not the end of it. The Gous, in their malice, colluded with the yamen official in charge of taxes and did not transfer the ownership of the land. My family’s land was sold, but we were still responsible for the taxes. How can such a thing be?”
It was a common practice in the late Ming Dynasty, known as “property gone, grain tax remains.” The seller of the land remained responsible for the taxes, while the buyer paid nothing. It was a system designed to drive small farmers to ruin.
“In recent years, the court’s taxes have been heavy, with the added burden of the Liaodong tax. It has been a difficult time for small households like ours. I went to the buyer and asked why he had not transferred the tax obligation, as was written in the contract. The head of the Gou family said he had already spoken to the yamen officials, and that the matter was out of his hands. I went to the city myself, but the officials only cursed me and called me a troublemaker.”
The tent was silent. The other captives, waiting to be interrogated, were deeply moved by his story. Many of them had their own grievances, and his tragic tale stirred their own anger and sense of injustice.
“When the deadline for the grain tax arrived, the yamen runners came to my village with their summonses, their water and fire sticks, their iron chains and handcuffs. They beat me and smashed my pots and bowls without a word. They arrested me and took me to the county to be pressed for payment. I was beaten every three days until my body was a mass of wounds, and then I was put in a cangue for public display. I was on the verge of death, but a few of my former classmates pleaded with the instructor and the proctor for mercy, and my life was spared. When I returned home, the Gou family, in collusion with the yamen runners, claimed to have paid my taxes on my behalf and forced me to sign a new contract, a false price for a real deed. They took my family’s last remaining plots of land, our ancestral graves. My poor family’s ancestral graves… they dug them all up.” He banged his head on the ground, his body wracked with sobs.
When the call for war had come, the large households in his village, seeing that he had nothing and no one, had tied him up and sent him to the city as a militiaman. He had been assigned to the Bopu attack route, and because he was weak and could not run fast, he had been captured.
They questioned a few more of the men who had offered to join them. Their stories were similar, tales of oppression at the hands of the wealthy and the powerful. They were all men with blood feuds, men who had been pushed to the brink.
“This must be reported to the Executive Committee,” Mu Min said, her eyes red. “The common people are suffering too much. We must carry out land reform!”
Guo Yi, though sympathetic, was not interested in land reform. He murmured a few words of agreement, not wanting to appear cold-hearted, but he kept his thoughts on land reform to himself. He was new here, and he knew it was best to be cautious. But an idea was forming in his mind, an idea that, combined with what he had heard from Shao Zong about the post-war review meeting, he believed had a good chance of being adopted.
“Attack the large households?” Wen Desi looked at Xiao Zishan with surprise.
“Yes,” Xiao Zishan said. “To be precise, to attack the local tyrants and evil gentry.”
“Zishan, we agreed we wouldn’t be doing any of that land reform business.”
“This isn’t land reform. This is ‘enforcing justice on behalf of heaven, robbing the rich to help the poor’.” Xiao Zishan produced a few sheets of paper. “This is Guo Yi’s suggestion, along with some of the information he obtained from the captives. We can use this information to target a group of large households with a history of public grievances. First, it will win the hearts of the people and warn the local diehards not to oppose us. Second, it will provide us with a large quantity of grain and materials.”
The papers contained detailed information on the targeted households: population, defenses, land, property, even the likely hiding places of their gold and silver. It was a robber’s guide.
Of course, “robbing the rich to help the poor” had always been more about helping oneself. But the idea had a powerful appeal to the common people. Even if they did not benefit directly, the subversion of the oppressive daily order, the humbling of the high and mighty, was a tempting prospect.
The Executive Committee discussed the proposal. The radicals were strongly in favor. For the moderates, it offered a more targeted approach than the random “hunting” plan, which risked alienating potential allies. With the added slogan of “eliminate the violent and pacify the good, rob the rich to help the poor,” it was a perfect solution. Both sides were satisfied, and they all looked at Comrade Guo Yi in a new light.
“We really do need to attack a few large households to supplement our supplies,” Wu Nanhai, the head of the agriculture and food departments, said, his voice low. “I was just about to bring up the food problem.”
He opened a notebook. “Our grain reserves are based on one kilogram per person per day, enough for sixty days. A total of thirty-five tons. Since D-day, we’ve been allocating 600-800 grams per person, supplemented with protein and fat from canned food, instant food, and sea fish. So, our daily grain consumption is about 350 kilograms, and our reserves will last about fifteen days longer than expected. But that doesn’t include the captives.”
“Wu De reported 138 captives to me today. At a daily ration of 300 grams per person—which is not enough for heavy physical labor—we will consume an extra 40 kilograms of grain every day. That’s not a small number. We need to find a new source of grain as soon as possible.”
“What about our own planting plan?” Xiao Zishan asked.
“We haven’t had the manpower. Now, with the captives, it will be easier. Hainan can have three harvests a year in the 21st century. But this is the Little Ice Age. I’m not sure how cold it gets here. I’ll have to ask the captives before I can decide what to plant.”
“I remember reading that it even snowed in Hainan during the Ming Dynasty.”
“That must have been a special case. But the temperature is definitely a few degrees lower. Two harvests a year should be possible. I hope to be allocated more captives. To be honest, I’m not very confident in the otaku’s ability to farm.”
Xiao Zishan made a note of his request.
“And salt,” Wu Nanhai continued. “We need to find a source or produce it ourselves. The agriculture group has one ton of salt, which is enough for now, but we’re using it quickly for preserving food. Other departments are also requesting it, which puts me in a difficult position.”
“Salt shouldn’t be a problem,” someone said. “Hainan was one of the first places in China to practice large-scale salt drying. There are many salt fields along the coast.”
“We need to start building a salt field as soon as possible.”
“That’s easy enough,” Wang Luobin said. “I grew up near the salt fields in Guangxi. I know how to dry salt. But it’s hard work. We don’t have enough labor.”
“No need to bother,” Yu E’shui said, opening a book. “According to the county annals, there’s an official salt field on the Maniao Peninsula, not far from here. It should be enough for our needs.”
“Let’s go rob the salt field. The chemical department needs it desperately. We’ll have to spare some men.”
“Let’s sort out what projects need to be met. Then we can talk about how to allocate manpower.”