Chapter 174: The Assembly (Part 1)

Fu Buer set out on his journey, his heart filled with complex emotions. This was his second time going to the “Kun bandits’” territory. This time, he was going as a leading figure of his village.

In Meiyang Village, the largest landowner and the one with the most authority was not Fu Buer, but his clan uncle, Fu You San—the invitation to the meeting had been sent to him. But his clan uncle was old and, like many country folk, had seen little of the world and rarely left home. He treated even a clerk from the county as a great personage, let alone these overseas guests who arrived on large iron ships. Hearing that the “Kun bandits” were incredibly formidable, he imagined them to be some sort of green-eyebrowed, red-eyed demons and refused to go, even if it meant death. The clan had no choice but to turn to Fu Buer, the only one who had ever had dealings with the “Kun bandits.” Fu You San’s several concubines and sons knelt in his main hall, weeping and begging him to go in his stead, and they offered him many valuables.

Although Fu Buer was a little afraid, he had been a captive of the “Kun bandits” before and knew that while they were formidable, they were not evil men. They were reasonable and understood right from wrong. This “consultative meeting” they were holding was probably just about levying grain and labor. He hadn’t been killed when he was captured as part of the suppression force, so he certainly wouldn’t lose his life by attending a meeting. He had heard that Ma Peng, his former long-term laborer, was now working for the “short-hairs” and had even brought his old mother over. A group that allowed its subordinates to care for their elderly mothers couldn’t be too bad. Coupled with the irresistible temptation of the gifts from Fu You San and the earnest pleas of his clansmen, he readily agreed.

When Fu Buer’s wife learned that he was going to the meeting, she threw several tantrums in private, unwilling to let him go. The last time he had insisted on following that man surnamed Huang into battle, he had been injured, and they had spent a lot of money to ransom him back. Now he was walking right back into the lion’s den. She made a fuss for several days, but in the end, he still left for the meeting with a young boy in tow.

Fu Buer’s village was not far from Bairen Beach. Not counting the straight-line distance, it was about forty li, which was considered a very long distance in ancient society. Even with good roads, it would take an ordinary person four or five hours to walk, let alone in a remote county with poor road conditions.

Winter was a good season for long journeys in Lingao. The temperature was pleasant, there were no typhoons or lingering rains, and the roads were dry and easy to travel. Most of the rivers were low enough to be forded, so there was no need to take long detours to find fords or bridges.

Even so, a trip was not an easy matter. Hainan had no donkeys or mules. Unless you were a member of the gentry who could afford a sedan chair or the even rarer horse, everyone, whether a landlord or a long-term laborer, traveled on foot. The only advantage Fu Buer had over ordinary peasants was that he had a houseboy to carry his luggage. The boy, a teenager of fourteen or fifteen, was much more enthusiastic about the trip to East Gate Market than his master. He had packed everything the night before.

Traveling in ancient times was very difficult. Inns were a rarity. It wasn’t like in wuxia films where there were Yue Lai Inns everywhere. To find lodging, you had to go to a larger market town or a city. And it wasn’t like in the movies where you could dashingly “ask for a superior room.” In fact, even single rooms were rare. Even if you found a single room, the inn did not provide bedding—travelers had to bring their own.

Food and water were also hard to come by unless you were in a larger market town. So, everything—food, bedding, daily necessities, and clothes—had to be carried. This made for a rather large bundle.

After setting out from the village and walking for several hours, they met people from other villages who were also going to the “meeting.” The representatives sent by the various villages were a diverse lot: clan leaders, wealthy households, baojia chiefs, and gentry. Some villages sent their local xiucai or tongsheng—these people had seen a bit of the world. They traveled together, chatting to relieve the boredom and to bolster their courage. Most of them were asking each other how much their villages were prepared to pay to appease the “Kun people.” Everyone estimated that, judging by their actions, this group was not interested in money. It was more likely that they would demand labor.

The gentry, who traveled in sedan chairs or on horseback with many attendants, naturally did not associate with the common folk. A few poor xiucai, though they had no sedan chairs, trotted alongside the gentry’s cool sedan chairs, panting and talking, to show that they were different from the “mud-legged” peasants beside them.

As they talked, they approached the banks of the Wenlan River. This was already the “short-hair people’s” territory. The road became wide and flat, and no dust rose as they walked. They saw a wooden shed by the roadside, where a soldier in a gray short jacket and a leather belt stood ramrod straight, holding a black musket. Seeing the shining short sword on the muzzle of the gun, Fu Buer couldn’t help but shiver—a few months ago, he had personally seen such a short sword effortlessly pierce the chest of a dying militiaman from a neighboring village, like cutting tofu.

Inside the shed, there were several tables, the kind that only the wealthiest households here used. Several people sat behind the tables, handling business. They were all dressed in clothes similar to the soldiers, but without the ammunition belts. Outside the shed, there was a notice board with some words written on it. Fu Buer couldn’t read, so he asked a tongsheng to read it for him. It turned out that those coming to the meeting had to have their invitations checked and register here.

Outside the shed stood four or five children, about ten years old, dressed like the people in the shed, but with a red cloth strip tied around their necks and their hair cut short like the “short-hairs.” They stood with their chests puffed out, directing people to line up and register in order.

“I heard that these short-hairs bought countless young children from the mainland. These must be them,” a scholar-like person said to his companion.

“I just don’t know what they want with these half-grown children.”

“I don’t know. These people are very cunning. My Lingao is in danger,” the scholar said in a deliberately alarming tone.

Fu Buer couldn’t be bothered with all that and just followed the crowd. When it was his turn, the person behind the table looked at his invitation and took out a small, hard piece of paper with a thin string attached to it. He began to write down his village name and his name.

“Is this your attendant?”

“Yes,” Fu Buer said quickly. “He’s a houseboy from my family.”

The person glanced at him and wrote in the remarks column on the paper: “One attendant, male, youth.”

“Hang it around your neck,” the man in gray clothes said. “This is your credential for the meeting. With this, you can get free accommodation and food at the designated place. Don’t lose it. You’ll be arrested if you go to the places you need to go without this card.”

“Yes, yes,” Fu Buer quickly hung the card around his neck and walked to the side.

He heard an argument in the line next to him. “Sorry, you can only bring a maximum of five attendants to the meeting.”

“I won’t eat your food! I brought my own dry rations!” a gentry-like person argued.

“That’s not allowed either. There’s not enough space to accommodate so many people.”

The gentleman suddenly erupted. “What are you so arrogant about! Aren’t you that poor, pathetic scholar from the village next door who couldn’t even pass the exam at forty? You’ve been with the ‘short-hair bandits’ for a few days, and now you want to rebel!”

The crowd stirred. A “real short-hair” in a colorful short jacket came out from behind the shed and said in a low voice, “Who wants to rebel?”

The crowd immediately fell silent. The several “fake Kun” who were handling the registration all stood up straight. Someone shouted, “Report to the chief—”

“No need to report,” Dugu Qiuhun’s eyes swept over the gentleman in front of the table. “You want to rebel?”

Dugu Qiuhun had been dealing with the locals in East Gate Market for a long time. Although he couldn’t speak the Lingao dialect, he had learned the local Hainan Mandarin quite well.

The gentleman naturally understood his words. Seeing the “real short-hair” come out, his courage had already waned. Being questioned like this, he was almost scared to death. He stood there, speechless.

Someone next to him quickly said, “Chief, no one is rebelling. We are all good people, good people.”

Hearing someone say he was a good person, Dugu Qiuhun felt a little embarrassed, as if he were a Japanese devil. He waved his hand. “Continue with the registration!”

The gentleman was helped to the side. Someone who wanted to curry favor brought him water and fanned him. It took him a while to recover. His arrogance was gone, and he obediently registered with five attendants.

Fu Buer watched this little drama with a sense of satisfaction. In the past, these gentry had their noses in the air, but they were just as helpless in front of the “short-hair people.”

“Look at the world today—” a sour-looking scholar walking by wanted to say something more, but he was pulled back by the person next to him. “Don’t you want to live!”

Fu Buer didn’t know what that meant and just walked on.

Fu Buer had stayed in Bairen Beach for a while as a captive, squatting in a thatched hut inside the barbed wire fence outside the Kun bandits’ camp for dozens of days. Coming back now, he couldn’t recognize the place at all. Houses had sprung up everywhere, all built with red bricks and red tiles. Although the style was different from the local ones, they looked both sturdy and beautiful. In comparison, his clan uncle Fu You San’s house seemed very simple. The streets of the market were paved with bricks and stones, and there were many shops along the streets. There were many pedestrians on the street, people from all over who had come to the market to buy things, and among them were many real and fake Kun walking and talking. Fu Buer found it all very novel. When he asked a shop assistant where this place was, the assistant looked at him as if he were a fool.

“This is East Gate Market. You don’t know where you are?”

So this was the famous East Gate Market! Fu Buer knew of this place. He had sent his long-term laborers here to sell grain and husk rice. He had heard from them that it was very prosperous, with cheap salt and many good things to buy, as well as big houses he had never seen before.

As he was looking around, someone came up to him and asked, “Are you a representative for the meeting?”

“Yes, yes, I’m from Meiyang Village,” Fu Buer quickly pulled the paper card from his chest to show him.

“I’ll take you to your lodging,” the person said very politely.

He was taken to an inn. The inn was newly built, a magnificent two-story red brick building. The many corridors and stairs inside made him dizzy. The doors in the corridors were countless. He was staying in a double room with two beds. The room was even equipped with a candlestick, which was very thoughtful and convenient.